are you okay?’ Imogen asked Grace, who was still hovering uncertainly on the doorstep.
‘I’m getting there, sweetie,’ said Grace, with a brave smile. Imogen linked her arm through hers.
‘Nothing a shedload of booze and a stack of snacks won’t cure,’ she said, and she led her friend inside and closed the door, before sighing with contentment. The gang was all here. A man-free girl zone. Alcohol. Crisps and nuts. Mini poppadums and dips. Chocolate eclairs. Posh chocolate chip cookies. Heaven.
‘New sofas?’ said Frankie, disappearing into the living room. ‘Very trendy.’
Imogen’s house was a three-bedroom brand new house with a drive and a small square of garden at the front, a bigger square garden at the back and a brown fence separating her from next door. Exactly the same as Grace’s. The inside, she’d tried to jazz up a bit. She missed her trendy London flat in Putney, where she used to live, and if she couldn’t replace its character she could at least try to give her new house some of its style. She’d put up huge black and white canvases and framed cinema posters everywhere. She’d had real solid oak floors installed and the walls painted white throughout. On a good day, it looked like a hip art gallery.
‘Yeah,’ Imogen replied. ‘I got them from the King’s Road. Cool, aren’t they?’
Once they were all settled on the two new white leather sofas flanking Imogen’s designer glass coffee table – laden with everything they needed and plenty they didn’t, but would scoff anyway – Imogen raised her glass of rosé.
‘To us! Oh, Grace, honey, don’t cry.’
‘I’m not going to cry!’ protested Grace, but her bottom lip was wobbling, her eyes were filling and her voice had gone all weird. ‘I will not cry over that man!’
Frankie reached across the table and squeezed Grace’s hand; Imogen put down her glass and grabbed the other one; and Grace clung on to both hands and managed a weak smile.
‘It looks like we’re doing a bloody séance,’ observed Frankie. ‘With crisps.’ Grace’s face broke into a grin.
‘That’s more like it!’ said Imogen, as they let their entwined hands drop. ‘Princess Gracie, we’ll get you through this. You’re so much better off without that bastard. We all are. Chin up and bottoms up! Let’s have a big old drink and put the world to rights.’
Two hours later they were all very, very drunk. Imogen’s boots were off and under the coffee table. She lounged on the cream rug with her head propped up on one hand and the other lovingly stroking the soft pile. She adored her gorgeous, very expensive, Pure New Wool rug; it was the first thing she’d bought when she’d moved into this house, and it was perfect.
Frankie was slumped – but still managing to hold her glass upright – over the end of one white sofa, her head wedged on one arm and her legs curled up under her. Her boots were off too, as well as her socks, and her toenails were painted a very surprising and dazzling bright red.
Petite Grace was sitting crossed-legged on the floor, her customary shell-pink toes grazing the rug. The nibbles had all but gone, the rosé bottle was empty and they’d moved onto Grace’s gin, which was disappearing at an alarming rate.
For the past half an hour, Grace had been telling them about her awful discovery of James’s terrible affair and Frankie and Imogen had been shaking their heads and providing the verbal equivalent to soothing foot rubs. They had exclaimed and consoled and agreed and reassured and gasped in all the right places. She’d just come to the end of the story – she had kicked James out; she was a single mother.
Grace unfurled her legs and turned to Frankie.
‘Do you think you’re being a bit harsh, Franks?’ she said. ‘With Rob, I mean. He didn’t cheat or anything, did he? Yet you’ve chucked him out.’ Grace’s wide blue eyes had gone bloodshot. Her pretty doll mouth looked a bit dry. She grabbed her ever-present tin of vanilla lip balm from her pretty embroidered bag and quickly applied some to her lips.
‘No, he didn’t,’ slurred Frankie. ‘And yes, I am. Probably. But I need to be harsh for my own bloody sanity.’
Imogen could sort of see where Grace was coming from, asking that. Grace had kicked James out for being an utter cheating bastard. Rob had just been Rob. His intrinsic Robness was his only crime. But, the man was a lazy, inconsiderate slob and Frankie’s situation was nightmarishly chaotic – all those kids, all that mess. Something had to give, and she could hardly kick one of the kids out, could she? Not yet, anyway. Didn’t they have to be at least sixteen?
‘He’s not a bastard, though, is he?’ continued Grace. Her head was beginning to loll. ‘Not like James. I’m glad we’re all in the same boat now – without men. But I feel a bit sorry for him.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Imogen, raising her head. ‘He’s a nice guy, is Rob – he used to run the tuck shop at school, for God’s sake, and sometimes sneak me a free packet of Opal Fruits – but he is a right selfish sod.’
‘Thank you, Imogen!’ said Frankie with all the impassioned enthusiasm of a drunk. ‘Thank you! Exactly. And when you have four kids the last thing you want is a selfish slob of a husband, hindering not helping. I need a break! I just need a break. A protracted one. Possibly permanent.’
‘Do you miss him?’ asked Grace.
Christ, Grace was pretty, thought Imogen. Just such a pretty girl. Still young, too. Thirty-four! That was nothing. Grace could get anyone. She really shouldn’t be wasting another second on that horrible husband of hers. She was so proud of her friend for kicking him out.
‘God, no!’ said Frankie, sitting up and rummaging in an empty packet of nuts. She unearthed one, right in one corner, and triumphantly popped it in her mouth. ‘The house is tidier, it smells nicer, no one is going on at me. And I only have to cook one dinner. It’s heaven! Think of all the great things about not having a man in the house. There’s loads of them! Actually, I’ve got a question,’ she said, coming to a perch at the edge of the sofa.
‘Go for it!’ mumbled Imogen, chomping on a mini poppadum.
‘Okay,’ said Frankie. ‘If your other half is the sole breadwinner and goes out to work and your role is stay-at-home mum, does that mean the partner is required to do absolutely nothing at home?’
‘Give me an example.’ Imogen was examining her nails.
Frankie sighed. ‘You’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about all this!’
‘Too right, and now I’m taking myself out of the game I’ll never have to.’
Frankie stuck her tongue out at her. ‘Right okay then. Example. When he makes himself a snack, is it perfectly acceptable to leave all his crockery and stuff on the counter above the dishwasher and not actually in the dishwasher?’
‘God, no!’ said Grace.
‘Hell, no!’ shouted Imogen.
Frankie was warming to her theme. She rose further from the sofa. ‘When he gets home from work, is it acceptable to take off his shirt and underwear and suit and dump them all on the floor in the corner of the bedroom
