Jessica Adams - Girls’ Night In

‘Forsaking us for him,’ said Polly.

‘Yes,’ Sally clarified, ‘but I can’t believe it’s because she deems him preferable, nor that she’s taking advantage of us.’

‘I think he’s a harmless creep,’ said Chloë, ‘way way out of Finty’s league. I think she’ll figure that out soon enough. When the novelty of new sex abates.’

The three women fell silent.

‘However, I, for one, cannot believe that sex with him can make up for his questionable personality,’ Chloë continued, ‘nor for it taking precedence over the Gathering.’

The three women fell silent.

Was their concern for their friend’s welfare with this man? Or that they rued the fact that their hitherto sacred coven might be fallible? An era ending? If they conceded that this was the case, weren’t they investing a harmless creep with more power than they felt he warranted?

‘My point is,’ Sally said, using her hands for emphasis to prevent herself from succumbing to a fourth cheesy puff, ‘Finty should be here, not there. I think it’s indicative of a floundering relationship that she isn’t. It’s only one night a month. She has a duty. I mean, when have any of us ever rejected a Gathering?’

‘You did, you old tart!’ Polly cajoled. ‘When you first started seeing Richard. When he was going to seduce you with his culinary skills.’

‘Yes,’ Sally said patiently, ‘but he did. And then I married the man.’ She peered into Polly’s fridge and brought out reduced fat guacamole and humous. ‘See me now – banning husband from home on a monthly basis – grounds for divorce, surely! Mind you, if he ever objected – well, grounds for divorce, surely.’

‘Oh God!’ Chloë exclaimed. ‘Please don’t let Finty marry Brett!’

The girls made noises and gesticulations of a mass vomiting session and then giggled guiltily. Perhaps Finty really was in love with the man. Perhaps he was a really lovely chap who wasn’t very confident in company. Or merely had an awkward manner, rather than no manners at all, which is what they all suspected. Perhaps he was to be on the scene for months, even years. He would remain great gossip fodder – as long as Finty remained oblivious to the fact. Suddenly, along with the vegetable crisps and rather luminous guacamole, the three women also passed around a smile steeped in slight suspicion and discomfort. It occurred to them that perhaps their own partners had been the subjects of such unfavourable scrutiny. Maybe still were. No. Surely not. Richard was such great company. William was sensitive. Max always had them laughing. And the fundamental difference was that these three men were openly at ease with their respective partners and her friends. Whereas Brett had stiffened when Finty had kissed him in front of them and he’d squirmed when Sally had burped, when Polly had sworn, when Chloë had touched his knee in a bid to extend welcome, to establish familiarity.

‘Where was he taking her anyway?’ Chloë asked, uncorking a bottle of Semillon and giving Polly the thumbs up at the bumper bag of oven chips held aloft for their approval. ‘Where have they gone that could possibly be preferable to oven chips, low fat dips and our delectable company?’ She burped under her breath, as demurely as she could. Sally responded with one that made the rafters tremble.

Peanuts. Finty detested peanuts. She hated the taste and she couldn’t abide the smell. And now Brett reeked of peanuts. But more loathsome than this was what he was doing to them. He was snatching little handfuls by contorting his fingers over the bowl like the hands of an Action Man doll. He was then bouncing his clutch up and down in his palm as if panning for gold, before pushing his whole hand against his mouth. His trousers. He was wiping his fingers over his trousers, leaving salt there, before doing Action Man Hands and reaching for the bowl again.

This is nuts. This is crazy. I want Marks & Spencer finger-food .

‘How about sashimi?’ Brett suggested. ‘There’s a place near here. We use it for business lunches. They know me.’ For Finty, who’d never ordered anything medium rare in her life, let alone raw, the thought of it turned her stomach at a slightly faster rotation than the peanuts. ‘Stop rubbing your nose,’ Brett said, irritation in his voice manifest in the way he swirled the ice around his glass. ‘Go and blow it, for God’s sake.’

Ladies Toilets. Haven. Peace and camaraderie. Hair products and perfume and mints laid out by the basins. An attendant handing out paper towels and a part-of-the-job smile behind sad (part of the job) eyes. Finty locks herself in a cubicle and sits there awhile. Her nose itches but there’s nothing to blow. She pulls the chain though there is nothing to flush. She washes her hands automatically and checks her reflection. If there’s sadness behind the toilet-attendant’s eyes, Finty’s gaze is underscored with a flatness. It shouldn’t be so. She should be having a wonderful time. She’s on a date. Being wined and dined. Whined at and to dine on foodstuffs she doesn’t like. But there’ll be sex too. That’s to look forward to. Though she’ll close her eyes and conjure Brad Pitt.

‘Gorgeous skirt!’ marvels a stranger.

‘Thanks!’ Finty replies, all smiles.

‘Nice bloke too,’ says the stranger’s friend, ‘but doesn’t he like his peanuts!’

‘Yeah!’ says Finty, wondering why she’s lacing her voice with a hasty approximation of affection, or possessiveness; and suddenly craving her own girlfriends desperately.

Must call them. Just to say hullo .

The entrance to the bar is the foyer of the hotel and, though Finty has both battery and strong signal on her mobile phone, she eschews privacy, opting for the payphone.

‘Hullo?’ Polly answers, with a voice suggesting outrage that there is such an intrusion on a night when she’s gathered her soul mates around her.

‘Hey!’ says Finty with commendable bounce.

‘Finty!’ Polly shrieks and suddenly the phone has been given to Sally, then Chloë, before all three attempt to listen and chat en masse. Finty says something about peanuts and her nose and an old man clad in plaid. But the girls are too eager to tell her that she should be there with them, on the third bottle of wine, now called vino-darling, with her stomach full of fancy morsels.

‘I’d better go,’ says Finty all breezy, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Have fun.’

‘We are!’ they sing. ‘We are!’

Finty replaced the receiver and rested her head against the side of the booth momentarily before quite literally pulling herself together.

‘Young lady!’ It was the elderly American gentleman. ‘Your nose still itching?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘So you wised up and dumped the guy?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘Steak!’ The man proclaimed, ‘I’m going out to get me a steak. Aberdeen. Angus. Horse. I got to have steak – why don’t you join me?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘More nutritious than peanuts,’ he said. Giving Finty a shrug and a wink, he had the doorman summon a taxi. Comforted that he knew about the peanuts, Finty returned to the bar.

‘It’s half-eight and she’s phoned,’ Chloë assesses.

‘Wonder why?’ Sally contemplates.

‘Hmm,’ Polly ponders, offering more wine and oven chips.

‘Any ketchup?’ Sally asks. Polly shakes her head and begs forgiveness.

‘Did Finty say where she was?’ Chloë asks. Polly shakes her head. The three of them had forgotten to ask. Unforgivable.

On approaching Brett, who was very obviously cleaning his teeth with his tongue, Finty was pleased to see the peanut bowl had gone. But it was returned, replenished, just as soon as she sat down. Brett winked at the waitress. And then he winked at his girlfriend. His Action Man hand reached for the peanuts. Finty diverted her gaze for fear of hitting him and scanned the bar with a half-smile fixed to her face. She tuned in to the sounds surrounding her. Animated chatter. Music. Bursts of laughter. Clink and clank of glasses and china and ice. Brett munching peanuts, rubbing his salty fingers on his trouser legs. Her involuntary sigh was loud, but the silence between Brett and her was louder. Sally, Chloë and Polly had each, at some point, marvelled to Finty how wonderful silence between partners could be. Chloë had termed it ‘the ultimate in communication’. Polly had defined it ‘proof of compatibility’. Sally had proclaimed it ‘a seal of safety’. For Finty, it was as uncomfortable as the fake smile she was forcing upon her lips.