‘Well,’ said Helen brightly, ‘I love living on my own. Think of all that fun decorating you can do. I’ll lend you my fabric swatches!’
Rosa gave what sounded like a stifled scream into the cushion.
‘Come on,’ said Marnie impatiently. ‘We need to get started on Project Love.’ She was kneeling at the coffee table with a notebook, like a child playing at school. Today she was wearing a daisy-print dress, her hair in clips. She looked younger than the Intern David had skipped off with. Ani was sitting at Rosa’s feet, while she stretched out on the sofa. Helen had the armchair, a fancy grey modular thing David had liked, but which made her nervous she might spill red wine on it.
‘Do we have to do this?’ she said, hopefully. ‘I’ve brought a DVD of Mean Girls .’
‘We do,’ said Rosa, muffled. ‘I’ll probably get fired if I don’t. And I’ve already been dumped and my husband’s left me for a—’
‘We can do it, but we’re not calling it Project Love,’ said Ani, cutting her off.
Marnie pouted. ‘But that’s what it is! A new approach to finding happiness.’
‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too optimistic. We might jinx it.’
‘Didn’t think you believed in that,’ said Rosa, from behind her cushion.
Ani blushed a little. ‘Trust me. When you date a lot, you start to believe anything. Otherwise you’d have to think it was your fault every time something promising turns into an 18-cert horror show.’
‘That’s not the spirit.’ Marnie frowned. ‘Positivity, people!’
‘OK, OK. Let’s call it Project “Maybe we’ll meet a guy who isn’t awful and a liar and a cheat, or who won’t accidentally propose to you, then burst into tears in an Indian restaurant”.’
Rosa removed the cushion and rubbed Ani’s shoulder with her stockinged foot. ‘That won’t happen again. You’ve definitely taken one for the team there. Hey, why don’t we call it the Ex Factor or something? You know, because… exes.’
The others considered it. ‘Did you just come up with that right there?’ asked Ani suspiciously.
Rosa picked at a thread in the cushion. ‘Um… It was Jason’s idea actually. For the article, you know.’
Another look from Ani to Helen. Helen said, ‘Is it “Jason” now then? Not “Scary Editor Surf Dude”?’
‘He’s not so scary. He’s quite nice actually.’
‘Is he hot?’ asked Marnie, suddenly interested.
‘Oh, I guess,’ said Rosa, vaguely. ‘I don’t really notice other men, you know. Anyway, he can’t wait to see the piece.’
Helen’s stomach lurched at the thought of the article. This was really going to happen.
‘I don’t mind what we call it, so long as we do it,’ said Marnie. ‘Now what we’ll do is write down our names, then pull them out of a hat. Do you have a hat, Rosa?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s only an expression,’ said Ani. ‘We can just draw them out of a hand.’
‘Oh, OK then, if you want to rob it of all joy and fun and sense of occasion.’
‘Put them in that glass thing,’ said Rosa soothingly. ‘Chuck the tea light out, it’s burned down anyway. Like my marriage.’
Ani patted her reflexively. Marnie scribbled down their names and tore the paper up into four.
‘And are we picking the name of the person whose ex we’re dating, or the one who we’re setting up?’ Helen had a sense of rising panic. Surely this wasn’t going to actually go ahead. She looked around for a candle; maybe she could accidentally-on-purpose set the bits of paper on fire.
Ani looked blank. ‘Also what if we pick ourselves?’ said Rosa. ‘I mean if I picked you…and you picked me…or what if I picked Ani, and then Ani picks Marnie, Helen picks me…’
‘God,’ said Ani, wrinkling her brow. ‘It’s harder than I thought.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t bother,’ said Helen quickly, though she knew it was hopeless. Once Marnie set her mind on something, resistance was futile.
‘Honestly, guys,’ said Marnie, ‘some top professionals you lot are. It’s very simple. If you get your own name, put it back in. We’re picking the person we’re going to set up. Right?’
Oh God, thought Helen. Why had she agreed to this? And which friend would be the worst to set up? Ani, the cynical perfectionist? Rosa, with the weight of her first post-divorce date, or Marnie, who seemed willing to date anyone, from a FTSE-100 exec to a basically homeless busker?
The pot, a stained-glass one Rosa had got in Marrakesh on honeymoon, went solemnly round. ‘Choose…wisely,’ said Marnie, skittishly. ‘Otherwise your face will melt off like that dude in Last Crusade . Rosa, you go first, it’s your flat.’
Rosa fished, unfolded the square of paper. ‘Drum roll, please. So, I’m setting up…you, Marn.’
‘Whoop! I bet you’ll have a really nice ex for me. Now you, Ani.’
She pulled out a slip. ‘I am matchmaking for…Rosa!’
‘Hurray!’ Rosa clapped. ‘You’ll get me someone good, I know you will.’
Marnie held out the pot. ‘Helz, you choose.’
Quick, do something set it on fire no there’s no candles eat the paper! Eat it! With trepidation, Helen unfolded her paper and read: ‘Ani.’
‘Well, here’s to my future husband,’ said Ani with heavy irony. Helen bit her lip. The pressure! Who would she even choose?
‘OK, my turn.’ Marnie unfolded her paper, just as Helen was working out that there was only one name left and it was—
‘You, Helz,’ said Marnie. ‘Great! I’ve been wanting to set you up for years.’
And Helen had always strenuously avoided it. Because: reasons reasons reasons. Oh God, what if she picked Ed? She wouldn’t. No, surely she wouldn’t. Was that good or bad? ‘Someone nice,’ she pleaded. ‘Not someone who likes going to clubs or taking drugs or a City banker with a fetish for nipple clamps or a part-time stripper.’
Marnie raised her eyebrows. ‘Gary was actually a pretty nice guy, you know. Great abs.’
‘Please. Someone normal. Or, you know, normal for me.’
‘Just trust me, Helz!’ Marnie tapped the table. ‘Right, ladies. Now we’ve got our names, we have to choose a nice ex, then contact them and set them up with our matchmakee.’
‘What if they’re married? Or say no? Or are gay now?’ Helen was still stalling.
‘Then choose someone else.’
Oh dear. It was going to be hard enough to find one person, let alone several. Who could she pick? Someone from school? That guy she snogged at an Ocean Colour Scene gig in the first year of university? She couldn’t even remember his name—Andy something? Not Peter, her nice-but-dull main ex, who she’d dated between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five; he was happily married with four kids and working in Kent as a used-car salesman. And thinking over her other thin-on-the-ground exes, and knowing Ani’s high standards, she just hoped her friend would forgive her.
* * *
Ani.
‘You look so beautiful, dar-link!’
‘Auntie, I look like a drag queen. That’s an insult actually. They’d look much better.’
‘What is drag queen?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. You know what it means. Like Lily Savage.’ (Or Cousin Mehdi, she added to herself.) Her aunt Zhosi still pretended not to speak English properly, even though she’d been in the UK since she was twelve years old, fleeing Uganda with her parents and brother, Ani’s dad. And also with her second cousin, Ani’s mother. Yes, Ani’s parents were second cousins. Not first cousins—though, as she often felt like explaining, that wasn’t illegal in the UK—but still a little odd, something that made people look at her twice. It also meant family parties, where everyone was related to everyone else and with grudges that went all the way back to the turn of the last century, could be rather fraught.
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