“Cece’s boyfriend’s so cute,” Bec says, taking my arm. “Do you know him?”
“I was about to ask that,” says a voice from behind me.
I turn and see Rachel and Lydia, two of Cece’s old netball mates.They were never actively mean to me, but we didn’t talk. I study their faces, and their smiles seem to be genuine.
“Yeah, I know Davis,” I say. “He’s a finance bro, but he moonlights as a bouncer at Cece’s bar.”
“Shit,” Lydia says, gaping at Davis. “That’s a hectic job combo.”
“True, but Davis only works there because he’s been into Cece forever.”
“That’s adorable!” Rachel says. “The feeling’s mutual, by the looks of things?”
“They took their sweet fucking time realising it, but yes.”
“Thank God,” Lydia says with an exaggerated exhale. “Last time we talked, Cece was going on aboutWill Sharpe.”
“I think you mean, ‘Mr. Divorce,’” Rachel says.
I choke on the last of my horrible wine, and Bec pats me on the back.
“Sorry,” Rachel says with a grin.
“Don’t be,” I gasp. “Fuck that’s funny. Heisthe poster child for divorce.”
“And getting your tubes tied,” Rachel smirks. “He dated my sister after he and Jenny split. She abandoned him in a hot spring in Queenstown.”
I gape at her. “Jesus. Ineedto hear that story.”
“And I need to tell you.” Rachel tips her head at the bar. “Wanna get more drinks, everyone?”
I glance at Jake. He’s standing with a gang of guys, his hands braced around an invisible club, which means he’s in the middle of golf chat. The most evil of chat.
“Hell yeah,” I tell Rachel. “Let’s go.”
The four of us get a fresh round of fake champagne and start swapping the worst dating stories we have on record. By the time Rachel’s partner Morgan joins us, we’re all laughing hysterically.
I’m not pretending to have fun, but a part of me is standing off to one side, quietly processing that if I’d been nicer at school, ignored the insults and made more of an effort, I might havebeen folded into Cece’s netball gang.
But that’s life, I think as I sip my bad wine.You don’t know until you know.
It’s a relief to learn that neither Bec, Rachel, Morgan, nor Lydia works for Thompson Farms. Bec’s a teacher, Rachel’s a PT, Morgan does accounts, and Lydia is one of those people who hold ‘Slow’ signs at road work sites.
“It’s the most boring shit in the world, but it pays a bomb.” Lydia’s face lights up. “Holy fuck, did you see that all-beige photoshoot Hayley Dean did with her kids?”
“No!” Bec and I gasp.
“She just posted it.” Lydia giggles. “How she got her husband into a beige turtleneck is beyond me. She must be able to suck a golf ball throu?—”
The music cuts out, and we stop snickering and look around. The stage where the DJ has been playing the hits of the 2010s is now lit up like Broadway, and a middle-aged woman is standing in the middle, holding a microphone. Her smile and grey power suit both scream ‘upper management.’
“That’s the new principal,” Lydia whispers to me. “Frances Aster. Presentations must be starting.”
My nerves snap like an elastic band, and I glance at Jake, who’s looking right back at me. His wink does nothing to calm me.
Maybe he won’t do it. Maybe he’ll just say his rugby thing and leave me out of it…
“Good evening, Pukekohe students past and present,” Principal Aster says with forced cheer. “I trust you’re all enjoying yourselves?”
