I decide it’s best not to tell Paul that Miranda has already started secretly eyeing up wedding venues overseas and is biding her time until Paul proposes. She needs guaranteed sunshine on her big day, but hates beach weddings. Apparently this combo is a bit of a challenge, so she started looking ages ago. “She will say yes,” I tell him. It’s not in any doubt. I’d better start budgetingnow for an overseas wedding. Excitement for my friends bubbles up inside me.
“Shall we get wasted?” he says, as he downs his drink and scouts around for the cocktail list.
“Absolutely,” I reply.
An hour later I’ve had to leave half of my dinner on the plate, which is criminal, but I’ve gotten so small, thanks to George’s mammoth efforts to get me healthy, that I’ve no longer got room in my stomach to house the portions I ordered.
“How’s the new job going?” Paul asks.
“I love it. Love my boss. Love my co-workers. Love my pay packet.”
“Good, you can get this then,” he says with a sideways smile.
I throw a chip at him.
“I’m glad you went for that job. You nevergofor anything. So I’m pleased you went for that.”
I pause, my mouth halfway to the straw of my drink. “What?” I ask and sit back up again.
“Oh, you know what I mean. You never push yourself. Never really fight for anything—fight for what you want.” Paul slurps his drink noisily and I stare at him.
“Let me stop you right there. I just started a new job, remember,” I remind him.
“Because someone phoned you and told you to apply.”
Ouch! I pick my drink up, toy with the straw. Put the drink down again.
“What else don’t I fight for then?” The moment I say it, I wish I hadn’t.
“That American bloke. You didn’t get on a plane to see him.”
I feel my throat tighten. “He told me not to.”
“Pft!” Paul replies. “You got on another flight, though. With another man.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“It was a pre-booked holiday. I didn’t simply get on a flight toThailand. George and I had already planned it. And we went just as friends.” Although we didn’t come back just as friends, but I don’t say that.
“I notice George no longer comes out for Thai pub Saturdays,” Paul says, almost but not quite changing the subject.
“No, he’s so busy at work,” I say. “Summer’s here. Last-minute holiday bikini panics do lead a lot of girls to his door.”
We sip our drinks. These ones are practically milkshakes with copious amounts of Baileys dripped into them. Paul leans over, attacks the fries I’ve left in their little silver bowl, silently indicating to the waitress that she can leave my plate exactly where it remains as she helicopters past, attempting to take it. There’s a blond man queuing at the door, waiting for a table, and I look over and rest my gaze on the back of his head. He turns. It’s not Davey. Of course it’s not. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
“Do you love him?” Paul asks with a mouthful of my fries.
“Sorry?” I’ve been blown off course. George. He’s talking about George. “I’m not sure how to reply to that.”
He stops chewing. “With the truth,” he says, as if I’m simple.
I’m thinking and so I don’t immediately answer.
“Han, that’s a telling silence,” he says when he’s finished chewing.
“How does anyone really know if they’re in love? I think…I think it’s coming, gradually, y’know. I’m letting it grow, organically,” I say. “I do like him.”
Paul narrows his eyes, slurps his boozy milkshake slowly, the paper straw disintegrating into his drink.
“We’ve not said we love each other. We’re still just…sort of…seeing each other,” I clarify. Paul needs to talk now or I’m going to keep rambling.
