and nibbles, but she liked to make an effort at all times. She liked skirt-ready legs, shiny hair and foxy make-up; it was just the way she’d always been. She smoothed down her black pencil skirt, flicked a silver cuff high up on her toned, bare arm and made her way downstairs.
She’d been looking forward to this night for days. Ever since the Dave Holgate incident. And especially now her friends were manless, too. She’d been really surprised, when she’d phoned up Frankie to tell her about Paris, with lots of exaggeration thrown in she knew would make her laugh, to learn that Frankie’s Rob had just moved out.
‘Really?’ Imogen had said. ‘I know he’s a lazy git, but I didn’t think you’d ever do anything about it.’
‘Yep,’ Frankie had replied. ‘He’s gone. I kicked him out on Tuesday night. And I feel amazing.’ Indeed, Imogen noted, there was a lightness to Frankie’s voice she had not heard for a long time.
Frankie was one of Imogen’s oldest friends. They’d grown up together just a few streets from where they both lived now, Chelmsford in Essex, a surprisingly pretty place to live and not too stereotypically Essex… People didn’t go round in orange tans and inflated lips shouting ‘ream!’ and ‘I ain’t done nuffin!’ at each other. They’d gone to the same town-centre primary school and remained friends despite going to different secondary schools – Frankie to a St Philomena’s, an all girls’ school that sounded like St Trinian’s and which she travelled to on a riotous bus, in a rolled-up skirt; Imogen to the dull and grey local comprehensive, which she walked to in sensible buckled shoes. Frankie had run amok and not got a lot done. Imogen had been a right little swot and excelled. But throughout it all, they remained thick as thieves.
They reminisced all the time about their teenage years. The things Frankie got up to at school. The way Imogen would refuse to open the door to her when she was revising. The summer nights they spent in a tent in Frankie’s garden, scoffing still-warm cakes dripping with melted butter icing that they’d baked super quietly at midnight.
After school Imogen had gone off to London to fly high in an exciting career and Frankie had packed away her hitched-up skirt to muddle along as a secretary at the local technical college, before marrying local guy Rob, who’d been in the sixth form at Imogen’s school.
Imogen had reluctantly moved back to Chelmsford two years ago, when her mum got ill. There was a new build for sale a few doors from Frankie’s 1930s semi and walking distance from her mum, who had never moved. Encouraged by Frankie, Imogen bought it. She was momentarily worried when she found out Frankie already had a really good friend in the street, Grace, who dared to be younger than them, but thankfully Grace turned out to be absolutely lovely and really great company.
They became the three of them, and they talked about everything. So when Frankie told Imogen on the phone that Grace was also now single, having kicked her husband out for being unfaithful, Imogen had called a summit meeting – in other words, a huge gossip, with loads of wine.
‘I’d love that,’ Grace had said, in a wobbly voice, when Imogen had knocked on her door before work one morning to invite her. ‘It’s ages since we’ve had a night together.’
‘Far too long,’ Imogen had replied. ‘Bring a bottle. I’m going to get loads of snacks in. Let’s see if we can’t cheer you up.’
Female company was all Imogen craved at the moment. She’d avoided men, as an entire species, since she’d dropped Dave off at the Gatwick Express and sent him on his way without so much as a peck on the cheek. She’d have booted him up the backside, if she could. What an absolute loser he was. She was literally glad to see the back of him, as he trundled his stupid suitcase up the pavement away from her to the taxi rank, in his stupid slightly too-short jeans and his stupid try-hard navy blazer, with his stupid thinning hair flapping in the breeze. He’d even been so thick-skinned as to say, ‘Call you later, babes,’ before he’d ambled off, despite her telling him it was over and she didn’t want to see him again. Honestly, some men were so thick!
Indeed, he’d called her, at work the next day, as though nothing had happened.
‘Oh, Dave,’ she’d said. ‘I’m going to have to be blunt. It was fun – well, some of it – but frankly, you’re a bit of a tosser. Don’t phone me again. Goodbye.’
And that was the last man she’d spoken to all week. She usually chatted to men at work – there weren’t many, admittedly; she was currently temping for a small TV production company and most of the people in the office in West London were women – but any she came into contact with, she now avoided. If someone approached her at the water dispenser, say, Tom the IT guy, or Robin, the new runner, she smiled politely and walked away. Did not engage in conversation. Did not compute. Her flirt button, usually highly active, was switched off. She stopped browsing LinkedIn for eligible bachelors who worked in the city. And she became aloof and full of disdain towards the builders on the street outside her office.
She usually loved the attention; she was forty, she lapped up wolf whistles where she could get them. Now she crossed the street and kept her head down. They could all sod off. She’d had enough of all of them. She was done with men; down with men, the works.
‘Heels?’ Frankie was at the door, looking bemused. She was wearing skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a longish floaty, cream top under her coat that Imogen recognised as All Saints. Frankie had had it for years, though it hadn’t had an outing for several. ‘We’re not going out anywhere, are we?’
‘Nope,’ said Imogen. ‘I just wanted to wear them. You know I get depressed if I’m not in heels.’
‘I know.’ Frankie smiled. ‘Well, can I come in? I’ve got the password.’ She held up a bottle of White Zinfandel.
They’d loved the Secret Seven as kids. They particularly loved the whole secret password thing. They’d always had them, especially for getting in the tent. Silly ones like ‘bottoms’ and ‘Andrew Grant’, an annoying boy at school, were hilariously employed as one of them ‘knocked’ and the other had control of the zip. Now, the passwords were in the form of wine or chocolate.
‘Of course! Seeing as it’s you. Come on, Grace!’ yelled Imogen, suddenly. Grace was coming out of the modern house opposite and walking down her drive. Imogen had seen her there earlier, saying goodbye to Daniel when James had come to collect him for the weekend. She had looked inconsolable.
‘I’ve got gin,’ said Grace, brandishing a bottle as she approached. Imogen knew she was trying her best to sound cheery.
‘Good girl!’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve got the ice and a slice.’
Grace joined Frankie on the doorstep. Style-wise, she looked great. Perfect. Pretty. White skinny jeans, a fluffy, faux-fur jacket, and jewelled ballet flats. Her face told a different story. Her eyes were dull and hollow-looking and her expression was haunted.
In contrast, Frankie’s face looked open; her eyes bright, her complexion clear. Rob had all four children tonight and for the first time ever he had them for the whole weekend, Frankie had told Imogen with excited delight, when she’d invited her over. She had laughed merrily and trilled, ‘I’m free! Free as a bloody bird!’
Imogen was glad. Frankie had been so damn angry recently, but now the frown line ‘11’ at the top of her nose had gone. Imogen hugged both her friends fiercely.
‘Okay, my love?’ she said to Frankie, after releasing herself from Frankie’s enthusiastic embrace. ‘Missing the children?’
