The Singalong Society for Singletons. Katey Lovell

bit less fatty, I mean. They don’t taste the same as normal crisps, but they’re much better for you. Feel free to help yourself.’

      She tries to hide it, but I spy Issy’s eye roll. She’s not the type to buy into these faddish foodie fashions. If she wants crisps, she wants actual crisps, made from glorious carbohydrate-riddled potatoes and full of saturated fat that’ll fuzz up her arteries. Like me, Issy believes junk food is one of life’s guilty pleasures. And Friday nights definitely call for junk food, no two ways about it. ‘We could always get take-away?’ she suggests hopefully. ‘I’m sure the Indian down the road put a flyer through the door just last week…’

      I gawp in her general direction. Even I’m stuffed, and that’s saying something because I’ve got a massive appetite, but the waistband of my jeans is digging into my bloated stomach and it’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m tempted to undo the button, that’s how uncomfortable it is. ‘We’ve just had pizza!’ I exclaim.

      ‘And your point is?’ laughs Issy. ‘I could eat a horse right now. And I’m sorry, Connie, but your kale crisps aren’t going to cut it, I’m afraid.’

      ‘I don’t fancy those either,’ I confide in a conspiratorial whisper, scrunching my face up in distaste. ‘I don’t know how anyone can eat them. They look like crispy bogies.’

      ‘We don’t need a take-away,’ Connie says resolutely. ‘Let’s eat what’s already out.’ She gingerly reaches for a Wotsit, the gaudy powdery orange flavouring smearing over her fingertips. She pulls a face as she nibbles it, as though it might bite her back. The cheesy puffs are a far cry from the kale crisps, that’s for sure. ‘If no one else is eating my crisps, then I will.’

      ‘You’re welcome to them,’ Issy mutters, resigning herself to the fact she’s been outvoted on the take-away. ‘But hang on a minute. I’m going to get my dressing gown, it’s bloody freezing in here tonight.’

      A young Simba is frozen on the TV screen, surveying the vast pridelands with his father. He looks so small and insignificant against the sprawling savannah.

      ‘This film always did make me sad,’ Connie starts, nodding towards the screen. ‘But I’ve got such an empty feeling in my stomach right now. Not hunger,’ she adds quickly. ‘I always felt a bit like Simba. My family fell apart when Mum died. She’d been the lynchpin holding us together and once she was gone, it felt like there wasn’t any point any more. Dad tried his best, bless him, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with a pre-pubescent teenager. It was like he was waiting in fear for the moment he’d have to go to the chemist and buy me sanitary towels. And the rest of the family, my aunts and uncles, they were there at first, bringing lasagnes round for us to keep in the freezer and phoning on Sunday mornings to see if we wanted to join them for a pub lunch in the Peak District. But really, we were alone. Mum arranged all the family parties, the barbecues, the day trips to the seaside where we’d pile in the car with a cricket set and a cool box… Once she was gone, it all stopped.’

      Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks with the slightest of blinks and I instinctively reach out to hug my friend. As I pull her in close her heartfelt sobs reverberate through the both of us.

      ‘I know it’s stupid to cry over a film, but it touched a nerve, you know? Simba’s so brave, setting out to face the world alone. Look at me! I can’t bring myself to leave Sheffield. I even stayed here for university when everyone else buggered off to Leeds and Manchester.’

      ‘Simba was running away,’ I correct, brushing a tear from Connie’s cheek with the pad of my thumb. ‘And so was everyone going to university too, really. It’s not the same thing.’

      I think back to my own three years at university. I’d not wanted to go in the first place and I could have got a job in a school without the degree and the student loan that came with it. But I’d blindly applied to the same cities as Justin because I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being away from him. Which would be laughable, considering our current situation, if it wasn’t so downright sad. As it happened we’d ended up staying in Sheffield too, so Connie certainly hadn’t been alone.

      Connie wipes the end of her nose against the cuff of her chunky-knit lilac cardigan, and takes a deep breath as through preparing to swim underwater. ‘I needed to stay here for Dad, you know? He’s not good at looking after himself. I dread to think of him trying to keep on top of the washing pile, and I don’t think he knows how to turn on the hoover. He probably doesn’t even know where the hoover is!’

      She laughs, and even though her cheeks are now covered in a blotchy red blemish and her pure black mascara has smudged, leaving her with panda eyes, she still looks so incredibly beautiful. There’s a serenity about Connie, even in the rare moments like this when she’s unravelling.

      ‘Sometimes I dream of running away,’ she admits. ‘Breaking free. Going to Africa and building a school with a community. Pipedreams, I know, but what’s the point of being alive if you’re barely living?’

      I place my hands on my oldest friend’s shoulders and look her in the eye, hoping I can convey how wonderful she is. ‘You’re doing plenty of living. You dance. You’re passionate about food, even though none of us like those vegetable crisps you keep trying to foist on us. And you’re a wonderful daughter; staying in Sheffield because of your dad proves that. But you know, if you’ve got a dream, you should go for it. You’re young! You’re single! You’re free! Make the most of it. Go to Africa and build that school, if that’s what you want.’

      ‘But what about Dad? He’d end up living on mouldy toast and wearing dirty clothes. He’s never had to survive on his own. He lived with his parents until he married my mum, and then there’s been the two of us for the last fifteen years.’

      ‘There are cleaners and there’s internet shopping and all sorts of other services that make life easier. You can pay people to do pretty much anything these days.’

      Connie looks wary. ‘I’m not sure he’d like having people coming into the house.’

      ‘What’d happen if you met someone? Or if you got a flat in town, a bachelorette pad? He’d have to manage then, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s not expecting you to stay at home forever.’

      ‘He’d have to find a way, I suppose.’

      Although the words themselves border on positive there’s a dejected air to Connie’s tone that leaves me with a sneaky suspicion she’ll harbour her dream but do nothing about it. I hope she’ll surprise me by being proactive. Sometimes there’s justification for being a little bit selfish.

      ‘Just think about it, yeah? Don’t give up on your dream too easily. Neither your mum or your dad would want that. Nor me.’

      Connie pulls at the soggy sleeve of her cardigan. It had swamped her frame to start with and now they’re damp, the cuffs hang down way past her knuckles. ‘I’ll think about it.’

      I squeeze Connie’s hand, soft as playdough from the expensive hand creams she’s devoted to. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

      Hope and Issy bundle back into the room, their booming voices breaking the serenity. I can’t help thinking that maybe it’s time we all took some chances. What’s that saying, ‘a life without risks is a life half lived’?

      ‘Hakuna Matata’ begins to play, the jaunty tune sweeping us along until all four of us are singing along at the tops of our voices.

      ‘Isn’t it amazing how a song about farts can be so singable?’ I giggle. ‘I always thought it was hilarious how they got away with it.’

      ‘That’s what makes it so funny, it feels naughty.’

      ‘You know you can’t sing for toffee, right?’ Hope says bluntly.

      ‘Hakuna Matata!’ Issy quips back good-naturedly, continuing to sing about Simba and the gangs’ problem-free philosophy as he grows before our eyes.

      Connie