So Thrilled For You

Steffi

Fuck Nicki.

Seriously, fuck her.

Oh, how I’ve wanted to think that freely, for so long.

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.

It feels amazing to think it now without guilt. I only wish I could say it out loud. To her face. But I will have to make do with just leaving this hell site of a party without feeling any guilt about it. I’m almost tempted to take my presents back off the pile and rub all the Neal’s Yard Bump Juice over myself, just out of spite.

However, the universe isn’t going to allow me to flounce off just yet, unfortunately.

I peel back the sliding door and crouch on the decking under the pinata, staring at the top of the mysterious firework while I argue with the local taxi company.

‘We’re sorry, but we only have one driver and he’s busy at the moment,’ an elderly woman tells me, very slowly, down my crappy line.

‘When will he stop being busy?’

‘He’s got this one emergency pick-up. Then he has to go straight from there to do his weekly hospital run. I’m afraid we can’t fit you in.’

‘Do you have the numbers of any other companies?’

‘We’re the only ones covering this area.’

‘What if there’s an emergency? What if I need to go to hospital?’

‘You said you needed to go to the train station?’ She’s not getting it. ‘Honey, if you need to go to hospital, it’s better to book a week in advance. Or call an ambulance if it’s an emergency.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ I say, like a child. I hang up and feel guilty for being rude. This poor lady isn’t Nicki. I should save my wrath for her.

If it wasn’t an actual sauna out here, I would just go on a long walk around this tinderbox of a countryside until Lauren drives me back. Yeah, it would be awkward, as I’d have to tell her what I overheard, and it is quite acutely painful that she didn’t defend me. In fact, she almost agreed with Nicki! Does Lauren honestly believe I think that about her since she had a baby? OK, so I feel stupid for posting that article now. I felt so seen by the dating part that I didn’t consider how the rest of it came across. I can see how she misinterpreted it, but, then again, why was she so quick to believe the utter worst in me? At least it’s outed what we all already knew anyway. Nicki hates me and wants me out of the group. Because Nicki’s a petty, insecure bitch who can’t get over something that happened years ago. Something where I feel, actually , I was the victim, not Nicki. I was the one who got hurt. I shake my head and feel sweat beads drip down my forehead. I’m going to have to go back inside and hold my tongue as she unwraps all the plastic shit people are going to give her that won’t biodegrade until the dinosaurs come back. I refuse to participate though, after hearing that, and I won’t feel guilty about sending important work emails. I’m just going to sit in silence, until I’m allowed to go home and make myself a millionaire, while she farts, and complains about her backache, and acts like having a baby is a divine experience rather than the most fucking obvious thing in the world to do in your thirties.

I sigh once more and go back in where the cooler air engulfs me. A circle’s gathering around Nicki, who’s sat in the nicest chair, bulbous like a buddha, wearing a novelty bird hat with ‘Mother Goose’ written across it. A mountain of perfectly wrapped presents circles her like chalk around a dead body, while she makes polite small talk. I find a chair in the corner and pull my legs up onto it, checking my emails.

‘Has everyone got drinks before we start?’ Charlotte asks. ‘I can make more mocktails? No. Are you sure? I think we’re ready to go, Nicki!’

‘I don’t even know where to begin,’ Nicki laughs, finally pretending to notice what surrounds her. ‘Guys, I said no presents!’

The circle laughs while I silently scoff. Anyone who actually turned up without anything would have a black mark against their name forever. It was like a little test – like when couples ask you to donate money to their honeymoon as a wedding present, and you’re in this weird silent auction with all the other guests, figuring out a suitable amount without bankrupting yourself.

As I watch Nicki struggle to reach for her first gift, everyone laughing at her inability to move past her stomach, I see that smug smile I remember so well.

Cat with the cream.

A hateful smile.

Hateful.

Unlike the smile of her husband, who was my undoing twelve years ago . . .

‘. . . Here, let me help you,’ Matt said, as I struggled to pull a keg across the wooden floor of the Sheffield community hall. I left a stripe through the dust which came to an abrupt halt as I ran out of strength.

‘It’s OK, I’ve got it.’ I’ve tried and failed to push it further. ‘Hang on, no I really don’t . . . thank you.’

He laughed and bent down to grip the bottom, and, together, we heaved the barrel over to the catering tables I’d set up earlier. We thumped it on top, and I theatrically pretended to faint over it. Matt laughed again.

‘Thanks again,’ I said, rightening myself and acknowledging him properly for the first time. ‘I’m ,’ I added. ‘I don’t think we’ve been on a Nightline shift before?’

Matt held out his hand to shake, which I remember finding delightfully formal for a 20-year-old student. ‘Matt,’ he said. ‘No, we haven’t. But I recognise you from the training induction, I think.’

A part of me tingled. I also recognised him from the training induction. He had the best jawline I’d ever seen. In fact, I’d told the Little Women about him when I’d got home that evening, and we’d referred to him as ‘Jawline Guy’ ever since.

‘ Maybe jawline guy dropped out of Nightline? ’ I despaired to them when I hadn’t seen him in any of my training sessions. ‘ Maybe he got kidnapped by a biscuit factory and they ’ re using his perfect jawline to design cookies? ’

‘Oh, yeah, maybe.’ I dusted off my hands – pretending he didn’t already have a nickname in my household. I subtly took in the rest of him. Alongside his ridiculous jaw, he had ridiculous green eyes too. He was the sort of tall and skinny that meant most girls would overlook his attractiveness. Plus, he dressed in that mismatched awkwardness of a boy who’d never had a serious girlfriend before to tell him what suited him. He wore a white long-sleeved top under a bright green t-shirt, making him look younger than a second year. Sixth form even. ‘How have you been finding Nightline so far?’ I asked him.

‘Yeah, good. Intense, isn’t it?’ He rubbed his messy hair and looked a million per cent more adorable. Nightline was the university’s equivalent of a Samaritan’s helpline – open from eight til eight overnight, giving any struggling students a service they could use that was peer-run, and, therefore, hopefully more appealing than calling a random Sheffield helpline. ‘But good. It’s going to be crazy when we’re let loose on the phone lines for real.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And sleeping in those little beds next to the phones? So surreal . . . if we can make them enough money tonight, I guess.’ I pointed to the other two kegs by the door where they’d been dumped by the brewery. ‘Do you mind helping me with the others? I am precisely as strong as I look, i.e. not very.’

He’d laughed for a third time. ‘Of course.’

We spent the next hour making small talk as we set up the hall for the fundraiser. I’d given myself my Freshers’ year off to just enjoy the student experience, but now that we were in second year, I’d decided to maximise everything on offer and started volunteering. I still had a month’s training to go before I was allowed to do my first Nightline shift, but we’d all been drafted in to help with tonight’s fundraising event. It was a Scottish ceilidh, in a random hall buried in the middle of the city. It was very much for the civilians of Sheffield rather than for students.

‘Students are too broke to hit up for cash,’ Ben, Nightline’s manager had told us when we were drafted in. ‘We have to fundraise using locals.’

Apparently, the Nightline ceilidh sold out every year and was a guaranteed hit for the ‘civvies’ of the city. It did feel strange, being out of the union bubble for the day, in a part of the city not heaving with students wearing Uni of Sheffield hoodies. Matt and I set up the rest of the bar – him tapping the keg, while I wrote the drink prices on multiple white boards. Ben directed others around us to mop the floor, stock the toilets with paper and put chairs on stage for the band, while he did the soundcheck, saying, ‘one two one two,’ down a microphone.

‘So, what made you sign up for Nightline?’ I asked Matt, while enjoying my attempt at artsy gastro-pub handwriting.

Matt squirted some beer into a plastic cup and tasted some. ‘Got to check it doesn’t taste of gas,’ he explained with a wink, before squirting out some more and offering it to me. ‘It’s part of making sure it’s been tapped correctly.’

I raised both eyebrows and downed it. ‘Tastes good to me.’

‘Me too. Anyway, I’m doing a psychology degree,’ he explained, ‘which I thought would be really deep and interesting, but it’s mostly about the reliability of different research methods. I thought Nightline would be a good way to get experience in, like, actually listening to people. Plus, it’ll keep me away from my Xbox.’

‘Cool. So you want to be a therapist, or something?’

‘Yeah. Maybe. After watching The Sopranos. ’

I laughed. ‘It didn’t inspire you to be a gangster?’

He shook his head, squirted more beer, and necked it. ‘Nah, too skinny to be a gangster, aren’t I?’

I raised my eyebrows again. I have always, and continue to, find it vastly attractive when men are aware of their physical flaws and accept them with a shrug and a smile. Giant noses, male pattern baldness, skinny legs . . . I’m a quivering wreck if a man can make a gentle joke about them.

Matt made a dorky gun gesture with his beer tap and mimed shooting me. I threw my arms up and faked a death and he laughed appreciatively. ‘Hmm, I really think we need to check this hasn’t got any gas in again. Want some?’ He squeezed out more beer and I drank from the red cup in his hands. ‘Anyway, how about you? Why did you sign up?’

I wiped my mouth as delicately as I could. ‘I do English so we only have two hours of lectures a week. I’m someone who always needs to be doing something, you know? There’s only so much time I can spend at the gym, so I thought I’d try volunteering.’

‘I mean, the gym is a terrible, terrible place,’ he said. ‘They’ve banned me actually. Not enough muscle mass. I was heartbroken, obviously. Do all the rugby lads go there and huff loudly when they lift weights?’

‘I can confirm that happens. They “spot” each other too. Then there’s lots of high fives.’

Matt mock shuddered and I laughed again. I couldn’t believe I was sparking with Jawline Guy. He was as sharp as his cheekbones and our vibe already felt delicious.

‘So, Nightline is something to keep me busy,’ I continued. ‘Plus, my mum was a single mum and she said she used to ring Samaritans when I was little as she got lonely during the day. We’ve always done charity runs for them and stuff growing up. I looked into training to be a Samaritan but it takes two years and we’ll have graduated by the time I’ve finished and I have no idea where I’ll end up getting a job. Probably nowhere with an English degree.’

He laughed, then I laughed, and we both laughed and that set the pattern for the rest of the night.

Hours later, drenched with sweat from the packed hall of dancing, Matt and I were doing our hour’s shift at the bar.

‘I need to check there’s no gas in the beer again,’ Matt said, belching quietly in his throat he was so drunk. I was so into him that I found this attractive. He poured us another pint and we shared it between us, watching the dance floor throb and flow to the jolly vibrations of the fiddle band. It was midway through some dance about stripping the willow or something so the bar was empty. People do not sit out at ceilidhs, I was learning. Everyone dances every single dance, even when soaked through with sweat and panting from the effort. It felt strange to be surrounded by people of all different ages. A good different – away from the student angst. I loved my course, and I loved the Little Women, but I did already feel a bit bored by the clichéd parts of the university experience. The Little Women watched Neighbours twice a day, unironically. I only scraped through one episode so I could join in their chats about who might die in the advertised upcoming plane crash, but the inertia of most students drove me crazy. The laziness of students. Charlotte and I bonded over this during our gym sessions. The needing seven weeks to write a 2000-word essay, and acting like you were more overworked than a Victorian chimney sweep. ‘I never got to go to university,’ Mum had said, driving me up on my first day in a rented car. ‘Make the most of the opportunity. It’s such an opportunity, . Squeeze the juice.’

There was so much juice to be drained from this night. I felt the fizz of anticipation – the buzz of something new starting. I downed the rest of my pint and let out a hiccup. ‘We’re drinking all the profits,’ I told Matt, wiping under my eyes to keep my melting eyeliner off my cheeks. ‘We’re sabotaging our own fundraiser.’ I had to yell to be heard above the six-piece band on stage who seemed to be having a moustache-growing competition.

Matt was doing that glorious thing boys did when they liked you on nights out – where they stand too close to pretend they need to be heard over the music. ‘It’s OK. I’ve chucked twenty quid into the cash box to cover us.’ His sweaty chest touched my stomach and we blearily stared at each other with a knowingness.

We were going home together. It was so obvious. So brilliantly obvious. And the best part of that process lay before us – spending the evening pretending to each other we didn’t know it yet.

It was just as well some other students came to relieve us of our duties, because, by the time they did, we were significantly past the twenty quid-mark contribution to the bar.

‘Shall we dance?’ Matt asked, holding out a sweaty palm and nodding towards the heaving dance floor. The band had just reached the end of a song and the couples were wilting, laughing, turning to chat to one another, wiping sweat from their brow.

‘I’ve never been to a ceilidh before. I have no idea what to do.’

‘That’s why they have a caller.’

Just then, the said caller spoke into the mic. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I need you in groups of eight, please. Groups of eight. We start in five minutes.’

A circle of incredibly red-faced older men, all proudly in kilts, saw us loitering and beckoned us over. ‘Come here young bloods,’ one yelled in a thick Aberdeen accent. ‘Are either of you medical students? Gus here is about to have a heart attack from the exertion.’

‘Nonsense,’ Gus replied. ‘Hey, yous get yourselves over here. You need an initiation sup to join our group.’ He produced a large hipflask of whisky and handed it to us. Matt and I made excited eyes – students will never tire of the joy of free alcohol – and each took a swig. ‘No need to be shy, there’s plenty more where that came from,’ Gus added, eyeing our measures, nodding at us to take more.

Some violins started limbering up and the crowd around us quietened. There was sweat on my lip, sweat in my hair, sweat almost raining from the ceiling, and we hadn’t even started dancing yet. Matt held out his hand, and I curtseyed and took it, while he laughed again. And oh, how we laughed when the dancing started.

The rest of the night took on a heady, dreamlike, quality with Gus’s regular top-ups of whisky cloaking me in a coat of warmth amongst the jolly chaos. It was the most fun I’d ever had going out as a student. There was no ego in dancing to a ceilidh, no way you could look sexy. It was the total opposite to how students danced at the club nights – girls touching themselves, slut-dropping, looking faux-coyly over their shoulder while licking their lips – all with the hope that some acne-ridden rugby player in a shiny shirt would come and rub their dick through the back of their mini skirt. Some of the dance moves that night involved hops. Hops! The least sexy thing ever.

‘I’ve broken both ankles,’ Matt declared, stumbling into me, as drunk as I was.

‘I’m so dizzy I might need to lie down.’

‘There’s no more willow to strip, surely?’

All I can remember is laughing. Laughing as we totally failed to strip the willow properly, Gus having to push us about, yelling at us for ruining the formation, punishing us by making us down more shots. Laughing as we were instructed to hold hands and gallop through a long arch of held arms. Laughing as we turned wrong ways; bumped into other drunk people as useless as we were. Laughing at the sweat; wiping our hands on one another to prove how sweaty we were and as an excuse to touch. Because we’d helped set up, we weren’t on clean-up duty, and Matt and I kept laughing as the crowd spilled out into the sharp northern air. It was hilarious to order a Subway together. It was hilarious to wait for the bus back to mine. It was hilarious to point out other students, all only starting their nights out, when we were so drunk and finished at not even midnight. It was hilarious eating the Subway on my kitchen floor, the house empty, the rest of the Little Women out at the union’s Saturday cheese night. It was hilarious when Matt started kissing me – first gently, then with serious urgency. It was hilarious having sex on top of our standing freezer. I giggled into his shoulder and pretended to come, wrapping my legs around his back, laughing and laughing. I found a bottle of gin and we took it up to my room, taking swigs, kissing more, giggling, taking it in turns to choose a song off my laptop. Hazy and too drunk, but both happy. We tried to have sex again but Matt couldn’t get it up he was too hammered. That was hilarious too, even though he said, ‘ Stop laughing, it isn ’ t funny, ’ but then laughed himself, good-naturedly. Erectile dysfunction . . . another thing I apparently find attractive as long as you can make a joke about it.

We passed out, half naked, sprawled in my sheets, limbs floppy. I still remember us both stirring when the Little Women came home from their own night out. The smell of their takeaway sneaking under the gaps of my door, the sounds of their drunken laughter and getting ready for bed noises. Matt pulled me closer to him, brought the duvet over our bodies as we were sobering up enough to get cold. We slept again in a drunken fog, until . . . sometime nearing dawn, I was woken by his fierce erection poking into my back.

‘Sorry,’ he said, noticing me stir. ‘I can’t help it. It won’t go down . . .’

‘I know something that will help.’

The second time we had sex wasn’t funny at all. It was sleepy and cute, but sexy as hell. We whispered into one another’s ears. He told me how glad he was I’d joined Nightline, how he’d noticed me on that first induction day. He kissed me how men kiss you when they’re falling in love – searching, gentle. He kissed my lips, neck, chest, went down further.

‘No . . .’ I tried to push him off. ‘I’m all gross from dancing and . . .’

‘I don’t mind,’ he said, his tongue teasing me through my underwear. ‘You smell amazing.’

I really did come that night, turning my face into a pillow as to not wake my housemates. I unravelled and writhed – in total awe that my body was capable of doing this under the touch of a boy, when it was something I’d only ever achieved myself before.

‘Wow . . . fuck . . .’ I mumbled.

‘I want you so much.’

We had sex how I imagined Sting has it – breathing in one another’s breath, taking it slow, eyes locked on each other’s. I can’t think of a less cringe way to say it than a ‘ soul connection ’ .

Or so I thought . . .

We collapsed in a sticky naked pretzel as the sun rose behind my shitty student curtains – the light of dawn steaming through them. The last thing I remember is him gently stroking my back and kissing my neck one more time before his breath hit a rhythmic pattern. I fell into the heavy sleep of a satisfied body, a heart drumming with hope, opportunity tingling in my limbs. I’d slept with a few people since starting uni, sort of because I felt I had to.

‘Go and have experiences,’ Mum had begged me. ‘I never got to. You never regret experiences – the good, or the bad.’

All three times had felt disappointing and a bit sad. All three times the sex had been bordering on terrible, but I managed to grind these nights down into diamonds of funny stories. ‘Smegma Guy,’ had become urban legend in our house. We squealed and ran away whenever we saw him on nights out. ‘Washing Machine Mouth,’ was in one of our seminars, and we all giggled silently whenever he spoke. I was, by far, the most ‘experienced’ out of the Little Women. Nicki had only just broken up with her first steady boyfriend. She’d since kissed a guy on a night out and spun it into the giantest drama of all time when he didn’t ask for her number afterwards. Lauren was still messaging a boy from home things had never properly taken off with, so she said she couldn’t fancy anyone new until she’d got over the ‘wasted potential’. And Charlotte was unashamedly following the ‘Good Girl Rule’ where you don’t sleep with anyone until after Date Seven because she ‘knew her worth’ – not realising, in saying that, she was implying I didn’t. As a result, the whole house dined out on my own mild promiscuity. I admit I played the part a bit. It felt nice to feel worldly, and to have confidence in a part of my life where they all appeared to be lacking. They all came from solid homes and money in the bank. Charlotte and Nicki didn’t even have student loans! Well, they did, but their parents had only made them take one out to get interest on it in a savings account, as an investment. My bad sex stories were almost my only status in our group – a way of transforming me from the poor, single parent one who couldn’t have them stay in the holidays because there wasn’t enough room at my mum’s flat, into one they could almost be jealous of. But, after that night with Matt, I felt I’d had an experience they could be genuinely envious of. When we woke up at ten, I was already working out how to tell them the story to get the most whoops. How a drunken charity fundraiser turned into a Disney-level fairytale.

‘Hello you,’ I told his fluttering eyelids.

‘Hey yourself,’ Matt replied, smiling, before leaning over to kiss my forehead.

‘Ouch,’ I said, clasping my hands over where he’d just kissed. ‘It hurts.’

The hangover was starting to kick in. Dry mouth, thudding skull, queasy belly.

‘Gus was lethal,’ he agreed. ‘Shall I go make us toast and bring it up?’

‘Only if you don’t mind me proposing.’

He laughed again, stroked my side, making goosebumps dance on my naked skin.

‘Have a doze. I’ll collect the carbs. What bread is yours? Or do you all share a loaf?’

‘Mine’s the Hovis granary.’

‘Of course it is, gym bunny. Right, coming up.’

I turned the pillow onto its fresh side, smiling at the soft thud of his feet going down our carpeted steps. Screw the toast. Maybe we’d have sex again when he came back up? Maybe he’d go down on me again? I never thought I’d enjoy that but I’d never had Matt do it to me. I smiled myself into light slumber, horny, imagining all the sex yet to come as the weekend continued. Hopefully continuing into the next week, or month even? I could see Matt being my boyfriend. Not just an average one, but a meaningful one.

He’d be ten minutes. Fifteen tops.

But, when I woke at the sounds of laughter from downstairs, with no Matt and no toast by my side, it felt much later. I checked the time and saw it was almost eleven. A whole hour has passed. More laughter and the deep sound of Matt’s voice through our squeaky floorboards. A siren rumbled through my skin and I scrambled to get myself ready. I stepped into my sexiest pyjamas and quickly dashed to the toilet to pee and brush my teeth. I told myself stories to override the alert. He was just being friendly to my housemates. It would be great if they got to know each other – helped make it more ‘boyfriendy’ . He was probably just letting me sleep. So caring of him. Again, so not one-night-standy. If he was only in this for sex, surely he’d have come up and tried it on by now?

I ruffled my hair, smiled at my reflection, and banished the insecurity from my face. I heard laughter again, and padded downstairs, barefoot, in my tiny pyjamas, arranging a smile on my face as I pushed through the kitchen door.

Matt was sat with Nicki at our tiny, dilapidated table, two cold bits of uneaten toast on a plate before him, presumably for me. They both had mugs of her special frothy coffee in their hands, and they both froze when I said, ‘hi.’

Matt looked momentarily stunned to see me, and then alarmed, my inner siren loudened, my ears buzzing. ‘Steff. Oh my God! Sorry, I’ve been ages. Here. Here’s your toast.’

He pushed the plate towards me, going red, while Nicki giggled.

‘I . . . thought I heard voices.’ I meant it to come out breezy but it sounded suspicious, needy. I winced internally and crossed my arms over myself. ‘You’ve met each other, great.’

I watched their eyes lock. Theirs – not mine and his. Nicki giggled again.

‘It’s my fault, sorry,’ she told me. ‘We started talking about Pokémon. I got excited there was a fellow geek here and we went off on one.’

Matt pointed over with gun hands, like he had with the beer tap at me. ‘She didn’t just talk about Pokémon. She actually fancies some of them.’

Nicki shrugged, non-embarrassed. ‘What can I say? Growlithe is weirdly hot.’

They laughed together and Nicki sipped more from her coffee mug. She was showing no sign of leaving the kitchen, even though her breakfast bowl was empty. She looked the total opposite of me in the wintery morning light. I was shivering in my skimpy silky short pjs, last night’s makeup smudged around my eyes, my bob wild and bed-headed. While she wore almost comedically-cliched pyjamas – blue and white stripes with buttons down the front. Her face was fresh and clean, her hair plaited neatly into two cute braids.

I bit into my toast, and wondered how to invite Matt back up to my room without it being obvious I was up for round three.

‘How was your night?’ Nicki asked me. She literally leant back in her chair and put her slippered feet on the table – the ultimate sign of settling in. ‘The barn dance thingy? Did you raise enough money?’

Matt winked at me and I practically swooned in relief at having his attention again. ‘It was fun,’ he said. ‘Totally mad. Really nice to not be just out with students for the night. We got so drunk though, didn’t we? I can’t remember much.’

I bit my lip. Was that true? Did he not remember my heels digging into his bare arse, only hours ago, right here in this kitchen? Did he not remember the taste of me in his mouth? The groan he let out that I had to cover with my hand?

‘?’ Nicki asked, while I slowly and deliberately perched on top of the storage freezer to jog his memory. ‘Was it good?’

I winked back. ‘It was great. Loads of money raised for Nightline. The most important thing, really.’

Matt raised his mug to cheers me and I relaxed a millimetre.

‘Anyway, what have you guys been chatting about all this time?’ I asked. ‘Other than the shagability of Pokémon?’

‘Oh, everything and nothing. You know?’ Nicki said.

No, I thought. I don ’ t know.

Just as I was trying to figure out my next move, the door swung open again, Lauren in the threshold, cradling her head like it was falling off.

‘Just so you’re all aware, I’m literally dead,’ she announced, plopping onto a chair and putting her forehead on the table. ‘I’ve blocked the toilet with my sick and, I’m sorry but I feel too rough to clean it up right now. Please, take mercy. I just need a pop tart and I’ll . . .’ She looked up and her mouth fell at Matt’s presence. ‘You don’t live here,’ she told him.

Matt blushed into his frothy coffee. He looked beyond adorable. ‘This is my friend, Matt, from Nightline,’ I explained. The air hung awkwardly as we all filled in the blanks as to why he was here, in last night’s clothes, so early in the morning.

‘Oh . . . Matt’s your name is it, then?’ Lauren said, giving him a hello hug and then pointing behind his shoulders and mouthing ‘ Jawline Guy! ’ to me. ‘Sorry if I stink. Last night was a journey for all of us, mostly my stomach lining.’

‘I told you not to get an Indian AND a fish-and-chips takeaway,’ Nicki laughed.

‘You were also correct that I shouldn’t have tried mixing them all together in the same giant bowl to see if it created the best takeaway of all time.’ She nodded at Matt. ‘It quite closely resembled what our toilet currently looks like. Sorry,’ she said, just as I objected. ‘I think I’m still drunk. Nicki, will you come into my room and stroke my hair until I go back to sleep?’

Nicki heaved herself up with a good-natured sigh and went to escort Lauren out. She looked undeniably cute in her pyjamas. ‘It was nice meeting you,’ she told Matt. ‘If you get a Nightline call at 2am from someone with a Pokémon bestiality issue, you’re going to know it’s me.’

He laughed and he looked so, so, hot when he did. ‘Indeed I will. Good luck with the, er . . . hair stroking?’

Lauren winked as they left, all like, look I ’ ve given you shagging opportunity time , and I mouthed thanks back. It felt awkward, when we were left alone in the kitchen, the freezer underneath me haunting me with how un-awkward it had been in the early hours of this morning.

‘I’m so jealous of girls,’ Matt announced, stretching up and reaching over to eat my toast crusts. ‘When I’m hungover, my housemates ruthlessly take the piss out of me, or force me to compete in eating challenges. I’d love it if we just lay about in our pyjamas and stroked each other’s hair.’

‘I’m not sure if all girls do the hair stroking,’ I said, grateful we were bantering again. ‘Lauren got blind drunk the first time we all went out together. We had to take her back to her halls, where she spectacularly vommed everywhere, and then started crying. She wouldn’t go to sleep, and kept screaming, ‘ STROKE MY HAIR. ’ All three of us ended up doing it, like she was a Roman emperor. It’s become . . . a thing.’

‘They’re great,’ Matt said. ‘Your housemates seem great.’

‘Thanks. I agree.’

I agree? Why was I talking like a fake grown-up? How did I get our energy back? How did I lure him back to my room where I’m sure we could restore things after Nicki’s interruption?

‘I . . . umm . . . you’ve left your jumper in my room,’ I said, leaning against the wall as alluringly as I could.

‘Of course, yeah. Thanks, I’d have forgotten it otherwise. I’ll just head up and get it now.’

‘I can help?’

He was already at the door though, rushing up the stairs. ‘No worries, it’ll only take a sec.’ I crossed my arms further over myself. It was way too cold for these pyjamas and my nipples were sticking out. The sound of Matt running downstairs again, and he appeared in the doorway, wearing his jumper, looking very much like a boy ready to leave the house.

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Right . . .’

‘Umm . . . you can stay, if you’d like?’

‘Oh, thank you. Sorry, but, I really need er . . . the . . . toilet, and it sounds like yours is blocked.’

I opened my mouth. I was about to say, ‘ I ’ ll unblock it for you, ’ then stopped myself. If he wanted to stay, he would stay. He’d hold it in, or suggest we go out for brunch or something. I couldn’t understand how he’d become such a stranger so quickly. Last night was a popped bubble, leaving me blinking in surprise.

‘Last night was fun,’ he added, finding his trainers by the door and putting them on.

‘Fun, yeah.’

Not amazing, or special, or magical, or even great. Fun.

‘I’m sure I’ll see you soon. Doing a night shift or whatever? It’s going to be crazy when they let us loose on the phones.’

‘Hmm, yeah.’

‘God, I’m so hungover. Are you?’

‘Yep.’

‘Well, I better go. Dying for a piss actually.’

And the last thing I said to him, to try and convince him to fall in love with me, was, ‘ You can pee in our garden before you leave, if you ’ d like? I don ’ t mind. ’

I was stupid enough to hope after that. Lauren came running down after he’d left and screamed, ‘JAWLINE GUY!! Oh my God, you’re right. He’s like Robert Pattinson’s and a protractor’s love child. Where has he gone? No! Don’t say I ruined it all by blocking the toilet. It’s unblocked now! Ring him and tell him to come back. I’m so sorry!’

Nicki lurked behind her, a tight smile on her face. One I couldn’t decipher. A strange distance fell between us like light snow.

‘I . . .’ It’s only then I realised it with a cold dread. ‘I don’t have his number. We didn’t swap numbers.’

We’d swapped bodily fluids. I knew what his face looked like while he slept. His sweat was all over my sheets. And yet he hadn’t even left his fucking number.

‘Oh . . .’ Lauren looked as shocked as I felt. ‘He’ll just have forgotten and be kicking himself. I’m sure you’ll run into him at your phone line thingy, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘What happened last night anyway?’ Nicki asked, still looking beyond cute in her giant pyjamas. ‘Like, was it a one-night-stand vibe, or what?’

‘I . . . we . . .’ I hated the way they both looked at me. All, like, look how being slutty backfires . I was about to tell them the whole thing. How we’d clicked, how we’d chatted, and laughed, and danced all night, how it had felt special right up until the moment he went to make me toast. I was about to tell them how different it had felt with Matt. But pride closed my mouth. I was too thrown. Maybe I’d open up later, once he’d hopefully hunted me down for my number? ‘. . . yeah, just a one-night stand,’ I confirmed, turning to go back upstairs.

It certainly became that. Especially as Matt never appeared at Nightline again. He wasn’t in our final training, and therefore not on any of the overnight shifts. For the final term, every night I spent in the tiny helpline office, I stared at the little trundle beds, imagining what could’ve happened if Matt hadn’t vanished. The Sheffield campus was big enough to not bump into anyone, and, as the Little Women preferred cheese nights to the indie rock Matt had told me he liked, there was a minuscule chance of bumping into him on a night out. I had no choice but to acknowledge it was a one-night stand after all – one where I’d maybe been blinded by the sex actually being good for once. It hurt for a while. I had a fling with some random Masters student, who actually took me out to Las Iguanas first, and paid, which felt remarkably grown up. But it was all rather empty and I thought of Matt the whole time. After a few months though, I stopped looking for him on packed dance floors, or floating through the union’s forecourt. I wasn’t going to forget him, I knew that. The night was too cinematic and the ending so abrupt and unexplained. But I was managing to feel less pained and preoccupied by it, until one day, Nicki finally, unexpectedly, filled in my blanks.

‘Shall we go out for coffee today?’ she asked me one morning in our kitchen. ‘Just us two?’

‘I mean, we’re having one right now,’ I said, holding up one of our matching JUSTICE FOR BETH mugs.

‘Yes, but it would be nice to go out for a proper one, wouldn’t it?’ Nicki said. ‘Have a chat?’

I think I knew it then. I pushed away my drink – unwilling to stay on her script. ‘What’s going on?’

Nicki pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands and picked up her mug again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Something’s happened. Tell me.’

‘, stop being weird.’

‘Me? You’re the one who’s been weird and offy for weeks. You keep being mysteriously busy. Until now, I feel like you’ve been avoiding me.’

‘Well, I have, as a matter of fact. Sorry.’

‘What?’

She blew on the top of her drink and raised an eyebrow as she looked up at me. Her face was set in this stony determination. ‘I’d hoped to make this nicer, but if you want to do it now.’

‘Do what now? Stop being weird. You’re the one being strange, not me.’

She bristled. ‘If you must know, I’ve been weird because I have a new boyfriend.’

My heart dropped into my guts and I hated her then, for the scene I was about to play. ‘Oh wow,’ I said in my fake voice. ‘That’s exciting.’

‘It’s been two months now so I’m ready to tell you.’

‘It’s not my dad, is it?’ I joked, wanting to prolong this moment of not knowing for certain. ‘You’ve tracked him down and now you’re marrying him.’

‘ . . .’ She took my hand with such patronising pity that my palm almost blistered. ‘I’m together with Matt. Jawline Guy. It’s serious. We’re in love.’

‘Right . . . oh . . .’

She rushed to explain the details, and the relief at having my curiosity satisfied was quickly replaced by sickening anguish. They’d just really ‘clicked’ that morning over breakfast. It was love at first sight, she was very keen to tell me, three times. Thunderbolt. He’d said he’d thought he was on a date with her. Strange as that sounds. He’d asked for her number. And, when it became clear that our thing was only a ‘ bit of drunken fun ’ , they’d gone on a date. Then another. Now they were properly together.

I could tell when she spoke how much she’d rehearsed this, and how excited she was. By Matt. By her being chosen over me. Though that was all in the subtext. Considering she’d clearly rehearsed it, you would’ve thought she could’ve edited out some of the nastier inclusions. ‘ He said he was so drunk he hardly remembered that night with you. ’ ‘ He said it was clear by the way you were with each other that it wasn ’ t a relationship thing. ’ ‘ He said he was so blown away by me that he honestly forgot you were upstairs. ’ I chewed on my lip and tried not to show the blows landing, trying to give my friend the benefit of the doubt. She was so obviously in love with Matt, and, by the sounds of things, Matt with her. Everyone newly in love is an obnoxious prick. She was telling me as soon as she practically could, ‘I wanted to know for sure it was really something before jeopardising our friendship.’ Plus, also, there was the obvious get-out clause for everyone involved. ‘It was only a one-night stand, wasn’t it?’ Nicki asked, eyeing me over the steam of her mug as she backed me into a corner, knowing the only appropriate response was an affirmative. I nodded, telling myself I could get upset later, when my bedroom door was closed. I could cry with my head under my pillow then, obsess over what Nicki had and I didn’t, endlessly doubt my instincts about men and how they feel about me.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for being so sweet in trying to protect me. But that night meant nothing. Nothing.’

And, in time, that became the truth. Nicki and Matt were so obviously supposed to end up together that it was almost absurd for me to think there was a chance between us. He basically moved in for the rest of uni. I’d often walk in on them in the living room, playing video games together. They were both into the same dorky stuff. Then, of course, I fell madly in love with Terrible Malcolm in third year and saved all my heartache for the many, many, times he cheated on me on nights out. Matt evolved into this sort of eunuch-esque, non-sexual, Blue Peter man in my life. I found his puppy- doggying of Nicki almost revolting, especially how she bossed him about while he quivered and apologised. I moved on. They’d obviously moved on. We graduated. They stayed together and made it work long distance between London and Leeds, where he got his first job. Everything was fine, all in the past, the Little Women were at peace, all very mature thank you very much, let’s get on with our lives.

Until, randomly, five years ago, the day they got engaged, when it became apparent that Nicki wasn’t over it at all. The day Matt ‘surprised’ her with the ring she’d designed for him a year previously, was the day Nicki decided she had a problem with me. Her insecurity was like fucking . . . dormant tuberculosis or something, and her diamond ring triggered its onset. It made no sense. It still makes no sense. Their marriage should’ve been the ultimate proof that I was nobody to worry about, and yet their engagement became the day I got declared the enemy. Nicki got uptight if I ever spoke to Matt, finding an excuse to come and tug him away, eyeing me like I was acting inappropriately by making small talk about the state of the publishing industry. She started trying to out me from the group. I discovered at least two Little Women meet-ups she’d organised where I’d been ‘ forgotten ’ to get invited – much to Lauren and Charlotte’s horror, but too late, they were already there. I wasn’t included on any chats about wedding admin. Nothing about Nicki’s wedding dresses or location options, which seemed strange until I discovered they’d been syphoned off to a separate chat. ‘Nicki says it’s cause you’re not into all that wedding stuff,’ Lauren told me. ‘But I dunno. It’s weird.’

The final insult was the wedding itself where I wasn’t sat with the Little Women at dinner, and instead shoved onto some random table for single outcasts.

Maybe she ’ ll calm down now she ’ s married , I told myself, glugging wine and staring like a depressed Bassett Hound over at my friends on their table.

But the safer Nicki and Matt got, the more unsafe she seemed to find my general existence. Like she was worried I’d have delayed-onset-revenge-sex with him or something. The thing is, at this point, any revenge sex wouldn’t be because she’d ‘won’ Matt, but for trying to push me out of the most important friendship group I’d ever had the delight of being in. Nicki could have her beige husband, but I’d rather die than give up Charlotte and Lauren. I feel like I’m holding onto my friends with greased fingertips, even though I never did anything wrong. And you could argue I should be the one angry at Nicki, not vice-versa. I still feel I handled the thing entirely graciously, all things considered. Especially as she didn’t even let up when my mum was dying and got all funny when I uttered one sentence to Matt at the wake about where the kitchen was. And, here I am, still gracious, at her fucking baby shower, with a hundred quid’s worth of presents celebrating her predictable life choices, and she’s still bitchy and bored enough to start a pile-on.

Honestly, fuck her.

She’s unwrapping the first gift now. All coos and ahh and you shouldn ’ t haves. She clasps her hand in delight at some twee, oversized muslin squares – because it’s motherhood and we have to make the souring puke of a reflux-ridden baby into a collectible retro print. I’m still surprised they haven’t started tying pastel ribbons around the handles of forceps to be honest. That you can’t get an Etta print ventouse . Her smile is exactly the same as the one I saw all those years ago, above the steaming cup of coffee. The plump smugness of a smile. The cat who got the cream smile.

Seriously, fuck fucking Nicki.

Transcript: Inspector Simmons interviewing Charlotte Roth

Simmons: It must’ve been a hard day for you, Charlotte. The day of the baby shower.

Charlotte: Well, the heat was far from ideal, yes, but I worked out ways around it. The air conditioning unit was a godsend, and we managed without ice. The food melted but everything tasted OK. The peony wall didn’t wilt, which is another miracle. Hard, yes, but worth it.

Simmons: I don’t mean the heat, Charlotte. I mean the nature of the event.

Charlotte: Excuse me?

Simmons: A baby shower must’ve been a painful thing to arrange considering your own issues conceiving a baby . . . something you’ve spoken about extensively on social media.

Charlotte: What’s . . . how . . . what’s that got to do with anything?

Simmons: Some guests commented that it seemed to be more your baby shower, than Nicole’s.

Charlotte: I gifted her all my manifestation board ideas, yes.

Simmons: That’s very big of you.

Charlotte: Thank you, but not really. You’ve got to let regrets go with light and love in your heart.

Simmons: Or you can set fire to your regrets?

Charlotte: Arson’s not in The Secret , Inspector Simmons. I can lend you my copy if you don’t believe me. I have two. One annotated, and one ornamental for my display bookshelf.