Page 116 of The Invitation

“Absolutely no fucking way. You’re married. What kind of man is he to be cool with you fucking another guy?”

“Time to go!” Abbie sings, all high-pitched, taking Charley’s elbow. “Before She-Ra lets loose.”

I hate the smug smile on both the women’s faces as we leave. Hate it. “Oohh, Amelia?” I mumble as we all hurry out of the restaurant. “What the hell did she mean by that?”

“She’s obviously been saying lovely things about you toChardonnay.” Abbie smirks back at me.

“I need a drink.”

Plaything?

“You know, some women just projectbitch, don’t they?” Charley links arms with me and smiles. “I’m sorry, but Jude’s got a lot to prove to me, babe.”

My heart sinks. I don’t want my friends to dislike him, but I can hardly blame them. “I know,” I say grudgingly. Will he prove himself?

“But just because I’m wary of him doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and watch some ex-lover of his try to humiliate you.”

“God, I miss this Charley,” Abbie sings, linking my other arm.

“It’s the kids,” Charley declares. “They ignite the inner lioness.”

“Inner?” I ask. “I thought I was going to have to pry your claws out of her eyes.”

“Roarrrrrr,” Charley yells, and we laugh.

After a vow mid-irritated-march to the nearest wine bar tonotmention Katherine again, we settle and get our night back on track, being a bit more liberal with our alcohol quota now we’re not being watched as potential drink-and-runs.

We’re on our fifth cocktail, we’re all a little tipsy, have discussed every girlie holiday we’ve ever had, laughed, reminisced, and planned another for next year. We’re going to Barcelona. Abbie’s already scrolling through Airbnb options. It’s long overdue.

“Hey, did either of you two see that reunion invitation?” Charley asks, picking up her phone. “On Facebook.”

“I don’t go on Facebook.” I wave to the waiter for our sixth cocktail. “Same again?” They both toast thin air. “Same again,” I call.

“Reunion?” Abbie opens Facebook on her phone. “I didn’t see any invitation.”

“Here, look.” Charley thrusts her mobile under Abbie’s nose as I open the app on my phone and wince at the endless notifications. “It’s a group,” she goes on. “You’ll have an invite to join. I haven’t accepted yet because I wanted to see if you two will go.”

“Here it is.” I find the invite and click on it.

“I don’t have an invite,” Abbie says. “Who’s organising it?”

I scan the page. “Fiona Fuller.” I press my lips together and notice Charley is pulling the exact same face as me. It’s anoh fuckface.

Abbie gasps. “The fucking bitch,” she blurts, taking my phone and checking the page. Another gasp as she scrolls. “She has literally invited every single person from our year except me.”

“I guess she’s still not over you snogging her boyfriend behind the bike sheds.” I titter on my stool, tipsiness moving aside for drunkenness. “What was his name?”

“Ben Hunter,” Abbie grumbles. “We were sixteen!”

Charley cracks up, and I snort, trying to supress my amusement. Abbie slams the phone down. “I don’t suppose it would be so bad if she hadn’t married him.” Then she necks the rest of her cocktail and practically tackles the waiter for her next when he reaches the table.

An hour later, I’m not even sure what my name is, but I do know we’re all going to Barcelona next spring. I’ve also signed up for golf lessons, Charley’s booked a consultation for a boob job, and Abbie’s applied for the London Marathon. Basically, we’re wankered, and it feels so good. So freeing. No talk of men, no stressing about what this means, what that means. It’s just us being our old selves before jobs, careers, responsibilities, and babies changed everything. As Abbie wobbles her way back to the table with yet another round, my phone lights up on the table. I squint and smile when I see who’s messaging me.

Abbie gets her face up close and personal with my mobile. “Oh, it’s Jude Fuckboy Harrison,” she slurs.

“Or Jude FuckboyMillionaireHarrison,” Charley sings, swiping up her drink. “A filthy-rich man who does dirty, filthy things to you.” She cheers the air, her drink spilling over the edge. “Here’s to filthy!”

“Filthy!” we all sing.

---