Start reading Group Chat by Zoë Foster Blake
Read an extract of Zoë Foster Blake's latest novel, Group Chat.
FEBRUARY
Farah: So
Farah: Turns out Rich is having an affair
Vivian: I’m sorry what the fuck??
Farah: Mol, remember how I joked that he was having an affair at your birthday dinner?
Farah: I knew it I fucking knew it he is such a piece of shit I can’t believe this is happening
Molly: Oh my goodness Farah
Molly: I’m calling please pick up??
Vivian: Who is she?? Let me guess, she’s 26?? Works on his floor?
Farah: Some girl from the dog park. This guy who didn’t even want Gator, never fed or walked him in his LIFE, and suddenly he’s obsessed with walking him aaaall the time and guess why
Molly: Are you okay? Where are you? Who’s with you?
Farah: I swear to god I knew it
Molly: I’m coming over honey you shouldn’t be alone xxxx
Vivian: This is insane
Vivian: Who would have an affair with Rich?? No offence
Stella: Oh my god Farah. This is so heavy. I am so sorry. I’m in total shock. I just want to give you a hug . . .
Molly: I can be there in 25
Molly: This is a family emergency I can totally leave work
Stella: I have so many questions Faz . . . But mostly I’m sad. And furious!
Vivian: I’m gonna punch him in the nuts
Molly: We are all here for you honey xxxx we love you so much xxxxxx
Molly: My heart is broken for you Farah xxxx
Vivian: We need to assess your assets ASAP. I have a great lawyer Tony I’ll connect you
Molly: Do you need any groceries honey?? I will bring dinner too, I batch made chilli con carne yesterday
Stella: We’re here for you Faz xxxxxx
The group chat— titled Premium Hoes by Viv, who had started it and who retained admin rights and refused to change the name despite being asked constantly— continued to pop off, but Stella put her phone down; she’d catch up later. Wait, no, first she needed to call Farah, which she did three times; all unanswered. Slipping her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, Stella began making her mid-morning coffee. She turned the machine on— enormous, overkill, ugly, purchased by Will with zero consideration of decor or bench space— and reached into the small wooden box behind the vitamins in the Cupboard of Shit: a cabinet intended to house a posh little tea station or a microwave, but which had turned into purgatory for random prescriptions, medicine, nail clippers, mail, stationery, gift vouchers and the boys’ never-ending school correspondence. Fucking pigsty, she thought as she grabbed half a CBD gummy. Stella was over this place. They’d lived here since their eldest son, Monte, was born eleven years ago; it was supposed to be temporary. Stella desperately wanted a place with a yard and a garden, but when Will realised they were in the catchment of the best primary school in the area, he’d insisted they stay.
The suburb had evolved, and not for the better. Two square, grey apartment blocks had gone up across the street, and a tacky new commercial ‘village’ had been manufactured at the intersection one hundred and fifty metres up the road. Parking was a disaster and the street noise was awful, especially since the pub on the main road a block away had their licence extended until 3 am. Stella had grown up in a small coastal town, and their little weatherboard, swathed in wisteria and honeysuckle, was the jewel of the street, if not the suburb. Stella longed for the same. She felt trapped in this home that they’d long outgrown.
She took a Tim Tam from the fridge then picked up her coffee mug and headed out to the courtyard where the February sun blazed its way into the thirties. Ignoring Aslan doing figure eights around her ankles and purring, she sat at the outside dining table, face to the sun, surveying the bougainvillea she’d planted four years ago and which was finally starting to wander along their wooden fence. She called Farah again; no answer. Poor Farah. No one needed their partner to have an affair , but of the five women in their friendship group (which reminded her , she needed to call Gab), Farah was both least and most equipped to handle a straying husband. Most equipped because she was a strong, capable woman who suffered no fools (she was a social worker and dealt with heavy stuff every day at work), but least equipped because she had an overwhelming negativity bias and was a born complainer.
Stella shook her head, dipping her biscuit into her coffee. Who the hell did Rich think he was? More accurately, who even was he? Rich had always been a very plain, socially awkward, self-conscious man. An affair was far too thrilling and adventurous for him. News that someone was having sex with someone who wasn’t their spouse was hardly a surprise given they were all smack bang in the Midlife Cheat Zone (two of her school mum friends were trudging through similar scenarios) , but Rich just didn’t seem the type. He was Farah’s soft boy; her spiky outer shell didn’t bother him, because he knew who she was inside. He had always been so devoted. They were the first in the group to get married and have kids, living proof that opposites attract.
Stella sighed as her thoughts began to calm. Her shoulder had been sore all week— hence the CBD— but joint inflammation also sometimes meant storms were coming. Or her period. She had been a twenty-nine-day girl for years, but recently she’d had a seventeen-day cycle and then a forty-five-day one. What was that about? Stress? Vitamin D? The moon? Anyway, she would swing past Farah’s tonight, drop off some flowers and wine and a pack of illicit cigs. Stella checked her calendar app to see if she had anything on aside from school pick-up. Thank god the boys were back at school; she always began to lose it by around week seven of the holidays. They had gone to visit her brother in Western Australia (his pitch: ‘The cousins need to spend time together before they turn into teenagers and start dry-humping’), which Stella and the boys had thoroughly enjoyed . . . Will not so much. He wasn’t really a beach person. Or a summer person. Or a socialising person.
Extracted from Group Chat by Zoë Foster Blake,
available now wherever books are sold.
Group Chat
by Zoë Foster Blake
Part Bridesmaids, part White Lotus, and part Mamma Mia, GROUP CHAT is a love letter to female friendship and a powerful reminder that life is short, and it goes real fast, so book the damn girls' trip.
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