and clean, and didn’t contain any sleazy flatmates or recreational drugs, or, for that matter, any bedbugs—she scratched her arm, reflexively. She sighed. Would she ever have that?
‘Marie! Get your arse in gear!’ Barry was pointing frantically at the counter, where a line of customers was waiting, tapping their feet at the thirty-second delay. She thought about telling him her name was Marnie, and that her arse was not and never would be any of his concern, but again, what was the point? With a bit of luck she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.
She took her place, pasting on a smile. ‘Good afternoon, welcome to Bean Counters. Are you ready to begin your beverage journey?’
Helen
‘Right,’ said Marnie, looking round at the other three. ‘We’re all here. Time to start…Project Love.’ They had gathered in Rosa’s flat, which she now lived in alone, David having shacked up with The Intern—apparently, a nasty break-up was what it took to get a place to yourself in London, even a tatty new-build on the scruffy end of Willesden Green.
Ani groaned. ‘We can’t call it that.’ She was shoving Kettle Chips into her mouth like letters in a postbox. She waved the bag at Helen, who shook her head. She was prone to anxiety-eating and knew that if she had even one crisp she’d probably end up eating Ani’s head, and then it was goodbye four-stone weight loss, hello being lifted out of her house by a crane.
‘Are you going to stay here, Rosa?’ she said, trying to postpone the inevitable.
Rosa grabbed one of her Moroccan-print cushions and stuck it over her face, her standard response to anything divorce-related. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to sell, I guess. So enjoy this while you can.’ Rosa indicated her tatami matting, her carved Indian table, and all her pretty ornaments. There was a photo of her wedding day over the piano, happy faces pushed together. Rosa in vintage lace, David with a top hat, and, in the background, Ani, Helen, and Marnie—who’d flown in from New York ten minutes before the ceremony—in red bridesmaid dresses, throwing confetti. Helen averted her eyes from it—her dress had been ordered in a size twenty. ‘I spent years decorating this place,’ said Rosa miserably. ‘I thought we’d be here for ever. Or at least until we bought somewhere bigger in the suburbs. He always said I loved Ikea so much, I must have Stockholm syndrome.’ Ani met Helen’s eyes—they’d have to watch Rosa, or she’d slide into another wine-and-weeping marathon.
‘Well,’ said Helen brightly, ‘I love living on my own. Think of all that fun decorating you can do. I’ll lend you my fabric swatches!’
Rosa gave what sounded like a stifled scream into the cushion.
‘Come on,’ said Marnie impatiently. ‘We need to get started on Project Love.’ She was kneeling at the coffee table with a notebook, like a child playing at school. Today she was wearing a daisy-print dress, her hair in clips. She looked younger than the Intern David had skipped off with. Ani was sitting at Rosa’s feet, while she stretched out on the sofa. Helen had the armchair, a fancy grey modular thing David had liked, but which made her nervous she might spill red wine on it.
‘Do we have to do this?’ she said, hopefully. ‘I’ve brought a DVD of Mean Girls.’
‘We do,’ said Rosa, muffled. ‘I’ll probably get fired if I don’t. And I’ve already been dumped and my husband’s left me for a—’
‘We can do it, but we’re not calling it Project Love,’ said Ani, cutting her off.
Marnie pouted. ‘But that’s what it is! A new approach to finding happiness.’
‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too optimistic. We might jinx it.’
‘Didn’t think you believed in that,’ said Rosa, from behind her cushion.
Ani blushed a little. ‘Trust me. When you date a lot, you start to believe anything. Otherwise you’d have to think it was your fault every time something promising turns into an 18-cert horror show.’
‘That’s not the spirit.’ Marnie frowned. ‘Positivity, people!’
‘OK, OK. Let’s call it Project “Maybe we’ll meet a guy who isn’t awful and a liar and a cheat, or who won’t accidentally propose to you, then burst into tears in an Indian restaurant”.’
Rosa removed the cushion and rubbed Ani’s shoulder with her stockinged foot. ‘That won’t happen again. You’ve definitely taken one for the team there. Hey, why don’t we call it the Ex Factor or something? You know, because… exes.’
The others considered it. ‘Did you just come up with that right there?’ asked Ani suspiciously.
Rosa picked at a thread in the cushion. ‘Um… It was Jason’s idea actually. For the article, you know.’
Another look from Ani to Helen. Helen said, ‘Is it “Jason” now then? Not “Scary Editor Surf Dude”?’
‘He’s not so scary. He’s quite nice actually.’
‘Is he hot?’ asked Marnie, suddenly interested.
‘Oh, I guess,’ said Rosa, vaguely. ‘I don’t really notice other men, you know. Anyway, he can’t wait to see the piece.’
Helen’s stomach lurched at the thought of the article. This was really going to happen.
‘I don’t mind what we call it, so long as we do it,’ said Marnie. ‘Now what we’ll do is write down our names, then pull them out of a hat. Do you have a hat, Rosa?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s only an expression,’ said Ani. ‘We can just draw them out of a hand.’
‘Oh, OK then, if you want to rob it of all joy and fun and sense of occasion.’
‘Put them in that glass thing,’ said Rosa soothingly. ‘Chuck the tea light out, it’s burned down anyway. Like my marriage.’
Ani patted her reflexively. Marnie scribbled down their names and tore the paper up into four.
‘And are we picking the name of the person whose ex we’re dating, or the one who we’re setting up?’ Helen had a sense of rising panic. Surely this wasn’t going to actually go ahead. She looked around for a candle; maybe she could accidentally-on-purpose set the bits of paper on fire.
Ani looked blank. ‘Also what if we pick ourselves?’ said Rosa. ‘I mean if I picked you…and you picked me…or what if I picked Ani, and then Ani picks Marnie, Helen picks me…’
‘God,’ said Ani, wrinkling her brow. ‘It’s harder than I thought.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t bother,’ said Helen quickly, though she knew it was hopeless. Once Marnie set her mind on something, resistance was futile.
‘Honestly, guys,’ said Marnie, ‘some top professionals you lot are. It’s very simple. If you get your own name, put it back in. We’re picking the person we’re going to set up. Right?’
Oh God, thought Helen. Why had she agreed to this? And which friend would be the worst to set up? Ani, the cynical perfectionist? Rosa, with the weight of her first post-divorce date, or Marnie, who seemed willing to date anyone, from a FTSE-100 exec to a basically homeless busker?
The pot, a stained-glass one Rosa had got in Marrakesh on honeymoon, went solemnly round. ‘Choose…wisely,’ said Marnie, skittishly. ‘Otherwise your face will melt off like that dude in Last Crusade. Rosa, you go first, it’s your flat.’
Rosa fished, unfolded the square of paper. ‘Drum roll, please. So, I’m setting up…you, Marn.’
‘Whoop! I bet you’ll have a really nice ex for me. Now you, Ani.’
She