Page 2 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Ew. Do we know you?’ Bianca turns her back on him.

‘Ooooo canapes. Well posh.’ Ronks grabs a handful from a tray. We tip the tiny squares of toast carrying cress into our mouth like oysters but they dissolve disappointingly like Skips.

‘They aren’t as good as my ones,’ Bianca says, already unhooking her blue hair from the flowers and pins.

‘Don’t,’ Aoife warns, holding her throat.

‘What you do is you take a Mini Cheddar—’

Ronks puts her finger to Bianca’s mouth. ‘STOP. IT!’

‘Chew it but don’t swallow; instead regurgitate, spread the mixture with your tongue onto the next Mini Cheddar.’

Aoife retches.

‘Why does it sound worse because your tongue is pierced?’ I ask.

‘Like a little spoon for spreading, innit?’ Bianca cackles, biting the stud of her piercing between her teeth like a bullet.

We are directed to our the only girls from secondary school that Mia likes but not enough to invite partners table of eight, which is very close to the toilets and fire extinguisher. The four other girls, already seated, who we know – vaguely – wave at us politely as we find our places. Love your jumpsuit, Ella; that vintage? If having something in your wardrobe since you were twenty-one means vintage then yeah I guess it is.

They begin taking control by passing around a basket of bread, far more Teddy Bears’ Picnic than I’m sure they’d like. I wolf down a seeded stale bread roll, fork at my mushy vegetarian main and gulp back white wine, exhausted, already, by the continuous quiet stress-drip of small talk from the girls – sorry, other women – playing show-and-tell with photos on their phones of babies, dogs, cold-water swimming and house renovations. I swear this is what Facebook is for? And why I am not on Facebook. It’s like a school reunion where everybody seems to have established actual successful lives. Charity CEO. GP. HR. PR. PA. Masters upon masters. I’m a consultant. Cool, I say, consulting in what?

Bianca drains her glass, grabs her handbag and hisses ‘Fuck this’ in my ear before clomping off towards the giant doors to smoke. I’m so jealous of her escape. My yearning glance is interrupted with a: You still writing, Ella? I look at the girl/woman asking, like the word ‘writing’ is one I don’t understand, and I have to catch up. Yep, still at it, I say, then comically raise my fist to the sky like the woman with the red spotty bandana in that American wartime poster. I ask, to be polite, Are you still … lawyer-ing? And she looks at me like ARE YOU HIGH? and says, Yes, I’m still a barrister; I only worked my whole life for it. Like I haven’t worked my whole life to lie about in my pyjamas making shit up all day. A writer is a pointless job that absolutely nobody needs. I’m not academic or, let’s be real, relaxed enough to earn the title. My imposter syndrome, chronic. Published, right? People always have to check you’re solicited. Absolutely nobody likes the terrifying thought of you running around being creative off your own back: delusional, barking up wrong trees in blind faith, debt mounting, ripping through binbags at midnight to eat rotten chow mein like a starved, wild racoon whilst having all these big ‘dreams’ and great ‘ideas’.

I published a book of poems when I was twenty-one. A book I can’t even look at now without cringing. I got a lot of press at the time: POET FOR THE iPOD GENERATION. ELLA COLE IS A POET WHO DEFINITELY DOESN’T KNOW IT. The press cuttings, once sun-drenched, are now in a plastic box under the bed, my plaudits no longer relevant or valid, my press shots terribly dated. I’ve been living off royalties ever since. Not from the book, unfortunately, but from some adverts I wrote in a day and a half, back when all the brands decided they loved poems. A piece for TV and radio about how a fizzy drink can bring people together has been my greatest earner. The message being: if you don’t drink this drink, you’ll die alone. My soul, sadly, sold to the ‘Dark Arts’ bit of the arts. I do a lot of that now to make a living – freelance, helping adverts with words.

I don’t tell any of this lot that though, just say, Yes, I’m published. When they ask, Anything we might know?, it’s like Yes, probably quite a lot if you switch on the TV. But I shake my head and say, Doubt it. Oh. Disappointment for me and themselves. They thought they were about to meet a famous person.

Aoife kicks me under the table with her espadrilled wedge like don’t do yourself like that, so I clear my throat and offer, I’ve actually just finished my first novel … Lol. Because lol is what you say when you actually want to cry. Oooh. They perk up. I’d made a promise to myself – annoyingly out loud and in front of Aoife – that when I turned thirty I would submit my first novel, which I’ve only spent the past four years writing, to my agent. But now that I actually am thirty, I’m scared to let it go because everyone will know I’ve tried. It was fine when I was twenty-one. Now, it’s exposing, embarrassing actually. It takes a lot as an adult to say, I’ve written a book. It’s presumptuous – the hours, the effort, the sacrifice, the discipline, all those words. Then comes the hard bit – the reviews, the judgement. I want the whole world to read my work except anyone who knows me.

What’s it about? one of them asks. It’s a romance. Calm down, Lord Bloody Byron. But without the … I pull a face to mean sex scenes.

One of the girls bangs the table with her gavel of a wedding ring and demands, Have you ever heard of … and goes on to only name the No.1 romance novel that sits on the whole world’s bedside table and is now a major Hollywood movie. The table reacts with a gush. Ow. I LOVED that book. She clutches her chest. I smile like I’m so delighted that they’re all reading this big famous book that isn’t mine. Aoife tries not to crack up with laughter at my suffering; Book Club has begun and I’m somehow the host for a book I’ve not read. I’ve always wanted to write … one of them confesses, as if I’ve never heard anybody say that before … I feel I’ve got a book in me.

‘Everyone’s got a book in them,’ Ronks replies, ‘but not everyone needs to read it – do you know what I mean?’

The table laughs. Ronke winks at me. I love her for it.

After pushing creamy loveless dessert around our plates, the others get up to mingle.

‘Is it time? Are we allowed yet?’ I ask Aoife with desperation. And we both undo our belts and zips, letting our bellies flump out, and breathe a sigh of relief.

‘I honestly thought they were never going to feed us; what kind of nasty endurance test was that?’ Aoife complains. ‘I’m too old for mind games.’

We slump back into our chairs with ecstasy as our dislodged organs find their natural resting places.

‘Why do I do it myself? I’m two sizes bigger than when I last wore this dress; I need to accept that. Look at my poor belly … ’ Aoife points at the crimped grooves from the seam before rubbing her skin with affection. ‘I think I was going a bit mad. I said fabuloso earlier.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ And we crack up laughing, looking out at these people we barely know mingling around a red velvet cake (my worst – but I’ll eat it) to The Killers. How soon is rude to leave? Then ting ting it’s time for more cava in champagne flutes, cava we don’t seem to have been given because we’re forgotten stragglers at the back so we scramble for the dregs in our finger-smudged glasses.

Mia’s husband steps up to the microphone. ‘I’d like to make a toast … ’

Shit, best do my buttons back up already.

‘Mia,’ he begins, ‘sometimes I wake up and think I must be in a dream to be with you. And if I am dreaming – sleeping or … in a coma – then please, never wake me up.’

The room yelps and swoons. Applause. Tears bubble in my eyes.

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