The Wild Girls. Phoebe Morgan

She remembered afterwards that Felicity always said they reminded her of funerals, but she’d only meant them as a nice gesture. Or an olive branch, perhaps, after that night. Felicity had never acknowledged receipt. She probably thought she didn’t owe her anything, after what Hannah had done. Or perhaps she’d sent them to the wrong address; Felicity didn’t give them many details about where she would be living, or who she’d be living with over there. Hannah wonders whether Nate went with her, or whether their love story burned out in the way Felicity’s often did. She has imagined Felicity’s life many times over the past two years; picturing a spacious, shiny flat on the Upper East Side, Felicity swinging her legs in and out of bright yellow taxis. She’s no idea what it’s really been like, because Felicity hasn’t been in contact.

      Felicity always used to be the one who kept them together – made the effort to see the three of them regularly, kept the invites flowing. She made it fun, too – constantly laughing, pouring more drinks, lightening them all as the weight of their lives grew heavier and heavier. It’s only looking back that Hannah can see a kind of desperation in Felicity’s neediness, a darkness shuttered up behind her eyes. When they were teenagers, it was Felicity’s house they gathered at, clustered together up in the attic, playing endless games of truth or dare whilst her father stalked around downstairs, the house empty after the death of her mother. Hannah used to wonder whether her own mother would have put a stop to the games they were playing; their dares growing bolder and bolder, pushing themselves to see how far they would go. They called themselves the wild girls, after Alice overheard Felicity’s father calling them ‘feral’, with more than a hint of despairing anger in his voice. Hannah closes her eyes, remembering the sensation of the attic – the candles flickering, the dust motes glowing in the air. An open window, a glimpse of the night sky. Felicity’s voice telling her to jump. Her arms, spreadeagled in the air as she fell, landing winded in the garden as the others peered down at her from above. Looking back, it was dangerous. She could’ve broken her neck. Felicity’s dad had helped her up, in the end, his hand too far down her back. Even now, she can remember the sensation of it – an uncomfortable churn that she tries not to think about. The bruises smattered her skin for days. She’d been lucky not to face serious injury.

      The games were always instigated by Felicity. She was the flame; the other three were the moths, grey and unpalatable in comparison. When she left so soon after that night two years ago, the group floundered, sputtered out. None of them knew how to be anymore. And so they stopped – their little friendship group abruptly cut off, after so many years together. Hannah began to lose herself in the fertility details, the painful ins and outs of them, all the while clinging to Chris like a life raft. The closeness they’d all had had come to an end. The wild girls were no more.

      Only now, it turns out that maybe it was all just on pause.

      Beside Hannah, Max stirs in his cot. He’ll want feeding soon, but if she is lucky and quick, she might be able to have a shower whilst he’s still sleeping. The idea of hot water pounding onto her shoulders, easing the ache in her muscles is seductive; a moment of peace, a chance to think, just for a few minutes. She’ll leave the door open, so that she can hear him if he cries.

      Before Hannah can think about it too much longer, she taps out a reply to Grace. Yes. The invite came this morning. I don’t know if I’ll go yet. A pause. She could leave it at that, turn her phone off and pretend nothing ever happened. Go back to her day, back to the endless routine of nappy-changing and breastfeeding, of trying to seem interesting to her husband as her breasts throb uncomfortably beneath her blouse and her son’s blue eyes watch her, following her around the room in case she does something wrong. But Hannah’s fingers carry on writing, as though she is not in control at all. Will you?

      Hannah hits send, and leaves the phone in Max’s room as she heads for the shower. She hears it beep instantly again, but this time she ignores it, continues stripping off her clothes, steps into the hot steam of the water and tilts her face upwards into the stream. Her body feels cumbersome, loaded with weight and with worry, and she runs her hands over her stretchmarks and her hips, squeezing the flesh a little bit too hard. Hannah forces her mind to go blank. She doesn’t want to know the answer to her question. Not yet.

       Alice

      They did a class project on Africa once, at school. The kids drew pictures of the animals – elephants, gazelle, leopards, strange four-legged creatures dotted around the pages of their workbooks, the sky above them a bright line of blue, simple and opaque. They wanted to paint their faces; Alice had said no and felt guilty for the rest of the week. Most of these children will never go to Botswana – most of them will probably never leave Hackney. Would it really have killed her to let them wear a bit of face paint? Tom would say she is too strict, that the way she always plays by the rules stifles the children’s creativity. What he really means is that it stifles him.

      On the way home from school, she pulls the invitation from her bag again. Red ink has furred onto the edge, a leaky biro to blame. As she walks, Alice re-reads it, properly this time. It’s only then that she notices the small print at the bottom, like a little afterthought: all expenses paid. She blinks, stops in the middle of the street. A group of teenagers pushes past her, hoods up, gum on their breath, and a woman with a raffia shopping bag tuts loudly, but Alice ignores them all. All expenses paid? God. Is Felicity really so rich that she can pay for her friends to come on holiday? Alice thinks of her own dwindling bank balance, and for a moment, the hot, blind panic that has threatened to overtake her recently rises up, climbing her throat and creating pins and needles in her hands. But while Alice exists on discounted sandwiches and tap water, thanks to the massive weight of their mortgage that hangs over her head like an axe, Felicity rents an apartment in New York yet can somehow afford to fly her friends out to Botswana to celebrate her birthday.

      In what world, Alice thinks to herself, is that fair?