It was not like Jessica to criticize any alcohol, especially free alcohol, but it had been a long time. We winced our way through our glasses, picked at the various fruit platters, and picked up where we left off. Coloring in the last twelve years of one another’s personal development, like an entire series catch-up before the last ever episode of a television show. Jessica drained her glass and told me the whole story. She’d met Brendan when she was twenty-two, at some party in London. Love at first sight, which, as I recalled, was the only way Jessica knew how to fall in love. Then, within six months of dating, he’d been offered a transfer to America, thought “what an adventure,” got married in Gretna Green before they flew out to California, and along came Bridget a few years after.

“It’s weird, you don’t have an American accent at all.”

Jessica laughed, lubricated by the rancid wine. “It’s my proudest achievement—clinging onto my British accent. I swear it was the only reason I had any friends over there. The other US housewives didn’t particularly like me, but they did love having a British friend. Wait ’til you hear Bridget’s accent though. It’s disgusting. The shrillness,” she shuddered while I let out a snort, remembering how I’d missed her piss-taking sense of humor.

Gwen jogged in, turbocharged, muttering, “Stacy needs fruit,” hardly waving as she piled a plate with pineapple before running out again. Jessica’s eyes followed her as she left, then turned back to me, impressed. “I still can’t believe this is your life, Fern. Hobnobbing in the green room. I’ve not asked you one thing about you yet. Like, what the hell? This is so amazing!”

My cheeks got hot and I kept trying to iron out the bump in my clothes, before realizing it was my stomach. “It looks more impressive than it is.”

“Don’t put it down! You always used to do yourself down. I command you to grow out of it.”

I laughed with a sharp ha, and a warmth trickled into my stomach, lighting a long-dormant fire. The fire of how it felt to have Jessica there, believing in me, and urging me to believe in myself.

Be careful, I reminded myself. This is Jessica.

“Honestly, your blog post about suicide, it was amazing.”

“You read it?” I took another deep sip of wine. I wasn’t feeling generous enough to acknowledge her part in all of that. I wondered if she even remembered...

“Of course I read it. The whole world read it! It was going viral for days, with everyone adding in stuff. Actually,” Jessica put her glass down and glanced down at her winding hands, “I tried getting in touch when I saw it.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I sent you an email, saying how proud I was, telling you all my news, wanting to catch up.” She looked up again. “You never replied though.”

“I never got that email!”