‘Why do you need to impress them? You can make them jealous instead. Get a little rowdy, have a little fun. Flirt with a few hotties. Make them sick with jealousy that you can have a good time without a man.’
‘They’d probably cart me off to the funny farm,’ I mutter, not that she appears to have heard.
‘I’m so sick of thegirl-can-only-be-complete-with-addition-of-boynarrative. Aren’t you?’ Her head swings back and forth between Daisy and me, her expression fearsome. While I’d ordinarily be the first to agree I get along just fine without a man (mostly), this time, I’m unwilling to commit . . . to being uncommitted. Anyone who has gone to a wedding alone would absolutely be with me on this.
‘We make our own money, pay our own bills. Why should we feel like freaks and outliers because we choose not to depend on a man? It’s like the queen sings;I depend on me.’
‘That doesn’t sound like something Her Maj would say, never mind sing.’ My brows knit together in a frown.
‘Queen B, obviously.’
‘Which is all well and good except for the fact that I might have sort of already mentioned I’m seeing someone romantically. Mentioned it at work, I mean.’
‘Well, you were seeing someone,’ Daisy offers in placating tones. ‘And now you’re not. And no man is better than a bad man. In most circumstances anyway.’
‘Bad men have their uses,’ Vee muses. ‘Short-term uses, at any rate.’
‘I don’t suppose you know any bad men who might fancy accompanying me to a wedding next Saturday, do you? Because I’ve sort of lied myself into a corner.’ Welcome to the life of Heather Whittington: my life in Loserville
‘Lied yourself into what?’
‘It’s a metaphorical corner where I might’ve, sort of said I was seeing someone. Before I wasactually. . . seeing someone.’ I grimace. And shrug. Then cringe a bit.
‘Why would you do that?’ Confusion puckers Daisy’s brow.
‘Stop frowning, Dais. You don’t want to be looking at Botox before you’re thirty, do you?’ With that edict issued, Vee turns her attention to me. ‘Now, why in the name of buggery did you create an imaginary boyfriend?’
‘He’s not imaginary. He’s fake. There’s a difference.’
‘If you can’t see him, he’s not real, H. So how long have you and Mr Invisible been dating?’ Is she amused? Bemused? It’s kind of hard to tell, but she can’t know what it feels like to be me. She picks up men so effortlessly and discards them at the same rapid rate.
‘Let’s set aside the why for now,’ Daisy suggests, ‘Tell us how long you’ve been dating . . . no one. What I mean to say is did you commit to a serious . . . fake boyfriend or just a passing fling?’ Daisy’s blue eyes dip to where I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘So short term, then?’
‘Yeah. Sort of. Depends on your definition?’ I widen the space between finger and thumb.
‘A couple of weeks?’
‘A bit longer.’ God, this is so uncomfortable. My granny used to say liars should have good memories, but she didn’t mention anything about bowels of steel. ‘A while.’
‘A while,’ Vivi repeats. ‘How long exactly is a while?’
‘Let’s just say I led him to believe it was serious.’
‘Why?’ they seem to ask—cry?—in unison.
‘It was a moment of madness.’ I shrug uncomfortably, my shoulders up around my ears as my hands wrap tightly around the arms of the chair.
‘Oh, God.’ Vivi begins to cackle. ‘Only you, H.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘Heather, it’s hilarious! What’s better than a duff boyfriend? An imaginary one!’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Daisy’s response is a touch more compassionate.
‘I know it sounds completely pathetic, but it all happened in a moment of madness. And not the crazy, certifiable kind but the kind of madness that’s responsible for fights in pubs, road rage incidents, or much more my style, very strongly worded emails.’
‘Why don’t you tell us about it,’ she says, lightly touching my arm.
