Later in the afternoon, the girls are due to come around to my house to drink before we hit Brighton's nightlife. I set up flute glasses and bottles of prosecco on ice on the table in the conservatory, and I'm setting out a plate of cheese and dips when Fran walks into the kitchen.

'Oh, hi, Jane,' Fran says, with this stammer, like she's seen a ghost. Since Fran married my father, this seems to be the reaction I always get from her. Although I grew up knowing Fran, Kitty's mum, it seems that recently she's always freaked out by the sight of me. I can't figure out whether it's because I look like my mum, or because I look like Kitty.

'Hi, Fran,' I say warmly. 'My school friends are just about to arrive. Do you know if Dad's home?'

'Yeah, he was having a nap,' Fran says. Fran has this mess of bushy, almost ginger, blonde hair, and sun damaged skin from years of living and working outside by the sea.

'A nap?' I say, almost incredulously, and Fran laughs.

'Well, you know, it's Saturday. He always has a nap on Saturday afternoon. He's not as young as he once was, Jane.'

'He's only... fifty-eight,' I say.

'How's Kitty, anyway?' Fran asks. She starts grabbing dishes from the dishwasher to put away. I step into the kitchen from the conservatory to help her.

'She's fine, yeah,' I say. 'Doing really well in London, actually. It suits her, you know. She really knows how to run a business.'

The doorbell rings, so I leave Fran in the kitchen and go to answer it.

'Well, tell her to call me, every now and then,' Fran calls out.

'Uh, yeah, I will,' I say, looking over my shoulder as I walk down the hall.

'Or she could visit!' Fran calls, but I don't respond.

I open the door to Rachel, Kasey and Abby. Rachel's brandishing a bottle of prosecco, a bunch of flowers, and that fake grin smeared across her face. They're already all dressed up, even though I'm still wearing leggings. I thought we'd get ready together, like we used to, but I guess not.

Air kisses and greetings are exchanged as if we didn't just see each other this morning for coffee, and then the three of them follow me into the conservatory, without sparing a glance or a greeting for Fran.

'I'm just going to run upstairs and get changed,' I say, because I don't want to sit here wearing leggings and no makeup while the three of them are dressed to the nines.

While I'm upstairs I peek into Dad's bedroom, to find that, lo and behold, he is actually asleep. Afternoon naps aren't something I've ever associated with my dad, but I leave him to it, and go to my bedroom - the spare bedroom - to continue getting changed. I dress in a tight dress and heels with a full face of makeup, to fit in with the Brighton girls.

As I'm walking down the stairs, I hear Rachel saying, 'I texted him and told him to come, so we'll see.'

'Who?' I ask.

'Oh,' Rachel says sweetly. 'No one. It's not about tonight, anyway.'

'Right. So, prosecco?'

We pop the bottles and toast to "friendship", but I can barely meet the girls eyes when I'm toasting. This doesn't feel like friendship. This feels like fakeness. This feels like a charade. Appearances, for the sake of it. Or for the sake of Instagram.

I didn't even tell any of the girls that I was planning to visit Brighton for the weekend. But one of them must have seen my Instagram story of the soggy Tesco sandwich I was eating on the train down from London and put two and two together, and suddenly I was being invited for coffee and then they were insisting we have a girls night, "like old times". And saying no didn't feel like an option.

After pre drinks we catch a taxi to get to a bar for more drinks and chat that gets louder the drunker we get. When we finally get into a club I'm drunker than I expected to be tonight, and the night is only just beginning. We hit the bathrooms for a makeup touch up, and then Rachel's doling out quarters of a pill with the expertise of someone who has been here, done that. So I take it when she hands it to me.

When we get to the dance floor, the flashing blue and purple lights disorient me, and I swear I see someone in the crowd that I never expected to see, here. And then he's in front of me, a smug look on his face, with his stupid hair that's too long, because he thinks that's what musicians should look like, wearing a band shirt, like always.

'Joe,' I say, dumbly.

'Jane,' Joseph says with a grin. 'Rach said you'd be here. Thought I'd come say hi.'

I stare back at Rachel, Kasey and Abby with shock, but it's like they have forgotten me, and they're dancing without a care in the world.

'Come on,' Joseph says, and he grabs my hand and leads me away from the dance floor. We get into the smokers area, which is just a closed off alleyway between this club and the building next door. The silence and the smell of smoke hits me when the door slams shut behind us.

'What are you doing here? Who are you with? Sorry, I don't mean to be so stunned, I just never expected to run into you,' I blabber.

Joseph laughs. 'You mean after I found out, after months of dating you, that you already had a boyfriend?'

'Uh, yeah.'

Joseph shrugs. 'I was curious to see what you're up to these days. Seeing as you ran away to London and never spoke to anyone again.'

I cross my arms over my chest.

'Nice haircut, anyway,' he says.

'Thanks,' I say. 'I see you still haven't gotten one.'

Joseph laughs. 'Wow, Jane, with a sense of humour? Didn't know you had it in you.'

'You knew me at a very strange time in my life,' I tell him.

'Yeah, I reckon so,' he says. 'So what you been up to, love?'

'I'm working in a bookstore in London,' I say.

'Oh yeah? You always liked books.'

I take a breath, because I've just had the flushing feeling of ecstacy running through my body, and the last place I want to be while I'm coming up is standing in a dirty alleyway with my sort-of-ex-boyfriend, when I should be dancing. 'Come on, let's go inside,' I say, and grab Joseph's hand.

When we turn back inside, it's to find Rachel, Kasey and Abby standing at the door to the smoker's area. But I don't really notice them. Because my gaze instantly goes to the guy standing at the door.

Drew.

• Author's Note •

These bitches are fake af and Jane needs to get out of there asap and back to her real friends, who agrees?

xx elle