‘Forget it,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
I pick up my phone and call her like a normal human. This time she answers.
‘Soph, I totally meant to call you back, it’s just been—’
‘I was on Instagram and Charlie Fox is engaged and I have no one. I should have someone. Why don’t I have someone?’
There’s a short pause. Then a weary sigh. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You cannot possibly still give a shit about Charlie Fox.’
For a self-sufficient, pigtail-sporting, poultry-raising free spirit, Naomi Bridgers sometimes shoots from the hip with an AK-47. It’s very confusing at times.
‘Don’t you sigh at me,’ I reply. ‘I’m very upset about this, you know. I loved him.’
‘No, you had a crush. A hundred years ago,’ she says. ‘I had a crush on Keanu Reeves but you don’t still see his posters all over my walls.’
‘Left wall, art studio,’ I inform her.
‘This isn’t about me.’
‘He looked really happy,’ I say, my heart continuing to sink. ‘They all looked—’
‘Have you tried not stalking on Instagram when you’re alone and ninety per cent chardonnay?’ she asks.
‘Wait, how did you—’
‘It’s always chardonnay. You very rarely get maudlin on pinot.’
‘Fair point,’ I agree. ‘But for your information I wasn’t stalking him, I just happened to see him tagged in Kara’s post.’
Naomi had never been particularly fond of Charlie. Pretty boys weren’t her thing, and she always thought he was too full of himself.
‘Look at him, strutting around like a pound-shop John Travolta. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. He’s boring as hell. Full of stories about being drunk, shagging birds and listening to obscure bands no one has heard of.’
Admittedly he was a little boring, but I overlooked that in the name of love. ‘So, tell me,’ Naomi says, ‘what’s his future wife like then? Five foot ten and fifteen years younger? Hang on. . . Boys, get to bed or I’ll send your dad up there.’
I hear one of the boys laugh at the prospect of this. She might as well have threatened to send a teddy bear up there to discipline them, it would have been just as effective. Accountant Philip Bridgers is the poster boy for placidity.
‘Hmm, I’d say about five three,’ I reply. ‘But yeah, she looks younger. Mid-twenties, I’d guess, but you can do a lot with Botox these days.’
‘Well, you could have someone Botoxed, five three and mid-twenties if you wanted.’
I frown. ‘Why would I want that?’
‘I’m just saying, if you actually made an effort; you know, left the house on a Saturday night. . . or any night. . .’
‘Why are you now my mother?’
Naomi laughs. ‘Sorry. You know I only want good things for you. I want to see you happy! Oh, and speaking of your mum, I was shopping last week, and I saw her on Whitby Bridge. She was holding hands with a cutie. He looked like Bryan Cranston in khaki shorts and a trilby.’
That doesn’t sound like Derek (who would have worn his grey work suit to bed, given half the chance) or George (who looked more like Brian Blessed than Bryan Cranston). Is this someone new?
‘God, even my mum is dating,’ I say despondently.
‘You should be too!’ Naomi insists. ‘Get yourself out there and stop thinking that everyone on Instagram is as perfect as they seem. You know Lucy Bainbridge from school? Looked like a thumb in the yearbook photo? She isn’t a married model who lives in Dubai. She actually lives in her car, isn’t allowed to own a dog and works at Marks and Spencer in Croydon.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
‘It could be true. All I’m saying is, for all we know, Charlie Fox has haemorrhoids the size of golf balls and his future wife is a flat earther.’
