It’s hard to make new friends in your 20s. But I’ve been lucky to have found a solid group of girls. We met about five years ago, at a birthday party for our mutual friend Hannah*, and instantly clicked. We got a group chat going on WhatsApp and, just like that, we were messaging back and forth (every day), catching up over pizzas and red wine at Rudy’s in Soho (every month), and booking trips to the Cotswolds (every year; we take a group picture in the same spot each summer).
When, at my Christmas party two years ago, Gemma announced she had got engaged, I couldn’t have been more excited for her and popped open a bottle of Moët & Chandon I’d been saving for a special occasion (Gemma loves champagne). A few months later, when the save-the-date landed in my mailbox, I was quick to respond ‘yes’. (A three-day, black-tie affair in Tuscany? Count me in.) When, nearly a year before the wedding, her sister invited me to Gemma’s hen do in Paris, I didn’t hesitate to confirm. And when, shortly afterwards, a payment of £150 needed to be made for the Airbnb, I didn’t think twice about transferring the money.
But life didn’t follow the plan. Last weekend, while Gemma and her brood of hens were in Paris, taking a boozy boat trip along the Seine (I’m guessing; I’ve been removed from the hen party WhatsApp group), I was in a Ferrari baseball cap, watching 20 Formula 1 drivers race around the circuit at the Belgian Grand Prix.
Gemma and I are no longer talking. I haven’t been to Rudy’s for one of our pizza dates in months. And in May, after much deliberation, I decided it no longer made sense to attend her wedding. ‘I’ll be thinking of you on your big day and really hope it’s everything you’ve dreamed of!’ I ended my text. It was left unanswered.
So where did it go wrong?
Last Christmas, my godfather surprised my cousin (his son) with a ticket for the Belgian Grand Prix. As a huge F1 fan, I joked, ‘There had better be an envelope like that under the tree for me.’ Turns out, there was. Full of excitement, I opened my phone to add the date to my calendar when it hit me: it was the same weekend as Gemma’s hen do, which I’d already (partly) paid for – and, more importantly, was really looking forward to. Luckily, there’s a two-hour train that connects Paris to Brussels. I decided I could do both, but I’d only be able to stay in Paris for one night, instead of two.
When I told Gemma, in person, about my change of plans the first week of January, I didn’t think anything of it. After all, the hen do was still seven months away. ‘I really don’t mind,’ she’d said. But over the next few weeks it became clear that wasn’t true. She started ignoring my texts and, eventually, after four weeks of silence, I called her. ‘There’s no air to clear,’ she’d assured me, but as soon as I put down the phone, the messages flooded in: ‘It just feels like you’d rather go to F1 than celebrate my hen do…’ she wrote. I replied, explaining I wasn’t choosing one over the other, but couldn’t call off a family obligation either.
I started worrying that she maybe wasn’t as ‘fine’ with it as she was letting on when six more weeks went by and we didn’t talk. Finally, a text came: ‘Are you OK to pay for your room at our wedding venue in September? Let me know if you’d benefit from a payment plan.’ It was the first time she’d contacted me in three months, and her choice of words angered me. I didn’t like the insinuation that I somehow couldn’t afford to attend her wedding, but I was hesitant to spend hundreds of pounds on someone who was icing me out, knowingly or not. Reluctantly, I transferred £300. And another month of silence followed.
Meanwhile, the hens were totalling up the cost of the trip: another £135 for trains, £47 for a private chef, £84 for a two-hour party bus and £65 for a boat trip. Payment was due imminently and I knew I had a decision to make: either I committed to paying for a three-day weekend, even though I was only going for half of it and Gemma and I were not on speaking terms, or I pulled out.
I thought about it for a few days – called my mum for advice – and decided I wouldn’t be going to her hen do. My birthday dinner was coming up and I’d invited the entire group; I didn’t think it was fair to ask Gemma to come without telling her, so I did. To her credit, she still came, though she arrived late, only stayed for one drink (‘I won’t be eating because I’m dirt poor’) and left early, without paying. When, at the end of the night, the bill came, I paid for her dry martini.
I saw her again a few weeks later, at our mutual friend Jen’s birthday party, and it was clear something had shifted. Neither of us tried to talk to the other. A few days later, she called me out for it, over text. So, I laid it all out, detailing how I’d been made to feel over the previous few months, while offering to draw a line under everything and be civilised, for the sake of our friendship group. But Gemma took no accountability for her actions (‘clearly I’m struggling to see your POV’), started messaging in all caps, and accused me of not being able to see what a ‘special time’ in her life this was. I didn’t reply.
The next time I texted Gemma, about three weeks later, was to say I didn’t feel it would be right for me to attend her wedding.
Looking back, I know I’ve made the right decision. While it was never just about the money, I probably would have resented Gemma after spending upwards of £1,500 on her wedding activities when, at least to me, it felt like this wasn’t appreciated. Of course, I’m disappointed I’ve ‘lost’ £450 – when I asked if I could get some of it back, I was told ‘no’. But what hurts more is that I’ve lost a friend. I’ve lost our chats, our pizza nights at Rudy’s and our trips to the Cotswolds. It’s often said a friendship breakup is more painful than the end of a romantic relationship. I certainly never want to go through this again.
