We Might Regret This review: An unflinching tale about a tetraplegic artist and her best friend

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“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” wrote Robert Frost, in a poem that has terrorised schoolchildren for a century. Frost’s vision of the crucial junctures of existence – of the ambivalence towards the roads, both followed and avoided – has become our defining metaphor of regret. But modern life isn’t a “yellow wood”, with a couple of dusty paths splitting like a divining rod. Modern life is a spaghetti junction. And it’s this tangle of possibilities that governs We Might Regret This, a new BBC Two comedy-drama about friends and family, work and play, and the inconvenient spaces in between.

Freya (Kyla Harris) is a Canadian artist and tetraplegic, meaning she has paralysis that affects the arms and legs, who has relocated to London to live with her older boyfriend, Abe (Darren Boyd). They have a comfy, middle-class lifestyle, but Freya also requires round-the-clock care. That’s where her estranged friend Jo (Elena Saurel) comes in. Showing up very early for a party (“What’s 10 hours between friends?” she asks Abe; “About 10 hours,” he replies), she ingratiates her way into a role as Freya’s personal assistant. And that’s the source of the speculative regret: will they come to rue this blurring of their friendship with a professional relationship? How will Freya cope with vulnerability around her brash bestie? And how will Jo handle a transactional and, at times, demanding occupation?

An added complexity is the presence of Abe’s other family: his ex-wife Jane (Sally Phillips) and their tricky son Levi (Edward Bluemel). They are a family dealing with the legacy of grief and the breakdown of their core unit, and Levi, particularly, is struggling to find a place in the world. “Twenty-eight is a notoriously hard age for a little boy,” he quips. It’s all modern and messy, and Harris, who writes as well as stars, and co-creator Lee Getty have assembled a talented cast to bring this together. Reuniting Smack the Pony co-stars Boyd and Phillips grounds the show in world-weary, suburban cynicism, while Saurel blows in like a hurricane – half-Brit Marling, half-Jemima Kirke – and adds a dollop of North American charisma.

Co-writers Harris and Getty have excellent command over the emotional crux of the story. Freya’s relationships with both Abe and Jo are convincing and well played (though, at times, the tension in the former feels a touch confected). The portrayal of a difficult friendship being pushed to its limits is compelling. Can a compromise be found between their physical and emotional needs? Can their dynamic bend without breaking? More challenging is finding the comedy in the situation. There’s plenty of glib humour – particularly from sarky Freya and manic Levi – but an absence of big laughs. Guest stars like Lolly Adefope and Tim Key bring moments where the comedy stretches into something broader, but, at its best, We Might Regret This has a tone that embraces the chaos of farce without relying on the narrative disruption.

As a portrayal of life with a disability – something which the show consciously lampoons, as Freya becomes involved in the world of body-positivity modelling – it is unflinching yet accessible. This is not a story of incidental disability: Freya’s tetraplegia is the governing narrative force. “She’s half his age, but she uses a wheelchair,” Jane tells her therapist, of her ex-husband’s new squeeze. “So, you know, swings and roundabouts.” In a sea of shows about inclusivity, it is refreshing to see one that embraces the exclusivity: the adaptations necessitated, the care required, the subtle uniqueness of each person in each position. Equally, We Might Regret This doesn’t shy away from a candid depiction of care work (an industry in crisis) and the toll it can take.

Dealing with social issues without becoming consumed by them is a delicate prescription for new writers. Harris and Getty manage to walk that line. We Might Regret This might not have the laugh-out-loud moments of tonal siblings like Catastrophe or Motherland, but it has something else. Human and humane, it captures the struggle of reliance, and spins it in a distinctive, and authoritative, way.