Chapter 2
The Folder was once just a folder. An innocent sliver of a thing, meant to contain “a few ideas” for Dami’s wedding.
Then a few weeks after Dami got engaged (six months ago but it feels like I’ve been talking about cake forks for at least six years), Angie took joint ownership of the folder in the name of being “helpful,” but I’m pretty sure it was partly so she could make unsubtle hints at her commitment-phobic boyfriend, Jacob.
Across the months it grew and grew to the size of a poodle, and then a small child.
Now The Folder might as well be a fourth person in our friendship group.
I’m thinking about buying it a little hat.
Dami taps on the window, carrying it underneath her arm.
Old Dami never would have brought it to my birthday party .
. . But apparently New Dami, who has been taken over by work and by Phil, would.
At least she hasn’t started dressing like Phil yet (an unsettling amount of V-necks, badly fitting jeans, and pointy shoes).
She looks the same as ever: understated, classy, her black hair drawn in a smooth, high bun.
“Hi, Dami.” I smile as she enters, eyes on The Folder. Sometimes I feel like it’s watching me. “You’re on time!”
“Of course!” She looks confused, as if she’s not constantly running late because she will never leave work at five thirty. She runs forward for a hug and squeezes me into her chest. The Folder gets pressed in between us and sticks into my rib cage. “Happy birthday! Have you had a nice day?”
Despite having become increasingly absorbed in her inbox, and now her wedding, Dami is genuinely lovely.
She, Angie, and I have been friends since we were at school.
I sometimes feel like we don’t have anything in common anymore and she nods at things I say with a faraway glaze in her eyes, like I’m an alien creature who she’s intrigued by but in no way understands, but she is lovely.
She follows my gaze to The Folder. “Sandra just wanted to see a few bits,” she says.
Oh, so Mum asked her to bring it. Of course. I can feel Max shaking beside me, trying not to laugh. I’ve spoken about it so much it’s like a legend to him. He didn’t believe me when I told him how big it was.
“I’ve chosen the white dress, now, but I still need some help with the gele.” They’re having a hybrid British ceremony with traditional Nigerian elements baked in, so there are a few outfit changes across the night.
Dami goes to put her things in the cloakroom and Max grabs me by the shoulders. “BECKY,” he hisses. “Holy fuck. That thing is GINORMOUS. I think it grows by eating human souls. It’s going to devour us all.”
I snort, instantly comforted. Max and I always see things in the same way. I never meet anyone else that makes me laugh as much as he does. I silently wish that I had had this foresight at twenty-four, before ending things and making the biggest mistake of my entire life.
As if to remind me, Dami returns from the cloakroom and says, “So, Max! How are you? How’s Fran?”
Fran is Max’s . . . ugh . . . I can’t even say it in my head.
Girlfriend. They’ve been together about five minutes.
Before I can hear his answer, I pretend to go and help Mum with something.
It’s not like I’m not aware of Fran’s existence, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear about her.
Kind of like Trump being president; you know he is, but that doesn’t mean you want to scroll through his Twitter feed.
I would have invited her, if Max had been planning to come on time. But as he said he was just going to put in a late appearance and has shown up last minute, it’s a bit late for that, thankfully. I don’t think I could have withstood the pain of watching them together at my own birthday party.
I note with relief that quite a few people have started arriving.
Not because I actually enjoy parties—I’d much rather live vicariously through Booksmart or .
. . Animal House—but at least it looks like I have friends.
For all anyone else knows, I’m just another normal, functioning member of society.
There are some neighbors and a few family friends .
. . mine and Max’s old pals from the bar .
. . Phil, Dami’s fiancé . . . At about eight Angie arrives with her slimy boyfriend, Jacob.
“Happy birthday, poochie!” she trills. Blond hair cascades perfectly past her pale shoulders.
Her silk blouse is tucked tightly into her short, black leather skirt, showing off her tiny waist. Even after a day at work, her hair and makeup are the kind of perfect I could never achieve after hours getting ready.
Angie is always immaculate and, being a personal trainer, spends most of her time in the gym.
“Hi, Angie.” I let myself be enveloped in her warm hug. Angie can be one of the most loving, fun, and attentive people you will ever meet, if she likes you.
“Oh. Hi, Max.” She shoots him a false smile.
Not so much if she doesn’t like you.
“Angie.” Max nods.
“Max finished early,” I explain.
“Yay,” Angie delivers flatly, clapping her hands together. Max opens his mouth to ask her a question, but she’s already heading for the booze. He shrugs at me and I smirk.
Angie, unlike Dami, would never be described as “lovely.” She’s fiercely protective if you’re her friend, but mildly scary if you get on the wrong side of her.
Basically, she doesn’t bother to hide her feelings and she’s never liked Max very much.
Probably because they’re both quite outspoken and have conflicting points of view on almost everything.
Angie isn’t a fan of being disagreed with.
She notices Dami and Mum with The Folder and rushes to sit down with them, instantly entranced by whatever dress or floral arrangement they’re looking at.
Even though I’m annoyed they’re doing this on my birthday, for a moment I feel a rush of warmth looking at the three women I love most in the world sitting around a table together and long to be included.
I send Max off to chat with our old friends from Scintilla—the cocktail bar we worked at in our early twenties—and go to join them.
“I find wood paneling very oppressive,” Mum is saying as I sit down.
“Hmm, yes, I see your point . . . ,” Dami says politely, looking down at her venue options, all of which feature wood paneling. “What do you think, Ang?”
She doesn’t ask me.
“I think they’re all classy, but I especially like this one.” Angie points to a semi-gothic stately home with a moat. Dami smiles.
“Very Saltburn,” I try.
No one says anything.
“I meant the building, not, like, we’ll be drinking each other’s cummy bathwater,” I add.
Mum rolls her eyes.
“Did you decide on the family colors yet?” Angie interjects.
“Phil’s keen on lime green.” Angie wrinkles her nose and Dami adds, “Don’t worry. My entire family are already talking him out of it.”
“What about the cake?”
“Oh, let’s have a look.” Mum flips to the cake section. “Gosh, this one’s unusual.” Mum points.
“It’s cheese,” Dami answers.
“Cheese?” Mum repeats.
“I love cheese—” I try to interject, but Mum cuts me off.
“Still, I suppose you can do whatever you like these days. Cheese instead of cake is probably just the tip of the iceberg. I’m a bit out of the loop.” She glances at me.
“My mum’s not a fan of the cheese stack either. It’s gone.”
“Gosh, your mum must be having so much fun helping you plan this.” Mum sighs deeply.
“She’s very involved,” Dami agrees tactfully.
“Well, thank you for allowing me to throw in my two pennies. It’s unlikely I’ll ever be helping to plan a wedding.”
I wait for Angie and Dami to deny it, but Angie just presses her lips together, and Dami looks at me like you would a homeless puppy. OK. And I’m out. Any warmth I was feeling evaporates and I want to be as far away from all three of them as possible.
If you’d asked me ten years ago where I’d be romantically at twenty-nine, I’d have said “engaged” or at least “in a stable relationship.” I’m painfully aware of how far away from that I am and I don’t need them to make me feel any worse about it.
It’s not like I haven’t tried to meet someone.
I have tried hard. But if the date’s not truly horrendous—feather guy—then it’s lacking in chemistry: woman who was clearly so bored by me she started playing Royal Match on her phone waiting for her Uber.
Most of the time it feels like there’s so much choice that everyone’s constantly looking for something better—woman who organized another date during our date—or like they’re trying so hard to counteract the disposability of the dating scene, they’re willing to commit to just about anyone: man who asked me to adopt a shared dog on date number three.
“Right, got to make the rounds.” I stand up and make my way over to Max. None of them follow me.
Half an hour later, they are still crowded around The Folder. So much for “a few dresses and then it’s away.”
Thank God Max is here. We sit in a corner, mocking them from afar.
“On my birthday,” I rage. I’m on cocktail number six by now. And it’s only nine thirty. “What is the definition of a birthday, Max?”
“The anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts,” Max answers dutifully.
“And does a birthday, by your understanding, have anything to do with weddings?” I drain cocktail number six and reach for number seven.
“By very definition, no!” Max slams his fist on the table.
“Answer me this. Can you order a ‘Happy Wedday’ card or a ‘Happy Birthing’ card from Moonpig?”
“Maybe . . . if someone got married on their birthday?”
“But who would DO that?”
“Only a psychopath,” Max reassures me. He puts his arm around me. “It’s out of order, Becks. They’re wankers. Fuck ’em.”