I Heart Hawaii. Lindsey Kelk

been so lovely but—’

      Before I could stop her, Avery, a delicate redhead with reflexes like a cat, had snatched my handbag from the floor and upended it on the coffee table. My phone clattered onto the marble tabletop first before it was buried in piles of my secret shame. A bag of M&Ms, three tampons, one out of its wrapper, a dried-up pen with a missing cap, lip balm, lip gloss, eyeliner, a manky old mascara, two more lip balms, my MetroCard and, even though this wasn’t my baby bag, two open packs of baby wipes.

      I opened my mouth to protest as the women began pawing through my belongings but nothing came out. It was worse than the time Karen Woods nicked my diary in Year Nine and read it out loud in registration so the entire year group heard how I was worried about my left boob coming in bigger than my right one. Nia screwed up her delicate face as she held a loose Percy Pig up for inspection.

      ‘I wasn’t going to eat that,’ I said quickly.

      I was absolutely going to eat it.

      ‘What we carry with us is who we are,’ Perry said sadly as she inspected a half-eaten Special K bar. ‘What do you think the content of your purse says about you, Angela?’

      ‘I think it says I have a baby and a full-time job and no time to sit cleaning out my handbag,’ I replied. My cheeks burned as the five women picked over my belongings, tutting and sighing and occasionally throwing in an ‘Ew’ for good measure.

      ‘How cute!’ Avery held up a key ring in the shape of the Empire State Building. ‘You know, I’ve never actually been.’

      ‘My husband took me when we first started dating,’ I said, compelled to explain in spite of myself. ‘He gave me that before he went away on tour a few years ago.’

      ‘Tour?’ There was a very definite sneer on Avery’s face as she raked through my makeup, tossing eyeliners and lipsticks all over the coffee table. ‘What is it that your husband does?’

      ‘He’s in a band,’ I told her, grabbing a precious packet of Sour Patch Kids out of Avery’s hands. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re called Stills.’

      All five women froze.

      ‘Stills?’ Perry repeated, her grey eyes suddenly open wide. ‘Your husband is in Stills?’

      I puffed out my cheeks and nodded slowly.

      ‘Is it Alex or Craig?’ she demanded before looking at the other women to explain. ‘Graham the bassist is gay.’

      Oh god, I thought as the colour drained from my face. She’d shagged one of them, hadn’t she?

      ‘Alex,’ I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

      As my voice grew quieter, Perry’s elevated to an all-out screech.

      ‘You’re married to Alex Reid?’ she squealed.

      ‘Yes?’ I replied.

      Perry turned on Nia with savage stare.

      ‘Why was this not in her background check?’ she hissed. ‘Unacceptable.’

      Nia shrank back, visibly quaking in her overpriced boots, and I wondered how many lashes she’d be getting after I left.

      ‘Do you know Alex?’ I asked, afraid to hear the answer to my question.

      ‘I don’t know him, know him, but I love him,’ she said so quickly I could barely understand her. ‘That is, I love Stills. They’re my favourite band. I’ve seen them at least ten times. I’ve been to every tour they’ve ever played. I once went to Texas to see them play at South by Southwest. Imagine, me in Texas.’

      A quick look around the room confirmed that neither Nia, Danielle, Avery or Joan could even conceive of such a thing.

      ‘Angela,’ Perry said. ‘I have to meet him.’

      And just like that, Perry the investment banker and grown-up Mean Girl turned into a squealing teenybopper who had a crush on my husband. But on the upside, at least she hadn’t shagged him.

      ‘They’re playing here in a couple of weeks,’ I said as casually as I could manage. ‘Trying out some new material.’

      Perry gave a sharp nod and Danielle, Avery and Nia began shovelling my belongings back in my handbag while Joan pulled out a Google Pixel phone and began tapping away at the screen.

      ‘If you’re looking for tickets, the show sold out as soon as they announced it,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Angela,’ Perry leaned forward and gripped my knee so tightly my foot sprang out and kicked Avery square in the shin. ‘Can you get us tickets?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I gasped, wincing as I pried her fingers off me. ‘I can ask.’

      ‘I would do anything to go to that show,’ she said, opening her eyes so wide I could see white all the way around her pale grey irises

      ‘Anything?’ I replied, more frightened than interested.

      ‘Anything,’ she confirmed. ‘Forget the membership process, you’re officially in The Mothers of Brooklyn.’

      ‘Which is very nice of you,’ I said as I grabbed my bag back from Nia, immediately reaching in to find my phone, my thumb hovering over the emergency call button. ‘But really not necessary. I really do have to go, as lovely as this has been.’

      It hadn’t been lovely, it had been intimidating, humiliating and ultimately terrifying, and for the first time since I’d met Cici Spencer, I couldn’t wait to get to work.

      ‘We’ll work it out,’ Perry said, following as I stood up out of my seat. ‘There has to be something.’

      ‘I will ask,’ I promised, not even sure if I meant it. ‘Nice to meet you all.’

      The M.O.B. stared after me as I dashed out the room, walking quickly through the big white room and breaking into a run as I hit the steps to the street.

      ‘You need to socialize with other mothers more, they said,’ I muttered as I turned onto 8th Avenue and flagged down a passing yellow cab. I couldn’t get far enough fast enough on foot. ‘You need more mommy friends, they said.’

      Hurling myself into the back seat, I rummaged through my bag to make sure everything was there before tearing into the packet of M&Ms, inhaling them by the wild-eyed handful. There wasn’t a single thing anyone could offer that would make me go through that again. They could send all four of the Chrises to my house, oiled up and shirtless, each bearing a different Chanel handbag, and I still wouldn’t be swayed.

      I never wanted to see Perry Dickson again as long as I lived.