C.J. Skuse - Sweetpea - The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017

Anni, our resident Preggo, is due to drop sometime in March. The Witches Four – Lucille, Cleo, Imelda and Pidge – had spared no expense on the nappy cake, cards, streamers, balloons and booties to decorate the table. I’d brought a fruit basket, filled with exotic fruits like lychees and mangoes, starfruit and ambarella, as a nod to Anni’s Mauritian heritage. It had gone down like a whore on a Home Secretary. At least I wasn’t driving, so I could quaff as much Prosecco as my liver could cope with and snuggle my brain into believing I was having a good time while they were all clucking on about the usual.

The PICSOs themselves like talking about five things above all others:

1. Their partners (usually to slag them off)

2. Their kids (conversations I can’t really join in with ’cos I don’t have any, so, unless, it’s cooing over school Nativity photos or laughing at Vines of them wiping poo up the walls, my contribution just isn’t called for)

3. IKEA (usually because they’ve just been or are just going)

4. Dieting – what works/what doesn’t, what’s filling/what isn’t, how many pounds they’ve lost/put on

5. Imelda’s wedding – she only announced it in September but I can’t actually remember a time when it wasn’t on our conversation rota.

In my head I’m usually thinking about five things above all others…

1. Sylvanian Families

2. My as-yet-unpublished novel, The Alibi Clock

3. My little dog, Tink

4. When I can go to the toilet and check my social-media feeds

5. Ways I can kill people I don’t like… without getting caught

Before too long a tray of drinks came over: Prosecco and a selection of slightly smudged glasses.

‘What’s this?’ Imelda asked.

‘Compliments of the gentlemen at the bar,’ said the waiter, and we looked over to see two types leaning against the counter, evidently looking to score with the nearest friendly vagina. The one wearing gold-hoop earrings and too much gel raised his pint in our direction – his other arm was in a sling. His friend in the Wales rugby shirt, and sporting tattooed forearms, a cut on his left eyebrow and a protruding beer gut, was unashamedly salivating over Lucille’s ridiculous breasts. She says she ‘doesn’t do it on purpose’. Yeah, and I don’t bleed from my crease every month.

‘How marvellous.’ She smiled, swooping into the bread basket. We each took a glass and ‘cheersed’ the men, before continuing our conversational merry-go-round – babies, boyfs, IKEA, and how draining it was just generally having tits.

Anni opened her presents, all of which she thought were either ‘amazing’ or ‘so cute’. Of all of them, I found Anni the least annoying of the PICSOs. She always had an anecdote to share about someone brought into A&E, with a Barbie doll shoved up their arse or a motorcyclist with his head hanging off. This was at least mildly entertaining. Of course her baby would come soon and then there would be nothing left for us to talk about other than Babies and What Fun They Are and How I Wish I Had One. That’s how these things usually went.

We all ordered steaks, in various sizes with various sauces, despite the rainbow of diets we are all on. Mel’s on the Dukan, or GI, I forget which one. Lucille’s on the 5:2, but today was a five day so she had three rolls and twenty breadsticks before her meal hit the tablecloth. Cleo ‘eats clean’, but she’s had Christmas and New Year off. I’m on the Eat Everything in Sight Until 1 January Then Starve Self to Death diet, so I ordered a 10oz sirloin in a béarnaise sauce with triple-cooked French fries – I asked for the meat to be so raw you didn’t know whether to eat it or feed it a carrot. The taste was unreal. I didn’t even care if the cow had suffered – his ass was delish.

‘I thought you were going veggie?’ said Lucille, tearing off another hunk of complimentary bread.

‘No,’ I said, ‘not any more.’ I couldn’t believe she remembered me saying that about eighty-five years ago. It was actually my GP who told me to give up red meat to help with my mood swings. But the supplements were doing their job so I didn’t see the point of going full McCartney for the sake of a few bitch fits. Besides, I always find earwigs in broccoli and sprouts are the Devil’s haemorrhoids.

‘Did you get anything nice for Christmas?’ Cleo asked me as the waiters brought out a selection of lethal-looking steak knives.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the guy. I always made a point to thank waiting staff – you never knew what they were stirring your sauce with. ‘Some books, perfume, Netflix voucher, Waterstones voucher, Beyoncé tickets for Birmingham…’ I left out Sylvanian stuff – the only people who understand how I feel about Sylvanians are Imelda’s five-year-old twins.

‘Ooh, we’re seeing Beyoncé in London in April,’ said Pidge. ‘Oh, I know what it was I wanted to tell you guys…’

Pidge started this inexorably long speech about how she’d gone to six different pet stores before she found the right something for her house rabbits – Beyoncé and Solange. Pidge’s conversation starters were always somewhere between Tedious and Prepare the Noose; almost as dull as Anni’s midwife appointments or Lucille’s Tales of the Killer Mortgage. I zoned out, mentally redesigning the furniture in my Sylvanians’ dining room. I think they need more space to entertain.

Despite the ongoing gnawing fury in the centre of my chest, courtesy of Le Boyf, the meal was nice and I managed to keep it down. I noticed there were fake flowers in the vases on all the tables – which won’t please the Tripadvisor fairy – but as restaurants go, I’m glad I went. It was almost worth the two hours I’d spent crowbarring myself out of the pyjamas I’d lived in since Christmas Eve and dolling myself up. Well, it was until the subject of Imelda’s wedding came up. Lucille was the culprit.

‘So, you got your hair sorted out yet for the Big Day?’

Now this was the rare occasion when Imelda did hear what Lucille said – because she had asked about Imelda or weddings or Imelda’s actual wedding.

‘No,’ she whined. ‘I want something up at the crown but not spiky. French plaits for the bridesmaids, keep it simple. Did I tell you about our photographers? We’re having two. Jack found this guy from London and him and his partner – his work partner that is (cue chorus of unexplained laughs) – are coming down to see the church in May. He’s going to be at the back so that he can take pictures of everyone’s faces as I come down the aisle, and his mate’s going to be at the altar.’

‘No chance of anything being missed then?’ I added.

‘Exactly.’ Imelda smiled, seemingly ecstatic that I was taking an interest.

‘What you wearing for your night do? Did you decide?’ asked Anni, returning from a third toilet break.

‘Oh, the dress again, definitely.’

‘You’re going to have it on all day?’ said Cleo.

‘Yeah. It’s got to be something striking. It is my day and everyone will be coming to check me out so… and that way, the people who didn’t get invited to the day do will be able to see it then.’

‘Yeah, wouldn’t want them missing out on anything,’ I mumbled, checking my phone. And again she smiled, like I was right on her wavelength.

Anni nodded, biting her lower lip. ‘You’ll be stunning, Mel. It’s gonna be such a good bash. And I’ll be able to drink again by then, too!’

I cleaned off my steak knife with my napkin. There was an abundance of veins in my left wrist. I could have ended it all right then if I’d had the balls.