‘Shush, shush, it’s OK, Mandy love,’ I say kindly, rubbing her back as she weeps. ‘I get it. They’re the absolute worst.’
‘He’s ruined my liiiiiiiiiife,’ she cries into my shoulder, and I nod.
‘I know, I know,’ I tell her as loud grunts echo from the doorway. I lead Amanda over to the sofa and sit her down as she wails about always attracting arseholes. I’m catching every other word or so between sobs, nodding and oohing at appropriate moments, wondering how quickly I can steer this in a useful direction.
From the hall, I hear Harry trying his PIVOT joke again and complaining when it falls flat. It sounds like they’ve nearly got it to the front door. Fair play, I thought it would take them hours. It’s now or never so I take a punt.
‘We should go for a drink and talk it all out,’ I offer, and she stops crying momentarily, regarding me with bleary eyes.
‘You–you’d be up for that?’ she asks all shuddery, shoulders up around her ears. ‘All my friends are sick of hearing about it and I just need to talk about it for a few hours, y’know? Just go over the relationship in detail several times to understand where it went wrong. Really examine the whole thing piece by piece. I just need totalk.’
‘Mandy, babe’ – I take her firmly by the shoulders – ‘I’m totally up for that. I’m here for you. We’ll get through this together. How about this weekend?’ I pause, wondering how much I can push it. ‘Maybe your brother can join us? Y’know, as an extra shoulder for you to cry on?’
She cocks her head, eyes red and sore-looking. ‘That sounds really good, I’d like that. I guess I can ask Milo, too. He’s pretty busy at the moment, though.’
‘Oh yes?’ I say so goddamn innocently. ‘Why is that? Um, any particular reason why he’s so busy?’
‘Well,’ Mandy swipes at her eyes, ‘he’s actually—’
The front door bangs and Harry appears, sweatier than I’ve ever seen him. His thick hair is all mussed up – it suits him actually.
‘We’re done,’ he says breathlessly. ‘All loaded up.’ He pulls a face. ‘It only just fitted. Buffy’s going to have to sit on your lap.’ He pauses. ‘Did you know she wasn’t evenbornuntil years afterFriendsfinished? Isn’t that horrifying?’
Oh god, she’s going to make sure I suffer for all of this.
‘I’d better go,’ I say apologetically to my new friend. ‘I’llsee you this weekend, though, yeah? You’ve got my number. You can talk it all out for hours and hours and hours.’ I grin. ‘And don’t forget about Milo, right? I’m sure he could do with a night off from all his… busy stuff.’
She nods, sniffing loudly. ‘Great, thanks, Clara, I can’t wait. I really need this. I’ll see you to the door.’ We file out and I lean in for another hug on her doorstep. ‘Oh!’ she pulls out, looking over my shoulder. ‘Here’s Milo now, actually. We can ask him about this weekend.’ I spin around, my chest heaving. He’s here! He’s here right now. It’s finally happening, this is it. The moment I’ve been— Oh, wait.
A man in a company-branded polo neck T-shirt approaches up the driveway. He’s close to fifty, sporting a goatee and holding a clipboard.
‘Milo!’ his sister greets him. ‘How was your day? Anyone pass or fail?’ She glances at me. ‘Milo’s a driving instructor! It’s his busiest season with all the teens rocketing towards the summer holidays.’ She doesn’t wait for my underwhelmed reaction, turning back to the imposter. ‘Guess what, Milo! We’re going out this weekend for drinks with my new friend, Clara!’ She gestures at me and he takes me in, stroking his pathetic attempt at a beard.
‘Sounds good to me,’ he says in a reedy, horrible voice, leering at my tits.
This is not my Milo Samuels. This man could not be less my Milo Samuels. Fucking Facebook! Fuck you, Zuckerberg!
‘Er, great!’ I say, walking backwards and making a run for the van. ‘We’d better get going now with our gorgenew furniture. Honestly, the drawers are so gorge! See you both… er, really soon!’
‘See you at the weekend, Clara babe!’ Amanda calls out as we drive off slowly, weighed down by our gigantic, useless chest of drawers.
Chapter SixteenJEMMA
‘Butthole hair, ohhhhhh buttttttttthole hair!’
On the other side of the bathroom door, my sister is singing a song about butthole hair. And has been doing so for the last forty minutes. While I stand out here in the hallway, internally screaming.
Also, externally screaming.
‘HURRY THE FUCK UP!’ I yell again, knowing she can’t hear me – or is choosing not to.
Salma appears behind me in her pyjamas. ‘Do you think she means hair that growsonyour bumhole or that clump of hair that always ends up in your crack when you wash your hair?’
‘Who knows,’ I sigh, my frustration growing with every passing high note.
‘The song is so fecking multi-layered,’ Salma murmurs.
‘She’s multi something,’ I mutter churlishly.
