She put her feet up onto the side table, moving a book about Annie Leibovitz. She was in her element, off on a rant like this. “In my opinion, any man who has fucked a very drunk woman, who he hardly knows, in a borderline violent way, and thinks that’s not slightly problematic, needs to check himself. Yeah, she’s consenting. Well done, here are your fucking woke points. But, also, aren’t you questioning her reasoning? Oh, hang on. You don’t care. You’re just happy the drunk hot girl has let you spunk in her face, and it’s OK because she has a feminist badge on her tote bag.”

Katie put her bowl down next to the art book. “Are you enjoying your pudding, Fern?”

I laughed and put my empty bowl next to hers. “Seriously though, what’s any of this got to do with Jessica?” I asked. “I mean, she’s the last person to have a feminist badge. And I haven’t seen her for years, but back then, she did seem to be having fun. I doubt she’d call herself a hot mess. She’s too busy—”

“—being a hot mess?”

“Being a single mum. Being let down by men. And making bad life choices.”

“And she’s stunning?” Heather checked.

“Well...yeah.”

“So, she’s a hot mess.”

“But Jessica...her life now...it’s not empowering. I feel...sort of sorry for her. She seems to love being a mum, but I mean, everything that’s happened to her around that, it’s all just very...sad.”

Heather’s eyes widened. Despite her spiky quips, she genuinely seemed to care about every woman she’d ever met, heard about, or came across at work. “But that’s why it’s bad we’re fetishizing the whole concept,” she said. “Because the reality is...it is really sad. Women have learned the only acceptable way to deal with trauma is to be really pretty, drunk, and to process it through casual sex. God forbid they’re chubby, and plain, and just want to scream into men’s faces twenty-four hours a day while sobbing with rage.”

I thought back to earlier that day. How different and determined Jessica seemed, sat in the playground. Heather was right... The Jessica I used to know really could be defined by two syllables “hot” and “mess,” but now... “I really don’t think she’s like that anymore. She said today that she’s given up on men.”

Heather levered herself up and padded over to the kitchen to put the kettle on—knowing without asking that all of us needed tea. “That’s interesting,” she said, as she was running the tap.

“What is?”

“That Jessica has told you she’s given up men, and now this is the first time in years you’ve been able to be friends again.”