Page 61 of So Thrilled For You

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for being so sweet in trying to protect me. But that night meant nothing. Nothing.’

And, in time, that became the truth. Nicki and Matt were so obviously supposed to end up together that it was almost absurd for me to think there was a chance between us. He basically moved in for the rest of uni. I’d often walk in on them in the living room, playing video games together. They were both into the same dorky stuff. Then, of course, I fell madly in love withTerrible Malcolmin third year and saved all my heartache for the many, many, times he cheated on me on nights out. Matt evolved into this sort of eunuch-esque, non-sexual, Blue Peter man in my life. I found his puppy-

doggying of Nicki almost revolting, especially how she bossed him about while he quivered and apologised. I moved on. They’d obviously moved on. We graduated. They stayed together and made it work long distance between London and Leeds, where he got his first job. Everything was fine, all in the past, the Little Women were at peace, all very mature thank you very much, let’s get on with our lives.

Until, randomly, five years ago, the day they got engaged, when it became apparent that Nicki wasn’t over it at all. The day Matt ‘surprised’ her with the ring she’d designed for him a year previously, was the day Nicki decided she had a problem withme. Her insecurity was like fucking . . . dormant tuberculosis or something, and her diamond ring triggered its onset. It made no sense. It still makes no sense. Their marriage should’ve been the ultimate proof that I was nobody to worry about, and yet their engagement became the day I got declared the enemy. Nicki got uptight if I ever spoke to Matt, finding an excuse to come and tug him away, eyeing me like I was acting inappropriately by making small talk about the state of the publishing industry. She started trying to out me from the group. I discovered at least two Little Women meet-ups she’d organised where I’d been ‘forgotten’to get invited – much to Lauren and Charlotte’s horror, but too late, they were already there. I wasn’t included on any chats about wedding admin. Nothing about Nicki’s wedding dresses or location options, which seemed strange until I discovered they’d been syphoned off to a separate chat. ‘Nicki says it’s cause you’re not into all that wedding stuff,’ Lauren told me. ‘But I dunno. It’s weird.’

The final insult was the wedding itself where I wasn’t sat with the Little Women at dinner, and instead shoved onto some random table for single outcasts.

Maybe she’ll calm down now she’s married, I told myself, glugging wine and staring like a depressed Bassett Hound over at my friends on their table.

But the safer Nicki and Matt got, the more unsafe she seemed to find my general existence. Like she was worried I’d have delayed-onset-revenge-sex with him or something. The thing is, at this point, any revenge sex wouldn’t be because she’d ‘won’ Matt, but for trying to push me out of the most important friendship group I’d ever had the delight of being in. Nicki could have her beige husband, but I’d rather die thangive up Charlotte and Lauren. I feel like I’m holding onto my friends with greased fingertips, even though I never did anything wrong. And you could argue I should be the one angry at Nicki, not vice-versa. I still feel I handled the thing entirely graciously, all things considered. Especially as she didn’t even let up when my mum was dying and got all funny when I uttered one sentence to Matt at the wake about where the kitchen was. And, here I am, still gracious, at her fucking baby shower, with a hundred quid’s worth of presents celebrating her predictable life choices, and she’s still bitchy and bored enough to start a pile-on.

Honestly, fuck her.

She’s unwrapping the first gift now. All coos andahhandyou shouldn’t haves.She clasps her hand in delight at some twee, oversized muslin squares – because it’s motherhood and we have to make the souring puke of a reflux-ridden baby into a collectible retro print. I’m still surprised they haven’t started tying pastel ribbons around the handles of forceps to be honest. That you can’t get an Etta printventouse. Her smile is exactly the same as the one I saw all those years ago, above the steaming cup of coffee. The plump smugness of a smile. The cat who got the cream smile.

Seriously, fuck fucking Nicki.

Transcript: Inspector Simmons

interviewing Charlotte Roth

Simmons: It must’ve been a hard day for you, Charlotte. The day of the baby shower.

Charlotte: Well, the heat was far from ideal, yes, but I worked out ways around it. The air conditioning unit was a godsend, and we managed without ice. The food melted but everything tasted OK. The peony wall didn’t wilt, which is another miracle. Hard, yes, but worth it.

Simmons: I don’t mean the heat, Charlotte. I mean the nature of the event.

Charlotte: Excuse me?

Simmons: A baby shower must’ve been a painful thing to arrange considering your own issues conceiving a baby . . . something you’ve spoken about extensively on social media.

Charlotte: What’s . . . how . . . what’s that got to do with anything?

Simmons: Some guests commented that it seemed to be more your baby shower, than Nicole’s.

Charlotte: I gifted her all my manifestation board ideas, yes.

Simmons: That’s very big of you.

Charlotte: Thank you, but not really. You’ve got to let regrets go with light and love in your heart.

Simmons: Or you can set fire to your regrets?

Charlotte: Arson’s not inThe Secret, Inspector Simmons. I can lend you my copy if you don’t believe me. I have two. One annotated, and one ornamental for my display bookshelf.

Charlotte

It’s OK. It’s nothing. It’s going to be fine.

Oh God, I’m having a miscarriage fuck fuck fuck fuck no no no no fuck fuck fuck.

But I’m not. It’s alright. It has to be. It must.

I’ve been locked in the toilet for quite some time, reading every single article I can after googling a number of key phrases.

Bleeding six weeks pregnant.

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