‘That was a good night,’ I mused, the memory playing out in real time in my head. The dimly lit room with its miniature, tassel-hemmed lampshades lining the walls. The spindly wooden tables and chairs, the kind you see outside cafes on the cobbled streets of Paris, all empty as people jostled for space on the dance floor. The way Joe had spun me around until I was dizzy, his breath hot and sweet against the nape of my neck. How I’d somehow ended up atop the bar, arm in arm with two women I’d never met before, cancanning to the live band’s rendition of ‘Tu vuò fa’ l’americano’.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, that girl would not be hiding in the bathroom on a Saturday night.’
I looked down at my feet. ‘Well, maybe I’m not that girl anymore.’
‘Of course you are,’ Joe clapped back, his voice so sure. That made one of us.
‘I don’t know who I am without you, Joe,’ I admitted quietly, almost embarrassed to say the words. But they were the truth. Our lives had been tightly interwoven for so long that neither made sense without the other. But now there was a loose thread, the kind to slowly unravel everything that you’d built, like a piece of yarn dangling from the hem of a jumper. And here Iwas, unravelling. Joe crouched down, his knee doing that clicky thing it did whenever he took stairs two at a time. I sat on my hands, trying to resist the urge to reach out and trace his jawline with my fingers. Feel the familiar dip of his dimple beneath my thumb. I didn’t want him to go just yet. He waited until I lifted my head, his eyes pulling mine to his.
‘You are Jenny Thompson,’ he said, firmly. ‘And you’re going to get out there, drink a Sex on the Beach through a penis straw, and bloody well let your hair down.’
I smiled despite myself. ‘My hair’s already down.’
‘Umm, s’cuse me?’ slurred a voice to my right. Crap, I’d forgotten Black Stilettoes was still here.
‘Sorry, just on the phone.’ I winced at my own lie, banking on the fact she was too drunk to realise.
‘No problem, babes, it’s just you’ve got something of mine?’ A set of bright pink talons appeared under the partition, the kind that were so aggressively long I wondered how she even went to the toilet without causing herself serious injury. Joe snorted with laughter as the hand hovered expectantly between his ankles, the tips of her fingers fluttering impatiently. Our eyes found each other, and it was game over. A giggle bubbled from between my lips in one loud, hysterical burst, and I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stop it. Using a clean piece of toilet roll, I picked the condom packet off the floor and dropped it into Black Stilettoes’ outstretched fingers.
Okay, a couple of hours and then I can make a discreet exit without anyone noticing, I told myself, finally emerging from the safety of the bathroom and pulling on the cardigan I’d managed to stuff in my bag without Jacob noticing. The bar was rammed, the air vibrating with the carefree, louder-than-normal voices of people letting loose on a Saturday night, no 6 a.m. alarm clocks or work presentations to worry about thenext day. I navigated my way through the crowd, having no trouble finding our table thanks to the creepy, eyeless masks of my brother that all nine women were now sporting. I mentally adjusted the countdown in my head to ninety minutes. Kristina was the only one not wearing a mask, even though I could see several spares in the middle of the table. No doubt she didn’t want the cheap elastic ruining her voluminous blow-dry.
‘There you are, Jenny, what took you so long? Did someone get lucky in the bathroom?’ Kristina cackled. The multitude of empty shot glasses in front of her and the way one of her eyes took a while to catch up with the other – or maybe that was just the Botox? – told me she was already three sheets to the wind. I smiled tightly at her as I perched at the end of the booth, carefully crossing my ankles in that way I’d seen the Princess of Wales do on TV. Alyssa, who looked stunning in a white feather-cuffed jumpsuit that shimmered from every angle, was sat to my left.
‘I’m so glad you came tonight, Jenny.’ She beamed, turning her back to the rest of the group. ‘I hope you don’t think I was being insensitive at all by inviting you? I just thought, well—’
Her kohl-lined eyes desperately scanned my face in that way people do when they hope you’ll finish their sentence for them. Navigate them towards safe ground.
‘It’s fine,’ I reassured her, coming to her rescue. I must have saidit’s fineandI’m finea thousand times since the accident. Never have I said something so often that I didn’t mean. But when people ask, they don’t really want an answer. Not the real one, anyway. ‘I’m so happy for you and Matt, honestly – you deserve each other.’ Alyssa grasped my hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘So, Al, when are you and Matt going to start trying? Is a honeymoon baby on the cards?’ trilled a blonde-haired woman whose bright pink sash told me she was one of Alyssa’sbridesmaids. All the other women joined in, their excited murmurs like a pack of cooing hens. I bristled slightly at the blatant assumption. And from a woman at that. One who I’d bet all £207 in my bank account had felt the pressure of such assumptions herself, but who, now that she’d ticked the wife and mother boxes – judging by her nuclear family WhatsApp picture – had somehow forgotten the pain and stress such throwaway comments could cause. It’s like you turn 30 and immediately morph into the bloody crocodile from Peter Pan. Tick, tick, tick. I grabbed a tequila shot from the tray in front of me and knocked it back, shoving a lime wedge in my mouth to stop myself from saying something I might regret.
‘We’re not in a huge rush. I think we want to enjoy some time just the two of us first, you know?’ Alyssa smiled, adjusting her pearl-encrusted BRIDE-TO-BE sash with one hand. Nine blinking Matts and an eyebrow-twitching Kristina all stared back at her in dumb silence, as though she’d just admitted she liked drowning puppies for fun or went round cutting off little girls’ braids with a pair of kitchen scissors. Why do we do that? Take every casual comment or passing thought from a woman’s lips to be some giant statement for all womankind? Like we’re all cookies cut from the same rigid mould?
‘But obviously we want kids,’ Alyssa backtracked quickly, clearly feeling the need to reassure everyone. ‘Hopefully three. Two boys and a little girl.’ There was an almost audible sigh of relief around the table, everyone’s shoulders lowering an inch or two.
‘Ooh, a mini-Alyssa, I bet she’d have your eyes,’ the woman opposite me prophesied, sparking an animated conversation about possible baby names. I had to fake a coughing fit when someone suggested Blaze. Kristina, apparently as uninterested in playing the hypothetical baby-name game for Matt and Alyssa’s as yet unconceived children as I was, leaned across thetable.
‘Hannah, when are the strippers getting here?’ she stage-whispered, winking at Alyssa’s maid of honour.
‘I already told you, Kristina, there aren’t any strippers.’ Hannah sighed with the impatience of someone who’d already had this conversation multiple times. ‘It’s not that kind of hen do.’ Kristina looked like someone who’d just been told Santa Claus wasn’t real.
‘What?! I thought you were joking! Look, Hannah, I have not had sex for nine months.Nine longgg months,’ Kristina hissed angrily, her knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the table. Ha, so much for marital bliss! ‘There are only so many times a woman can readFiftyFuckingShades of Grey, and I’ve reached my bloody limit. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for some greased-up, muscular stranger to gyrate in my immediate vicinity for one evening!’
‘That singer keeps looking over here, maybe you can satisfy your – needs – there?’ Hannah suggested, diverting Kristina’s attention to the stage as we all shook with laughter. I glanced over at the raised platform, saying a silent prayer for the poor guitar-wielding musician that Kristina was now attempting to make eye contact with as she sucked suggestively from her penis straw. Wait, was that—?
Fuck.It was Luca. The guitar-wielding musician was Luca. Christ, could this night get any worse?! He was wearing all black – black t-shirt, black jeans with rips at the knees, black beaten-up leather jacket. And he was looking over at our table. At me, specifically. His dark eyebrows knitted together as he sang about broken hearts and first loves, clearly unsure whether itwasme or not.
‘I’m just going to get a drink,’ I mumbled to Alyssa, slipping out of the booth.
‘Oh, we’ve got another round coming—’ she began, but I wasalready halfway across the dance floor. I let the crowd swallow me up, breathing a sigh of relief when I reached the bar and could no longer feel the weight of Luca’s gaze on me. I held up a hand, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
‘Itisyou.’
I closed my eyes, taking a long, calming breath before turning to my left. Something told me I was going to need it. Luca’s mouth was curled into a victorious smirk, as if we’d been playing hide and seek and he’d just won. I watched his eyes, somehow even darker in the dim light, travel down the length of my body and back up with the speed of a seasoned pro, chasing goosebumps over my skin.
‘I’ll admit I didn’t recognise you there for a second, Thompson. You look—’ he paused, registering my I-dare-you-to-finish-that-sentence hand on hip ‘—different.’
My jaw clenched. So I looked a bit more together than all the other times he’d seen me – I’d brushed my hair for starters and yes, the clean clothes were probably also a first – but he didn’t have to be so obvious about it. I ignored him, leaning over the bar as I tried yet again to get the bartender’s attention. He was chatting to two women down the opposite end of the bar who kept flashing obvious looks at an oblivious Luca. One of them whispered something to her friend and she giggled, reaching for a cocktail napkin.
