tell a bemused Dan, because he can see his words have had some effect, only he is not sure what it is. I smooth out my voice, careful of the tone, doing my best to keep the excitement contained. ‘And you? How do you know Portia?’
‘She bought my old flat,’ he laughs, entirely unaware of the silent reaction her name has caused.
‘Where?’ I ask, suddenly desperate to know what’s happened to her, if her life has fulfilled her expectations, if destiny has, as we all assumed, been kind to her.
‘Sutherland Avenue,’ says Dan. ‘Nice flat. I miss it. Wish I didn’t have to sell but there it is. Give up your job in the City for psychotherapy and bach pad goes with it, I’m afraid.’ He shrugs and smiles at Si and Lucy, who offer him sympathetic smiles in return.
‘She was always terribly beautiful at university,’ Si says dreamily. ‘One of those girls whose life was perfect. She had money, class, beauty, kindness. Born with a golden spoon in her mouth. We followed her career as a journalist for a while, but lost track. Do you know what she’s up to now?’
‘Sure,’ says Dan. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t know. Haven’t you seen that series on TV?’ He mentions the name of a series we all love. A weekly drama that follows the lives of a group of thirty-somethings, and before Dan says anything I suddenly realize that she is the writer. She could not be anything other than the writer because, and I know it is ridiculous that this should not have occurred to me before, because all of the characters are based on us.
I look at the others and see Josh’s mouth hanging open, Si’s eyes wide with shock, both having had the same realization.
‘Oh my God, she writes it!’ Si finally snorts, half in wonderment, half aghast.
‘She doesn’t just write it,’ Dan says. ‘She apparently came up with the concept, sold it to the network, does all the writing and storylining, and to top it all has sold it on to seventeen countries worldwide. She’s making a fortune.’
Si looks at Josh, his lower lip still somewhere near his knees, and coughs, attempting to regain some composure. ‘Excuse me, can you pass the salt please, Jacob .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Lucy, ‘they’re not u – ’ and she stops, because in the split second it took for her to verbalize that thought, she had another. A memory. She remembered the characters.
The central character in the series is Mercedes (good joke, I thought). Mercedes is the wealthy daughter of a millionaire who has spent her life struggling for independence. Mercedes looks like she ought to be a bitch. But of course she’s not. She’s adorable, although she can’t seem to find a man who looks beyond the physical, who is really interested in getting to know her.
There’s Jacob, world-weary, kind, but rather weak, who’s married to Lisa, an overbearing Sloane who’s too busy shopping and lunching to take much care of their toddler, Marty, who tends to turn up at Jacob’s office on a daily basis.
Steen is the perfect gay best friend, who keeps the laughs coming in with his curt one-liners.
And Mark. Gorgeous, sensitive Mark, who loves Mercedes unrequitedly, for he is far too nice for Mercedes to love in return, and he, of course, could only be Matt, Portia’s boyfriend from university.
And then, I realize with horror, there’s Katy. Katy, who is plain, dowdy, but completely self-obsessed. Katy who only wears black. Or occasionally sludge-green. Katy, whose hair looks like it could house a few hundred sparrows in it if they were really stuck for accommodation.
Lucy suddenly chokes, and we all look at one another in panic, terrified she’s choked with shock, but she has a sip of water and then starts laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
‘It’s hysterical,’ she says, as we slowly see the funny side. ‘You’re Katy!’ and she points at me and goes off into peals of laughter again, almost falling off her chair, arms weak with
‘She bought my old flat,’ he laughs, entirely unaware of the silent reaction her name has caused.
‘Where?’ I ask, suddenly desperate to know what’s happened to her, if her life has fulfilled her expectations, if destiny has, as we all assumed, been kind to her.
‘Sutherland Avenue,’ says Dan. ‘Nice flat. I miss it. Wish I didn’t have to sell but there it is. Give up your job in the City for psychotherapy and bach pad goes with it, I’m afraid.’ He shrugs and smiles at Si and Lucy, who offer him sympathetic smiles in return.
‘She was always terribly beautiful at university,’ Si says dreamily. ‘One of those girls whose life was perfect. She had money, class, beauty, kindness. Born with a golden spoon in her mouth. We followed her career as a journalist for a while, but lost track. Do you know what she’s up to now?’
‘Sure,’ says Dan. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t know. Haven’t you seen that series on TV?’ He mentions the name of a series we all love. A weekly drama that follows the lives of a group of thirty-somethings, and before Dan says anything I suddenly realize that she is the writer. She could not be anything other than the writer because, and I know it is ridiculous that this should not have occurred to me before, because all of the characters are based on us.
I look at the others and see Josh’s mouth hanging open, Si’s eyes wide with shock, both having had the same realization.
‘Oh my God, she writes it!’ Si finally snorts, half in wonderment, half aghast.
‘She doesn’t just write it,’ Dan says. ‘She apparently came up with the concept, sold it to the network, does all the writing and storylining, and to top it all has sold it on to seventeen countries worldwide. She’s making a fortune.’
Si looks at Josh, his lower lip still somewhere near his knees, and coughs, attempting to regain some composure. ‘Excuse me, can you pass the salt please, Jacob .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Lucy, ‘they’re not u – ’ and she stops, because in the split second it took for her to verbalize that thought, she had another. A memory. She remembered the characters.
The central character in the series is Mercedes (good joke, I thought). Mercedes is the wealthy daughter of a millionaire who has spent her life struggling for independence. Mercedes looks like she ought to be a bitch. But of course she’s not. She’s adorable, although she can’t seem to find a man who looks beyond the physical, who is really interested in getting to know her.
There’s Jacob, world-weary, kind, but rather weak, who’s married to Lisa, an overbearing Sloane who’s too busy shopping and lunching to take much care of their toddler, Marty, who tends to turn up at Jacob’s office on a daily basis.
Steen is the perfect gay best friend, who keeps the laughs coming in with his curt one-liners.
And Mark. Gorgeous, sensitive Mark, who loves Mercedes unrequitedly, for he is far too nice for Mercedes to love in return, and he, of course, could only be Matt, Portia’s boyfriend from university.
And then, I realize with horror, there’s Katy. Katy, who is plain, dowdy, but completely self-obsessed. Katy who only wears black. Or occasionally sludge-green. Katy, whose hair looks like it could house a few hundred sparrows in it if they were really stuck for accommodation.
Lucy suddenly chokes, and we all look at one another in panic, terrified she’s choked with shock, but she has a sip of water and then starts laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
‘It’s hysterical,’ she says, as we slowly see the funny side. ‘You’re Katy!’ and she points at me and goes off into peals of laughter again, almost falling off her chair, arms weak with
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