‘Yep.’ I tried to swallow as much wine as I could before we opened the ex files.
‘And if I recall correctly, you broke up with Jeremy on the morning of Fat Theresa from Media Studies’ wedding and met Simon at the reception.’
Poor fat Theresa from Media Studies – we’d graduated how many years ago and she still couldn’t shake the nickname? Actually no, scratch that, she was fat and she was married, why should I feel sorry for her? I wished I was fat and married.
‘And before Jeremy it was, who, Will?’
‘Will the wanker?’ Em clapped her hands. ‘Oh, he was funny.’
‘No he wasn’t, he was a wanker,’ I corrected. ‘He was cheating on me with about twenty-five different people.’
‘And yet you insisted on giving him a chance.’ Matthew narrowed his eyes. ‘And then another chance. And then another one. I really never understood that one. He wasn’t even that hot.’
‘I think it was because he wasn’t Martin,’ I theorized.
‘Martin. Lovely, lovely Martin,’ Matthew smiled. ‘I miss university boyfriends. They were so simple.’
‘Yeah, except lovely Martin was shagging his English lecturer,’ I reminded them, refilling my wine glass. The booze was definitely necessary.
‘And me,’ he added. ‘But not until afterwards, obvs.’
‘I just never thought about it before,’ Em waved to the waiter who was aimlessly wandering around the pub with our fish fingers. ‘How is it possible that you’ve never ever been single?’
‘Because I’m awesome?’ I ventured.
‘Aside from the obvious,’ she replied. ‘Everyone’s single at some point.’
I chopped a fish finger in half and dipped it in far too much tomato sauce. Few things made me happier than ironic menus in trendy London pubs because really, nothing made me happier than fish fingers. Why hadn’t I ever been single?
‘It isn’t like I line blokes up,’ I said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here now, would we?’
‘Suppose not,’ Matthew was only half paying attention as he built a shaky fish finger sandwich. ‘So this is all going to be new to you. Wow.’
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Fish fingers and Sauvignon Blanc went together surprisingly well. ‘I thought I was going to be engaged by the end of the year, now I’m just going to be one of those crazy women on the bus wearing too much blusher, carrying a cat in a bag.’
‘No you’re not,’ Em tugged my messy ponytail. ‘You’re going to be fine. Better than fine. Single and amazing.’
She didn’t sound terribly convincing. ‘But I just want my life back to normal.’
‘No such thing,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘This is normal now.’
Dropping my fish finger back on the plate, I felt my entire face fall. ‘That is so depressing.’
‘No it isn’t, being single is awesome,’ Em said. ‘You just have to get through the shitty break-up stuff and then it’s going to be great.’
‘She’s right,’ Matthew confirmed. ‘When you have a serious boyfriend you just plod on because that’s what you do. But it doesn’t mean you’re happy. Now you’ve got a chance to find out what makes you happy, not what makes him happy or what you like “as a couple”. This is going to be good for you.’
‘I just wish there was a guidebook,’ I sulked. ‘I’m not good with change.’
‘There are loads of guidebooks,’ he pointed out. ‘Millions. It’s just, they’re all shit. And anyway, you don’t need one. You’ve got us and we’re two of the most fabulous single people in London. We’re like … mentors. We could totally get funding from David Cameron: he loves a mentor.’
In the interests of getting a couple of minutes of peace and quiet to eat my lunch, I bit my tongue and bit into a chip. I did feel better for getting out of the house, just as I’d felt better for my bath. And I felt better for the wine and for sitting here with two fabulous friends. But I still didn’t want to feel better, I just wanted Simon back. Feeling the tears trying to make a comeback, I tried to concentrate on something else. Anything else. It was Saturday: what needed doing?
Since Simon had raped and pillaged my to-do list for his heartfelt ‘fuck you’ note, I had to start a new one. Pushing aside my lunch, I started to scribble down everything that needed to be done before I went back to work on Tuesday. I still had to go to the post office, still had to get Matthew’s birthday card and present. I needed to call someone to look at that damp spot – what, a plasterer? And I should probably call my dad, tell him Simon wasn’t going to be coming to the wedding.
‘Uh, Rachel?’ Matthew piped up.
I looked up, end of the pen in between my teeth. ‘Yuh?’
‘What exactly are you doing?’
I looked from Matthew to Emelie and back again. Both had forks full of food paused mid-air and both were staring at me like I might be slightly mentally unstable.
‘Writing my to-do list?’
‘To do what?’
‘Stuff?’
‘Right.’
I looked at my friends once more then went back to my list. ‘It makes me feel better, OK?’
‘As long as it includes “get wasted” and “do a rebound guy”, I’m fine with it,’ Em said after a moment. ‘And put “give Emelie all of Simon’s Peep Show DVDs” on there as well.’
‘You can have the DVDs,’ I promised. ‘But these are actually things that need doing, not a fantasy break-up list.’
‘You’re already pretty far along the break-up list,’ Matthew commented through a mouthful of chips. ‘The actual deed is done, someone’s punched your ex in the face and you’ve even had the break-up sex. I usually take ages to embarrass myself with that one.’
‘Me too,’ Em nodded. ‘Break-up sex is the thing that usually drags this out. You’re doing very well. Everything ticked off already.’
‘Just need to crack on with the being single to-do list then.’ I scratched at the label on the wine bottle, trying not to pout. ‘Stop shaving your legs, get hammered, die alone with cats.’
‘Oh, Rachel,’ Em’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s it. We’ll write you a to-do list. A single girl’s to-do list.’
I tore off a big long strip of label.
‘What?’
Em’s face was lit up like Blackpool. ‘We’ll write you a list. Everything you need to do as a single girl. Everything you should have done by now but haven’t because you’ve been hanging around with that twat.’
‘It’s not a bad idea actually,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m assuming I’m allowed to contribute despite not actually being a single girl?’
‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘If I thought you were going to say sniff a bunch of poppers, go out dancing all night and then make out with a hot stranger in a public bathroom, I’d let you have more of a say in this, but you won’t because you’re a rubbish gay.’
‘We don’t make out, dear, we’re in England.’ Matthew topped up her wine while giving her the glaring of a lifetime. ‘And just because I’m not falling out of a sauna in Vauxhall at six a.m. every morning having blown three closeted Tory MPs doesn’t mean I don’t have valuable insight into how to be successfully single.’
‘If