One Thing Led to Another. Katy Regan

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СКАЧАТЬ nodded and ummed and generally kept my mouth shut for so long, we’ve worked up an appetite worthy of an all-day breakfast.

      I don’t mind, this won’t last for ever. After a day or so, this rant mode will subside, making way for a brief period of calm and self-reflection. This will move seamlessly into mild euphoria as Gina embraces her new-found single status, a period which usually finds her dragging me out to hideous speed-dating nights, until she finds herself another totally unsuitable man, at which point I’ll be largely redundant.

      I don’t know why I’m going on. I’m hardly a shining example of how to do relationships in my current mess. It’s just, when you’ve known someone for such a long time, you come to know these things. You ride the waves with them, experience their storms and their fleeting sunny days. Except, she isn’t riding this, the biggest, scariest wave of my life. She isn’t able to help. Because I haven’t even told her.

      A surly waitress plonks the all-day breakfasts in front of us and strides off, swinging her hips.

      ‘Cheer up love,’ says Gina. ‘It might never happen.’

      No fewer than three people have said this to me in the past week. ‘Too late!’ I’ve wanted to shout. ‘It already has!’

      Gina drenches everything in tomato ketchup – a breakfast massacre – and I suddenly feel a bit sick.

      ‘Do you know what really pisses me off?’ she says, cutting into her food aggressively.

      ‘I spent a hundred quid on my dress to wear to that wanky party of his.’

      ‘Haven’t you got the receipt?’ I offer. ‘Can’t you just take it back?’

      ‘Possibly, but it’s the principle of the matter Tess,’ she snaps, stabbing her fork into a sausage. ‘The fact I went and wasted my own money, money I could have spent on New York, just to please him!’

      My stomach flips when she says this. New York. Shit. How could I go to New York now? Gina and I arranged to go to New York together a year ago – when we were in a pub (which is where I agree to most things). But how can I go anywhere now I’m pregnant?

      Gina studies my face, my stomach rolls: does she know something? Every time we’ve talked in the past week, every time Vicky has rung and I’ve made some excuse to get off the phone, I’ve thought this is it. This is the moment my cover is blown. But then her face falls.

      ‘Look at us, eh?’ she says, laughing. I brace myself. ‘Pair of total fuck wits.’

      You have to watch Gina when she does this. Tar you with the same brush as she tars herself, it’s a most irritating habit.

      ‘Speak for yourself!’ I laugh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘I don’t mean anything bad by it,’ she shrugs. ‘I just mean, you know, look at us.’

      ‘Look at what?’

      ‘Our lives, I suppose, look at our lives. We’re in our late twenties, prime of our lives, witty, talented, devastatingly attractive…’

      ‘Now you’re talking.’

      ‘Exactly. And can either of us get it together to find a boyfriend? Can we fuck.’

      I try to think of something enlightened or positive to say, but all I can think about is the wave of nausea currently washing over me. I wish Gina would stop talking.

      She doesn’t.

      ‘Do you remember when we were at uni and we used to play Would You Rather?’

      Would You Rather was something we’d all play when we were too skint to go out. It mainly involved debating the lesser of two evil scenarios – the merits of shagging Noel Edmonds over, say, having to bear children to Bruce Forsyth.

      When we got bored with debating the ridiculous, we’d introduce more serious dilemmas, like whether we rated marriage over kids, or whether a glittering career was more important than true love. It never occurred to us then of course, when thirty-year-olds were just people who wore court shoes – that we’d be heading towards being left on the shelf without either. (Well, almost.)

      ‘We still don’t know what we’d rather have in a way, don’t you think?’ says Gina. ‘We still don’t know what we want.’

      I don’t answer, I can’t. I feel too rough. Plus, I don’t much like the way this conversation is going.

      ‘I mean, look at you and Jim. That was never going to work.’

      She says this nonchalantly but I flinch.

      ‘I really like Jim, you know, despite his obvious shortcomings…’

      What were they?!

      ‘…and I think he’s mad for not snapping you up. But it would have happened by now if it was going to happen. You need to stop pissing about, you two, find the real thing. I always thought you and Laurence would go the distance, if he hadn’t messed it up, that is. You two were so cool together. You were just too young.’

      I feel the colour drain from my face. Should I have gone on the date? Should I have emailed back anyway? Maybe I am selling Laurence short assuming he’d never want to date me because I’m pregnant? He is a grown man, he can make his own decisions, after all.

      ‘And then there’s me,’ Gina goes on, ‘not a fucking clue what’s good for me. I thought Jasper was great, so different from anyone else I’ve ever gone out with…’

      So a carbon copy of every other dickhead you’ve dated since Mark, I want to say but I’m too busy looking at the bloodied mess of eggs and beans streaked with ketchup on her plate and trying to keep the contents of my stomach intact.

      ‘Thank God we’ve got each other, eh? Thank God for you, Tess Jarvis. Who’d have thought we’d be still be living together now, eh? Right pair o’ lezzers.’

      Gina’s on a roll now, but I’m not listening, I suddenly feel very, very sick. If I just keep quiet, I’ll be OK. If I just concentrate, this nausea will pass, right?

      Wrong.

      The adrenaline rushes around my veins, my cheeks suddenly burn, my mouth fills with liquid, I’m going to throw up. I’m actually going to puke!

      ‘Tess, what’s wrong? Are you alright?’ I hear Gina say, but it’s too late.

      I stand up, throwing my chair behind me so violently it makes an ear-splitting shriek across the wet floor. I briefly weigh up my options – the door, toilet or bag. I have the good sense – even in this state – to remember my bag has a very nice Mulberry purse in there and the downstairs toilet is way too far so I make a dash for the door.

      I practically sprint to the other end of the café, pushing anyone in my path – a horsey blonde, a child – out of my way.

      I grab hold of the handle of the door, fling it open, lurch onto the pavement and…let’s just say it’s not pretty. I just wasted several drinks and half an all-day breakfast, narrowly missing a yummy mummy with pristine toddler in pram.

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