Page 1 of Shout Out To My Ex

1

ELLE

I burst through the front door of our flat, fling my clutch onto the hallstand, and head straight to the sofa, where I fall onto it backwards. Covering my face with my forearm, I shout, ‘Gah!’ into the crook of my elbow.

My sister, Cassie, chuckles at me. ‘More than two hours. That’s a new record.’

I lift my arm and glare at her across the pouffe that moonlights as our coffee table. ‘Were you timing me?’

‘Always do,’ she says, darting a glance my way, then returning to her laptop.

I toe off my (extremely uncomfortable) heels, then rub my feet against each other. Why do we torture ourselves with these bloody things? I eye the abandoned heels where they lie skew-whiff on the rug.

Oh, that’s right,I think,because they’re bloody gorgeous.

‘So, what was wrong with this one?’ Cass murmurs, distracted.

I sit up. ‘Are you working?’ I ask, ignoring her question.

Her eyes dart my away again. ‘Aren’t I always?’

‘It’s Saturday night.’

She shrugs.

‘If you put that away, I’ll give you all the juicy details.’

She snaps the laptop shut. ‘Go on. Actually, wait. I want wine for this.’ She leaps up and goes to the kitchen and I flop back onto the sofa and stare at our incredibly high ceiling, a favourite feature of living in a converted fabric factory. She opens the fridge door. ‘Rosé or Chardonnay?’

‘Have we got any fizz?’ I ask, too lazy to get up and look for myself.

‘Consolation prize?’

‘Exactly.’ A yawn sneaks up on me and I succumb to it, stretching my arms in one direction and my legs in the other. Cass reappears with a bottle of cheap fizz we bought a dozen of from Aldi and two mismatched glasses. ‘We need new?—’

‘Glasses,’ she finishes. ‘I know. You say that every time.’

‘I only think of it when we’re about to pour.’

‘Me too.’ Rip-twist-pop and she pours. I swear she could crack a bottle of fizz with her eyes closed. Cass is the master of celebrating even the smallest of wins, one of the things I love most about her.

‘Here you are.’ She holds out a glass and I sit up and squint at it. ‘They’re even pours, I promise.’ This is an age-old argument, dating back to when I was four and Cass was seven and she’d give me the smallest ‘half’ of the Mars bar.

I take the glass, holding it up to give a toast. ‘To Marcus, a boring prat who ordered the banquet before I arrived so I couldn’t ditch him until after dessert.’

Cass chokes on her fizz, spluttering as she says, ‘Wowser, that’s an advanced dating manoeuvre.’ She bangs on her chest and coughs some more.

‘I know. Part of me was impressed – ateenypart.’

‘Where did you meet this one?’

‘On Flutter.’

‘Flutter? You’re making that up.’

‘Nope.’ I cross my heart with two fingers. ‘Latest dating app for under-thirty-fives.’

‘That leaves me out then,’ she says, which makes me laugh – even if she were under thirty-five, Cass is not much of a dater. ‘What? Idate,’ she says, her voice edged with defensiveness.

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