LITMIR.BIZ

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thing I can’t believe about somehow being twenty-one again; I get to eat what I like, and somehow manage not to gain weight. What’s not to love?

      ‘Tell me,’ I say with my mouth stuffed.

      ‘Remember I was telling you about Dave Edmond? The DJ I met in Renards the other night?’

      My face falls.

      ‘Well, he called earlier and he asked me out! Tomorrow night. To the movies; he says he’s dying to see Braveheart.’

      And now I can’t stop myself.

      ‘Oh Sophie, that the guy is bad news. Trust me, you should at all costs avoid, avoid, avoid.’

      ‘But you’ve never even met him! How can you know?’

      ‘Take it from me. If you end up dating him, it will be the single biggest mistake of your entire life. He may not be an arsewipe now, but just give him ten years and you’ll see exactly what I mean. And you’ll be bloody glad I warned you. The day will come when you’ll thank me for being straight with you.’

      ‘But Kate,’ Sophie asks, abandoning her half-eaten pizza and looking over at me worriedly. ‘How can you be so certain that Dave’s going to turn into an asshole? You can’t know that for sure.’

      ‘Believe me, I do. Because I’ve got a crystal ball.’

      Next thing though, it’s like a hazy fog drifts back over me and suddenly I start to feel nauseous and weak as water. I’m not even certain what’s happening, all I know is that my head is pounding and when I reach out for Sophie’s hand, suddenly she’s not there anymore.

      Then nothing but blackness as a loud whooshing sound fills my ears … and now for some mad reason, I can hear The Black-Eyed Peas singing ‘I Gotta Feeling’ all over again, which … Oh God no … Can only mean one thing.

      Yes. I’m lying back on the floor of the tennis club and I’m out of this lovely reverie, back to being forty again. And just in case I needed it, there’s confirmation writ large across the giant birthday banner over the stage that says, ‘Happy Fortieth Kate!’

      Except somehow, things still don’t seem quite right. Amanda’s still beside me, but she doesn’t look anything like her usual fabulously glamorous self. And there’s no sign of Sophie either, which is odd …

      ‘What year is it?’ I mutter croakily. ‘Who’s the prime minister? And how old am I?’

      ‘You’re concussed and I’m taking you to hospital for a CAT scan,’ Amanda says firmly. ‘Your Mum’s gone to call an ambulance.’

      ‘Look, I say, somehow managing to haul myself up onto one elbow. ‘I know I sound completely mental and maybe I am, but please, please tell me what’s going on in all our lives. It’s important. I really have to know!’

      She looks at me a bit oddly, but caves into the madwoman that I must sound like.

      ‘Well to be honest sweetie, I was kind of hoping that tonight might be an opportunity to forget about all our troubles. What with poor Sophie in hospital having IVF and everything …’

      ‘She’s having what? Hang on a minute … Sophie already has four kids, why is she having IVF?’

      ‘No she doesn’t! Four kids? Are you actually being serious? Kate darling, you simply must remember the reason she’s not here tonight? Because they’d kept her in hospital for tests to try and figure out why she’s still not getting pregnant? You’ve got to remember my love; you only went to see her this morning.’

      No, no, no, no, no, no, no …

      ‘And what about you?’ I ask her urgently. Desperately needing to know just how bad things are. Because there’s something about Amanda that’s not quite right. Her whole accent is completely different and she’s acting all affected and – weird. Calling me darling and my love? That’s so not Amanda.

      ‘Me ? Oh lovie, that’s a hoot. Because if I don’t land some kind of gainful employment soon, there’s a good chance I’ll end up as a bag lady. I cannot believe I’m going to be forty in a few weeks times and I’m still living in the most dreadful rented flat with a bunch of drama students and cockroaches.’

      ‘But … You went to RADA, didn’t you?’

      ‘Of course, darling. And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of jobs I’ve had since I graduated. To think, I turned down a perfectly good, well-paid job in a soap opera just to do some prestigious acting course in London? I must need my head looked into and judging by the way you’re yabbering on, I’m not the only one.’

      I’m half afraid to ask my next question, but I know that I have to.

      ‘And what about … James? Me and James?’

      She looks at me and I just know by her face that she’s too terrified to answer.

      ‘Amanda please. I really need to know.’

      ‘You really can’t remember?’

      ‘Not a thing.’

      ‘You’re divorced now, my love. And only last week, with Valentine’s Day and your big birthday party looming, what did the utter idiot go and do?’

      ‘Tell me!’ I croak weakly back at her.

      ‘Only went and announced that he’s getting married again. Makes me sick to my stomach … and when I think of the glittering career you gave up, just for him? But you know what you must do, darling? Channel your pain. See all this as a hidden opportunity for growth.’

      I slump back onto the ground, hating this reality, this parallel time that I somehow seem to be stuck in. And hating that Amanda is now talking like the complete and utter tosspots she used to make fun of. ‘Channel your pain?’ Please.

      I plead with everyone that I’m actually fine, just a bit groggy and that I definitely don’t need to go to hospital.

      So Amanda takes me home. Except it’s not my gorgeous Victorian house that I renovated from scratch and invested pretty much all my savings into over the years. Instead, when the taxi drops Amanda and me off, we’re in a housing estate miles out of town, full of tiny dormer bungalows cramped one of top of the other.

      ‘Amanda,’ I say weakly, ‘I don’t live here! I live in Blackrock, on Avoca Avenue, in a gorgeous Victorian redbrick … you’ve been there loads of times, you know this!’

      ‘In your dreams you do, sweetie. This is all you could afford after you and James separated. But it’s the Four Seasons compared with where I live. I mean, look at me, almost forty and I can only afford to dress out of TK Maxx, while sharing the most appalling flat ever with possibly the two slobbiest actors – both practising alcoholics, by the way – in town. This to me, is luxury of the highest order, even if it isn’t quite the Ritz Carlton.’

      The house is revolting. It’s where ten-year-old IKEA furniture comes to die. I don’t have a car it seems and my big jammy editorial job is just a figment of my imagination. Now, it seems I’m a lowly reporter for one of those free handout papers they give to hassled commuters at train stations.

      I didn’t mean to, but somehow, by playing God, I’ve managed to ruin everyone’s life, my own included. At least the way things were before, I did have a great career. And Amanda had plenty of money, fabulous clothes and a lovely place to live. And she was herself, lovley, gorgeous, funny Amanda and not this affected thesp she’s morphed into. And Sophie had four fabulous kids … and now, because of my meddling, we’re all so much worse off.

      Suddenly I feel nauseous all over again and there it is – that whooshing sound as the blood rushes back up to my head. I clench my stomach, not sure what’s coming next as my head starts to hammer away mercilessly. But just the pain gets so bad I think I’m about to gag, my eyes open and now … can this be for real? I squint and blink and try to take it all in.

      Because

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