In Jessica’s French-manicured hand was a bottle, half-full of lurid orange liquid. Beneath her image sat the caption ANGELJUICE: the detox drink for heavenly bodies. For a moment Rachel wondered what she was more offended by: the mere sight of Jessica or the fact that she was shilling for a weight-loss company. She rapidly decided it was the latter.
Although standing exposed to the rain – now falling faster in fat, icy drops – Rachel was suddenly sweating. She loosened the scarf around her neck and undid the top button of her coat.
Seconds after she’d scrambled on, the bus pulled away from the stop. Rachel lurched towards a vacant seat and collapsed into it, then rummaged for her phone again. She opened WhatsApp and typed a message to Anna.
Rachel: Are you and Will still pretending to do Dry January? Because I have a powerful urge to buy wine.
Seconds later, a message came back:
Anna: Nah. We cracked last night and had a gin. He’s coming to ours for dinner btw and I told him to bring Tom too. I’ll get them to bring some booze since we’re feeding them … AGAIN.
Rachel smiled and shoved the phone back in her bag.
This, at least, was something to look forward to: an evening with three of her favourite people, featuring Anna’s excellent cooking.
Plus, if she was lucky, there’d be intelligent conversation during which she would not be required to talk dirty about vegetables – or think any further about Jessica and her awful ad campaign.
2
Rachel arrived back at the flat to find Anna in the kitchen making lentil bolognese. There was some sort of garlic flatbread on the worktop, glistening with olive oil and sprinkled with fresh flat-leaf parsley. As the rich aroma of comfort food filled her nostrils, Rachel wondered if she’d ever loved her best friend more than she did right now.
She dumped her handbag and laptop by the back door that led to their little garden, draped her damp coat over a nearby radiator and slumped into one of the four chairs that sat around the battered old dining table. Anna put down her wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her jeans.
‘You’ve seen them, then?’ she said.
Rachel groaned in immediate understanding.
So much for banishing all thoughts of the bus ads – but feigning ignorance was useless with Anna, who knew her better than anyone.
‘How did you know?’
‘Your message. And then something about the way you sat down. Maybe it was the half-angry, half-despondent sigh.’
‘I am not despondent!’ Rachel insisted. ‘Mortified on her behalf, more like. I mean, Angeljuice … A slimming drink for women who’ve been trained by society to hate themselves. It’s beyond cynical. It’s disgusting.’
‘Er – didn’t you try it a couple of years ago?’ Anna said, her eyebrows hovering near her platinum-blonde hairline.
‘Oh, fine, YES. For, like, two days or something. And that’s how I know it’s disgusting! Not to mention ineffective.’
Anna turned down the gas beneath the shallow, round Le Creuset pan in which she was simmering finely diced vegetables, healthy pulses and herbs. She put the large teal lid on it to keep the mixture warm, then flipped the switch on the kettle.
‘Putting aside your totally valid feminist stance … are you okay?’
Anna let the question sit for a few moments, making two massive mugs of PG Tips and loading biscuits onto a plate. In lieu of wine, and in light of their virtuous dinner, caffeine and sugar seemed appropriate. Silent, Rachel picked at the remnants of her fortnight-old gel manicure.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ she said finally, as Anna sat down opposite her. ‘Of course I am. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be. And tonight wasn’t my first time seeing the posters, anyway … That was a few days ago.’
‘What?! Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’
Rachel opened her mouth to attempt an explanation, but nothing came out.
‘Incidentally,’ Anna went on into the void, ‘not being able to find an excuse for feeling a bit shit doesn’t mean the feeling is invalid – or that it doesn’t exist. I haven’t forgotten this is the woman you used to call Boyfriend Stealer Barbie. You once said there was nobody in the world who made you feel so inadequate – not even your mother.’
Rachel blanched at this, then said, ‘Wow. That must have been before Mum perfected her “You won’t be fertile forever!” routine.’
Anna laughed, but pursued her point. ‘Honestly, I think I’d feel weird about it if I were you. What I don’t understand is how she’s suddenly started appearing in adverts. How is Jessica Williams a model? I thought she just sat around “influencing” all day, taking photos of her lunch, telling the world where she got her T-shirt from, filming herself applying lipstick … That sort of bobbins.’
Anna, who taught English at an 11–18 academy in Haringey, loathed social media in all its forms. She considered it a plague that was rotting the brains of the young, whereas Rachel – a casual user of the most popular platforms – had to stay abreast of digital trends for work.
‘Dear, naive Anna,’ Rachel replied, her mouth full of tea-soaked chocolate Hobnob. ‘Let me explain. Influencers – the big ones, anyway – use their online profiles to get to a place where they can have careers offline. They build themselves up via the internet, but they don’t want to be contained by it forever. This marketing campaign is part of a bid for real-world fame.’
Privately, and with the professional zone of her brain engaged, Rachel could see that Jessica was a good choice of ambassador for Angeljuice – a brand styling itself as concerned with ‘wellness’ but clearly more devoted to promoting the super-slim, sexy silhouette its products promised.
With almost a million YouTube subscribers and more than 750,000 Instagram followers, Jessica fit their bill perfectly: she was gorgeous, glossy and able to reach hundreds of thousands of women who wanted to look, dress and live like her.
In addition to the bus ads, Rachel knew Jessica’s image was also adorning Tube posters and advertorial magazine spreads – one of which she’d discovered while idly flicking through this week’s Grazia. She’d long known that Jessica had managed to make a career out of being beautiful, but until recently she’d managed to avoid her. Only in weak moments – occasionally, after one too many gin and tonics – had Rachel scrolled through Jessica’s latest posts and indulged herself in feeling chubby and unglamorous.
While Jessica was thin, smooth and apparently ageless, Rachel was unfashionably curvy – complete with cellulitey thighs, a burgeoning collection of fine lines and (depending on the time of the month) a dot-to-dot of spots along her jawline. She was fully aware that regular confrontations with Jessica might test her commitment to feeling fine about herself, but she had no intention of admitting this out loud.
‘So you think we’ll be seeing more of her, then?’ Anna asked. ‘More posters, more modelling?’
‘I expect so, unless this campaign bombs – which I’m sure it won’t.’
‘It’s so strange. I mean, I guess you thought you’d never see her again.’
‘I definitely hoped I wouldn’t. Actually, I promised myself that if I did I’d cause a massive scene. You know: throw a pint of bitter over her like the wronged woman in an episode of Coronation Street.’
‘Wow. That I would love to see,’ Anna laughed. ‘Bit pointless throwing a drink at a picture, though, isn’t it? And what about … him? Do you ever think about him?’
‘Never,’ Rachel said decisively enough to mask her relief that Anna hadn’t mentioned his name. ‘Not any more, and I don’t intend to start again now. It’s ancient history. I’m over it. And anyway, he was a shallow, heartless fuckwit.’
‘Would he get the Corrie treatment if you happened to bump into him?’ Anna asked, draining her mug of tea and getting up to stir the bolognese pan.
‘God, I don’t know,’ Rachel replied. ‘I hope I never find out.’
‘While we’re on the subject of ex-boyfriends,’ Anna said as Rachel began
loading the dishwasher with their tea things, ‘your mum phoned the landline earlier. Said she’s been trying to get hold of you with no joy. Also, she asked how you were getting on with Laurence.’
‘Oh, bollocks. Sorry. I’ve been meaning to talk to her.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Anna nodded. ‘I had to fudge it and say you two were fine, as far as I knew – but I hate lying, especially when I’ve not been warned I might have to. Why haven’t you told her you and Laurence have split up? It’s been, like, three weeks.’
‘Ugh, I don’t know,’ Rachel mumbled, aware that she sounded like a sulky teenager. ‘I just couldn’t face it somehow. She’s always so much happier when I have a boyfriend. She stops griping at me about the future and actually listens to what I say about life right now. Plus, whenever I break up with anyone she immediately assumes that I’ve either been dumped or made the wrong decision. The idea that I might choose to end a relationship in a calm and mature way because it genuinely isn’t working … Well, that’s completely beyond her. It’s infuriating.’
Anna patted Rachel’s shoulder as she collected four sets of cutlery from the drawer next to the oven, then began laying it out on the table.
‘You need to tell her, though. You know that, yes? Kicking the conversation down the road won’t make it any easier.’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ Rachel said. ‘I promise. Tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Right,’ Anna said, in a tone that strongly suggested a lecture was imminent.
Then, as if to offer Rachel a reprieve, the door buzzer sounded. She jumped and ran to answer it with uncharacteristic speed.
Will and Tom were clutching corner shop bags that clinked as they were carried through to the kitchen, then set down on the worktop.
‘Wine, as promised,’ Will said, swiping a cherry tomato from the salad bowl, then dropping a kiss on Anna’s lips.
‘Chianti, very nice,’ she said as she unpacked the bags. ‘Four bottles seems a bit much, though – it’s a school night.’
Will shrugged. ‘You implied there was a crisis.’
‘I did not,’ Anna hissed, scowling at him.
‘Oh, marvellous,’ Rachel moaned, throwing her hands up at Anna. ‘I take it you’ve made these two aware that my former romantic nemesis has begun appearing on the side of London buses?’
‘Sorry.’ Anna grimaced. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was trying to work out how widespread the ads were after I saw my first one last night. I asked Will if he’d spotted any, and then I sort of ended up explaining …’
‘They’re everywhere, aren’t they?’ Will said, awestruck. ‘All over the Tube as well, did you know?’
Anna fixed him with a glare that suggested she wished he’d turn to stone, then handed him the bottle opener.
‘You know where the glasses are.’
Anna and Will were thoroughly, solidly in love, and had been together for nearly four years. Rachel’s mum had taken to reminding her, pretty much every time they spoke, that this was a ‘significant length of time’. ‘It surely means they’ll want to live together soon,’ she would say. ‘And what will you do then?’
Rachel had discovered that ‘Find somewhere else to live’ was not the correct response to this question, though she was yet to establish precisely what other reaction her mother would deem acceptable.
Anna owned the flat – and its impressive collection of cast-iron cookware – thanks to an inheritance from her grandparents. Rachel was her lodger, so in the event that Anna decided to move Will in, it would be Rachel who’d have to go – though this wasn’t a possibility Rachel chose to dwell on.
They’d been close since their first week at university and after graduating had lived together in one rented dive after another until, eventually, Anna had bought their two-bedroomed apartment. It was the ground floor of an old Victorian terrace in Stroud Green.
Theirs was a neat, tidy, tastefully renovated home, and Rachel loved it – but, if she allowed herself to think about moving out, it wasn’t the thought of saying goodbye to the roll-top bath or stone kitchen countertops that bothered her. The idea of living alone, or with someone other than Anna, seemed strange and unnatural to Rachel after thirteen years spent beside her best friend. In fact, it was almost too outrageous a prospect to take seriously; like the plot of a bad-taste blockbuster movie, it surely couldn’t happen in real life.
For all her mother’s doom-laden warnings, Rachel adored Anna and Will as a couple. He was more than a foot taller than her, and yet they always looked to Rachel as if they’d been designed for one another. They fit together properly, in that Will was big and sturdy enough to handle Anna – pixie-like in appearance, but formidably clever and a powerhouse of personality.
To look at her, you’d never guess Anna could face down a classroom full of hormonal teenagers and convince them that poems actually mean things. Five foot nothing in bare feet, she wore her peroxide-pale hair in a 1960s-style crop. This framed a heart-shaped face with a pretty button nose, pink rosebud lips and bright-blue almond-shaped eyes.
Some bloke in a bar had called Anna ‘Tinkerbell’ once, and Rachel remembered she’d all but eviscerated him. Anna liked to think of herself as ‘not small, but concentrated’. Those who knew her well considered this an apt description.
Wordlessly, Tom handed Rachel a wine glass and poured a large measure into it. Rachel had always thought him very different to Will, who – despite his good nature – could generally be expected to put his foot in his mouth.
Nevertheless, they were as close as she and Anna, and also lived together. Will and Tom had known each other since school, and Rachel imagined that Tom – the former state primary kid who’d won an academic scholarship – had probably been a steadying influence on his friend during their teenage years.
Tom wasn’t unusually sedate or shy but he always seemed calm and composed in comparison with Will, whose gambolling cheerfulness – along with his broad body, thick beard and seemingly permanent smile – put Rachel in mind of a young, rugby-playing Father Christmas.
Like Will, Tom was tall, but he was leaner. With dirty-blonde hair and grey-blue eyes that were often obscured by Clark Kentish heavy-framed glasses, he looked intelligent and sort of artistic, though Rachel doubted this was deliberate.
She took a long drink, then sighed as the rich ruby liquid warmed her throat.
‘Caning it because of the ads, Rach?’ Will asked.
‘No, I couldn’t care less about the stupid ads,’ Rachel snorted. ‘They’re propaganda of the patriarchy. However, I do have a meeting scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow during which I’ll need to convince my colleague that we can’t make cauliflowers “sexy”.’
‘In addition to that,’ Anna said as she stirred the pan, ‘she’s scared to tell her mum she’s split up with Laurence.’
Rachel considered refuting this accusation, then decided not to bother. ‘Yes, that is also true,’ she sighed.
‘Surely your mum won’t mourn the loss of Loz too deeply?’ Tom asked, smiling mischievously at Rachel from his seat on the other side of the dining table.
‘Be nice,’ Rachel said, but grinned back in spite of herself. Will and Tom had frequently been unkind about Laurence behind his back, and Tom had taken pleasure in calling him Loz whenever they met – a nickname he utterly hated. Her friends were right, however: Laurence was terminally dull, and Rachel’s attempts to find him interesting and attractive had ended in abject failure.
‘Mum just takes it very personally whenever I break up with someone,’ she continued. ‘She seems to think that, while I remain alone and unmarried, my personal stock plummets with every year that goes by. So, as we begin another year with no big white dress or canapés in sight, I’m sure we can all agree this is quite a difficult time for her.’
Tom threw his head back, laughing from his belly. Rachel felt gratified, then guilty: her mum did find Christmas and its aftermath difficult, as she and her friends all knew – though not for the reasons she’d just outlin
ed.
‘Anyway,’ Rachel said, pushing the thought to one side, ‘Laurence wasn’t perfect but he’s nowhere near as awful as some of your ex-girlfriends.’
‘I resent that!’ Tom cried, fully aware that she was right.
‘Princess Penny,’ Will pretend-coughed, carrying two plates of steaming spaghetti and sauce over to the table. ‘Even I thought she was bougie.’
As the grandson of a knighted supermarket magnate, Will had grown up with the kind of wealth and privilege that Rachel struggled to comprehend – but he had the grace to acknowledge his good fortune, regularly sending himself up as a posh twat while trying very hard not to be one.
‘She bought him a subscription to Tatler, you know. Tatler! Two years on and it’s still being delivered to our flat every month.’
Rachel and Anna dissolved into hysterics at the thought of Tom, who’d spent his student days selling the Socialist Worker, reading glossy magazine features about lesser members of the royal family.
They only stopped giggling when the urge to eat became irresistible.
Later, Rachel and Tom washed up all the stuff that wouldn’t fit into the dishwasher while Will and Anna watched trash TV in the sitting room.
Rachel was sporting a pair of neon-pink rubber gloves, which Tom had wisely handed over without argument. She loathed drying up, and whenever they shared clean-up duty he accepted his fate was to wield a tea towel instead of the scouring sponge.
‘Tell me to shut up if you like,’ he said as she handed him a clean salad bowl to dry. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but … are you sure you’re okay?’
This was another difference between Tom and Will, Rachel thought. She considered them both close friends, but Tom was sensitive to other people’s feelings and reactions: subtle and perceptive in a way that Will was not.
As she scrubbed the last smears of tomato sauce from the bolognese pan, rinsed and then handed it to him, she decided to tell him the truth.
‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I mean, obviously I’m fed up of my mum going on at me about settling down with someone. But I should probably be nicer to her … I should at least answer my phone.’
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 2
