One Thing Led to Another. Katy Regan

I should be putting the brakes on, or at least starting to look where I’m going.

      ‘Next question,’ says Gina, adjusting her bikini top. Her boobs jostle about in the water, like dumplings in a boiling pan. ‘Marcus?’

      Marcus licks the spliff he’s holding and sticks it down, then gestures to Gina for the lighter.

      ‘OK,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a good one. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever said in an interview?’

      Jasper cracks open a beer with a fizz.

      ‘I once asked an interviewer when the baby was due,’ he mumbles from beneath his trilby.

      ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask.

      ‘She wasn’t pregnant.’

      I almost wet myself laughing at this one. I don’t know why, it’s just the thought of Jasper attending an interview – like, ever – is suddenly hilarious. Jasper is an artist. He does ‘installations’. This is absolutely no disrespect to people who are actually artists, who do, actually do installations. But in Jasper’s case, it roughly translates as ‘on the dole’.

      Ooops, so much for the contemplative mood brought on by my life-affirming walk through Soho. It’s now two a.m. and I am in the Jacuzzi with Gina (now my flatmate) her current shag Jasper and a man I have never met before in my life. This is all too often the case these days; I don’t plan to have a large one, it just sort of happens. It’s one of the perils of having a Jacuzzi in the basement of your house.

      Gina and I didn’t plan to live together this long; that just ‘sort of happened’ too. In our second and third university years, all four of us shacked up in a house in Rusholme. Then when we graduated, we all moved down to London together. Jim did his PGCE and then because he was now officially one of London’s ‘key workers’, got a ‘part-ownership’ deal and put down a deposit on a flat with money he’d saved from his weekend job selling padded cards in boxes with messages like ‘To the One I Love’. Gina, Vicky and I moved into 21 Linton Street in upmarket Islington, and that was it.

      At that point I, having spent an awful lot of time watching tragic documentaries about people with ten-stone tumours, was doing a diploma in magazine journalism, with a view to interviewing people about stuff like that all the time. I thought I’d made it living in N1, a career in the media at my fingertips. Trouble was, with its crumbly black steps and security grating, our house looked like the Hammer House of Horrors on an otherwise elegant row of white Georgian townhouses. But we loved it. And we loved our landlady almost as much. Mrs Broke-Snell had her hair blow-dried every other day and only ever shopped in Harrods Food Hall. It’s a shame she didn’t pay as much attention to the upkeep of her properties as she did to herself but at least she had the genius idea (and a sufficient level of insanity) to install DA-DA-DAR!! THE JACUZZI.

      Doubtless the most ingenious popularity device ever known to man, the Jacuzzi comes complete with wooden surround, massage jets, and a film of mould growing around the outside. 21 Linton Street has always been THE back-to-mine post-party house, scores of people padding their soap-sudded feet from the hall to the basement and vice versa, to shrivel up in our Jacuzzi and have drunken conversations about where we’ll all be in five years time. The trouble is, those five years are up now. You’d think that the novelty of having deep and meaningfuls in our swimwear would have somewhat worn off but we’re still at it.

      Though Jim took my room when I went travelling in 2002 – he rented his flat out for some much needed cash – it was always very much a single girls’ pad. Then Vicky committed the ultimate crime (in Gina’s eyes anyway) which was to not only marry Richard, but have his babies. It was, of course, totally predictable but still, Gina and I didn’t expect to be here nearly a decade later. In fact Gina was so convinced that whatever bloke she was shagging at the time was about to ask her to move in with him, she didn’t buy a bed for two years.

      And I thought I’d be long gone by now, married, living in a garden flat, but we’re both still here, maxing up the rent so we don’t have to get in a third person. Gina continues to go out with tossers (the sort who talk about moving in together by week three, and who have dumped her by week five). And I just coast along quite happily, cheered by the odd shag with Jim, wondering how I wound up, twenty-eight and a half, living like an ageing student.

      When I eventually recover from my laughing fit I realize Gina’s glaring at me. Gina doesn’t like people laughing at her boyfriends, even when they offer up the jokes themselves.

      ‘Tess can do better than that, can’t you Tess?’ she says, playfully. ‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever said in an interview?’

      Here we go, Gina loves to wheel this one out at every social occasion. ‘Do I have to?’ I groan.

      ‘Yes, you have to. It’s genius. Go on.’

      ‘I once told the Head of a PR company that I was fluent in Italian,’ I sigh. ‘Which would have been fine, if I hadn’t failed GCSE.’ Everyone waits for the punch-line. ‘And she hadn’t been Italian.’

      Gina claps her hand with glee. ‘Love it! Cracks me up every time! I wouldn’t mind,’ she continues, hardly able to talk she’s laughing so much, ‘but her name was fucking Luisa Vincenzi!!’

      And I have to admit. It is quite funny.

      It is only when Marcus starts to get fresh, playing footsie in the water, I come to my senses, realize I am shrivelled like a prune, and am utterly and totally shit-faced. When I eventually make it to the sanctuary of my bedroom it’s gone three a.m. I climb into bed, sink back into the coolness of my pillow and exhale, slowly, deeply. Outside I can still hear cars whizzing past, the faint sound of engines revving, London still alive and throbbing. I don’t know how I’m going to get up tomorrow, or make it through the day on four hours’ sleep.

      The other thing I don’t know, is that somewhere deep inside of me, cells are multiplying, life is just beginning.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘Funnily enough, Chris was watching football when I came home. “Right,” I said, “do you want the good news or the bad?” “Good news,” he said. “I’m pregnant,” I said. “And the bad?” “It’s due in June.” I called him immediately after Grace was born, but he didn’t pick up. When I heard Pearce and Bates had both missed penalties, I punched the air. Needless to say, divorce proceedings were already underway.’

       Laura, 25, Leicester

      The next morning, I’m sitting on a stool drinking tea in the kitchen when Gina wanders in with Jasper, still complete with trilby.

      ‘God, rough as a bear’s arse,’ she yawns, reaching above my head to get mugs out of the cupboard so I have to duck, spilling tea all over my nightie.

      I wince slightly as the heat hits my skin. ‘Don’t feel too clever myself. How about you Jasper? You feeling rough? You’ve got the right idea with that hat, that’s for sure.’

      Gina raises an eyebrow, she knows I’m being sarcastic but he doesn’t hear me anyway. He’s got his hands down his pants and his head in last Saturday’s copy of the Guardian Weekend.

      Gina wanders over to the kettle, coughing, or rather hacking, and switches it on then pulls her curvaceous little frame up onto the worktop. There’s a flash of red knickers from underneath her dressing gown.

      ‘Jesus, I need to give up the fags,’ she says, when she’s eventually recovered from her coughing fit. She’s been saying that for ten years. I got her four sessions with a hypnotist once, in return for being in a health feature in Believe It! magazine. It did nothing to help her kick the habit, but she did gain a new one: the hypnotist. Blaise Tapp he was called, and that was his real name. She ended up shagging him for three months.

      ‘Tea