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Chapter Four: Imogen

Imogen fastened the buckles of her favourite, perilously high ankle boots and admired her legs in the mirror. She had dressed carefully for tonight. Okay, she was only having Frankie and Grace over for drinks and nibbles, but she liked to make an effort at all times. She liked skirt-ready legs, shiny hair and foxy make-up; it was just the way she’d always been. She smoothed down her black pencil skirt, flicked a silver cuff high up on her toned, bare arm and made her way downstairs.

She’d been looking forward to this night for days. Ever since the Dave Holgate incident. And especially now her friends were manless, too. She’d been really surprised, when she’d phoned up Frankie to tell her about Paris, with lots of exaggeration thrown in she knew would make her laugh, to learn that Frankie’s Rob had just moved out.

‘Really?’ Imogen had said. ‘I know he’s a lazy git, but I didn’t think you’d ever do anything about it.’

‘Yep,’ Frankie had replied. ‘He’s gone. I kicked him out on Tuesday night. And I feel amazing.’ Indeed, Imogen noted, there was a lightness to Frankie’s voice she had not heard for a long time.

Frankie was one of Imogen’s oldest friends. They’d grown up together just a few streets from where they both lived now, Chelmsford in Essex, a surprisingly pretty place to live and not too stereotypically Essex… People didn’t go round in orange tans and inflated lips shouting ‘ream!’ and ‘I ain’t done nuffin!’ at each other. They’d gone to the same town-centre primary school and remained friends despite going to different secondary schools – Frankie to a St Philomena’s, an all girls’ school that sounded like St Trinian’s and which she travelled to on a riotous bus, in a rolled-up skirt; Imogen to the dull and grey local comprehensive, which she walked to in sensible buckled shoes. Frankie had run amok and not got a lot done. Imogen had been a right little swot and excelled. But throughout it all, they remained thick as thieves.

They reminisced all the time about their teenage years. The things Frankie got up to at school. The way Imogen would refuse to open the door to her when she was revising. The summer nights they spent in a tent in Frankie’s garden, scoffing still-warm cakes dripping with melted butter icing that they’d baked super quietly at midnight.

After school Imogen had gone off to London to fly high in an exciting career and Frankie had packed away her hitched-up skirt to muddle along as a secretary at the local technical college, before marrying local guy Rob, who’d been in the sixth form at Imogen’s school.

Imogen had reluctantly moved back to Chelmsford two years ago, when her mum got ill. There was a new build for sale a few doors from Frankie’s 1930s semi and walking distance from her mum, who had never moved. Encouraged by Frankie, Imogen bought it. She was momentarily worried when she found out Frankie already had a really good friend in the street, Grace, who dared to be younger than them, but thankfully Grace turned out to be absolutely lovely and really great company.

They became the three of them, and they talked about everything. So when Frankie told Imogen on the phone that Grace was also now single, having kicked her husband out for being unfaithful, Imogen had called a summit meeting – in other words, a huge gossip, with loads of wine.

‘I’d love that,’ Grace had said, in a wobbly voice, when Imogen had knocked on her door before work one morning to invite her. ‘It’s ages since we’ve had a night together.’

‘Far too long,’ Imogen had replied. ‘Bring a bottle. I’m going to get loads of snacks in. Let’s see if we can’t cheer you up.’

Female company was all Imogen craved at the moment. She’d avoided men, as an entire species, since she’d dropped Dave off at the Gatwick Express and sent him on his way without so much as a peck on the cheek. She’d have booted him up the backside, if she could. What an absolute loser he was. She was literally glad to see the back of him, as he trundled his stupid suitcase up the pavement away from her to the taxi rank, in his stupid slightly too-short jeans and his stupid try-hard navy blazer, with his stupid thinning hair flapping in the breeze. He’d even been so thick-skinned as to say, ‘Call you later, babes,’ before he’d ambled off, despite her telling him it was over and she didn’t want to see him again. Honestly, some men were so thick!

Indeed, he’d called her, at work the next day, as though nothing had happened.

‘Oh, Dave,’ she’d said. ‘I’m going to have to be blunt. It was fun – well, some of it – but frankly, you’re a bit of a tosser. Don’t phone me again. Goodbye.’

And that was the last man she’d spoken to all week. She usually chatted to men at work – there weren’t many, admittedly; she was currently temping for a small TV production company and most of the people in the office in West London were women – but any she came into contact with, she now avoided. If someone approached her at the water dispenser, say, Tom the IT guy, or Robin, the new runner, she smiled politely and walked away. Did not engage in conversation. Did not compute. Her flirt button, usually highly active, was switched off. She stopped browsing LinkedIn for eligible bachelors who worked in the city. And she became aloof and full of disdain towards the builders on the street outside her office.

She usually loved the attention; she was forty, she lapped up wolf whistles where she could get them. Now she crossed the street and kept her head down. They could all sod off. She’d had enough of all of them. She was done with men; down with men, the works.

‘Heels?’ Frankie was at the door, looking bemused. She was wearing skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a longish floaty, cream top under her coat that Imogen recognised as All Saints. Frankie had had it for years, though it hadn’t had an outing for several. ‘We’re not going out anywhere, are we?’

‘Nope,’ said Imogen. ‘I just wanted to wear them. You know I get depressed if I’m not in heels.’

‘I know.’ Frankie smiled. ‘Well, can I come in? I’ve got the password.’ She held up a bottle of White Zinfandel.

They’d loved the Secret Seven as kids. They particularly loved the whole secret password thing. They’d always had them, especially for getting in the tent. Silly ones like ‘bottoms’ and ‘Andrew Grant’, an annoying boy at school, were hilariously employed as one of them ‘knocked’ and the other had control of the zip. Now, the passwords were in the form of wine or chocolate.

‘Of course! Seeing as it’s you. Come on, Grace!’ yelled Imogen, suddenly. Grace was coming out of the modern house opposite and walking down her drive. Imogen had seen her there earlier, saying goodbye to Daniel when James had come to collect him for the weekend. She had looked inconsolable.

‘I’ve got gin,’ said Grace, brandishing a bottle as she approached. Imogen knew she was trying her best to sound cheery.

‘Good girl!’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve got the ice and a slice.’

Grace joined Frankie on the doorstep. Style-wise, she looked great. Perfect. Pretty. White skinny jeans, a fluffy, faux-fur jacket, and jewelled ballet flats. Her face told a different story. Her eyes were dull and hollow-looking and her expression was haunted.

In contrast, Frankie’s face looked open; her eyes bright, her complexion clear. Rob had all four children tonight and for the first time ever he had them for the whole weekend, Frankie had told Imogen with excited delight, when she’d invited her over. She had laughed merrily and trilled, ‘I’m free! Free as a bloody bird!’

Imogen was glad. Frankie had been so damn angry recently, but now the frown line ‘11’ at the top of her nose had gone. Imogen hugged both her friends fiercely.

‘Okay, my love?’ she said to Frankie, after releasing herself from Frankie’s enthusiastic embrace. ‘Missing the children?’

‘Not yet!’ Frankie replied, breezily. ‘Let’s get this party started!’ she sang, in an American accent, and she headed into Imogen’s hall, holding the wine aloft like a bayonet.

‘And are you okay?’ Imogen asked Grace, who was still hovering uncertainly on the doorstep.

‘I’m getting there, sweetie,’ said Grace, with a brave smile. Imogen linked her arm through hers.

‘Nothing a shedload of booze and a stack of snacks won’t cure,’ she said, and she led her friend inside and closed the door, before sighing with contentment. The gang was all here. A man-free girl zone. Alcohol. Crisps and nuts. Mini poppadums and dips. Chocolate eclairs. Posh chocolate chip cookies. Heaven.

‘New sofas?’ said Frankie, disappearing into the living room. ‘Very trendy.’

Imogen’s house was a three-bedroom brand new house with a drive and a small square of garden at the front, a bigger square garden at the back and a brown fence separating her from next door. Exactly the same as Grace’s. The inside, she’d tried to jazz up a bit. She missed her trendy London flat in Putney, where she used to live, and if she couldn’t replace its character she could at least try to give her new house some of its style. She’d put up huge black and white canvases and framed cinema posters everywhere. She’d had real solid oak floors installed and the walls painted white throughout. On a good day, it looked like a hip art gallery.

‘Yeah,’ Imogen replied. ‘I got them from the King’s Road. Cool, aren’t they?’

Once they were all settled on the two new white leather sofas flanking Imogen’s designer glass coffee table – laden with everything they needed and plenty they didn’t, but would scoff anyway – Imogen raised her glass of rosé.

‘To us! Oh, Grace, honey, don’t cry.’

‘I’m not going to cry!’ protested Grace, but her bottom lip was wobbling, her eyes were filling and her voice had gone all weird. ‘I will not cry over that man!’

Frankie reached across the table and squeezed Grace’s hand; Imogen put down her glass and grabbed the other one; and Grace clung on to both hands and managed a weak smile.

‘It looks like we’re doing a bloody séance,’ observed Frankie. ‘With crisps.’ Grace’s face broke into a grin.

‘That’s more like it!’ said Imogen, as they let their entwined hands drop. ‘Princess Gracie, we’ll get you through this. You’re so much better off without that bastard. We all are. Chin up and bottoms up! Let’s have a big old drink and put the world to rights.’

Two hours later they were all very, very drunk. Imogen’s boots were off and under the coffee table. She lounged on the cream rug with her head propped up on one hand and the other lovingly stroking the soft pile. She adored her gorgeous, very expensive, Pure New Wool rug; it was the first thing she’d bought when she’d moved into this house, and it was perfect.

Frankie was slumped – but still managing to hold her glass upright – over the end of one white sofa, her head wedged on one arm and her legs curled up under her. Her boots were off too, as well as her socks, and her toenails were painted a very surprising and dazzling bright red.

Petite Grace was sitting crossed-legged on the floor, her customary shell-pink toes grazing the rug. The nibbles had all but gone, the rosé bottle was empty and they’d moved onto Grace’s gin, which was disappearing at an alarming rate.

For the past half an hour, Grace had been telling them about her awful discovery of James’s terrible affair and Frankie and Imogen had been shaking their heads and providing the verbal equivalent to soothing foot rubs. They had exclaimed and consoled and agreed and reassured and gasped in all the right places. She’d just come to the end of the story – she had kicked James out; she was a single mother.

Grace unfurled her legs and turned to Frankie.

‘Do you think you’re being a bit harsh, Franks?’ she said. ‘With Rob, I mean. He didn’t cheat or anything, did he? Yet you’ve chucked him out.’ Grace’s wide blue eyes had gone bloodshot. Her pretty doll mouth looked a bit dry. She grabbed her ever-present tin of vanilla lip balm from her pretty embroidered bag and quickly applied some to her lips.

‘No, he didn’t,’ slurred Frankie. ‘And yes, I am. Probably. But I need to be harsh for my own bloody sanity.’

Imogen could sort of see where Grace was coming from, asking that. Grace had kicked James out for being an utter cheating bastard. Rob had just been Rob. His intrinsic Robness was his only crime. But, the man was a lazy, inconsiderate slob and Frankie’s situation was nightmarishly chaotic – all those kids, all that mess. Something had to give, and she could hardly kick one of the kids out, could she? Not yet, anyway. Didn’t they have to be at least sixteen?

‘He’s not a bastard, though, is he?’ continued Grace. Her head was beginning to loll. ‘Not like James. I’m glad we’re all in the same boat now – without men. But I feel a bit sorry for him.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Imogen, raising her head. ‘He’s a nice guy, is Rob – he used to run the tuck shop at school, for God’s sake, and sometimes sneak me a free packet of Opal Fruits – but he is a right selfish sod.’

‘Thank you, Imogen!’ said Frankie with all the impassioned enthusiasm of a drunk. ‘Thank you! Exactly. And when you have four kids the last thing you want is a selfish slob of a husband, hindering not helping. I need a break! I just need a break. A protracted one. Possibly permanent.’

‘Do you miss him?’ asked Grace.

Christ, Grace was pretty, thought Imogen. Just such a pretty girl. Still young, too. Thirty-four! That was nothing. Grace could get anyone. She really shouldn’t be wasting another second on that horrible husband of hers. She was so proud of her friend for kicking him out.

‘God, no!’ said Frankie, sitting up and rummaging in an empty packet of nuts. She unearthed one, right in one corner, and triumphantly popped it in her mouth. ‘The house is tidier, it smells nicer, no one is going on at me. And I only have to cook one dinner. It’s heaven! Think of all the great things about not having a man in the house. There’s loads of them! Actually, I’ve got a question,’ she said, coming to a perch at the edge of the sofa.

‘Go for it!’ mumbled Imogen, chomping on a mini poppadum.

‘Okay,’ said Frankie. ‘If your other half is the sole breadwinner and goes out to work and your role is stay-at-home mum, does that mean the partner is required to do absolutely nothing at home?’

‘Give me an example.’ Imogen was examining her nails.

Frankie sighed. ‘You’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about all this!’

‘Too right, and now I’m taking myself out of the game I’ll never have to.’

Frankie stuck her tongue out at her. ‘Right okay then. Example. When he makes himself a snack, is it perfectly acceptable to leave all his crockery and stuff on the counter above the dishwasher and not actually in the dishwasher?’

‘God, no!’ said Grace.

‘Hell, no!’ shouted Imogen.

Frankie was warming to her theme. She rose further from the sofa. ‘When he gets home from work, is it acceptable to take off his shirt and underwear and suit and dump them all on the floor in the corner of the bedroom even though the laundry basket is just there, a foot away?’

‘No!’ Imogen and Grace yelled.

Frankie was standing up now. ‘When the he gets back from an IT conference in bloody Milton Keynes, is it okay for him not to unpack his own case, because he believes I’m going to do it, and when I don’t do it, out of protest, is it okay to leave the thing there unpacked for three whole weeks?’

‘You do realise you’re shouting, love?’ said Imogen, ignoring the fact they’d all been yelling their heads off.

‘Of course I’m shouting! I’m furious! So, is it acceptable?’

‘Of course it’s not!’ Grace had been shouting and laughing along, although they all knew she’d done everything at home and wouldn’t let James help even if he’d tried to.

‘But you’re free of him now, honey,’ said Imogen. ‘All that nonsense is gone.’

‘Free, free, free,’ Frankie sung, in the manner of the Nelson Mandela song, then slumped back down on the sofa.

‘Are you missing it?’ said Grace in a quieter voice.

‘It? What?’

‘Sex.’

‘God, no!’ exclaimed Frankie. ‘I’m well over all that! It just takes so bloody loooong. I can now get some sleep.’ She stretched her bare feet out luxuriously in front of her and sighed contentedly as she admired her nails. ‘You, Grace?

‘Sometimes. I suppose he hasn’t been gone long, anyway. But it’s fine, I can manage without it.’

‘I’ve got a banana,’ offered Imogen, sitting up and pointing one out. She’d left her pale blue fruit bowl on the table in the pretence any of them would be remotely healthy tonight. The banana was nestled between a couple of apples and the whole ensemble looked like a fruity part of the male anatomy. They all giggled. Frankie did a guffaw and a snort and nearly fell off the sofa.

Grace grinned. ‘Ha, no I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. Then her face dropped. ‘I hate him,’ she said, sadly. ‘I miss him. But he’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve me. I won’t have him in my life any more. I’m never letting him come back.’

‘Good!’ shouted Imogen. ‘Good! We don’t need them! If I never see a pair of men’s underpants again it’ll be too soon. I don’t care even if they’re David Bloody Beckham’s! Good riddance to the lot of them!’ She grabbed the banana from the bowl and attempted to use it as a gavel, on the table. The end broke. Frankie snorted again.

Grace picked up the abused banana and took it to the kitchen. She’d been tidying up all evening; whenever they’d finished a wrapper of something, she’d get up and take it to the bin.

‘For God’s sake, leave it!’ Imogen had shouted good-naturedly, at one point. ‘The world’s not going to blow up if you leave an empty packet of Minstrels on the table! Sit down!’ Grace had laughed and taken it well. She’d sat back down and smoothed out the empty packet in the middle of the table, as though it was a centrepiece at a wedding.

Grace would be okay, thought Imogen. She was a good girl. A bit too tidy and sensible, but highly fabulous. She reckoned she’d flourish without a man. Come into her own. They all would. They’d all be absolutely brilliant without men. It was almost a revelation. Why had it taken them all so long?

‘We should have a charter!’ she screeched, suddenly. She lurched up off the floor and started jumping up and down in front of her white marble fireplace.

‘A charter?’ said Grace and Frankie, in unison.

‘A charter! You know, a mission statement. What we believe in.’ She tapped out points with her finger on the palm of her hand. ‘No men, at all. No dating, no husbands, no nothing. We’re independent. We’re self-sufficient. We help each other. We look after each other. We fix our own stuff.’ Her voice rose to a near shout, a clarion call. ‘We don’t need ’em, we don’t want ’em!’ She felt impassioned, fired up, drunk. ‘We have sworn off men. We should form a club!’

‘Not the Secret Seven, again?’ groaned Frankie. ‘I don’t want to drink ginger beer and go snooping round the neighbourhood in my pyjamas!’

‘No,’ said Imogen. ‘Not a club, then. But we should make a declaration. That we’re going to be single. Let’s see if we can do it!’

‘For ever?’ asked Grace.

‘Maybe not for ever…but let’s see if we can do it for a year!’ enthused Imogen. ‘Yes! A year of being single. The three of us. A strong, powerful, kiss-ass trio. We’ll be like Charlie’s Angels but without the Charlie.’

‘Or the Bosley,’ added Frankie, helpfully.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Grace, doubtfully. ‘It all sounds very Sisters are Doing it for Themselves. Very Germaine Greer. Do we have to wear hemp sandals and not shave our legs?’ She picked up a couple of crumbs off the carpet with her fingernail and deposited them on a plate. ‘And I’m not sure I have sworn off men,’ she pouted. ‘Just James, and anyone else who wants to hurt me.’

‘That’s all of them, then!’ exclaimed Imogen. ‘We’re not going to put up with them any more! We’re going to have a year of being single. Are you in?’

‘I’m in!’ whooped Frankie.

‘Grace?’

‘Okay,’ said Grace reluctantly. ‘I guess so.’

‘And no,’ declared Imogen. ‘We don’t have to wear hemp sandals. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.’

For the next three hours, the three of them laughed, chatted, sang along to an old Whitney Houston album, managed to fend off Frankie who wanted them to all stand up and sing ‘I Will Survive’ into remote controls, demolished a whole loaf of toast and Marmite and finished off four bottles of cheap bubbly they ordered from their local Indian takeaway. They were slightly disgruntled they were charged £2.99 each for them, when they usually came free with a curry.

At 2a.m. Imogen awoke to find herself sprawled face down on the carpet. Grace was next to her, curled in the foetal position. Some of her blonde curly hair was trailing onto Imogen’s left arm. And Frankie hadn’t moved from the sofa; she was now flat on her back with one leg dangling down to the floor and her mouth wide open. Imogen raised herself up, slowly; her head hurt.

‘Hey, sleepy heads! Drunkards!’ Frankie opened one eye. Grace opened both, with a start. ‘Do you want to stay over? I can just throw a couple of blankets over everyone.’

Grace rose. Her Kim Basinger in 9 and a Half Weeks hair was sticking up everywhere and a stray piece of toast dangled from one frizzy ringlet. She had a smear of Marmite at the corner of her mouth.

‘No, thank you,’ she slurred, ‘I should get home. Daniel’s got football in the morning.’

‘Daniel’s with James, honey. Remember?’

‘Oh, yeah. I forgot.’ She looked devastated. ‘I want to go home, though,’ she said, like a small child.

Frankie reared up like a lovelier Frankenstein’s monster. ‘Me, too. I’m going home to my lovely empty bed. Thank you, though, darling.’

They hauled themselves up, with Imogen’s help and some exaggerated heaving, and staggered out the front door. Frankie had forgotten so much stuff – phone, shoes, cardi, all littered around the living room – and Grace scooted round and picked it all up for her, before shoving it in the carrier bag the bubbly had come in. Frankie could barely hold on to it.

‘I’m not kissing either of you,’ said Imogen, on the doorstep. ‘We all stink of booze and Marmite.’

‘I love you,’ slurred Frankie, going in for a hug anyway.

‘Love you too,’ said Imogen, turning Frankie like a spindle and pushing her up the drive.

‘Love you both,’ said Grace. She was veering on tiptoes up the drive. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Ditto,’ said Imogen, ‘you drunken idiot. Now get to bed, the pair of you. Text me in the morning.’

She watched them weave up the drive. God, they’d all feel terrible tomorrow. But they’d feel better, too. As she closed the door on her two best friends, Imogen smiled to herself. She loved those girls. They were the best.

They may not have men now, but they had each other and that was a lot.