The Ex Factor. Eva Woods

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      ‘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.

      Ani’s mother came in, glowing in a fuchsia sari and gold jewellery. She blinked at Ani. ‘That looks…different.’

      ‘Beautiful, no?’ Aunt Zhosi swept a hand to indicate Ani’s face.

      ‘Well, maybe we can tone down this eyeshadow a bit. You look like you’ve been in the boxing ring, Anisha.’

      Ani sat glowering as they pawed at her face, her mother removing some of the fifteen layers of foundation, while her aunt defiantly stuck yet more jewels on Ani’s face. She just looked daft in traditional clothes. Her short hair clashed with her extravagant make-up and clothes, and the lime-green sari her aunt had picked out made her skin look washed out. She held herself all wrong, used to suits, so the fabric hung awkwardly and had to be fixed by the tutting hordes of aunties and cousins (often both in the same person).

      ‘Mum!’ The door flew open and a teenage girl stood there, hands on newly discovered hips, her turquoise sari hanging perfectly. She said breathily, ‘Mum, Manisha is well pissed off! She says they’ve like put the wrong colour flowers on the plates or something.’

      Aunty Z threw up her hands and muttered something in Hindi. Ani assumed it translated as, ‘I have had it with this damn bridezilla, why didn’t I get her to elope?’ The girl, Ani’s cousin Pria—thirteen going on thirty—glanced at her. ‘Um, that colour is like, so not good on you?’

      ‘Who died and made you Gok Wan?’ snapped Ani.

      ‘Um, that, like, doesn’t even make sense?’

      Ani’s mother chased Pria. ‘Go, go, help your mother. And spit out that chewing gum!’ She rested her hand on Ani’s head, on the vast concoction of clips Aunt Zhosi had stuck in. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? You don’t wish it was you?’

      ‘What, getting trussed up and delivered to a man like a package? No thanks.’

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