‘Smart,’ I said. ‘I should have done that.’
She nudged me with her elbow. ‘That the real reason you’re crying, though?’
I sighed. ‘I’m crying because my mum loves me,’ I said, ‘but my ex doesn’t.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now that’s a problem worth crying about.’
I realised about a second too late that I probably shouldn’t provide gossip fodder to someone who might be on the show with me. This was classic potential humiliation material.
But she just nudged me with her elbow again. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. It hurts like hell.’
‘Yeah.’ My voice was croaky from crying. ‘It does.’
‘Any kids?’
‘No. We’d been talking about it, but… no.’
‘Then comfort yourself with this: it’s not as bad as it could have been. I got the T-shirtandthe kidandthe custody battleandthe having-to-look-the-new-wife-in-the-eye, and I can tell you that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘That sounds horrible. I’m sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘Not your fault. Not my fault either. It’s his fault, the lying bastard. Did yours cheat?’
‘No.’
I kind of wished she had, though. Something about ‘Jac fell in love with someone else’ felt preferable to ‘Jac just doesn’t love you specifically anymore, Amanda, and would rather be alone than spend another second in your company’.
‘Girls, you need to come back in now,’ a producer – Suzette, I thought her name was – said, sticking her head out the door. ‘We’re starting the one-on-ones.’
‘Don’t call us—’ my new friend started, but Suzette was already gone. ‘… girls,’ she finished, sighing. ‘I hate it when people call adult women “girls”.’
‘The one I hate is “miss”,’ I said. ‘I’ve got this customer who calls me “Miss Amanda” every single time he comes into my shop. I can’t stand it.’
‘Ugh,’ she replied. ‘So, it’s Amanda? Your name?’
‘Yep.’
‘Dylan,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
2
‘Hey,’ I said to Dylan at the end of auditions. ‘Can I buy you a drink? To thank you for today?’
‘Babe, no thanks needed,’ she said. ‘But I’d love to grab a drink. There’s a cute little wine bar around the corner.’
It really was just around the corner, only a couple of minutes’ walk (although it would have been more like five minutes if I’d been on my own – Dylan was taller than me, and I had to walk fast to match her stride). Most people hadn’t knocked off work yet, so the bar was relatively empty. ‘What do you want?’ I asked her, pulling my wallet out of my bag.
‘Let’s get champagne,’ Dylan said. ‘It’s basically the official beverage ofMarry Me, Juliet, after all. We’d better get used to drinking it if we’re going to be on the show.’
‘Oh no, what an enormous problem for us,’ I said. ‘You’re right. We’d better start training.’
She laughed. She had a great laugh, full-throated, bordering on a cackle, the kind that made you want to join in immediately.
We took our champagne and sat at a little high-top table near the window. It had hooks on the underside for our handbags, and they gently knocked together: mine a pale pink one that I’d taken out of my rotation because Jac hated it, and hers a brighter pink which should not have gone with her orange dress at all, but somehow did.
‘Cheers,’ Dylan said, holding up her glass. ‘To our future reality TV glory.’
‘Cheers,’ I said, clinking my glass against hers.
