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friend gets engaged to someone you’re not sure about?

      ‘Could I have a coffee?’ I said to a nearby waitress. ‘A really strong Americano?’

      She nodded and went off.

      A quick summary. Hamish was Lex’s boyfriend. Fiancé, I suppose I should call him now. He was a former rugby player-turned-banker with lumpy ears who Lex met in a pub in Kennington. I’d never been sure about him because he was the sort of man who made jokes about women staying in the kitchen. But whenever I asked why Lex put up with him, she’d smiled in a pathetic way and said that she liked him. After a couple of months of dating, she’d said that she loved him.

      We sat down. ‘I mean, blimey,’ I went on. ‘Sorry. I’m just trying to process it. I had no idea,’ I said. ‘Did you?’

      ‘No, not really,’ she said, holding her hand out in front of her. The broad bean caught the bulb overhead and twinkled as if it was winking at me.

      ‘How did he do it?’

      ‘In bed in the hotel, classic Hammy.’

      I nodded slowly. The way that Lex sometimes called Hamish ‘Hammy’ made me feel ill. Where was my coffee?

      ‘It was just after he tried to strangle me with my own hair actually,’ she went on.

      ‘What?’ I frowned at her.

      ‘Well, it was New Year’s Eve, in the morning. And we were in bed, just indulging a bit of harmless foreplay, when suddenly he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it across my neck. I mean, what’s up with that?’

      A man on the next-door table looked across at us.

      ‘What did you do?’ I whispered.

      ‘I kind of pretended to go along with it for a bit. Because you have to, right? And then he came and it was while we were lying there afterwards that he proposed.’ She had a sip of her tea and put the cup back down on its saucer. ‘Guys are so weird.’

      ‘Did you like it?’

      ‘The proposal?’

      ‘No! The hair thing. But yes, also the proposal.’

      ‘I didn’t not like it. It’s something a bit different, isn’t it, being throttled by your own highlights? And, yes to the proposal.’ She paused and looked directly across the table at me. ‘I know it’s quite quick. But, Pols, lying there, in that hotel room, it felt right. Honestly.’

      I nodded again. I felt like there were a million questions I should be asking. Had they set a date? Had she told her parents? Had she thought about a dress? Were they having any sort of engagement party? But I wasn’t sure I could ask them genuinely enough. Convincingly enough. Was that bad? It was quite bad, wasn’t it? Unsupportive.

      ‘You’ll be my maid of honour, right?’ she said.

      ‘Yes, of course I will,’ I said, smiling back even though I felt alarmed at the prospect, worried that this meant traipsing down the aisle behind Lex like a giant 4-year-old in a hideous dress.

      ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’m psyched about dress shopping. I’ll send you some dates because appointments get booked up.’ Lex works in fashion PR. I suspected she’d have ambitious ideas for her wedding dress.

      ‘Can’t wait!’ I said. There. Was that convincing? Did that sound enthusiastic? I wasn’t sure.

      ‘Anyway, let’s not do wedding stuff now, I can’t take it all in,’ she said, as if reading my mind. ‘How’s your weekend been?’

      Finally, the waitress came back with my coffee. ‘Thanks,’ I said, as she put it down. ‘Well, no proposals,’ I said, pouring the thimble of milk into my coffee. ‘I went to Bill’s on Friday night for that dinner.’

      ‘Oh yeah, how was it? I missed you guys.’

      ‘Good,’ I said slowly. ‘I, er, I sort of kissed a friend of his actually.’

      ‘Oh excuse me,’ said Lex loudly, sitting forward in her seat.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Leaving it until now to drop the news that you got lucky. What’s he like? What does he look like? Did you touch his penis?’

      ‘Lex,’ I hissed, trying to quieten her.

      ‘Oh my God!’ she shrieked, ignoring me. ‘You might have a plus one for my wedding!’

      The man on the table next to us shifted in his seat again, as if flinching.

      ‘Shhhhh! Lex, I don’t think we’re hearing wedding bells with this one. And “getting lucky” would be a generous description.’

      ‘Who is he?’

      ‘Just a friend of Bill’s. From business school. Called Callum.’

      ‘Aaaaand? Come on.’

      ‘And nothing. He came home with me and there was a bit of a disaster. That’s all.’

      ‘What do you mean, disaster?’

      ‘Not much.’ I glanced at the man next to us and lowered my voice again. ‘I gave him a blow job and then he went home.’

      ‘What do you mean home? Straight home? Straight after he came in your mouth?’

      ‘Shhhhh. Seriously. People can hear. And yes.’

      ‘You didn’t actually shag?’

      ‘No,’ I hissed.

      ‘Well,’ said Lex, leaning back in her seat again. ‘He has incredibly bad manners. Now, shall we order some eggs?’

      ‘Do you think I can start following him on Instagram?’ I asked. I was still wondering if I could, but also worrying this seemed a bit desperate. A bit keen. And I didn’t even know if I liked him. I was just feeling a bit low on excitement and the thing was, even though Callum had left after the blow job, I’d still come within touching distance of a penis. And that was rare. For me.

      ‘Do you want to see him again? Do you actually like him?’ she said.

      I pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Am I just being desperate?’

      ‘Because something’s happened with him?’

      ‘Well, kind of. I guess because he’s the first heterosexual man to be in my flat for several decades.’

      ‘But he left immediately afterwards. Like, straight afterwards? No quick cuddle? No “we should do this again”?’

      ‘Nope.’

      She winced. ‘Up to you, love, but I’d probably leave it.’

      I’d always been bad at playing it cool. When I was eleven I went to my first disco in a hessian dress that Mum gave me for Christmas. She plaited my hair for the occasion after I showed her a picture from Just 17 magazine. The result was more Little House on the Prairie, but I didn’t let that stop me, chubby, 11-year-old me, asking handsome Jack – the boy every girl in Year 7 worshipped – for a dance. It was a particularly bold move on my part because handsome Jack was already on the dance floor with his girlfriend (the school bitch, Jenny) when I chose to walk up to him.

      ‘Yeah, maybe I should leave it,’ I said.

      I looked down at my menu and tried to concentrate on what kind of eggs I wanted, but what I was actually thinking was that my best friend was getting married, and I didn’t even have a boyfriend. Which meant I still had to find someone, go out with them long enough for them to fall in love with me – and this could be many years – before he’d even propose. And as I’d just turned thirty, I did a quick calculation in my head, this meant I might not be married for at least five or six more years. And I definitely read something the other day about getting pregnant before you turned thirty-five, otherwise you had, like, a 3 per cent chance of even having children.

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