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‘Twisted, compelling, and so very dark. This devastating story about the friends we keep – and those we don’t – is surprising in the best possible way’ Samantha Downing, My Lovely Wife
‘The Girls Are All So Nice Here is like Mean Girls meets Luckiest Girl Alive. Razor-sharp in its dissection of female friendship, this is a deliciously savage read’ Louise O’Neill, After the Silence
‘Lays bare the darkness that pulses under the surface of toxic female friendships. Raw, visceral, unbearably tense, I raced through it with a knot in my stomach’ Tammy Cohen, Stop At Nothing
‘A stand-out thriller with well-drawn and believable characters as well as a plot which keeps you turning the pages’ Catherine Cooper, The Chalet
‘Smartly examines the darker complexities of friendship, ambition, and social dynamics in this propulsive thriller full of twists and surprises. I couldn’t stop reading until the shocking final twist!’ Megan Miranda, The Last House Guest
‘I read open-mouthed as Amb navigated the complex social calculus of her worlds right up until that stinging kick of a final chapter left me breathless’ Chandler Baker, Whisper Network
‘I LOVED it. It’s so deliciously dark, and I was completely hooked from the first page. And, of course, I’m still reeling from that ending!’ Elle Croft, The Guilty Wife
‘Full of simmering menace, I totally fell under its compelling and addictive spell’ Karen Hamilton, The Perfect Girlfriend
‘Dark and twisted, perfectly capturing the devastating cruelty teenage girls can inflict on one another when they themselves are fundamentally damaged’ Nikki Smith, All in Her Head
‘Taut, compulsive and deliciously savage’ Kia Abdullah, Take It Back
LAURIE ELIZABETH FLYNN was born in London, Ontario, Canada, where she resides currently with her husband, three children, and senior Chihuahua. She is the author of the young adult novels Firsts, Last Girl Lied To and All Eyes On Her. The Girls Are All So Nice Here is her debut adult novel.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Laurie Elizabeth Flynn Inc. 2021
Laurie Elizabeth Flynn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008388874
Version 2021-02-22
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008388850
Dedication
For every girl who got what she wanted
at a cost she couldn’t afford
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Then
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
THEN
Together we ruled. Our realm unfurled, grassy campus and its tangle of parties. We marked the territory as our own, matchstick legs capped in sharp heels striking the ground, mouths witchy with lipstick and upturned with laughter. There were boys whose names I forgot, boys I might have passed by and not known were ever inside me. When I did pick out a king, the crown was too heavy for his head.
Then a fist closed around our world and knuckled out the light. We stood in front of the dorm with everyone else, taking in the same scene, a carnage that had started within us. Our ability to create waned in our instinct to ruin.
Her voice in my ear, never scared enough. We have to stick to the same story.
I wanted to run, but she wasn’t done moving her pawns.
Our reign was short and bloody.
What came after it was worse.
Chapter 1
NOW
To: “Ambrosia Wellington” a.wellington@wesleyan.edu
From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” reunion.classof2007@gmail.com
Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
Mark Your Calendar!
The Wesleyan University Ten-Year Reunion for the Class of 2007 will take place May 25–28, 2017. Join us for a weekend of catching up with former classmates and attending exciting events, including the All-Campus Party and formal class dinners.
Online registration is available through May 1.
If you’re planning to attend, a full list of area hotels can be found on Wesleyan’s local accommodations page. A limited amount of on-campus housing in our dorms is available. Most rooms are doubles—perfect for reaching out to your old roommate to relive some memories!
Sincerely,
Your Alumni Committee
I delete it instantly, just like I do the sale emails from Sephora and Michael Kors and the reminders from Fertility Friend that ovulation is right around the corner. Then I empty my recycling bin, because I know better than to think anything is ever really gone.
Two weeks later, a second email arrives. We haven’t received your RSVP! We really hope you’re joining us. It’s the written equivalent of a wagging finger. I delete that one, too, but not before scrolling down far enough to see her name, bolded, right under the list of Alumni Committee members. Flora Banning.
I forget about the two emails, because out of sight really is out of mind. It’s easy when each day is a variation of the same—taking the N from Astoria to Midtown; stopping at Key Food for groceries, reusable cloth bags cutting into my forearms. Happy hour shouldered in with hipsters at the Ditty, a second glass of wine, despite Adrian’s half-teasing Maybe you shouldn’t. But then I come home from work on Friday, shoulders sagging from the weight of the week, and there’s an envelope on the counter addressed to me.
“Hey, babe,” Adrian shouts from his position on the couch, tablet in hand, where he’s undoubtedly working on his fantasy football league instead of the perpetually unfinished novel he likes to talk about. “How was your day?”
“You left the door open again. Can you please start locking it like I asked?” One of the myriad things I nag Adrian about on a regular basis. Lock the door. Close the cereal bag. Pick up your dirty laundry. Sometimes I feel more like a parent than his wife.
“Relax. It’s a safe building. Hey, something came for you. I think we got invited to a wedding. Except somebody doesn’t know you got married and changed your name.” My new last name, a point of male pride that Adrian pretended wasn’t important to him. I don’t care, but do you really want the kids to have two last names? And yours is so long, he said during wedding planning, the first puncture in my newly engaged bliss. The kids, a brightening certainty on his horizon, my concessions for them expected and inevitable.
The envelope on the counter is addressed to Ambrosia Wellington, in neat calligraphy. Not Ambrosia Turner, the woman I became three years ago when I walked down a tree-shaded aisle at the Mountain Lakes House toward Adrian, his eyes already tear filled. I let him think Turner was for us, for the kids. He has no idea why I was so eager to get rid of Wellington.
Adrian turns around to watch me open it, expectant. He loves weddings, or rather, he loves the receptions, where he can get drunk and pose for pictures with people he’s just met, instant best friends, and invite them to dinners and barbecues we all know will never happen.
“Well, who is it?” he says. “Let me guess. Bethany from work. Is she still dating that really tall guy? Mark. The lacrosse player.”
Adrian and his friends, five and six years younger than me, still post engagement photos on Facebook and Instagram: girls with long hair and Chanel espadrilles, gel manicures to show off pear-shaped rocks, posing next to boys in plaid shirts. The PR girls who work under me at Brighton Dame are the same.
So basic, we used to call them, back when there was no way we would turn into them.
“Bethany’s twenty-two,” I murmur when I pull the card out. I ignore Adrian’s response, because I’m fixated on what’s inside. It’s not a wedding invitation. Nobody is requesting my presence at Gramercy Park or telling me the dress code is black tie or mandating an adults-only reception.
It’s more calligraphy, red and black against cream card stock. Wesleyan colors. The letters tilt slightly to the right, as if whoever wrote them was in a rush to get them out.
You need to come. We need to talk about what we did that night.
There’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. It can only be from one person. My face is hot and I can tell my neck is marbling red and white, the same way it always does when my anxiety flares up. I grip the countertop. She knows I deleted the emails. I shouldn’t be surprised; she had a way of knowing everything.
Adrian’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “The suspense is killing me. It better be an open bar.”
“It’s not a wedding.” I stuff the card back into its envelope, then shove it in my purse. Later, I’ll put it in the place I hide everything Adrian can never see.
He puts down his tablet and stands up. Of course he chooses now to grow an attention span. “You okay? You look like you’re going to puke.”
I could shred the card, but I know what would happen. Another one will come in its place. She was insistent then. She’s probably even more so now.
“It’s nothing. Why don’t we go up to the roof and have a drink?” The rooftop patio with its slices of Manhattan skyline, a feature of our building we thought we would use but rarely ever do.
He nods, curiosity temporarily assuaged, and arches across the counter to kiss my cheek.
I smile at my husband in relief, taking in his mop of curly hair, his dimples, and his pretty green eyes. So freaking sexy, my best friend, Billie, said when I showed her his photo. He looked exactly like his online dating profile, which is probably why I went home with him after our first date, the two of us reduced to sloppy mouths and hands in the back of a cab barreling down Broadway. I later learned that while his picture didn’t lie—not like a dozen other men before him, all of whom were at least twenty pounds heavier than advertised—his life story did. Yes, he went to Florida State, but he never graduated, instead dropping out in his third year to work on the same novel he has yet to complete a chapter of. Nowhere in his bio did it say he was a bartender, the only consistent job he has ever had.
But I overlooked that because he treats me well, because people are drawn to him, because I was drawn to him, to his steady warmth and self-assuredness. He didn’t know the person I was in college but loved the new embodiment of me so simply that I figured I couldn’t be as horrible as everyone thought. I never imagined I would end up with someone five years younger, but being older has had its benefits. Our age gap is small enough that we look good together but big enough that his instincts are softer, more malleable. When I pushed the idea of a proposal because I was creeping into my late twenties, he took the hint and picked out a ring. Not the one I wanted, but it was close enough.
Adrian tries to make conversation as we head up to the roof, but the voice in my head is louder. Hers. We need to talk about what we did that night.
There were two different nights, and I’m not sure which one she means. The one that started everything or the one that ended it. She never wanted to talk about either. Then again, she was the best at breaking her own rules.
Chapter 2
THEN
I would be spending freshman year in the Butterfields, living in a double room on the first floor. Butterfield C was shaped almost like a question mark, hugging a courtyard where I pictured myself sitting with a book, wind lifting my hair. I had emailed with my future roommate a few times, but we’d never actually met. Her parents were helping her break a mini-fridge out of its cardboard jail when I first saw her, along with a younger girl who must have been her sister. I had just seen my own parents off—my mom would probably weep all the way back to Pennington, my dad placating her with promises that I’d be back. My older sister, Toni, had left for college at Rutgers two years before, but she was close enough that she still came home most weekends, bulging laundry bag in tow.
“This is your time, sweetie,” Mom had said before she closed the car door, her lips on my cheek. “Enjoy it. But stay out of trouble.” As if trouble were labeled with a Do Not Disturb sign. As if a sign would have kept me out.
I wished my best friend, Billie, were with me, but Billie hadn’t gotten into Wesleyan. She was spending the next four years at Miami University in Ohio, which was known more for partying than anything else. Our friendship was comfortable—a bond forged in our awkwardness when we started ninth grade and our shared willingness to do something about it. Billie knew who I was and who I wanted to be, and she loved both versions. I had already texted her since arriving on campus. I hope people like me. Her buoyant they will!!! brought some comfort.
My new roommate’s hair was white blond and her dress was gingham, like something I had been forced to wear as a kid to the Memorial Day parade. She didn’t look like the girls I had gone to high school with, all of us in the same uniform of miniskirts and Uggs buttressing legs slathered in self-tanner. But she was exceptionally pretty—freshly scrubbed, wholesome. Billie probably would have given her a nickname. It was our meager defense against the mean girls at Hopewell Valley Central High. We studied them, then peeled them like overripe fruit in marathon gossip sessions to lessen the sting of not being invited to their parties. My roomie is Heidi, I’d text Billie.
Her real name was just as bad.
“I guess you already know from our emails, but I’m Flora.” She gripped me in a hug. “It’s nice to finally meet in person. You look just how I pictured. These are my parents, and this is my sister, Poppy.” Poppy gave me a shy wave, all bangs and big blue eyes.
“Ambrosia,” I said, more to them than her. “Just call me Amb.” Flora didn’t look how I’d pictured—she was a lot prettier. I knew from our emails that she was involved with student council at her Connecticut private school. She didn’t smoke or drink and wanted to become a child psychologist. She wore her niceness so openly. She was exactly the kind of friend my parents wanted me to make. What Billie would call a try-hard.
“Amb,” Flora’s mom said, fixing me with a frosty stare. “Where are you from?”
“Pennington,” I said. “New Jersey.”
“That’s nice,” she said, but I could tell by her pinched mouth that it wasn’t, that I had already committed some kind of wrong. “You take care of Flora. She tends to trust everyone too easily.”
“Mom,” Flora said, her cheeks turning petal pink. “Stop.”
Flora’s mom looked like she wanted to say more but pressed her mouth into a line. I rolled her words around. I didn’t know if I had been folded into her confidence or warned not to be a person her daughter couldn’t trust.
“We’re going to have such a fun year,” Flora said when her family was gone—she had squeezed her sister the hardest, whispered something in her ear I couldn’t hear. “My mom is actually still best friends with her roommate from freshman year.”
I felt a blip of excitement. It was going to be a fun year. I had worked hard to get here, to make things happen. To chisel out a Technicolor future, panoramic in scope, with me as its star.
“Your accent is so cute,” Flora said as she tacked photos to her corkboard.
“Thanks,” I managed, but I wasn’t thankful. She didn’t mean it as an insult—probably—but she had made me self-conscious about something I hadn’t considered noticeable before. What I said was as important as how I said it. I couldn’t be an actress—and I’d come to Wesleyan for the theater program—if I couldn’t escape Jersey.
As we unpacked, our door stayed open, and people from our floor lingered there, making introductions. I smiled, returned hugs, nodded forcefully to future invitations to parties. But inside, I trembled. Some of the girls seemed to be friends already, with easy laughter and inside jokes from Upper East Side private schools. Two model-thin blondes were from Los Angeles, thumbing their phones, laughing about some prom after-party at a club where a classmate screwed two guys in the bathroom.
These weren’t the girls I had gone to Central with, ones with Starbucks cups attached to their hands, who punctuated their vocabularies with like and whatever and one-upped each other with discussions about who’d made out with who at some shitty party in someone’s basement, boys sitting around in sweatpants holding video game controllers. I had copied their hip-hugging jeans, parted my hair like them, saved a year of paychecks from my part-time job at the Stop & Shop to buy a small Louis Vuitton bag—the same multicolor monogrammed one that lived on the bony shoulders of celebrity it-girls.
At Wesleyan, I was ready to slip effortlessly into the person I imagined I could be. But I realized that first day that effortless might not be in the cards. The girls here seemed casually beautiful in a way that felt unachievable, dewy and shiny without being overtly flashy.
There weren’t just girls. Our floor was coed, something I had been happy about. The boys were a blur of darting eyes and white smiles. They probably weren’t going to pick me, not when there was a better selection to choose from, a veritable buffet, girls served up all-you-can-eat, with long limbs and understated clothes. And boys were always hungry. I briefly pictured my high school boyfriend Matt, before willing the image away. I didn’t want to taint my first day with the memory of what he’d done.
“You should come with us to get lunch,” Flora said. “I’m heading over with some of the other girls. I hope there’s something I can eat—did I tell you I’m vegan? I saw this documentary when I was twelve about how animals in slaughterhouses are treated, and I cut out all meat and dairy right away. It’s really not that hard, if you’re willing to learn.”
She didn’t sound self-righteous, just matter-of-fact. I already knew she was a vegan from our emails. But I didn’t care about Flora’s diet. I was fixated on her knowledge that lunch was happening, the reality that a plan had been made without me. I had been here less than a day and was already failing.
We all ended up in Summerfields, the dining hall that topped Butterfield C like a blocky hat, a big group of us pushing tables together. Pathetically, I wanted to call my mom and tell her I’d made a mistake. I texted Billie instead. Help. The people here are so different.
She wrote back immediately, like she always did. Isn’t that the point?
A girl sat down beside me with a greasy grilled cheese sandwich, bringing with her a whiff of too-sweet perfume. Her hair looked like a Posh Spice imitation gone wrong. “I’m Ella Walden,” she said. “I’m just down the hall from you guys. How cool is this place?”
Somehow the shape of Ella next to me brought instant relief. She was pasty and chubby and unfashionable, the proof I needed that not everybody at Wesleyan was innately cool. I watched her eat the sandwich, both jealous of it and judgmental that she would eat something so calorie laden in public when she obviously had a few pounds to lose. I hated eating in front of anyone.
A loud fuck made my attention jerk up—it came from a girl at the head of our table, with wide eyes inside a tunnel of black eyeliner, a blond ponytail, and an oversized button-down that showed her lace bra. Her eyebrows, thick and dark, moved up and down animatedly as she talked, a stark contrast to the maniacally tweezed arches that marked the girls from my senior class. I tuned out Ella and studied those eyebrows, how they guarded her whole face, a face that instantly held everybody’s attention.
“Then Buddy was like, ‘Please don’t leave, I’ll do anything for you,’” she said, her voice throaty and deep. “And I said, ‘That’s the problem,’ and left.” Everybody laughed. I wondered if they all knew who Buddy was.