The Wild Girls. Phoebe Morgan
But of course Hannah never says that.
‘Remember the Clarksons are coming over tomorrow night,’ Chris says, and Hannah’s heart sinks like a stone beneath her nightie – naturally, she’d forgotten. Most of the time now, her brain feels like a sieve with extra holes. The Clarksons are Chris’s colleagues, invited for a hideous double-date dinner in an attempt to rally Hannah’s spirits, give her some company. Chris doesn’t understand why she hasn’t been in touch with the girls in so long, why their close-knit friendship has become so distant. She hasn’t yet found the words to explain it to him. Every time Hannah thinks about it, she feels a weird mix of emotions, but mainly she feels so guilty that she wants to disappear, hide under the baby’s cot and never be found.
As Chris reaches down to kiss Max goodbye, Hannah gets a whiff of his aftershave – it smells different, new.
‘See you later,’ he tells her, kissing her on the mouth, and she puts her hand on the back of his neck, trying to recreate the old passion, find their spark. Who are you wearing new aftershave for? she wants to ask him, but she knows she’s being ridiculous – this is Chris, for God’s sake, and so Hannah says nothing, just waves and smiles at him as he backs out of the baby’s room.
Max has miraculously stayed sleeping, so she takes the opportunity to sift through the mail her husband has left on the side, noticing the messy, chipped polish on her nails as she does so. There’s never time to replace it. She doesn’t understand the mothers with neat nails. A bill, addressed to Chris, a Boden catalogue (is she really that old?), a flyer advertising some Valentine’s Day lingerie (chance would be a fine thing) and something else. A stiff, square envelope, addressed to her. Briefly, Hannah wonders if it’s from his mother – she often sends cards, her little way of checking how they are (read: checking how she is coping with Jean’s longed-for grandson) but her latest was last week and this feels a bit soon for a second, even by Jean’s standards.
Hannah rips the paper, and the invitation tumbles out – nice, thick card, expensive. Someone with money – not his mother, then. Hannah thinks it must be a work thing, and then she sees the name and it’s as though she’s been dunked in cold water. The memory flashes back through her like a bolt of electricity. The cold of the wall against her jeans. The darkness of the sky. An unfamiliar hand rubbing her back.
Guilt crawls up her throat, and Hannah puts her fingers to her neck as if she can stop it in its tracks. She can’t change the past; she should know that by now. Her necklace, a thin gold chain from Chris, is cold underneath her fingertips, and she rolls it against her skin, pressing down harder than she needs to, imprinting herself with its tiny interlocking pattern.
Just then, her phone, caught in the folds of her nightie, beeps loudly with a message. It’s a familiar name, but one she hasn’t seen in months: Grace Carter. There are only three words, and Hannah cannot work out the tone – hesitant, or accusing?
The message says: Are you invited?
14th February
London
Grace
I’m working from home today, so I spend most of the morning on my laptop, googling photos of Botswana. I don’t even bother with a shower or my contact lenses, just sit there in my scrubby white dressing gown, glasses on, scrolling through the pictures. It says the temperature over there is thirty degrees, even in February, and it only gets hotter in March. Felicity always hated having a March birthday, said she wanted to be born in the summer when everyone was in the mood to drink rosé at any time of day. I continue scrolling through the websites, lose myself slightly in the images – imagining the hot sun on my back, the rustle of the grass underneath my feet. It’s been so long since I left London. Sometimes, I feel like I’m destined to be in Peckham forever, as though my soul will wander the busy streets for years after I die.
Botswana would be something different. It would be an adventure. And I’d get to see the girls again, after all this time. Girls – it’s ridiculous to call them that, now that we are all women in our thirties, but that is what we’ve always been. That silly nickname: the wild girls. Old habits die hard, after all. The thought of seeing them makes my stomach twist. Memories spin in my mind, like tricks of the light that I cannot quite catch.
Perhaps I don’t want to.
I picture them; Alice Warner, her long black hair trailing down her back, her wide smile, the smell of her musky perfume as she leans in close to me, sharing a secret. The look on her face after she’s had a few too many glasses of red wine – which, let’s face it, used to happen more often than not. The way her eyes glow when she’s got gossip. And Hannah Jones, God, Hannah. The sensible one – the one we all needed the most. The mother hen – a real mother now, judging by her latest Instagram photos that I look at sometimes on long, lonely evenings, but am too scared to like. The one who’d tuck the covers around you after a night out, be first up in the morning making tea and toast. Those big blue eyes that made you think everything was going to be all right; her clean, calm home; that pale English rose skin that she didn’t even have to do anything to. Like an advert for serenity, was Hannah.
And Felicity Denbigh. The one who kept us all together – until she didn’t anymore. I conjure her up – that bright, almost white-blonde hair that she smoothed down twenty times a day, a surprising, infectious cackle of a laugh that strangers always thought she was faking. The silver rings on her fingers, the way they glinted in the light. Her bright red lipstick, no matter what. Felicity the fun one. The popular one. The one you want around.
Only she hasn’t been around – not for two years. Suddenly, as I think of them, the way we were, I am struck with a visceral pang of longing that almost makes me gasp. The room seems starker, shabbier, even more lonely than it already is. Without their energy, their friendship, my own life has dwindled even further somehow, lost its shine. It’s not that the flat isn’t all right – it’s OK in the summer, when the sun beams into the living room and we don’t have to worry about the heating as much. Rosie does so much exercise that she’s always boiling, but I can’t say the same for myself.
I moved to this flat two years ago, after everything happened and I stopped seeing the girls, and ever since, my life has been… I don’t even know what the word is. Static, I suppose. I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance from them all, and of course, I couldn’t go near Felicity. But maybe I was wrong.
I exhale. It’s taken me a long time to admit it to myself, but it’s true. As everyone around me moves forward – having babies, getting married, buying houses, moving, in Felicity’s case, to New York – I have stayed still. Worse than still – sinking.
And this invitation has got to be the thing that gets me out. I check my phone, and my stomach lurches as I see the little red notification pop up, like a finger tapping me on the shoulder, impossible to ignore. One new message.
Hannah has replied.
Hannah
Hannah doesn’t respond to Grace’s message straight away. She needs some time to think. For Felicity to invite them now, after all this time – it feels odd to her. Is it a peace offering? A sign that she wants things to go back to how they were? Or is it simply another chance to show off – to tell the world how much better her life is than the rest of theirs?
That’s the thing about Felicity, Hannah thinks. Everything about her life has to be the best. The best job, the best boyfriend – although actually, she’s not sure whether Felicity and Nathaniel are still together anymore – the best incredibly glamorous apartment in central Manhattan. On forgiving days, Hannah thinks it is because of what happened to her, what her father did – and on other days she is not so sure. She hates thinking about Felicity’s father; Michael Denbigh has been known to pop up in her dreams and she quickly pushes the thought away.
When