Page 19 of Not in a Million Years

And the fridge, obviously, was groaning with booze.

I was ready, too. My hair was freshly blow-dried, my make-up carefully applied, my white sequinned Primark dress elevated to fashionista status by the silver Steve Madden heels I’d found in TK Maxx.

I was ready. My flat was ready. All that remained was for my guests to arrive.

Abbie and Matt, typically punctual, were first, Matt carrying a bottle of champagne and Abbie a huge bunch of lilies. I didn’t own a vase so I fished the lemon slices out of the jug of water I’d prepared and shoved the flowers in there – it wasn’t like anyone was going to be drinking water, anyway.

‘Oh my God,’ Abbie breathed. ‘It’s amazing, Kate. Your very own flat! You’re like someone out of Sex and the City.’

‘Show us round,’ Matt urged. ‘Come on, we need a proper grand tour.’

‘Explain absolutely everything,’ Abbie urged. ‘We won’t care how long it takes.’

So I led them through all forty square metres of my home, glowing with pleasure as they exclaimed over the view (admittedly of a rank of wheelie bins and a half-dead laurel bush), the laminate floor (tactfully ignoring the fact that one corner was peeling away), the proximity of the fridge to the sink and the fitted wardrobes in the bedroom. They even found nice things to say about the bathroom, which was frankly grotty, with a shower that went randomly from scalding to arctic, and a stain in the toilet that looked like something had fallen in there and died, and was destined to be ripped out as soon as I could afford to replace it.

Matt opened the bottle of champagne, and I was pouring drinks for us all when the doorbell buzzed again.

Rowan and Paul had brought tiny Clara, in a sling on her father’s chest, but insisted that there was no need for quiet – she could sleep through Armageddon. They got the full tour too and did just as much exclaiming over things. Naomi arrived with an African violet in a pot, which I thanked her profusely for despite knowing that, with the best will in the world, I’d kill it within a week. Zara and Patch (who were still an item at that point) brought a box of posh champagne flutes that actually matched and another bottle of fizz.

Friends from my work arrived too, and old friends from school and university. Everyone brought gifts, everyone enthused and admired. The drink was flowing, I started to bring out the food and I was basically feeling like the hostess with the mostest.

Except Andy wasn’t there yet. I tried not to mind – it was only nine o’clock. He hadn’t said what time he’d be there, only that he would be.

But all the same, I couldn’t help feeling hurt. He knew how much I’d scrimped and saved to buy the place, how stressful it had all been, how much it mattered to me. Of course, he didn’t know that at every stage of the process, from looking in estate agents’ windows to picking out my cream sofa, I’d imagined his opinion.

God, you don’t want to live near Elephant and Castle, he’d sneered in my head when I viewed a flat that had been perfect in every other respect. It’s all right, but it’s miles from a Tube station, my internal Andy had commented on another. You don’t want to have to get the bus with a bunch of povvos eating fried chicken every afternoon. Do not paint the walls magnolia, Kate, he’d insisted, or you’ll be dead to me forever.

He didn’t know that, because obviously I hadn’t told him. But he surely knew how much his opinion mattered to me. Over the past year, we’d become close friends. He’d been shopping with me and helped me pick out clothes that looked like they cost ten times as much as they did – my Primark dress being a case in point. He’d advised me on my love life, and it was thanks to him that I’d jettisoned my latest boyfriend, Stevie, after three months.

‘He’s no good for you, Katie babe. He’s a no-hoper. He’ll drag you down when you need to fly.’

He’d even rehearsed interview questions with me when I’d applied for my current job, although he was currently unemployed and had never been through an interview process in his life.

He knew. And now he wasn’t here.

I didn’t let anyone see that I minded, and I still went all out to enjoy my party, my housewarming, the pleasure of welcoming so many friends to the home I’d strived for. But without him there, it all felt less special – less real, even.

Ten o’clock came and went. Rowan and Paul took Clara home. Patch and Zara went on to another party. I cleared away the empty plates, worried that I’d under-catered. People were out on the balcony now, leaning over the balustrade, looking down at the water and chatting. I collected up empty glasses and washed them up in the sink, longing for the day when I could afford a dishwasher.

Abbie appeared at my elbow, holding a drying-up cloth. ‘Honestly, even your tea towels are amazing. This is all so cool, Kate. I’m so happy for you.’

I looked into her smiling face, and she pulled me close and hugged me.

And then, abruptly, I started to cry.

‘Oh my God, Kate. What’s wrong? Are you okay?’ She steered me to the sofa and sat me down, rummaging in her bag for tissues.

‘I’m fine,’ I muttered between sobs. ‘Just a bit… you know.’

‘Tired and emotional?’ she suggested. ‘Literally. You worked your socks off making all that amazing food. You should’ve let me help.’

‘Thanks. I know. But I didn’t want—’

‘Anyone to see the place before your big reveal? I get it. And besides, you know what a crap cook I am. I’d have given everyone listeria or something.’

I managed a laugh, remembering my ruined gougères, but it turned into a sob.

‘Is it because Andy hasn’t turned up?’ she asked gently.

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