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away, sitting in the conservatory area, each lounging in a leather armchair, with one empty chair for me. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that nothing was allowed to spoil Jen’s birthday, and strode over.
    ‘ All right, the party can begin, Amber’s here,’ I said, wrenching a smile across my tight little face. My face seemed to have shrunk, having been rinsed so many times in guilt in the past few minutes. (Think of all the money people could save on face lifts – all they had to do was shag a tart and lie to their best mate about it.)
    I went to Jen, who was wearing a silky blue dress with a scoop neck that changed blues with the light (£8.99 from a shop near Leeds Market – we were the bargain hunt queens, Jen and I), her wavy blonde hair was piled up on top of her head, a few tendrils framing her face. I pressed a kiss onto Jen’s warm cheek, enveloped her in a bear hug. Her delicate flower scent cut through the cigarette smoke and filled my senses. Inside, I smiled because that scent was so unmistakeably Jen. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ I said, handing her the bag of pressies. I’d got her thirty little things – a lipstick, an eyeshadow, a mobile phone cover, a blue purse, etc. – one for every year she’d graced the earth. ‘Have you had a nice day?’
    My best friend was a primary school teacher and it was half-term, so she’d had the whole day off to enjoy becoming thirty. Jen glanced lovingly at Matt. ‘It’s been fantastic.’
    ‘Hope you’ve been treating my friend in the manner she rightly deserves,’ I said to Matt, who’d taken the day off to spend with her.
    ‘Naturally,’ he replied and reached for a smile. Reached for, but gave up when it only managed to pull at the corners of his mouth. When it came to me, smiling was rarely in Matt’s repertoire of expressions. The longer he knew me, the less he smiled at me because there was less he liked about me to smile at. This was obviously an ordeal for him considering we often saw each other two or three times a week. Had done since he and Jen had gotten together three years ago. We had old issues, Matt and I, so old it wasn’t necessary to ponder them now, not when I had far bigger things to worry about. Namely, the person sat to Matt’s left.
    My heart beating in triple time, my tongue cowering on the roof of my mouth, I turned in Greg’s direction.
    Our eyes collided, and a long look of thinly veiled terror passed between us. Speak , my brain commanded. Say hello .
    I opened my mouth and, ‘Awright, Gweggy boy, ’ow’s tricks?’ came out. Oh, sweet Lord, I’m being Cockney Gell .
    ‘Great,’ Greg said, stiffly. ‘How you doing?’
    ‘Awright,’ I said, unable to shake my Cockney accent. I was from South London, not East London, this accent had no business installing itself in my mouth.
    ‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied.
    Please could you try to act a bit more shifty? I thought at him. I think there’s one person in Leeds who hasn’t seen by your face that we had sex . . . Says the woman who’s being Cockney Gell .
    I slipped off my coat and . . . nothing. Not even a flicker of interest from anyone. So much for all those numbers on the till receipt. Stop it , I chastised myself. This is Jen’s birthday, her thunder, and you’re trying to misappropriate it . I slid shamefully into the chair opposite Greg while Matt and Jen went to the bar. First round of drinks was always on them in here, that was the tradition because that’s how they met. In this bar, at the bar.
    As soon as they were out of earshot Greg virtually flung himself across the wooden table. ‘You haven’t told Jen, then,’ he stated with some urgency.
    ‘Yes, Greg, it’s nice to see you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking, and my weekend was fantastic as well, thanks for asking,’ I replied. All right, so we’d . . . but did that give him any cause to be rude? To forget that we were, first and foremost, friends?
    ‘What?’ Greg