Page 55 of So Thrilled For You

Fuck Nicki.

Seriously, fuck her.

Oh, how I’ve wanted to think that freely, for so long.

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.

It feels amazing to think it now without guilt. I only wish I could say it out loud. To her face. But I will have to make do with just leaving this hell site of a party without feeling any guilt about it. I’m almost tempted to take my presents back off the pile and rub all the Neal’s Yard Bump Juice over myself, just out of spite.

However, the universe isn’t going to allow me to flounce off just yet, unfortunately.

I peel back the sliding door and crouch on the decking under the piñata, staring at the top of the mysterious firework while I argue with the local taxi company.

‘We’re sorry, but we only have one driver and he’s busy at the moment,’ an elderly woman tells me, very slowly, down my crappy line.

‘When will he stop being busy?’

‘He’s got this one emergency pick-up. Then he has to go straight from there to do his weekly hospital run. I’m afraid we can’t fit you in.’

‘Do you have the numbers of any other companies?’

‘We’re the only ones covering this area.’

‘What if there’s an emergency? What if I need to go to hospital?’

‘You said you needed to go to the train station?’ She’s not getting it. ‘Honey, if you need to go to hospital, it’s better to book a week in advance. Or call an ambulance if it’s an emergency.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ I say, like a child. I hang up and feel guilty for being rude. This poor lady isn’t Nicki. I should save my wrath for her.

If it wasn’t an actual sauna out here, I would just go on a long walk around this tinderbox of a countryside until Lauren drives me back. Yeah, it would be awkward, as I’d have to tell her what I overheard, and it is quite acutely painful that she didn’t defend me. In fact, she almost agreed with Nicki! Does Lauren honestly believe I think that about her since she had a baby? OK, so I feel stupid for posting that article now. I felt so seen by the dating part that I didn’t consider how the rest of it came across. I can see how she misinterpreted it, but, then again, why was she so quick to believe the utter worst in me? At least it’s outed what we all already knew anyway. Nicki hates me and wants me out of the group. Because Nicki’s a petty, insecure bitch who can’t get over something that happenedyearsago. Something where I feel, actually, Iwas the victim, not Nicki. I was the one who got hurt. I shake my head and feel sweat beads drip down my forehead. I’m going to have to go back inside and hold my tongue as she unwraps all the plastic shit people are going to give her that won’t biodegrade until the dinosaurs come back. I refuse to participate though, after hearing that, and I won’t feel guilty about sending important work emails. I’m just going to sit in silence, until I’m allowed to go home and make myself a millionaire, while she farts, and complains about her backache, and acts like having a baby is adivine experience rather than the most fucking obvious thing in the world to do in your thirties.

I sigh once more and go back in where the cooler air engulfs me. A circle’s gathering around Nicki, who’s sat in the nicest chair, bulbous like a buddha, wearing a novelty bird hat with ‘Mother Goose’ written across it. A mountain of perfectly wrapped presents circles her like chalk around a dead body, while she makes polite small talk. I find a chair in the corner and pull my legs up onto it, checking my emails.

‘Has everyone got drinks before we start?’ Charlotte asks. ‘I can make more mocktails? No. Are you sure? I think we’re ready to go, Nicki!’

‘I don’t even know where to begin,’ Nicki laughs, finally pretending to notice what surrounds her. ‘Guys, I said no presents!’

The circle laughs while I silently scoff. Anyone who actually turned up without anything would have a black mark against their name forever. It was like a little test – like when couples ask you to donate money to their honeymoon as a wedding present, and you’re in this weird silent auction with all the other guests, figuring out a suitable amount without bankrupting yourself.

As I watch Nicki struggle to reach for her first gift, everyone laughing at her inability to move past her stomach, I see that smug smile I remember so well.

Cat with the cream.

A hateful smile.

Hateful.

Unlike the smile of her husband, who was my undoing twelve years ago . . .

‘. . . Here, let me help you,’ Matt said, as I struggled to pull a keg across the wooden floor of the Sheffield community hall. I left a stripe through the dust which came to an abrupt halt as I ran out of strength.

‘It’s OK, I’ve got it.’ I’ve tried and failed to push it further. ‘Hang on, no I really don’t . . . thank you.’

He laughed and bent down to grip the bottom, and, together, we heaved the barrel over to the catering tables I’d set up earlier. We thumped it on top, and I theatrically pretended to faint over it. Matt laughed again.

‘Thanks again,’ I said, rightening myself and acknowledging him properly for the first time. ‘I’m Steffi,’ I added. ‘I don’t think we’ve been on a Nightline shift before?’

Matt held out his hand to shake, which I remember finding delightfully formal for a 20-year-old student. ‘Matt,’ he said. ‘No, we haven’t. But I recognise you from the training induction, I think.’

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