Harriet's move-in was, admittedly, an adjustment. Emma liked to shower in the mornings, as did Harriet. They had different approaches to dirty dishes. Harriet practised her violin every day, which Emma had known she would, but did she always have to do it when Emma was having a quiet weekend, or just settling down with a book, or feeling exceptionally tired?

But they worked it out. Emma showered before breakfast, Harriet after. They both pledged to wash their mugs and bowls. Emma bought some noise-cancelling headphones. Within a few weeks they had settled into living together, and they were making plans for flatmate dinners and movie nights. She told George triumphantly that Harriet was becoming a close friend, to which he said he was glad to be proven wrong. That had taken the wind out of her sails.

Harriet invited her to one of her concerts. She played second violin in a string quartet made up of other musicians from the Royal College of Music, or College for short. The Sisley Quartet, as they were known, were performing at a random church in Holborn on Wednesday night. Emma agreed to go because the alternative was watching Love Island Australia alone.

The concert did not make her a classical music convert, but at least she could be proud that her friend was very talented. Afterwards, Harriet invited her to join them for a drink. Emma, feeling spontaneous, agreed and ended up in a local Wetherspoon's. She ordered a gin and tonic and sipped it as she was introduced to the other members: Augusta the first violinist, Rob the violist and Selina the cellist.

"Emma, are you musical?" asked Selina. They'd all been dressed in concert blacks, but afterwards everyone had changed into regular clothes. Selina's regular clothes were also black.

She laughed politely. "No, not really. I did a bit of piano when I was younger."

"Why did you stop?" asked Selina plainly.

Emma said casually, "I didn't love it, not like you all do. I never practised much."

"Why not?"

Emma blinked. "Well, I guess… in the beginning, I was good enough that I didn't have to, and then I just got stuck in that habit."

"No one is ever too good not to practice," said Selina seriously.

"No—of course, I know—I mean when I was younger."

"Emma sings well," Harriet said, as if this would earn her their approval. Couldn't they talk about something else? "She's a perfect soprano."

Augusta shrugged and inspected her nails. "Playing music is hard work." Then, looking right at Emma: "Not everyone is cut out for it."

Emma felt undeserving of such an attack. But no one else looked shocked at what Augusta had said. Perhaps they all felt the same way.

Rob said, good-naturedly, "Don't worry Emma, I get it. Practising sucks."

Harriet and Selina laughed; Augusta gave a thin-lipped smile. Rob winked at Emma and took a swig of his beer. Augusta began talking about a practice room debacle she had this week with a guy Emma didn't know but the rest of them did. Emma finished her drink and went to get another. When she came back, the conversation had moved onto gossip about people who'd been at College with them, to some recent College appointments, to the precarious future of the English National Opera. Emma knew about this last item and could contribute, but they shrugged off her comments as coming from an outsider.

A little later, she tried again. "It must be really difficult, being a musician. Of course, it's amazing to get to do what you love, but it isn't exactly secure. And you work so hard! I mean, Harriet practises for hours every day."

She said this last part with admiration, carefully removing any hint of annoyance she had ever felt about Harriet's practising. But the silence that followed showed her admiration was misplaced.

"Yes, we all do," said Augusta blankly. "Even Rob."

They all spoke at once. Emma said, "I didn't mean—I'm sure you all—" and Harriet said, "Emma was just being nice," and Rob said, "Well, 'practice' is an ambiguous term."

Emma had never talked about practising so much in her life. She feigned curiosity and asked, "Rob, what do you mean?"

Rob shrugged. "It's more about what we practise, or don't. Practising a piece is great. But musicians also have to do exercises and scales which work on technique, and this can be taxing."

"Oh God," said Augusta, cutting in. She groaned loudly, in a way that Emma found performative. "Not the S word. Not today."

Emma found her second transgression even more bewildering than her first. She looked to Harriet, who was no help. She saw Rob mouth something, but 'Ševčík' was a difficult word to say, let alone non-verbally communicate. The reader, of course, knows that Otakar Ševčík (1852–1934) was a violinist, whose volumes of written exercises for string players are still used today.

"Personally, I love them," said Selina, which Emma took to be a humblebrag. "I think they're so deservedly well-known. I only started doing them three months ago, after talking to Luca about it, but it's completely changed my playing—I have so much better control, and shifting is much more fluid…"

Emma stopped listening. She started again when Harriet was called on to give her opinion of left hand technique, but zoned out when the conversations split off into pairs. Her drink disappeared at an alarming rate. She thought about getting a third.

"Sorry, Emma," said Rob after a while. "This must be so boring. We're literally just talking about holding bows."

"Not at all," said Emma graciously. She seized her opportunity. "But I need to go now. It was lovely to meet you all, but I've got a big meeting tomorrow, and I have to get an early night…"

She was resolute and couldn't be persuaded for another. She assured Harriet, who clearly wanted to stay, that it wasn't very late and she'd be fine on her own. The Tube carriage when she stepped on was empty, and she stared at the dark windows as they rushed through tunnels.

She felt a little tipsy. She didn't drink often, because usually her face went red and everyone commented on it, but tonight she'd needed it to just get through. It had been even worse than hanging out with John and Isabella. Socially, she'd been a disaster. But what had she done, except quitting piano at thirteen, to make Augusta and Selina dislike her so much?

Normally, Emma wouldn't care. Augusta reminded her of some of the girls in school: blonde, with complete self-satisfaction and arrogance to spare. Selina's only conversation was classical music, which was a kind of arrogance too. Emma was hardly desperate for their friendship. In school this had happened all the time: other girls were mean or jealous or judgemental, and Emma had never let it affect her. Tonight, though, a voice that sounded suspiciously like George whispered: but how many times has this happened? How many times have you met people, decided they weren't worth it, and left it at that?

Augusta and Selina did have Harriet to recommend them. Reflecting on this, Emma tried to understand how they were friends. Harriet was sweet, modest and careful with her words. Augusta and Selina were humourless, arrogant and self-absorbed. She had to wonder if there was some competition between Harriet and Augusta, the two violinists. Emma couldn't see why anyone would choose to be second when they could be first. Augusta would agree with her there; that much they had in common.

Or maybe she'd had Harriet down wrong? Emma had thought of Harriet as a younger, shy, less worldly, less mature version of herself. For all they had in common, Harriet was still a student. Emma worked, managed the bills, dealt with the landlord and arranged for the cleaner. Older and more put together, she ought to have been ahead in every way. She was surprised that Harriet's life, insecure as it was, was far more populated than Emma's, even if those populating it were awful people.

Well, not all of them. Rob had been the only bearable one—though actually he was strange as well. At the end, he'd said he'd make sure Harriet got home safe, but didn't he live in Ealing? And what did he think could happen to Harriet on the ten-minute walk from the station to their flat, a walk which passed only nice, residential streets?

From the Tube stop, Emma walked home thinking about the complete failure of tonight's social interaction and her apparent dislikability. As she walked, her irritation grew. She hadn't forgotten George telling her she didn't have any female friends, as if it was so easy and she was such a failure. If anything, tonight had illustrated how hard it was for her. He'd been completely out of line in saying that. He had it so easy, with his flatmates and his five-a-side football team. Male friendship was just proximity and sports. Female friendship was nuanced, psychologically demanding, a delicate balance between similarities and overlap, between appreciation and envy…

Her phone started buzzing. Jolted by the interruption to her reverie, she dug it out of her pocket. There was only one person anyway that it could be.

"Hello," said Emma, her breath short. "I'm mad at you."

"Hello to you too," said George, his voice warm and slightly amused. "Is this a general madness, or did I do something?"

"It's you," said Emma, not entirely in jest. "Here's the backstory. I just went to the pub with Harriet's string quartet, and they absolutely hated me. Well, the girls did. And then I thought about when you told me I couldn't make friends with girls because, I don't know, I give off a bad vibe—"

"Emma, I didn't say anything like that. How many drinks have you had?"

"You implied it! When you said that I didn't have any female friends, so be careful about Harriet, lest I drive her away." She'd reached her flat now and was digging around in her bag for her keys.

"Emma, where are these accusations coming from?"

"I don't know!" she said. "I met some new people tonight, and they were awful. But how much longer can I keep saying that about everyone I meet before I'm the problem?"

"Should we be having this conversation over the phone?"

"You were the one who called!"

"Not to talk about this! I just wanted a nice chat about Emily in Paris."

"Well, I'm not in the mood," she snapped. She finally got the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She kicked off her shoes and threw herself onto the sofa. The silence in her flat seemed to rebuke her, and she began to consider she might have been unfair to George. She quietly waited for his reply.

"Fine," he said. "I told you to be careful about being friends with Harriet, because you were so obviously putting all your hopes and dreams about a new best friend on her, and I was trying to warn you against that. She isn't Annie, Emma, and this isn't how to go about replacing her, especially since you haven't lost Annie either. I don't know where you got all this other stuff from. Of course I think you can make friends. I really—anyone would be lucky to have you."

There was a pause. Emma stared at the ceiling.

"I've lost Annie a little," she said. Her voice was small. "I'm not complaining. This is what happens when your friend gets into a relationship. And I like West, and I'm not complaining, and I know this is adult life or whatever. But things are just—they're so different."

"I know," said George. There was another pause. "But that can be exciting? You'd never have been able to do this before. You would've been home before ten so your dad didn't freak out."

Emma sighed. "I don't know. I would rather have been at home, watching Antiques Roadshow."

"Emma, what actually happened tonight?"

"I met some people who didn't like me, and Harriet was different, and it was just awful. I mean, nothing bad happened. But it was awful."

"You never used to care about that."

"I know. But now it's so much harder to be sure of myself."

"If I can give you one piece of advice, Emma—"

She felt irritation flaring up again. "George, if it's a football metaphor, I swear—"

"I'm sure of you. Even when you aren't."

Compliments were rare from George. Theirs was a friendship that subsisted on mutual insults, ordering takeout and talking for hours about Star Wars conspiracy theories. The nicest thing she'd ever said to him was probably years ago, after his breakup. The nicest thing he'd ever said to her was probably cloaked as criticism. This compliment was brief and not very demonstrative, but Emma still felt a profound lightness settle over her.

"Okay," she said. "I'll bear that in mind."

The next day, Emma worked from home. Having slept on it, she realised she didn't care about Augusta or Selina, but she did have an idea of a much better social occasion for she and Harriet to bond.

She heard Harriet leave in the morning and get back after lunch. She went into the kitchen and caught Harriet as she was making tea. "Ooh, is there enough in the kettle for me?"

"Of course," said Harriet. She took Emma's mug from the cupboard and put in a teabag. "How are you?"

"Good," said Emma. "I've had an idea." She paused for dramatic effect.

"Oh, what is it?"

Emma looked at her with triumph. "We should throw a housewarming!"

Harriet's eyes lit up. "Yes! We should!"

"I never did one when I first moved in, but now that I feel more settled I think it could be really fun. We can have some music and dancing—the living room has enough space, and the kitchen can be a more relaxed area—"

"We can organise some food, some drinks…"

"We can invite people from uni, life, work too…"

"Can I invite my quartet?" said Harriet.

"Of course," said Emma magnanimously. "It's your housewarming too."

"This is so exciting!" said Harriet. "I actually have a free Saturday next week. Oh, but Augusta and Selina won't be able to come then! They're performing in the College orchestra."

"Oh, what a shame," said Emma. "But I think having it three weeks away would just be too far. It's meant to be a housewarming, after all. And you've already lived here for a month."

This was sufficiently persuasive to avert the danger. "You're right," said Harriet. "Well, I'll invite Rob and some other friends. It won't be a big party, will it?"

"Definitely not," said Emma, who was not sure she'd be able to throw a big party even if she tried. "Just close friends." Annie and West, of course. George and his flatmates and their partners. Would Frank come? Were they close enough for her to ask?

"It's going to be great," said Emma. "I can't wait."

A/N: The pub that Emma goes to is the Shakespeare's Head in Holborn, north London. English National Opera (ENO) have recently had their funding entirely cut, which has thrown their future into serious jeopardy.

Augusta and Selina are, of course, Mrs Elton and her famous sister Selina Suckling.

Next time, the arrival of a certain FC and a housewarming you won't forget...

As always, find me on Tumblr at larkspurlistens!