Page 43 of So Thrilled For You

Getting all wound up because a few people ask them about having kids during small talk out of politeness. I mean, haveyouever judged someone for not having kids? No. Me neither. It’s not a thing. We’re all too busy doing the important job of fucking making the next generation to be thinking about them, judging them . . .’

I mean, Nicki, that isexactlywhat you’re doing, you actual hypocrite. I hear her take breath to no-doubt launch into another well-rehearsed rant, but a piercing shriek cuts her off, and Woody starts howling so loudly I’m wincing with a wall between us.

‘Sorry. Shh, shh Woody,’ Lauren says. ‘It’s OK buddy. Sorry Nicki, he’s just overtired. He didn’t nap in the car. I had to pick up Steffi and she took ages coming out of the station and the parking woke him.’

‘But, you know,we’rethe selfish ones.’

Lauren makes a non-committal grunt but the rest of their conversation is blunted by Woody. I can just about make out, ‘Sorry, he’ll calm down soon, I promise. I should maybe try and put him down, though I’m not allowed to for another four minutes.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s a baby. I . . .’ I lose them again behind Woody’s cries, until, ‘ . . . we should probably close the window, for the air-con.’

I duck as I hear someone clatter closer. A flash of Lauren’s hand pulling the glass wall shut and I hold my breath. Then it’s just me, in the heat, with the birds too hot to sing and everything I’ve just heard.

I can’t.

I rest my chin on my knees and the last five minutes seeps into my skin.

I honestly don’t know what to make of it. I ping from self-righteous rage to paranoia at how much Lauren misunderstood me, to crippling hurt at what I overhead. To think I’ve come here, on the most important weekend of my life, smiling, polite, with a hundred quid’s worth of gifts for Nicki in my bag, only for her to bitch, and goad, and ridicule me.

Fuck her.

Fuck her fuck her.

My phone almost explodes in my palm I’m squeezing it so hard. My breathing is ragged. My head full of a million comebacks and counter-arguments, defences and dramatic monologues.

I can’t be here.

I’m going to leave. I’m just going to take my stuff and go.

Shit.I can’t. I got a lift here.

With Lauren . . . Traitor.

Oh God, Lauren. Did she really think I agreed with THOSE parts of the article? Surely, she knows me better than that? I only posted it because of the dating part. Oh, how was I sodumb? No wonder she’s upset. Part of that article was weird as hell, but the bit about dating was so good.

My heart bursts with guilt, but then righteous anger replaces it. Doesn’t over a decade of friendship mean anything to her? Doesn’t she know me better than that?

I don’t know what to do. The drama of the day clasps its fingers around my neck – the opposing magnets of fate scrambling my brain. The publishing deals, but the being dumped. The thrill of my career cartwheeling into success, as a friendship cracks open like quaked earth. The butterfly’s flown away so I’ve got nothing to focus on and centre myself. I start counting planks of the deck instead. One, two, three, four. The wood’s been freshly varnished this summer. It gleams under the harsh light as my eyes skim and count . . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .

. . . hang on, what’s that?

Stuck between two planks is a strange cylinder object, reflecting light off the alien metal. I lean over to take it in. It looks like an oversized can of coke. Weird. I twist it around and read the label.

What Will Baby Be?Gender reveal smoke cannon.

The top has been peeled back and the ring pull is standing up. Suddenly all the pink and blue food makes sense. There’s more to today than showering. Christ – can I be pushed any further over the edge? I roll my eyes and twist the cannon around to see it’s apparently filled with pink smoke.

Wow – today’s gone so beyond basic, it’s now fully complicated.

Transcript: Inspector Simmons

interviewing Charlotte Roth

Charlotte: It was the perfect day. The perfect baby shower. Everything was perfect.

Simmons: Until somebody committed a terrible act of arson.

Charlotte: I still can’t imagine that’s what happened.

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