Emmy
I wakewith a groan as a throbbing pain takes up residence in my forehead. Squinting at the clock, I make out that it’s 6:30am, which means I should have another hour of sleep before I need to start my workday. But of course, my brain is already booting up a hazy replay of last night, mentally cataloguing anything that could have been embarrassing or painful.
Sloane’s face swims into view in my mind and I smile. It’s been ages since I made a new friend. We spent hours chatting and laughing last night. And that kiss… well. I have a sneaky feeling she’s going to get me into all sorts of trouble and I cannot fucking wait. I may have been cursed with a preference for penis but that moment with Sloane was a lot of fun and I feel a little thrill as I open my notes app and tick “kiss a woman” off the list.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle downstairs for a coffee, pulling my hair up into a scraggy ponytail as I go. I didn’t get in until midnight, which is late for me, and I made a beeline straight for the spare room. No way in hell am I sleeping in the bed where Colin and Stacey ruined my sheets. As I arrive in the kitchen, I remember that he was here last night to collect some of his things and my mood sours.
There is a note on the kitchen island in his handwriting.
Emmy,
Please don’t throw this marriage away. You’re not even trying. We’ve been together for 14 years – you don’t throw that away over a silly fling. You’re not getting any younger and if you still want to have children, I’m really your only option. Call me and I’ll come home.
Colin x
“FUCK OFF!” I shout, crumpling the note and hurling it toward the bin. It misses, but the throw feels satisfying anyway.
I pick up my phone and open an app that lists people who are looking for roommates. It’s time for the new chapter to begin. I can’t move on if I’m haunted by the life I’m leaving behind, which means finding a new place to live pronto.
By the afternoon I’ve lined up six flat viewings. I skipped the London roommates chapter – Colin and I moved into his parents’ “spare” flat in Battersea after uni, before buying our Fulham place after the wedding. Should have spotted the red flag, really. But I was super young and blind to the problems that come with wealth: the ego, the entitlement, the BMW fetish.
Anyway, nothing screams post-divorce life makeover like finding a brand-new home in a different part of town. I’ve been in Fulham for far too long and – embarrassingly – there are whole boroughs of London I’ve never set foot in.
My phone pings and I find a message from a number I don’t recognise.
Unknown
Hey girl, how’s the hangover?! I feel like a tornado blew through my frontal lobe. Had the best time last night, fancy a drink on Saturday? Strictly platonic, don’t worry your little bicurious heart. Sloane x
I am instantly smiling as I reply.
I feel your pain. Three coffees and two ibuprofen are no match for the number of margs I put away last night. I had the best time too – thanks for listening to my pathetic little tale. Def up for a drink. I’m looking at flats in the afternoon then I’m all yours! x
Three dots appear and I wait to see what she says.
Sloane
Want some company on the hunt? It’s a jungle out there and you may need a big brash American to ensure you don’t get ripped off. Or axe murdered x
I laugh and break into another grin.
I think I’m more likely to be offered weed in a dodgy stairwell than axe murdered but would love the company if you’re sure! x
She replies instantly:
Sloane
I’m all yours x
It’s so good to have instant chemistry with someone. Sloane’s the kind of confident I’ve always aspired to – she knows what she wants and goes after it without hesitation. A walking advert for owning your sexuality without compromise. And she’s a pin-up knockout with legs for days.
Best of all, I have a feeling she’ll make a brilliant co-conspirator for the Fuckit List.
“Oh my god, girl! I’m so proud of you!” Chloe’s got her phone propped up against her kitchen tiles as we FaceTime. She looks like she’s live streaming a cooking show on TikTok as she chats to me, stirring and chopping and throwing stuff into pans. I’ll never know how she juggles everything and still manages to make it all look effortless.
“I know, I’m actually quite proud of myself,” I confess. “I felt like a total fraud in there at first. Thank goodness for alcohol and gorgeous Americans who blow straight past all my British awkwardness.”
“Yeah, what’s her story?”
