‘We’ve not gone out and done anything fun or silly in months. I’ve watched you go from fun, excitable, spontaneous Haf, to... whoever this is. You’ve been worn down by spreadsheets and admin, and it’s time to go to a party, have a good time and let the old Haf out to make a few silly decisions. Take an evening to stop worrying about all the big stuff, like your job or having your shit together.’
‘How do you know I don’t have plans already?’ Haf puffs up her cheeks.
Ambrose says nothing, but silently points atGilmore Girls, Haf’s admittedly grubby hoodie and finishes by popping the air from her cheeks.
‘And you know the best part?’ they continue, ignoring her protests. ‘It’s a grown-up person party, which means that there’ll be good snacks.’
‘Snacks...’ Haf says, glancing at Ambrose from the corner of her eye.
‘Snacks.Goodsnacks. Middle-class, grown-up-people snacks. M&S party snacks.’
‘I hate that you know me this well.’
‘No, you don’t, because then you wouldn’t be invited to crash strangers’ parties on the promise of a good buffet.’
Haf has always loved food, and thanks to learning from the brilliant and clever fat-positive babes online, she’s now comfortable enough within her own body where she doesn’t feel she ever has to hide that. There’s no calling foodnaughtyor talking aboutwalking it offin her world. Ambrose is thin but has never made her feel like she needs to acknowledge the difference in their bodies when they talk about their shared love of food.
‘Whose party is it?’
Ambrose waves their hand. ‘I don’t know. Someone from the psychology department, I think? I got invited by someone else who’s going.’
‘So we’re, like, third-hand crashing?’
They shrug.
Haf wasn’t sure she wanted to admit it, but maybe Ambrose was right. The last few monthshadbeen royally shit. Letting her hair down and trying out one of the many new lipsticks that are both too bright and too fun for work that she’d bought online on many a depressed Wednesday afternoon at the office but hadn’t had the chance to wear could be good for her. If not, she can just fill up her purse with pork pies and get a cab home. At this juncture, she’s not above this as a plan B.
‘Fine. I’ll go.’
‘Excellent. It’s a Christmas miracle.’
Chapter Two
The best thing about crashing parties in midsize university towns is that there’s a good chance you won’t know many, if any, of the people there. This means that if you have no intention of behaving yourself or generally pretending to be a wholesome person, you don’t have to. Most of the other partygoers won’t remember you as more than the weird girl in the black fluffy coat, anyway. Or at least, that’s what Haf hopes will happen.
Ambrose had rooted through Haf’s wardrobe of, to their taste, questionable fashion and insisted she wore a dress they found in a sale as, according to them, Haf’s tits would look very good in it. The dress was black velvet with structured shoulders and a deep V down the front. It was one of those rare, near-mythical finds in plus-size fashion – not floral, and no frills – and so Ambrose had insisted Haf buy it ‘just in case’.
Complete with a brick-red lipstick and a bit of gold glitter across the apples of her cheeks, Haf not only feels a bit festive, but she feels hot. Especially so once she rubs the lipstick off her teeth.
Yes, she’s facing a Christmas alone, which feels like her worst nightmare, but for now, she looks fit and is going to, hopefully, consume a considerable amount of booze and food.
Ambrose looks fantastic as always. Their blazer is scarlet red and embroidered with clouds, green butterflies, suns and dragon scales. They’ve paired it with a simple but secretly luxuriouswhite silk shirt, high-waisted tailored black trousers and pointed boots. Haf thinks that they always look like a pop star – a compliment Ambrose likes to pretend they don’t enjoy.
When they arrive just after eight thirty, half the guests are already on their way to being very drunk, sprawled around the living room, already deep into YouTube karaoke. Ambrose seems to recognise a few people and waves a polite hello but no one looks particularly familiar to Haf. She met a few of their co-workers and friends over the last year – all people from the university, usually a mix of admin staff like them, plus a few academics, and a couple of feral-looking PhD students that haven’t seen sunlight or a full meal for weeks. Most people here seem to be nourished, probably have a babysitter with the kids at home, know how to properly drink whisky and have fun but still be an in-bed-by-eleven type of person. Real grown-ups.
Two guys in matching reindeer jumpers bellow along to a song that Haf swears is a very funky ode to Mrs Claus.
‘Someone’s getting some tonight,’ Ambrose says archly, as a couple of women leap up from the couch to join them for the chorus.
Weirdly, no one comes to greet Ambrose or rushes over to say hello.
‘Who invited you to this party, anyway?’ Haf asks as they weave through groups of people in vaguely festive clothing.
Ambrose either doesn’t hear or ignores her, probably the latter, but Haf chooses to allow it because it appears they’ve led her straight through the party to the kitchen, which is absolutely laden with food. An enormous buffet is spread across a long kitchen table, spilling over onto most of the counters.
‘You’re welcome,’ they say.
‘It’s... it’s beautiful.’ Haf pretends to wipe a tear away, but is overcome enough that she almost does cry.
