Phoebe Morgan - The Wild Girls

‘Grace?’

Without warning, the letterbox is rattling and I take a step backwards, heart pounding, as the front door to the flat swings open, letting in a blast of cold February air and a rush of London noise; the scream of the traffic, the faint wail of sirens, a maelstrom of voices, people going about their busy lives. My fingers clutch the invitation as I step backwards, pulling my dressing gown around me, my feet bare and freezing on the tiled floor. Someone is coming in.

‘Grace? What are you doing up?’

My flatmate Rosie is panting in front of me, and I let my breath out, relief flooding through my body as she shakes her head like a dog, sprinkling tiny droplets of water. She’s dressed in running gear, purple lycra clinging to her, the embodiment of fitness as always. Her dark hair is wet, flattened to her skull, but her eyes are bright with the glowing look of someone who’s just burned 500 calories before I’ve even had breakfast.

‘What’s that?’

She pushes past me, nodding at the invitation in my hand as she does so.

‘An invitation,’ I say, swallowing hard, and she laughs, groans. Her soft Irish accent is lilting, effortlessly light.

‘Not another one. Jesus. I’m still out of pocket after Jess and Jamie’s. Why do these people think everyone can stump up to afford it all? I bet they want you to buy them a fancy toaster on top of it, too. Whoever invented the idea of wedding lists should be shot.’

‘Not a wedding,’ I interrupt, closing the front door behind her, shoving the invitation into the pocket of my dressing gown. ‘A birthday party. In Botswana.’

She’s in the kitchen now; I can hear the sound of the fridge opening and shutting, her quick, confident little footsteps scurrying about. Getting on with her day as though nothing has happened. Because for her, it hasn’t, has it? The invite is for me, and me alone. Unwanted, a memory flashes into my mind: Felicity, laughing on another Friday two years ago, her mouth wide, the top of her blouse falling slightly open to reveal the lace of her bra, the gleam of her skin. The strange, smoky smell of the courtyard; the sense that something bad was coming. The cold metal of the fire escape stairs. A disconnected phone call that came the day after. Always, the taste of tequila, sharp and dangerous on our tongues.

I push the images away.

‘A birthday party? Whose? I didn’t know you had any friends in Africa,’ Rosie asks as I follow her into the kitchen. She sounds a bit awkward, perhaps thinking that she could have stopped after friends . It’s true that I never have anybody round. After what happened, I find it harder to go out, and more difficult to have people in my own space. Strangers frighten me, though I don’t like to admit it. Taking people at face value has become something of a challenge.

I breathe in deeply to clear my head, try to make my voice sound normal. Already, it’s as though I’ve lost the ability to act casual, forgotten what I’d usually say in this situation. The invitation has heightened everything; raised the stakes. Brought back the past.

‘An old friend,’ I say at last. ‘A girl I went to school with.’

‘Nice.’ She nods, accepting the half-truth, gulping water down quickly and easing off her trainers. ‘Pricy, though. The flights alone won’t be cheap, will they? Still, I’d love to go somewhere like that. See the elephants, that sort of thing. Don’t get many of those in Dublin, nor here.’ She laughs, slams down her glass on the counter, the sound making me flinch. Sweat is glistening on her brow; small beads of moisture that she dabs with the back of her hand. ‘I’m going to hop in the shower. I’m out with Ben tonight for V day. Are you…?’

Her words tail off and I can see her flush slightly with embarrassment, the blush creeping up her ivory throat.

‘I’ll be in,’ I say flatly. ‘I don’t have any Valentine’s Day plans, Rosie.’

‘All a load of nonsense anyway,’ she says, grinning at me, and then she disappears, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the invitation still in my hand and my thoughts whirring. Felicity wants to see me. After all this time. But the question is, has she forgiven me? Have I forgiven her ?

And who else will be invited?

Alice

‘Babe? You’re using all the hot water again. Hurry up, will you? I’m late for work.’

Alice sluices the last smudges of apple conditioner out of her dark hair, pulling a tangle out with her fingers, a little bit too hard – there is a tug of pain – and reaches for the shower dial, turning the water off with a hiss. Her skin feels warm and tingly, but already she is dreading the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, the icy rush of air that will come as soon as she steps outside. She and Tom are rationing the heating: Alice hates it.

Tom is hovering impatiently, naked, and his sleep-smudged eyes don’t meet hers as he steps past her and into the shower cubicle. Happy Valentine’s Day , Alice thinks but doesn’t say.

She towels herself off quickly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, brushing her teeth as fast as she can. There are tiny trails of blood in amongst the mint froth when Alice spits in the sink; she wipes them away with the tips of her fingers, runs the cold water until the porcelain is clear. She is late for work, and Year Six are like animals if left alone in a classroom for too long. Alice can just picture them careering into the school, their parents (the ones that turn up, at least) casting disapproving eyes at her empty desk – Ms Warner, running late again…

There’s no time to blow-dry her hair and so she shoves it up in a bun, drinks a quick glass of water standing at the sink and grabs her leather rucksack. There isn’t time for make-up, either; she’s slathered some tinted moisturiser across her cheeks and wiped the mascara smudges from underneath her light green eyes, and that will have to do. It’s not far to work, a fifteen-minute walk through deepest darkest Hackney and then she’s there. Quicker and cheaper than taking the bus, and less chance of seeing a pupil. Since that time Alice saw Liam Donoghue from the senior school on the number 43 and he insisted on sitting next to her, she has steered clear. No one wants the boundaries blurred. Least of all Alice Warner.

She crossed a line once before, and she won’t let herself forget it. Alice knows how easy it is to lose everything, how rapidly mistakes can spiral into more.

Alice’s hand is on the latch when she sees the envelope, wedged in the letterbox, half in and half out, hovering above a pile of junk mail, none of which either of them can ever be bothered to open: red and yellow flyers, laminated promises with no meaning; a Hackney newspaper full of bad news, the edges already ripped and tatty. Her heart sinks as she takes in the fancy handwriting on the front, addressed only to her. A wedding invitation, she’d bet their flat on it. Not that she’s got the money to place a bet right now, far from it. Quickly, Alice grabs it and stuffs it into her bag to read later, yanking the door open and stepping out onto the rainy London street. Water immediately drenches her left shoe – great , she thinks, a good start to the day .

It’s lunchtime when she remembers it. Her fingers graze the cool paper as she is searching for her phone, having spent a busy morning trying to teach Year Six the basics of fractions, a subject Alice is rustier on than she’d thought. She is slumped at her desk, drinking a cup of instant coffee that’s been cold for an hour already. She knows she should pop to the M&S on the high road, but she can’t face the thought of spending eight quid on a sandwich and some crisps; buying the flat with Tom has cleared out every last penny in her account and she has promised herself she’ll be good for the next few months. Cut out any unnecessary expenditure, that’s what they had said. The plan was to start bringing in a packed lunch, but, well. She doesn’t see Tom doing that.