‘Of course he is. Well, I’m surprised you’re taking this so well. I remember how gutted you were when you asked him to marry you and he said no.’
‘Yeah, thanks for bringing that up.’
‘Don’t be so touchy. Look, are you sure you’re all right with this?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. Helen can tell it’s not the truth, but tonight at least she doesn’t make me admit it. She kisses me on the forehead instead and says, ‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Chin up.’
‘Oh, it’s up. My chin has been up since I left him. It’s so . . . up.’
Neither of us is entirely sure where I’m going with this, but she smiles and backs out of the room, leaving me standing there mouthing the word ‘chin’ to myself.
After a couple of minutes I decide that standing alone in my living room staring at the wall probably isn’t the best use of my time, so I run a bath and get undressed. I walk naked through to Grace’s room and grab her bunny iPod speakers, hoping that a few tracks from Regina Spektor will make everything all right again. I submerge myself in warm soapy water and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.
By the time ‘Samson’ has finished, I want to fucking drown myself. Not only is he getting married, but he’s going to rub my lonely, single face right in it.
By eleven, I’m wearing the panda onesie Grace gave me for Christmas, have chosen my film and am pouring myself a Baileys on ice in the kitchen. I saunter back through to the living room; drink in one hand, the other pulling at my onesie, which is riding up my arse at an alarming rate. I plonk myself down on the couch and hit Play on Netflix just as my phone starts to ring.
Withheld number. I hate that.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. How did the date go?’
‘Kerry? Why is your number withheld? I nearly didn’t answer.’
‘I’m being fucking mysterious. And on Kieran’s phone. He’s gone to bed so I’m using his phone and drinking all his beer. Tell me how it went.’
My friend Kerry met graphic designer Kieran Nelson in Kelvingrove Art Gallery six years ago when she spotted him wandering around with his fly open and light-heartedly threatened to call security. They’ve been together ever since, and if she wasn’t my very best friend in the whole world I’d challenge her to a duel for his hand in marriage.
‘The date? I’m already trying to forget it. Not only was he insanely unattractive and sweaty, but he was also rude, pompous and probably a Tory.’
‘Oh dear God. Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you’d at least have found someone shag-worthy.’ I hear her take a swig from her beer bottle and then softly burp.
‘Yeah, that would have been nice. The last time I had sex, science wasn’t even a real thing.’ I laugh, feeling nothing but self-pity and contempt for my own, dust-gathering vagina.
‘So when was the last time?’
‘On the floor of my living room with engaged Kevin.’ I throw a look of disgust at my laminate flooring. ‘Not particularly memorable.’
‘Nonsense,’ she replies. ‘You shagged that guy after your work Christmas party . . . What was his name?’
One of the worst sexual encounters of my life flashes before my eyes. I flinch.
‘Jesus, don’t you forget anything I do? Ugh. Chris.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘Kerry, being jackhammered by someone with a small cock who works on the fish counter at Asda doesn’t count as a shag.’
‘OK, well what about the solicitor who finger—’
‘Kerry! There’s a reason I mentally delete these events and I’d advise you to do the same.’
‘Never. When you eventually get married, I’ll need some stories for my maid-of-honour speech. You want to come over and help me finish this beer? Or bring more?’
‘No, thanks. I’m just out the bath. I have Baileys and I’m in a rotten mood. And speaking of marriage, Peter’s taking the plunge.’
I hear her splutter on her beer.
