‘Maybe we should just go,’ she says, taking a sip from her beer. She checks the time on her phone. She’ll stay on if the boys want to though she’s rather hoping they won’t. She’s never really liked festivals anyway, too touchy-feely, far too woo-woo and it’s just occurred to her that at this point, she’s got everything she wants from the evening. The company of Dex and Bo (particularly Bo), a session leafing through the Big Black Book, which set off her imagination and led to some great sex, albeit with an upsetting finale, and a ton of male attention. Plus celebrating Cassie’s birthday, naturally. She could hop in an Uber and be at the house in half an hour. Isaac will be asleep, so it’d be a lovely undisturbed rest of night in the bed in the spare room or she could slide in with Ralphie. The prospect suddenly seems incredibly appealing.
‘It’s not even two yet,’ says Cassie.
‘Don’t be boring, Anna,’ Bo says, shooting side eyes.
Anna takes a step back, stumbles, really. A thin thread of alarm worms its way up through her belly and into her chest. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if Bo thought motherhood and marriage had made her boring. Christ, if only he knew! Not just about Ralphie, obviously, but about Oliver too.
‘Obviously, I didn’t mean go home,’ she says, smiling. A very sour taste collects in her mouth. Why does she still give Luke Bowen the power to hurt her? Why does she allow it? She watches Bo drain his beer almost in one. They started drinking around nine and are all quite pissed, but Bo takes the biscuit. Part of a recent pattern. Well, the last couple of years anyway. The pressure of work, all that, he says, but you have to wonder about the timing.
She begins to rock in time to the beat of the indie band on stage, whose music she actually hates, to show Mr Bojangles that she’s still switched on, still sexy, still knows how to have a good time.
‘I vote to stay. Just in case that dickwad has got himself into some sort of trouble,’ Bo says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
Dear Bo. He’s always been under the illusion that the Group is a democracy. Dex knows it’s not, so does Cassie. But Bo? No idea. Anna does her best to stifle a laugh of relief. Bo’s forgotten his little jibe, if that is what it was. He never holds grudges, never remembers much these days, though that might be the drink. She wonders if he could be taking pills or anything else on top of the booze?
‘Where do you think he can have got to?’ Cassie shouts above the music.
No one answers. The indie band plays a half-hearted encore and wraps up its set. Moments later some old nineties numbers, perennials from the Britpop era, thump from the sound system while the next band gets set up. This is stuff her parents might have listened to if they hadn’t been opera bores. Does Anna actually remember those nineties tunes or have they gradually become earworms over the years? Most likely the latter since, for reasons she’s never cared to investigate, she doesn’t choose to recall a great deal from her childhood. It’s funny how rich girls are always the saddest. Rich girls like her, anyway, the sort who aren’t the right kind of rich (father a corporate lawyer, how boring) never precisely the most acceptable form of thin (not tall enough, not classy), seldom just OK. The thought occurs to her then that her life began in Cool Britannia and spat her out in Brexit Britain. This probably means something, though she’s too juiced to think about what exactly.
Beside her Bo and Cassie are making silly hip-hop hands to some old House tune. Cassie sticks out a hand and drags her into the circle. To Cassie’s horsing around Anna allows herself a decorous bounce which is fine because it shows off her fabulous hair. One of the few advantages of being someone like Cassie is you get to look ridiculous and no one cares. Anna doesn’t have that freedom because looking absurd isn’t hot. She envies Cassie her carelessness. Her authenticity.
‘Two guesses.’ Bo is making arcing moves with his arm in time to the beat. He wants one of them to name the track, a game he likes to play, a kind of off-the-cuff version of charades. Bo only ever plays games he knows he can win. Like Anna herself, except that Bo doesn’t realise it. There’s a lot Bo doesn’t realise.
A blonde woman drops her ciggie and adds herself to Bo’s harem. Very tight abs and a crop top designed to show them off. Face not great, though, so that’s fine. This always happens when the Group goes out dancing. Anna doesn’t like it. She prefers it when Bo goes on a hook-up and comes back to report it. The blonde woman has managed to manoeuvre her way through Anna’s force field and is standing right in front of Bo, mirroring his moves. Anna looks around to see if there are any men looking her way then smiles and pretends to be into it, though she actually feels as if some tiny insect has just bored a hole in her.
My body is full of secrets, she thinks, that’s why I’m so fat. Moments later she is pulled from this mental rabbit hole by the blonde woman screaming her name (‘Lisa!’) above the music and holding out her arm to Bo’s for a fist bomb.
‘Boom!’
Bo breaks into his most dazzling smile and fist bombs back. Beside him, Anna sees Cassie very discreetly rolling her eyes so only Anna can see. This is why Anna loves Cassie. One of the reasons.
For the next ten minutes, until he gets tired of his little game, Bo spins and shadow boxes with his new friend, glancing every so often at Anna. Each time she feels her groin pulse and her heart almost shake with rage. This too is part of the game. It’s his way of teasing and punishing her at the same time. All that stuff they’ve said over the years about back-up plans. How if they were both single by thirty they’d get married. Well, it didn’t work out that way, did it? And whose fault is that? So Anna has her own secrets now. A life not even Bo knows about. Fuck Bo for giving her no alternative.
Cassie
Evening, Thursday 29 September, Isle of Portland
I follow Anna out into the little garden at the back. It’s cold now and whatever was screeching earlier has stopped. Through a gap in the hedge I can just see illuminated by moonlight the foam from the surf as it crashes along Chesil Beach. On one side of the garden is a raised area on which sits a plastic table and chairs. Anna clambers up and takes a seat and, pulling out a joint and a lighter from her pocket, lights it. Drawing the smoke deeply into her lungs, she pats the seat beside her.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Anna inhales and closes her eyes but does not respond. The surf hisses against the pebbles as it pulls away.
‘No, I’m sorry. Really. It’s all a bit shit at the moment. Except for your promotion and Bo’s birthday, obviously,’ says Anna.
For a moment her brow furrows and I wonder if she’s going to cry. Instead, taking a deep breath to steady herself and letting a smile perch on her lips, in a weary voice, she goes on, ‘Take no notice of me, I’m just horribly hormonal. They don’t tell you when you have a baby that your hormones will never be the same again. There’s a lot of things they don’t tell you.’ She lets this hang in the air for a while.
Now is the time to say something.
We’re quiet for a moment while Anna, conscious that I have something to say, waits for me to say it. And after a quick silent rehearsal, I do.
‘Gav seems to think Dex might be in some kind of trouble, but he’s made me promise not to talk about it.’
Anna
