It Started With A Tweet(102)

‘Interesting,’ says Erica, as we arrive at the booth where Tess and Amelie are waiting. We all hug and air-kiss hello.

‘So, what are you going to do if you don’t stay in marketing?’

‘What’s this? You’re changing careers?’ asks Tess, her pencil-thin eyebrow almost lodging itself in her hairline. ‘Is this because of that tweet?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know about changing careers. It’s more that I don’t think I want to work in a big, full-on, corporate company. Maybe I’ll look for a job in a smaller one. Something family run, or outside of London.’

All three of them collectively gasp as if I’ve suggested I’m about to go and live in Antarctica.

‘There is life outside of London,’ I say, laughing.

‘Of course there is,’ says Erica, waving her hand dismissively, ‘but you don’t actually mean it, do you?’

She looks horrified at the thought.

I’m about to reply when the waiter comes over and takes our order. By the time he goes, Tess is leaning over Amelie’s phone.

‘He’s cute, but look at the bags under his eyes. He’s either a workaholic or he goes out too much.’

‘Good spot,’ says Amelia and she swipes her finger left.

‘So,’ I say, trying to capture their attention again. ‘What’s been going on with you two since I’ve been gone?’

‘I’ve been so busy,’ says Tess.

‘Doing what?’ I say, looking her in the eyes, ready to take an interest.

‘Um, you know. Work. Going out,’ she says shrugging.

Her phone beeps and she picks it up and instantly starts replying.

‘Amelie? Has anything happened to you?’

She doesn’t even look up; she’s still swiping mostly left with the occasional right. ‘No, same old. I’ve got a date on Friday with a super-hot guy though. Want to see a photo?’ She taps around on her phone and hands it over for me to see a man posing moodily.

‘He looks, um, great.’

She looks pleased with herself and goes back to her Tinder swiping.

‘Any more news on the flat sale today?’ I ask Erica.

‘We had a few more people book in for our open day on Saturday, so that’s eighteen. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for some crazy bidding war, as I’ve seen the most amazing little house in Ealing and it’s ever so slightly out of our budget. Hang on, I’ll see if I can find it on Rightmove.’

The waiter deposits our cocktails, and I immediately reach up and take a sip.

‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass, only to find the other girls lost in taking photos of their cocktails. Tess is pushing hers round the table, seemingly trying to get the best light, whereas Amelie and Erica don’t seem as bothered about the quality of image as long as they get one.

They’re tapping away with their thumbs and I can already imagine what hashtags they’re using: #NightOutWithTheGirls, #Cocktail, #SchoolNight. I want to add my own – #WhoGivesAFuck. It’s a good few minutes before anyone peers over their screens.

‘Oh, Daisy. I forgot you haven’t got your phone. You must feel so lost. Here,’ says Erica, slipping her arm around me. ‘Grab your cocktail.’

She holds out her other arm to snap a selfie, and I can barely smile.

Satisfied that she looks OK, she taps away, posting it. I’m left alone to wonder when we stopped really talking to each other when we went out together.

Erica’s just moved in with her boyfriend – she should be gushing about him, not browsing identical show-like-homes on the Internet. Tess should be regaling us with tales of being on the frontline of the classroom, with funny anecdotes of her teaching teenagers, like she always used to. And Amelie’s spent a week on business in New York.

‘So, Amelie, I haven’t seen you since you got back from New York,’ I say, hoping to get some proper conversation going.

‘Oh, it was great. It was really busy with back-to-back meetings, but on the rare bits of time off, I managed to rack up a ginormous credit-card bill. The shopping was insane and the bars were awesome. Expensive, but awesome,’ she says sighing, as if wishing herself back there.

‘That sounds amazing,’ I say, pleased that I’ve prised her away from her phone for all of a minute.

‘It was, but tell us what it was like on the farm. Erica’s been keeping us updated, but who were these men, wasn’t one of them French?’

‘Oh, yes. There’s not a whole lot to tell. He was a nice guy, and I thought we had loads in common, but it turned out he’d been looking at my Instagram account to find out what I liked and pretending he liked them too.’

‘What!’ says Erica. ‘What a creep.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, but the more I’ve thought about it since, the more I think he was just young and a bit silly. I don’t think he was malicious. He probably just thought it was an easy way to get into my pants.’

‘And was it?’ asks Tess with a cheeky grin on her face.

‘Sadly, not.’

‘Oh, shame. So there were no other men up there, then?’

‘There was Jack .?.?.’ I mutter.

‘Did he get in your pants, then?’

‘No,’ I say, feeling sad that nothing really happened, and for the way we left things. All the suggestion and flirtation in the letters that seemed to bubble away, only to come to an abrupt halt with the argument on Friday night. I didn’t even say goodbye to him when he dropped us off, I merely slammed the door and skulked away.