redheads (my late twenties saw me going through my red phase), tall, short, large, small, from entirely different backgrounds, with entirely different accents, all of us knowing we would do anything for our group: We were each other’s family.
There have been a few changes. A couple defected over to the Daily Mail, a couple to the women’s glossy magazines, and we have seen the addition of Sam, who may not be a woman, and may not work on the features desk, but is an honorary member of our girl gang if ever there was one. Jackie, Poppy, Gina, and I have been together since the beginning, have watched each other’s lives change and grow over the years.
Although my life hasn’t actually changed that much. True, I did manage to move out of the terrifyingly carpeted flat a couple of years ago and buy my own garden flat just down the street on Shirland Road. And I have lost my puppy fat, finally, able to easily wear a size 12, and sometimes, depending on the designer, a size 10. And I no longer have red hair but my natural dark locks, with the streaks of gold helped a little by a very nice hairdresser in South Molton Street.
Poppy, my partner in crime in those early single days, both of us drinking and partying, making sure we had each other’s backs, then fell in love with Will Simons on the news desk. They got married five years ago in a picture-perfect stone church in the Cotswolds, with roses climbing over every available surface, and all of us her bridesmaids, whooping it up at what we all feared might be the final hurrah.
For a while Poppy dragged Will to all of our bashes, until they got busy having cosy couple dinner parties, Poppy immersing herself in Jamie Oliver recipes as they entertained. They got a cat, then another one, then, finally, a baby. Well, obviously, they didn’t “get” the baby, they “had” the baby. George. I am his godmother, and he is the most delicious little boy I have ever known. But even though I adore him, I have to force myself not to dwell on how much he has changed our friendship, on how different our lives are now.
I still consider Poppy my best friend, but we never go out partying anymore. She works from home on Fridays, and her desk sits empty beside me, which always feels unsettling. After work she’ll occasionally come for a drink, but it’s only one, and she won’t really be focused on what’s going on. Her body may be in the wine bar but her head is with the baby, and how quickly she can get back to him. Which she does. Usually after a few sips. I don’t blame her. I get it. I understand that her life is different now, that she’s living an incredibly happy, cozy, domesticated life, and that hanging out with a single girl who likes to drink and party doesn’t really fit in with that lifestyle.
She says she loves my stories, that they enable her to live vicariously through me, and I do believe a part of that’s true. But if I wished for anything at all, it would be to have what she has.
I am so good at pretending that I have the perfect life. The parties! The launches! The premieres! And for years, throughout my twenties, it was the perfect life.
But, really? At twenty-nine I’m still doing the same old shit? Could I not have found a man like Will? Should I not be living in a two-bedroomed garden flat in Notting Hill instead of my one-bedroomed, very small, and somewhat dark flat on the wrong side of Maida Vale?
Maybe that’s why I drink. To dull the pain. I used to think it was to dull the pain of not fitting in, but I fit now! My friends love me! I’m good at work! Maybe the alcohol helps me not to focus on how utterly wrong my life is.
Because everyone is settling down. It was like this huge biological clock struck for everyone on the women’s desk of the Daily Gazette at exactly the same time. The only one who’s still single is Jackie, but she’s fifty-four and lives in Sevenoaks. It isn’t exactly conducive to hanging out and having a good time.
Gina’s married to Alex, Sally’s living with Robert, Victoria’s married to Mark. The other three girls on the desk are full-time freelancers, and even though they’re