Page 14 of So Thrilled For You

‘She’s not . . .’ he sighs again and swallows with his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’ve been through this.’ He puts his snack down and comes over and squeezes my shoulders. That’s the most affection I get from him these days – shoulder squeezes, like it’s the closest he can get to physically shaking me until his old wife reappears. ‘She’s a good friend,’ he says. ‘You love these women and they love you. You’ve not seen them in ages. It will be good for you. You’re going to have an amazing time today.Andyou look gorgeous.’ He plants a kiss on my lips then, sticks his tongue in, turning it into a jokey snog.

‘Tristan,’ I squeal, delighted. A joke snog is still a snog. I’ll take it. He mock hits my arse too, before retrieving his sandwich and demolishing half of it with one giant chomp. I look from him over to Woody on the floor who’s essentially swallowing the dummy remote like a cobra, and get another glow at themagic of genetics. I wish these moments of it feeling ‘worth it’ were longer, less tiny and less fleeting, but they’re here sometimes. Bursts to get me through. And he’s right about Steffi. Her posting that article is about her, not me. What did it say again? I’ve hate-read it so many times I can basically recite it.

‘How come it’s OK that my friends are always late now? When did having children make their time more important than mine?’

And . . .

‘One of my mum friends posts links about the climate crisis, and then, the next day, posts a smug scan announcing the birth of her THIRD baby. Can she not do the math? And I’M the selfish one, for being child-free, am I?’

Does Steffi really believe that I think she’s selfish? Have I been that shit since having Woody? I don’t havetimeto think she’s selfish.

There’s adoinkas Woody chucks the remote to the floor. He twists up onto his arms, spots me, his face arranging into the biggest smile of delight. It’s like having a super fan with you at all times, having a baby. One that literally regularly shits themselves they’re so excited to see you. He crawls towards me, panting with excitement about meeting my arms. He collides with my legs, uses me to pull himself up.

‘Hey darling. Oh Woody, no . . . not my hair . . . ouch . . . that hurts Mummy. No, not my mouth . . . no . . . no . . . Tristan? . . . no Woody . . . oh . . .’

And, just like that, Woody pokes his fingers in and out of my mouth, smearing my perfect red lip right across my cheek.

Steffi

There’s nothing like the London Underground to remind you that the world doesn’t care about you, even on your most dramatic days. It’s never ceased to amaze me, how eyes-down,disinterested, this city has been whenever I’ve publicly fallen apart in it. Weeping at Liverpool Street station after Mike dumped me, tube after tube swooshing to a stop, people spilling out, clocking the sobbing woman on a bench and then pretending it’s not happened as they rush past. No, London doesn’t care when your heart is breaking, and it apparently doesn’t care if your life is soaring either. This morning I feel like, surely, there should be some kind of parade in my honour. With elephants wearing tiaras. But when I skip off the sweaty bus, and descend the manky steps of Mile End station, there’s just fuggy air that tastes of lung cancer, and no elephants. Thankfully, it’s pretty empty this early, as I wilt onto a bench and pointlessly fan my face. It’s uncomfortably hot and I feel my makeup sweat off, but my good mood can’t be sidelined. I tap dance as I wait for the squeak and roar of the tube pulling in. I get out my phone and re-read the emails. Nothing more has come in yet, but I know it will. This book is going to be huge. These deals are going to be huge. Rosa is going to be huge. And, most importantly – as I’ve remortgaged my flat to make this all happen– my agency is now going to be huge.Howhuge is up to how I play the next two weeks, and I groan out loud at the thought of today’s shower.

The tube hisses in and I stride on board, pulling my skirt around me as I sit down so I don’t get flea bites. I tap my foot as we jolt through the hot black air. It’s good not to have phone signal for a while. It gives me a chance to calm the fuck down. I won’t check my phone until I’m on the train, I decide. I need to reset my nervous system so I don’t send my life-changing emails in BLOCK CAPS. We screech into Bank and I hop off, mosey along the tunnels towards the northern line, grin inanely at a busker and toss two quid into his guitar case. He nods and smiles back and I want to gambol like a lamb, I’m so excited. Another tube down to London Bridge and I check my watch. I’ve honed it to perfection. I have precisely enough time to have a wee, get a good coffee, and browse the station bookshop to put all my clients’ books on the front table. I allow myself to get nostalgic as I amble around the concourse, collecting my goods and waiting for my platform to get called. When the Little Women moved to London, scattered around the city like dropped coins, we’d always meet at London Bridge for our catch ups. In fact, Charlotte and I sat on that very bench, off our faces drunk, eating Leon with our fingers and singing the Pocahontas soundtrack all the way through until many people joined in. We were all dementedly living a Bridget Jones fantasy and were excited by tourist traps like Borough Market. The four of us would clip-clop towards South Bank, past the money shots of the Tate Modern, the bouncing bridge, and St Paul’s twinkling on the water. We’d occasionally meet at the National Theatre to watch plays Nicki and Charlotte pretendedto understand while Lauren and I sniggered through drunk. We’d pour into Wagamama, dressed like we were inSex and the City, making a tiny bowl of noodles last ages, cutting one bao bun into four tiny mouthfuls because we knew they were the cool things to eat, but we were too broke to order one each. Lauren, Charlotte and I would bemoan our dating hardships over the cheapest bottle of red wine while Nicki nodded sympathetically (smugly, in my opinion). Then we’d be too pissed to remember how broke we were and end up getting cocktails at the top of the OXO tower, asking strangers to take our pictures.Look at us,young, and in the best city in the world, making it somehow, even though we’re English graduates, spat out into the worst job market in twenty years. It was so much easier to be friends back then. Maybe I’m misremembering it, but I swear even Nicki and I got on back then. The Matt thing wasn’t such a big deal (to her, anyway) until they got engaged. I think that’s when she realised we’d both permanently be in her life, as a permanent reminder of how they met. I went from dear former uni housemate to unwanted albatross that she needed rid of. Thankfully Charlotte and Lauren were having none of it.

‘It’s just a phase,’ Lauren promised me, clasping my hand. ‘She’ll get over whatever it is. We will always be here for each other, I promise.’ I held on tight to the Little Women, and they held on tight to me. Although it’s not been a phase, and Nicki has been a bitch to me for years now. I really have felt likeAmy since. I bet, in Nicki’s warped brain, she thinks Matt is Laurieor something. Do what you must do to keep things fresh when you’ve been shagging the same man since university. But leave me and my best friends out of it.

My platform’s announced, and I’m so desperate to check my phone, I practically run up the escalator, almost spilling my iced coffee. The train’s blissfully air-conditioned and blissfully empty. I fall, relieved, onto a seat, spreading my legs out to let my sweaty knee-pits dry, and close my eyes as London slips away behind me. I last about 30 seconds before I snap my eyes back open, grasping for my phone. No news. Agh. I’m frustrated my zen-like patience hasn’t been rewarded.

I pull up Lauren’s number.

Steffi:

I’m on the train and it’s running on time. Miracle of miracles.

Thanks again for driving me to the arse end of nowhere. There better be gin, that’s what I say!!!

I see she’s online and she replies right away.

Lauren:

K

I pull a face. That’s a bit weird. Just K? Did she read too much into my gin jokes and think I’m being bitchy about Nicki? No. She knows I like to keep the peace(unlike Nicki). She’s probably just got the baby in one arm, I reassure myself. They are demanding little creatures, as everyone likes to constantly tell me, like I cannot possibly understand unless I have one myself because I’m selfish, no doubt. That’s what people think. I can’t understand caring for people, and the burden of it, even after looking after Mum right until her dire last days. Nope. Unlessit’s your own child, caring for someone doesn’t make you caring.

I shake my head, surprised by myself. That ‘K’ has really wound me up it appears. This is Lauren. She loves me. It’s been so damn long since I’ve seen her that I’ve forgotten Lauren always means well. She’s as sunny as the outfits she wears. We’re just misfiring because we’ve not seen each other in ages. Today will be a reminder of how tight we are – even if we’re all in such different places right now.

My phone pins, alerting me to an incoming email and blood rushes into my fingertips.

Breathe, Steffi. Breathe. The train hurtles through a tunnel and I can’t tell if that’s making my ears ring, or the anticipation of seeing what’s come in next. And, when I see the name on the email, I swear an eardrum explodes.

‘No way,’ I say to myself. ‘No way. No. Oh my God. Oh my God.’

It’s from Nina Baldwin.TheNina Baldwin. A Hollywood darling, who, after turning 25, got fed up of there being no roles for older women or minorities so set up her own production company. Since then, everything she’s touched has turned to rose gold. She’s become her own conveyor belt of success. She options great books, turns them into great shows, then, as an added bonus, usually makes these books her monthly choice in her book club that has over 30 million followers . . . so, of course, when the show airs – the book and the show do supremely well.

And there’s her name. In my inbox.

Hi Steffi

I know it’s totally unorthodox to email on a Saturday – though it’s technically the middle of Friday night over here in La La Land. Anyway, when a book like BLOOD MOON comes along, I know you have to act fast. Steffi, I am blown away by it. I want to option it immediately and BLOOD MOON is exactly the project a streaming platform I work with is looking for. I can just see myself playing Cassandra – it’s the part of dreams! Do you need a formal offer over the weekend, or can this wait until Monday? I swearShe Believed She Could Productionsis the perfect home for this. I swear we will do it proud. I’ve CC’d in my lawyers to pretend this is vaguely official, but, truly, from a personal place, I NEED this book. I will do anything. It’s perfect. Perfect. It’s been an honor to read it, and I cannot wait to hear back from you.

---