Page 22 of So Thrilled For You

Nicki

I love Charlotte but she’s too much sometimes, she really is. I don’t even want to know what’s happening on the other side of the bedroom wall. I can hear doors sliding, chairs squeaking as they’re moved. I wouldn’t be surprised if I come out in 30 minutes and she’s turned the whole room into a giant womb, and we all have to climb through a crepe paper birth canal to get to the cupcakes.

With that all being said, this bump sheet mask is actually amazing.

I wasn’t going to use it, but then I knew I’d feel bad about lying when she inevitably grills me.Did you love it? Was it moisturising enough? Has it cooled you down? Can I see if your skin is any different?So, I clambered back on top of the guest bed and slid it out of its foil packaging. I bunged it goo-side down on my stomach and let out a moan of actual joy.

‘Jesus Christ that feels good.’

The baby twisted with shock at the temperature change, and I watched as their foot poked through the mask, making itself a little tent. Then they relaxed, and so did I, closing my eyes and drifting off until I was just woken now, maybe ten minutes later, by my parents arguing through the wall.

‘I thought you were putting up the black-out blinds,’ my mum hiss-shouts.

‘I am.’

‘But you’ve not done them.’

‘I will.’

‘You’re literally just lying on the bed in your shorts.’

The argument diminishes to mutters and instructions and the aggressive ripping noise of double-sided Velcro being applied to window frames. How did Charlotte find black-out blinds big enough for these wall windows? Did she pay for them herself? I start adding up the things I’ve seen already – the flower wall that looks like it’s been shoplifted from the Kardashian household, all those pastel dummies floating in the roll-top bath, the food . . . the endless food. Charlottes’s always been wealthy and, without meaning to, married Seth, the nicest hedge fund manager you’ll ever meet, and became even richer. It’s not like today is expensive for her . . . but still . . . I should stop being such an ungrateful cow.

My phone beeps again. Initially, I kept leaping at it, thinking it was Phoebe, but over the past hour it’s gone off nonstop – my inbox cluttered with people telling me they’re excited, or on their way, or they’re sorry but they might be a bit late as they didn’t realise it was so out in the sticks, or the inevitable ‘I’m so sorry hon but I can’t make it, present in the post.’ I keep expecting Steffi to cancel and sort of wish she would. I’m annoyed Charlotte wouldn’t admit that ridiculous child-free article was awful and so obviously posted as a dig at me. I can’t believe Steffi can’t just be happy for me, after all this time. She always has to make out that her single life is so glamorous, and exciting, and invigorating, compared to the security that I have with Matt. Well, you know what I find invigorating, Steffi? Being in a healthy relationship, rather than being pressured into choking and anal by some 27-year-old porn addict you met on Hinge. I read the news, I know what it’s like out there.I’m not jealous at all, in fact I feel sorry for her. It must all be so empty.

Maybe that beep is actually Steffi cancelling. I go to check it, anticipating my gleeful annoyance at being let down. But typically, because I thought it wouldn’t be from Phoebe,

it is.

‘Oh wow.’ I struggle to push myself up so I’m sitting with my back against the headboard.

Phoebe:

You’resurprised? Have you SEEN your invite? Nicki, I thought I knew you. X

She sends through a photo of an invitation on a desk. One dutifully picked out and sent by Charlotte.

‘Oh hell no,’ I say again, zooming in to see it properly. The thing is so pastel, I’m surprised it’s not made of Parma Violets so you could eat it afterwards. An illustrated pair of baby booties spell out the name ‘Phoebe’ with entwined laces. Underneath, some impressive cursive reads, ‘Consider this your booties call . . .’

I take a slow blink and cringe as I imagine my guests receiving this and thinking I picked it. Why did I give Charlotte such free rein.?Bootie call?Where did she even think that up? How is she real sometimes?

Phoebe:

And that’s not all . . .

Another photo arrives, of pink and blue pastel glitter all over Phoebe’s carpet.

Phoebe:

This fell out of the bloody envelope. You never told me you were a fucking terrorist?

Oh shit. No. No no no. She putglitterin the envelopes? Doesn’t she know there’s a company that sends glitter to your enemies as an act of revenge? How many friends had to get their hoover out, sighing and cursing me?

Phoebe:

It came with a note that said the glitter is plastic-free. Cos that’s the biggest concern I have, considering it’s going to live in my carpet FOREVER. It’s like two Smurf were atrociously murdered in my flat, but, don’t worry, as long as the fish aren’t eating it.

I rush to reply, desperate for Phoebe to know this isn’t me.

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