Welcoming Everyone Nastily | Lucy Judd

Dear Emily,

Thank you. Your list of suggestions on how I may better spend my time is compelling. My problem—and I don’t want to sound rude—is that I don’t tend to like people. Stinkers—and those are the few I let near. So, with that in mind, a get-to-know-you party with my new neighbours is a horrible idea. I know, I know, that is what you expect me to say. In reality, it is a timing issue. You see, I feel like I’m hosting a never-ending party in my head. And I’m not sure how I’d fit anyone else in. Every version I like—or don’t—of myself is having a ball up there. But to hell with exhaustion! Let's have a goddam party.
But who would I invite? Myself? And…? Come to think of it, Myself is a start. A good start, no? Savouring solitude, the summer breeze spilling in over the window sill, curtains lifting casting shadows over my page—I lift a glass of Margaux to my lips. So, yes: why not?
I’ll tell you why not. Let me introduce you to Myself. To all of us. Think of these versions, memories of me, as dresses I’ve worn, discarded, yet live—rent free—in my mind. Picture me, happily reading, for, oh… a minute… maybe ten, before a shimmering red dress wanders by. Cut expertly, it is whimsical. Playfully odd in shape, it matches the relaxed face floating high above the exquisite resting bodice. Part of me wants to grab the damn hula-hoop and push it out of the window. Sitting—well, perching—on the side of an armchair, she tilts her chin at me. Time for a game, she says in the same voice used when interrupting my homework.
Well! Hello! Swanning into the room is a floor-length silver dress covered with tiny stitches so delicate the eye only notices the magnificent effect the dress has on the body. Did I hear game?
I certainly did, says a voice from the chess table by the huge fireplace. Glancing over, my eye is caught by hammered black silk, floating down to simple ballet flats, one of which is tapping the wooden floor. Shoulders back, a smile swings like a rocking chair across the face. You will remember this one, Emily—New Year's Eve ten years ago in Manhattan?—when we were ruthlessly mean to anyone suggesting we no longer looked twenty.
Plonking down in the opposite chair, a tracksuit-wearing, gappy-toothed outfit smirks at the board. The tracksuit—I know, bad enough—but why did it need to be fluorescent green? Jerking a knee, the chess pieces tumble over the black and white squares. Christ, I was a sod.
Drawing my eyes to the page, my vision swims back through three new colours: two shades of pink and a dusty mustard. Glasses clink. Voices lift. The scratch of a lighter as a dress lights up a cigarette. The record player starts—Well, at least it covers the pinks spitting gossip with warm cheer in the corner, the flushed faces contorted, though funnily, not in the same way. The red dress begins to dance a wild polka with a poofy dress, um, yep—whole other story. Shrieking, they whirl along the book-lined room, elegant as they gallop past the open windows towards the fireplace.
A ripped navy gown shivers on the stone hearth. Huddled tightly, face hidden, I see the material tremble. Forcing my eyes away, I lock them on the pounding legs of the dancing pair. I see nothing.
There are three windows, all sash and possessing an unsettling ability to make you feel they’d do very nicely should the guillotine ever malfunction. No, of course they don’t still have one. No more than Canterbury’s ducking stool ever falls towards the River Stour. Do you remember how enticing the river is just there? The current trips and turns through the still waters as it cuts its way towards the sluice.
A pop sounds in the hall. Emily, do you remember that tiny, rainbow-coloured sparkly thing? Two bibs tied at the hips? Well, in it struts, pouring champagne and promising that the vintage will improve by the glass. Even with the noise, I do secretly wonder where my next dress is. Will it be here? Could it be? I haven’t made a single friend. Sure, here I can write. But all those dresses partying in my head… Their chatter is only drowned out by my damn anxieties, here to remind me I failed at something I thought I’d forgotten. Like the dress huddled by the fireplace. Or a long, white satin, sailing down the room towards me. There it is, the somebody I thought I’d buried.
Growing tired of the din, I rise, snap my book shut, and toss it on the chair. I pad to the French doors, my bare feet spreading wide. On my way, I pass two foolish would-be-sophisticates from the Penguin Cafe. I frown to mask my desire—Christ—I wish we were still there, swinging around carelessly in bars. Pushing open the doors, I step outside. The intoxicating scent of sweet vanilla hay encircles me, drawing me further into the warm, evening air. Toes dangling over the edge of the veranda I look out over the tall waving grasses, rippling around in a wave, playing with the breeze. The blinking sun yawns, and the light disappears momentarily beneath the wildflowers. Intensifying, it turns the grass to spun gold then slowly withdraws its shimmering glow from my forearms.
In my mind, let’s say I am wearing a floor-length emerald dress. So you can picture it: I’m wearing Keira Knightley’s green dress. I feel the heat of the party on my bare shoulders. The electric lights stream into the garden, attracting every damn bug within blinking distance. Before me, winding up the dusty drive, a car’s headlamps glare. Oh lord, I mutter to the winged things—wishing I’d thought to bring my drink along—then at least I could fly off into the grasses with them. Well, why not? A hand raises from the driver’s window, a crisp salute. It's him, that ogre I met in Paris. Never thought he’d actually track me dow—and certainly not here. I feel caught. All I can think is, I need a break! It’s a shock to see someone real.
My back lit by the party, my front by the headlamps. I am held between the two with nothing to do but scuttle sideways. I dash down the terrace and chase after the golden glow. I jump barefoot down the mossy steps and plunge into the cool garden. The space welcomes me. Tearing through the grass, heavy at first, but, as distance forms between me and the house, my weight shifts and I almost skip. I wander, slowing, through the delicate wildflowers. As they bob, I feel free. I trail my fingertips through the grasses, wishing I could bury myself in them.
The image of my memories—those damn dresses—resting in a stupor fills my head.
A person appears at the far end of the garden, striding through the thicket. My feet eat up the space between us until I hurtle into his open arms. God, Emily, he felt wonderfully real. We stroll and laugh over his charming inability to find my place. Poor thing, I think, wincing for it occurs to me that, had it been the other way around, had it been the ogre lost in the lane, I’d only have found this irritating.
As we climb the steps to the veranda, the shadows wave. Could the ogre’s lights have been reflections from the house? I hopefully wonder. No such luck. He is sitting on the sofa, leafing through my book: one leg resting on the other, he tilts a glass rhythmically between forefinger and thumb, the golden liquor sloshing between the sides. His smile, too broad; his teeth, too white; his cheeks… as bright as his damn headlamps. Am I too welcoming? I wonder. Is it ever possible to end up with just who you want to see? A party would open me to seeing anyone, everyone. Is nobody worse? Perhaps I’m better off with those ransacking my mind. Welcoming no one nicely, welcoming everyone nastily. Which is sincere? My head is tired. You’d think I could switch it off, but the room is full of dresses dancing and chatting as they waste time. Goodnight, I demand. Santé, they cheer, raising their gilt-rimmed glasses to one another.
I look strange, singular, I think, staring into a landscape picture hanging on the wall. The chatter of the dresses in my head stops. They look at our face through our two eyes. Are they real versions of me or fictions? I wonder.
I turn to the two men—one wanted, one not—and sit, watching for dawn.
So you see, Emily, a party is happening. But I don’t think anyone is having a good time.

Lucy Judd is a British writer currently working on a novel. Her fiction has been published by Low Hanging Fruit and featured on BBC Radio and The Laureate of Words Show. Lucy has been selected for Exeter's Northcott Theatre Elevate playwriting programme 2026. Her short stories have been shortlisted/long-listed by Wells Festival of Literature, Full House Literary and Mslexia. Lucy has a Master's from Imperial College and UCL.

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