Bad Choices

by Lucy Vine

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The new laugh-out-loud, deliciously relatable story of female friendship from the bestselling author of HOT MESS

'So VERY funny' Marian Keyes

'Furiously, fiercely funny, warm and uplifting' Daisy Buchanan

'Warm, nostalgic and laugh-out-loud funny' Beth O'Leary

'Ferociously funny' RED Magazine

'Heartwarming, heart-shattering and hilarious' Isy Suttie

***

Two friends. Two decades.
One big mistake...

Nat and Zoe have always shared everything.

Hopeless crushes, emergency tampons, messy sex stories, work triumphs, those days where you can't stop crying in the loos, those days where you can't stop dancing on the bar. They even share the same birthday, FFS. The struggle is real, but they'll always have each other.

Except best friends forever is a hard promise to keep...

Eye-wateringly hilarious, tender and true, this a story about growing up, falling apart, and the friendships that hold us together.

***

Praise for Bad Choices:

'Brutally funny, painfully accurate, unfailingly warm and wise' Lauren Bravo

'Genius...I loved it' Lindsey Kelk

'Funny, sad, moving, joyous... One Day for people who make their friends the priority' Caroline Hulse

'Outrageously good' Helly Acton

'Utterly hilarious, moving, relatable and full of nostalgia and heart. Perfection' Lia Louis

'Full of heart, nostalgia and classic Lucy Vine comedy' Olivia Beirne

'A laugh-out-loud read about growing up, falling apart and the special bond that is female friendship' CLOSER

'Deliciously entertaining' Sara Ella Ozbek

'Lucy at her most divine' Hannah Doyle

'Hilarious and extremely relatable' Anna Bell

'Lucy never fails to make me laugh out loud' Paige Toon

Release date: June 10, 2021

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

Praise for Lucy Vine

‘The loveliest book, so sweet and warm on female friendship and so VERY funny’

Marian Keyes

‘A furiously, fiercely funny, warm and uplifting page-turner . . . Bad Choices is a truly beautiful book about love, grief and growing up’

Daisy Buchanan

‘Warm, nostalgic and laugh-out-loud funny . . . A love story about friendship’

Beth O'Leary

‘Brutally funny, painfully accurate, unfailingly warm and wise’

Lauren Bravo

‘Genius . . . I loved it’

Lindsey Kelk

‘Lucy Vine is so, so funny . . . One Day for people who make their friends their priority’

Caroline Hulse

‘A deliciously entertaining, heartwarming story of female friendship, from an author who is unafraid to go close to the bone. I adored every moment of Nat and Zoe's relationship’

Sara Ella Ozbek

‘Lucy at her most divine . . . Fresh and funny, this book deserves VIP access to the top of your TBR pile’

Hannah Doyle

‘I absolutely loved this book. Full of heart, nostalgia and classic Lucy Vine comedy’

Olivia Beirne

‘Laugh-out-loud funny. Truly, the Bridget Jones for our generation’

Louise O’Neill

‘A love letter to friendship: brilliantly funny and touching’

Laura Jane Williams

‘Hilarious and extremely relatable . . . Full of nostalgia and warmth. I adored it’

Anna Bell

‘Lucy Vine is one of the best in the game at writing messy, brilliant women . . . I inhaled it’

Lizzy Dent

‘So brilliantly, hilarious on-point . . . READ IT’

Holly Bourne

‘Really, really funny’

Sophie Kinsella

‘The most relatable book I’ve read in years – funny, real, filthy, if you liked Fleabag, you’ll love this’

Heat

‘Feisty, fresh, gag-packed comedy’

Daily Mirror

‘If you love dirty jokes, dating horror stories and hilarious dialogue, this book is for you’

Emma Gannon

‘The funniest thing I have read in a very, very long time’

Cosmopolitan

‘The laugh-out-loud literary equivalent of Trainwreck-meets-Fleabag’

Glamour

‘A breath of fresh air. You’re guaranteed at least one moment of total recognition per chapter’

Stylist

‘Brilliantly written’

Daily Mail

‘This laugh-out-loud book reminds you that you aren’t alone. A Bridget Jones for the Tinder generation’

Closer

‘A more realistic, relatable Bridget Jones for this generation . . . Hilarious’

Grazia

Prologue

Present Day

Why do women cry in loos?

My theory is that it’s because we’re needed by so many people.

Our parents, our children, our partners, our siblings, our bosses, our co-workers, our pets, our friends, every fucker you ever met needs something from you.

And I’m going to say this next thing and I don’t care if I’m not supposed to, so shut up: it is a female problem.

You think 90 per cent of those cis male, boat-shoe-wearing drones care if they’re needed? You think they spend their days worrying about their friends and family’s emotional load in the same way women do? Ticking off their mental lists and concerns and worries late into the night? Of course they don’t.

I swear, that’s how men got so much taller than women – they’re not weighed down by all the emotional baggage.

We cry in loos because we have to. It’s the only place we can escape all that fucking need. I cry in loos because I am sad a lot of the time, and I can’t let anyone see that. Because how can you let yourself break when you’re responsible for holding so many pieces – so many people – together? The loo is all we have, the only safe space we get, away from all the expectations.

Although – let’s face it – anyone who’s ever had a child in their house knows the loo isn’t always a private safe space either. Not unless you get a big fat deadbolt on that door. That’s why I never thought I’d have a kid, but you can’t predict what’s going to happen in your life. I had no idea.

Crying in bathrooms – public and private – has always been a woman thing. A me thing. Which is why I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m sitting here on a loo today, on one of the worst days of my life, crying my eyes out yet again. Here I am, wearing this alien outfit from the back of my wardrobe, while so many people wait for me to – I don’t know – perform out there. They all need me to be the star of this bleak theatre production with no punchlines and no ending. They’re all waiting for me to go out there, get up in front of everyone and play the part of the brave, strong, fearless Woman. They’ll even want me to cry a bit. But see, not like I’m crying now, right here. They’ll want something moving and discreet. Slow, glistening, brave, feminist tears rolling – nay, winding – down my cheek. So they can shake their heads and swell with pity at my loss. They don’t want these bathroom tears, full of snot and soggy tissue, and painful mascara blobs lodged in my eye socket. They don’t want the loud clogged sobs; the guttural noises; the mess.

So I’ll do it here. I’ll cry in a loo. For quite possibly the thousandth time in my life.

The worst thing is, it’s all her fault.

So many people need me. They need me in so many exhausting, draining, soul-crushing ways. And sure, she needed me too, but in a way that felt recharging and energising most of the time. She was the only person in my life I could cry with – in or out of the loo – the only person who understood. And it’s so unbelievably shit that she’s not here with me today when I need her most.

Outside the toilet, someone starts banging on the door. They probably want to start, it’s getting late.

I can’t do this without her, I can’t do this without her, I can’t do this without her.

The banging continues, with an extra edge of urgency.

I just need to sit and cry a little bit longer. I just need to miss her for a little bit longer.

I clear my throat, resisting the urge to shout fuck off.

‘GIVE ME FIVE MINUTES,’ I shout, furiously, my voice unrecognisable. ‘I’m just . . . just . . .’ I trail off, searching for an excuse that will ensure a few more minutes of solitude and crying. ‘FIVE MINUTES,’ I shout. ‘I’VE LOST A TAMPON INSIDE ME, OK?’

The knocking abruptly stops and the silence is deafening.

That excuse always works.

1

Twenty Years Earlier: 2001

ZOE

OK, fuck this.

If this girl doesn’t shut the hell up, I’m going to lose my mind.

I mean, here I am with my pants round my knees and my forehead pressed against the shiny wall, trying to have a quiet little cry, and some dick comes in and starts bawling in the cubicle next to me.

Next to me, the wailing becomes even more dramatic.

This is particularly unfair because I never cry. I actually pride myself on being, I don’t know, like, a dried-up husk inside? Dad said I never used to cry when I fell over as a kid. I was always the ‘brave one’, the one my little brothers could look up to as an example of how to keep it together. I didn’t even shed a tear last year when everything happened.

So yeah, I really think I’ve earned this. I’ve earned some peace. I just need ten minutes alone with a fucking tissue. Ten minutes to get seriously dehydrated and headachey from sobbing too much. Ten minutes to lean my head against the cool plastic cubicle walls and be sad, you know?

I listen to the snotty sobbing next door for another minute, distractedly reading the badly spelled graffiti about a ‘bitch’ from year eleven called Andrea. I wonder if Andrea really is a bitch or whether it’s just jealousy. At my last school there were loads of girls who called me a bitch and Mum said that was jealousy. Although she didn’t really have an answer when I asked her what there was to be jealous of.

It’s probably jealousy with Andrea, but I’m not totally discounting the possibility that she’s being called a bitch because she really is a bitch. Sometimes that happens. At least 20 per cent of the times I was called a bitch at St Mary’s was because I was being a total bitch.

Maybe the weeper next door is Andrea? Maybe we’re meant to be friends? It is quite a coincidence that we’re both in these loos crying simultaneously – maybe it’s a sign from God or the universe? I don’t know if I believe in God or the universe, but I might do. I haven’t figured out if believing in a god would make me interesting or lame.

The sobbing shifts up another gear.

If it is Andrea, she’s probably sad because of the graffiti. I could talk to her, tell her how awful it is, and then we’ll bond over how jealous everyone is of her. Then I’ll help her clean it up and we’ll write over it with mean shit about other people.

Or maybe she’s sad because she’s been such a bitch to everyone today and it all got too much for her? I could sympathise with that, too. Anything for a friend.

I wonder if I’ll end up with graffiti about me here? I wonder what it would say.

The sobbing gets louder still and I inwardly sigh, giving in to my curiosity.

‘Andrea?’ I say softly, hopefully, and the girl’s sob catches. Imagine if I got that right, how cool would that . . .

‘Did you just call me Andrea?’ the voice sounds outraged. ‘Like, Andrea Allen from year eleven? She’s such a B-I-T-C-H.’ She spells out the word before continuing in an insulted tone, ‘I am so not Andrea.’

‘Er, no, no,’ I am flustered and disappointed. ‘I said, um, ah dear. Because, y’know . . . because you’re crying.’

There is a long, suspicious silence and I feel a tear I was halfway through shedding slowly make its way down my cheek. I sniff, a little more loudly than I’d intended.

‘So . . . are you OK?’ I try again.

‘No,’ the short answer comes at last. ‘I’m not.’ There’s more than a hint of martyr in there, and I cover a smirk.

Actually, I realise, the voice is a little familiar, which surprises me. I’ve not really met anyone at this school yet.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I try.

‘Yes,’ she says immediately, her voice breaking as she gives one last overly dramatic sob. ‘But first, you tell me why you’re crying?’

‘I’m not cry—’ I begin, instantly defensive, and then loudly sniff again. ‘OK.’ I hesitate, unsure how much I want to share. She’s no Andrea, after all. ‘Well, it’s my first day here at this school and I . . .’

The crier interrupts me. ‘You’re the new girl!’ She suddenly sounds cheerier. ‘You’re in my form – 9CL? Miss Cornelisse’s class?’

That’s got to be how I know the voice. But I can’t find an associated face in my memory bank.

The faceless voice continues, ‘Corny introduced you in registration this morning – what’s your name again? It’s a cool name, right? I can’t remember.’

‘It’s not,’ I say shyly. ‘I don’t . . . um, I’m Zoe.’

‘No, no, your surname,’ she says impatiently. ‘It’s, like, totally dramatic.’

‘Darling,’ I mutter, embarrassed. ‘Zoe Darling.’

Through the plastic wall, the voice sighs happily. ‘See? That’s supercool. My name is Natalie Winters, which is soooo boring. Last year I tried to get everyone to call me Roxy but they wouldn’t do it. Don’t you think I seem more like a Roxy? I thought people might call me, like, Foxy Roxy if I were called Roxy. But they just laughed at me. Maybe they’d do it if I wasn’t so fat but I don’t think fat girls are supposed to call themselves foxy.’

‘Oh, right.’ I’m a bit flummoxed.

She pauses like she is waiting for something. ‘You think I’m fat?’ she says at last, sounding offended.

‘I don’t know what you look like,’ I point out.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ she says, sounding relieved. ‘I forgot that. I’m just used to people automatically saying, “You’re not fat!” when I say I’m fat. Even though I am quite fat. Actually, I wish they wouldn’t say that, because then it makes me worry that being fat is the worst possible thing in the world to be, when I don’t mind it. I really like food and I like my tummy. It’s nice and round and I can hold it when I go to sleep. Plus, my mum’s fat – so’s her best friend Sue – and they don’t seem to care. They just drink a lot of wine and eat Toblerones and laugh a lot.’ She pauses to take a breath. ‘The only thing is, I think the cool people in our year would like me more if I wasn’t fat. And maybe they would’ve been up for calling me Roxy instead of boring Natalie. But,’ she goes on happily, barely pausing for breath, ‘otherwise I don’t mind being fat. Are you fat?’

‘I don’t really know,’ I consider it. ‘My brothers call me fat, but I think that’s just because they learnt it as an insult and want to upset me. I guess it depends what you consider fat. I knew a girl at my old school who said she was fat and she ended up in hospital for malnutrition.’

‘God, that’s so cool,’ Natalie says, impressed for some reason. ‘Did she die?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer before steaming on. ‘Did you like your old school? Is that why you’re crying? Because you hate it here?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I just . . .’ I trail off, wondering how much to share with this oversharer. I take a deep breath. ‘I, um, started my period today – my first period. I guess it’s, like, a big moment and I feel sad I’m on my own. Plus, I didn’t know it would hurt like this or feel so fucking weird.’

She shrieks. ‘No way! I just got my first period, too! That’s why I’m crying. Oh my God, Zoe Darling, we’re basically twins.’

‘Really?’ I laugh. ‘That’s so strange.’ I pause. ‘Are you OK? It’s gross, right? Is yours . . . um, is yours a bit brown?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I can hear Natalie nodding. ‘I thought I’d pooed myself a bit or something.’

I stop awkwardly, then add in a hushed whisper, ‘Do you have towels or tampons or whatever?’

‘No,’ I can hear Natalie shaking her head. ‘But I have some nice tissue if you want to use that? It’s better than the crappy loo roll they have in here.’

There’s some rustling and a small hand appears under the plastic wall. It’s holding wads of Kleenex, crumpled but apparently unused.

‘They’re clean,’ she says quickly. ‘It was in my bra, but I don’t mind being an AA cup again for the rest of the day. It’s not like the boys look at me anyway.’

I take it, a little reluctantly. ‘Um, thanks. Have you got enough for you?’

‘Yeah.’ She gives me a thumbs up under the wall and I giggle at the sight. She continues, ‘I don’t really know how to use tampons anyway. Mum bought me some a while ago so I could practice but I spent ages trying to get it in before realising I was trying to force it into my bumhole. Really put me off.’

I have no answer for that.

‘Don’t you feel like we’re the last people in the universe to get our periods?’ she goes on. ‘I feel like everyone else started when they were, like, eleven.’

‘Yeah,’ I say and nod. ‘But I still don’t feel ready.’ I consider all the awful euphemisms about becoming a woman and feel sick. Being a woman sounds horrendous, I don’t want to do it.

‘So, you have brothers, huh?’ Natalie continues seamlessly from bumholes to siblings, as I carefully line my stained pants. My heart beats harder at the sight. How will I hide these from Dad? I can’t put them in the wash. Maybe I’ll have to throw them away?

‘Three brothers. They’re dumb, I hate them,’ I reply, distracted. ‘I’m the oldest. I think Mum and Dad were trying to have another girl after me, but willies kept popping out.’

‘There’s four of you?’ Natalie breathes out, awed. ‘It’s only me at home, it’s so boring. Mum says one was special enough for her but I think she means I cried too much as a baby. I always wanted a sister – a twin sister.’

‘Same. My younger brothers are twins though and they’re the worst.’

‘Oh my God, you have twins in your family!’ she enthuses. ‘Can they read each other’s minds and feel pain when one of them gets stabbed?’

‘Why would one of them get sta—’

She doesn’t let me finish.

‘Do you want to come to the cinema with me and my family tonight? We’re going to see a film called Shrek. My mum says it’s got Austin Powers in it and that actress lady from The Mask. We’re also having sandwiches and cake at my house beforehand because it’s my birthday. No one else is coming so it’ll just be me, Mum and her friend Sue. And my dad,’ she adds as an afterthought.

I look at the wall between us. ‘Is your birthday actually today?’ I say, surprised. ‘It’s my birthday today.’

‘You’re lying!’ she shouts and I worry someone will come in to see what the fuss is about. ‘It is today! See!! You’re totally my twin!’ She is still shouting. ‘Do you think our parents had us adopted separately, like the start of The Parent Trap? God, I love Lindsay Lohan.’

‘She’s amazing. She’s, like, so talented. I also really like Jennifer Love Hewitt – she was my favourite in I Know What You Did Last Summer.’

Natalie gasps. ‘You were allowed to see that?’ She moans in apparent agony. ‘I wasn’t allowed to! Mum said there was too much sex and violence, and more importantly the plot made absolutely no sense.’

‘Yeah, I’ve totally seen it a few times.’ I pause. ‘And Cruel Intentions.’

She moans again and I feel smug. I’ve not seen either film but Natalie thinks I’m cool, and I’m not going to correct her.

A wave of pain ripples from my back to my front. So these are the cramps Sugar magazine told me about. Well, that sucks.

‘Yeah, agreed,’ I say and then add shyly, ‘And yes, I’d love to come to the cinema, thank you. I’ll have to check with my dad but I don’t think he’s got anything planned. He says turning fourteen isn’t that big a deal.’

‘I think it is!’ Natalie says passionately. ‘It’s HUGE! We’ve been teenagers for a whole year and we, like, get it now, y’know? Plus, we have SATs this year and have to choose our GCSE subjects. God, it’s, like, so much pressure being fourteen.’

‘Right?’ I say, getting caught up in her enthusiasm. ‘Dad totally doesn’t get it, he rolled his eyes at me when I said that thing about SATs.’

‘Dads don’t understand anything,’ Natalie continues. ‘Mine just sits in a corner reading the newspaper all the time. They’ve never been a teenage girl, they don’t have a clue.’

Suddenly I feel a bit sad. She’s right, Dad doesn’t have a clue.

‘Sorry it’s not going to be a big birthday party.’ She’s still going. ‘I did invite Simon Stan from our class – do you remember him from registration? He’s so handsome – but he said he couldn’t think of anything worse and then him and Romesh and Tom all laughed, and Janine threw a pencil at my head.’

‘What a bunch of shitheads,’ I say, loyally.

‘Oh no, it’s completely fine,’ she says quickly, brightly. ‘I actually love stationery, so it was a win for me because I got a free pencil. They’re the most popular boys in our year – they even hang out with some boys from sixth form! – so I didn’t think Simon would say yes, but I had to ask him because of my feelings for him.’

‘Your feelings for him?’ I repeat slowly.

‘Yes.’ She pauses dramatically. ‘I love him.’

‘You do?’ I am confused. ‘But why, if he’s so mean to you?’

‘He’s only being mean to impress the other boys,’ she explains nicely. ‘It’s peer pressure. Newsround did a whole special about it. It’s like bullying, but by your friends. It’s normal, it happens all the time.’ She sighs deeply. ‘So I understand why he’s mean to me and I don’t mind. I think we’re going to end up together one day and I want us to look back and laugh at the days when I’d ask him out and he had to pretend he didn’t like me, even though he secretly did.’

I decide it’s too early in our new friendship to offer an opinion on this.

She continues, breathlessly, ‘And I can’t wait to get married and take his name. Natalie Stan sounds so much better than Natalie Winters, don’t you think?’

‘I like Natalie Winters better,’ I say carefully. ‘Plus, Simon Stan is kind of a dumb name? Like, if you say it in a French accent, it sounds like semen stain?’

She gasps, horrified, and then giggles. ‘Oh my God,’ she hisses, still laughing. ‘You are so naughty, Zoe! It does not sound like that!’

‘It really does,’ I insist, smirking.

‘You are so funny,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet my mum, she’ll love you. Do you want to dress up in double denim for the cinema tonight, like Britney and Justin?’

‘No,’ I say, alarmed. ‘I definitely do not. They looked fucking stupid.’

She gasps again, still giggling. ‘Oh my God, you swear, like, a lot. My mum would kill me if I used the eff word and you say it loads, like you don’t even care. I’m too scared to use it even when I write in my diary in case Mum reads it. Doesn’t your mum tell you off?’

I am quiet for a second, assessing the situation. I guess if we’re going to be friends, she’ll find out at some point. Might as well be now.

‘My mum isn’t around. She left my dad last year and we haven’t heard from her since.’

‘No way!’ She sounds shocked, and I feel a weird combination of humiliated and powerful.

‘Yeah,’ I nod stoically, feeling very alone in my cubicle. ‘It was pretty awful. She ran off with my old babysitter, Mr Chapman, who lived down the road. It was mad. Actually, my dad’s still a fucking mess about it.’

There is a long pause and I feel intensely ashamed. Ashamed of my Ricky Lake family, ashamed of my mum. Ashamed of my dad for not being good enough to keep her. Ashamed of my broken family. This was too much to say on a first meeting. Too much through a cubicle.

‘Oh my God, that is so . . .’ there is another long pause. ‘That is so COOL!’ Natalie says the word delightedly. ‘Your life is so dramatic, Zoe.’ She sighs and I can almost feel her hot breath on the wall between us.

‘Excuse me?’ I’m reeling from her reaction but she misses my change in tone.

‘You are so lucky, Zoe Darling!’ she says. ‘My life is so dull. Nothing cool ever happens to me.’

‘It’s not cool,’ I spit. ‘It’s not cool at all.’ OK, now I’m furious. I can feel it bubbling up inside me, fireworks of anger in my belly at this faceless girl’s shitty insensitivity. ‘It’s actually been horrible – really horrible!’ I explode. ‘How can you say that to me? You think it’s cool that my little brothers haven’t got their mum around any more? You think it’s cool that I’m sitting here bleeding on a loo, without any idea what to fucking do because my mum should’ve been around to tell me how it works? You think it’s cool that I’m having to restart my stupid life in an ugly new house, at a whole new school because my dad couldn’t stand to be around our old home any longer? You think it’s cool?’

A shocked silence descends before Natalie finally answers.

‘Well . . . kind of cool?’ she says at last.

I stand up abruptly, yanking at my pants, now rammed full of tissue paper. Pulling angrily at the lock, I slam the door open and then slam the door shut behind me, hoping to convey the full, furious extent of my rage. What an idiot, what a stupid, stupid little idiot.

Without another word, I storm out of the toilets, only waddling slightly because of the tissues.

Stupid fucking Natalie Winters! What an insensitive little cow. Maybe I should write some graffiti about her on the walls – she’d definitely deserve it. Natalie Winters, ugh. With her stupid loud sobbing and her oversharing dumb information about her trivial stupid little life. She’s made an enemy for life here today. I can’t believe I thought she might be a friend for me in this crappy place. I always make such bad choices.

Let’s hope I never have to see or speak to that weepy, whiny little drama queen ever again.

2

Four Years Later: 2005

NATALIE

‘Smoking is cool and you know it.’ I nod authoritatively, attempting to blow a ring into the air and failing.

‘You know you’re my BFF, Nat, but you look like a fucking idiot,’ Zoe tells me, rolling her eyes. ‘And Friends is over – it’s dead and done – can you please stop quoting it.’ She pulls uncomfortably at the ringlets the enthusiastic hairdresser has given her, then jabs a finger at me as I lean further out of my window, almost falling into the willow tree in my back garden. ‘And what’s this really about anyway?’ She scowls on the word this. ‘Are you smoking because Semen Stain smokes?’

I sigh heavily. ‘Please don’t call him that, Zo. But yes, that is correct. I figure I can follow him outside tonight and strike up a conversation about how sexy I look while smoking.’

‘As you erotically blow cancer all over each other?’ Zoe is being max-level sarcastic but I don’t care.

‘Exactly right.’ I nod emphatically. ‘And then he’ll finally realise how amazing I am after all. He’ll get on the stage in front of everyone and announce to the year how great I am and also how not fat I am, while Romesh and Tom and Janine all nod in the corner, agreeing that they have been fools all these years to ignore me. And then Simon and I will go back out. . .