Just My Luck(72)

We hang around the vodka luge that Mum in her infinite naivety described earlier as a ‘really striking ice sculpture’. Ostensibly, the luge is for adults only and there’s even a member of staff stood by; he’s supposed to be policing who drinks from it, but he looks bored and only a smidge over eighteen himself so – big surprise – he doesn’t ask four scantily dressed girls how old we are. I do three shots in quick succession. The first one is disgusting; it burns my throat and makes me want to gag but the second and third are easier. I realise that under the circumstances, this is the worst time for me to start drinking.

And also the best.

I shouldn’t be drinking because I’m pregnant. I need to drink because I’m pregnant. The thought makes me want to vomit with panic. I push it out of my head.

I watch as guests gather in concentrated, random groups that cluster together then effortlessly float apart as if their movements are part of an elaborate dance. Loads of people come up to me and say they are happy for me and when they do, Scarlett, Liv and Nella clap or bounce about, basically just act like cheerleaders because they just hear words, but I hear feelings and I’m not sure – there’s something dark behind the smiles and congratulations. Jealousy, bitterness, resentment. I taste it on my tongue, although it could just be vodka. I smell it in the air. Or is that hash?

I constantly scan the crowds, straining my neck almost, in a none-too-discreet hunt for Ridley. Normally, a girl being this desperate would lead to her mates taking the piss, but the girls pretend not to notice. They are cutting me a lot of slack because there are different rules for rich girls. Eventually, I spot Ridley. And when I see him, I hate it that my first thought is shoulders back, boobs out; I check on my phone that my make-up is still good, no mascara smudges under the eyes. I was depending on his excessive gall. The girls kept saying he’d never have the nerve to turn up, especially without Megan, his sidekick, but I knew him better. He’s not short of nerve. Ridley hurls himself at life. That’s why, when we got together, it was the gentleness that I valued, that made what we had better than what anyone else had. Megan, his parents, his mates, they could all have his enthusiasm, but only I got the tender ache of him.

Until I didn’t.

He arrives with his rugby friends. The gang of boys all ooze swagger, they are used to being noticed and valued; other boys hunch and slouch as a matter of course. Ridley ought to be cowed but he isn’t. It’s not the same when the hockey girls arrive. Despite co-ordinating their outfits to create maximum impact, it strikes me that they are noticed in a way that undervalues them. The girls are measured, often as not, they are found lacking and even if they pass the test of scrutiny, the prize is just being admired by a guy. I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m just saying it is. Maybe if we all notice how it is, we can start to change things.

He is wearing a strong man costume. It’s pretty ludicrous as it has fake muscles and stuff, but as Ridley is more muscular than most boys his age, he pulls it off. I take a cocktail off the tray of a passing waiter. Holding a glass gives me something to do with my hands. We used to play dress up together. I don’t mean recently in like a sex game way – we’re not a sad couple in our forties! – I mean we played dress up when we were kids. The three of us. Mum had a huge wicker basket that was the designated dress-up box. There were endless costumes from World Book Day, Halloween and themed parties stashed in there. But when we played, only Megan bothered to hunt out a complete and matching kit; Jake and I preferred to rummage and pull together our own mad mix-ups. A fireman’s helmet, a Roman breast plate, a ballerina skirt. We’d roar with laughter as we layered one another up in ever-increasing ludicrousness. A multicoloured wig, neon bangles, angel wings.

He doesn’t look ludicrous tonight. He looks hot. And cool. My insides billow as though someone has just blown life into me. And I know for a fact I’ll take him back in an instant if I can because wanting beats dignity every time when it comes to people you love. But then the rugby lads jostle about a bit and I notice Ridley isn’t alone; besides the lads, there is a girl.

Evie Clarke.

In the moment I relax because it’s not Megan he’s here with, I start to boil with jealousy. I hate Evie with her fake Michael Kors tote. I think of her yanking at my hair, kicking my shins in that nasty loo cubicle. She was not invited. Dad and I deliberately avoided inviting Megan and any of her cronies. What is she doing here? I watch as Ridley casually flings his arm across her shoulder. It could be a gesture between mates. It could be more. I down the vodka I’m holding. I need it. Something to blunt it, blot it up, this haemorrhaging of feelings, this extreme pain. I think, ‘Fuck him I’m rich now,’ then I think, ‘Imagine not wanting me now when I’m this rich. He must really not want me at all,’ and that makes me feel so sad, so pointless.

‘I’m going to get Evie Clarke kicked out,’ I tell Scarlett. I expect her to nod but she doesn’t, she just puts her hand on my arm, tentatively, gently. Since this is the first sign of opposition she’s shown to anything I have suggested since we became friends, her caring gesture is all the more powerful. I want to cry.

‘Let’s go and see some more of this party, hey?’ she suggests lightly.

I try. I try to just enjoy the party. I mean it’s phenomenal, I’ve been so excited working on it with Dad and Sara, it’s all I want to care about, but I can’t stop thinking about Ridley. I am constantly aware of his presence. He is currently the closest he’s been to me for four weeks now, I thought it would be a good thing but it’s torture. Like Mum said it would be. She said boys are pre-programmed to lose focus but that’s not right and I hate her for generalising. My pain is particular and absolute. No one understands. I keep putting my hand on my stomach, cradling the bunch of cells that are threatening to ruin my life. That may make my life brilliant. I don’t know. Scarlett notices. ‘You doing OK? Does your tummy hurt? Do you feel sick?’