by Alam, Donna
‘Were you seeing anyone back then?’
I shake my head, perplexed by the doubt in Daisy’s tone. She knows I wasn’t. I haven’t dated anyone properly since we’ve been friends. Oh, there have been coffees and meetups, but nothing that’s lasted beyond a third date. I’m just fussy, according to my friends. But my issues run a little deeper than that, and those issue have become all-consuming since Haydn’s attack. I’d felt stripped bare, all my past and my problems available for everyone to gawk at.
‘Why on earth would you say you had a boyfriend?’ Despite my attempt at an explanation, Daisy still seems genuinely confused.
‘It just sort of slipped out.’ Palms in the air, I shrug. But my retort was my defence. A way not to feel like a freak in front of my peers as his accusation echoed in my head, twisting and turning until it became something else.
She doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She’s never had a boyfriend.
It’s because she’s unlovable.
‘Honestly, the words were out of my mouth before I’d even realised I’d said them. I don’t know who was more horrified, Haydn or me.’
‘Horrified that you had a boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know why. He just looked horrified.’ I had wondered since about his motives, wondered if he’s a gay man living in the closet because he’s as mean as can be to most of the women in the office, and worse still to me. Maybe he was upset that one more hetero normative male was off the market? I really don’t know. But I’m not thinking about him because, screw him. Figuratively at least.
‘And I suppose there will be people from work at this wedding?’
‘Urgh! Don’t remind me.’ Daisy’s takes one of my hands in hers, holding it as though I’m one of her little charges in need consolation after a playground tumble.
‘Oh, Heather. Faking a relationship is one thing, but turning a pretend boyfriend into reality for a day is something a little more complex.’
‘Don’t you think I know that already? Why do you think I was keeping Mr Boring Underbite around?’
‘You could fake a breakup,’ she offers with an optimistic pat. ‘A fake breakup of your fake relationship.’ Her expression twists as though trying to get her mind around her own suggestion.
‘I’d rather fake my own death and go and live in the jungle than give Haydn the satisfaction of seeing me turn up alone. I’m serious. Girls, I need a date. Preferably someone who’ll pretend to adore me for a few hours. Or at the very least, want to sit next to me for part of the night.’
‘Do you want to date?’ Daisy asks quite suddenly.
There’s a complicated answer to that question. One I can’t afford to focus on right now. ‘Let’s table that discussion for another time. I just need a date for one day—six hours tops. How hard can it be?’
‘I can ask Joe to see if he can think of anyone,’ Daisy suggests. But if there was someone, I’m sure I’d have met them in her fiancé’s friend circle by now. ‘Vee?’
Our friend shrugs, then shakes her head. Damn. I was sure if anyone could dig me out of this, it would be Vivi and her extensive social network.
‘Okay,’ she says, twisting her hair over her shoulder. ‘Let’s look at this from another angle. You need someone gorgeous to take you.’
‘But she just dated a bore with an underbite for this reason.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, sliding Daisy an eloquent look. ‘But I don’t need gorgeous.’ Gorgeous men appear to be more trouble than they’re worth. ‘As long as he doesn’t have terrible BO and look like the back end of a donkey, I’ll be happy. I’m not fussy. In fact, I prefer a face with a little character and less wow factor, anyway.’
‘Oh, the lies we tell ourselves,’ Vivi croons. ‘I say, if you’re going to fake a boyfriend, he may as well be a knockout.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. You need a handsome man on short notice, and while you need him to gaze at you besottedly, I’m guessing you don’t want him to try to get into your underwear at the end of the night.’
‘You beginning to make this sound like an impossible job.’
‘What I’m saying is you’ll need an incentive at the very least. And that’s usually the chance of getting into your underwear, even if we can find you someone.’
‘Negatory on the knicker fumbling,’ I reply, sort of karate chopping my hand through the air.
‘Is there an open bar?’ Daisy asks, seemingly apropos of nothing.
‘At the wedding? I’d imagine so.’ Poppy, the bride-to-be, is a daughter of the kind of wealthy family that seems to think a job is something a girl does between university and marriage, and that career is a grubby word. I’m also pretty sure after working with her for the last year and a half that she thinks the words work and job are not synonymous, but she left E11even a little while ago to concentrate on planning her wedding. I know; it’s like we’ve regressed to the Dark Ages or something. Maybe we should just give men clubs to knock us out and be done with it. It’s her life, I suppose. And she’s an absolute sweetheart—no one could fail to like her because she has a heart as big as her Birkin purse. I also like her more now that she’s not my assistant. Instead, I now have Emika, or Em, an eighteen-year-old intern who reminds me of myself at that age. Eager, willing, and tenacious, she even has similar taste in hair colours as mine. Well, back in the day.
‘In that case, ginger beard might be interested.’
‘Interested in what?’ Frankly, I’m confused what this has to do with beer.
‘If there’s a free bar, he might be interested in being your plus one.’
‘So not a compliment.’
‘What do you mean?’ she replies, her dark eyes innocently wide.
‘Oh, just the suggestion that I’m such a mess that I need to offer a night of free beer to get a date. Why not throw in a bucket of wings while you’re at it?’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she qualifies, taking a dainty sip from her glass. ‘Besides, weddings usually come with food.’
‘No, I think it’s good,’ Daisy agrees, making my jaw snap shut. Then Vivi takes my other hand in hers, effectively trapping me between my two friends.
‘Darling, no man in his right mind would need inducement to take you on a date, provided you were inclined. And on your best behaviour.’
‘I’m not a child, Vee. I’m just not very good at being hit on.’ And that’s the truth. When men try to chat me up, I turn into a shrew.
‘You have a week to find a date. And you want your first date to be at a wedding. For the pretty man to sit through a service and play nice at a wedding breakfast without the chance of even copping a feel. Of course you’re going to need an incentive. Which brings me back to Daisy’s question of the bar.’
I bite back the instinct to bring up the bucket of wings again.
‘I don’t like the idea of someone tagging along just to get pissed out of his skull.’
‘What was ginger beard’s name again?’ Daisy asks, ignoring me.
‘I don’t know,’ Vivi answers with tiny censorious shake of her head. ‘But more importantly, he’s a big guy, and big guys can usually hold their drink.’
‘You must know his name,’ Daisy says, the pair continuing their conversation over me. ‘You went out with him.’
‘Only for a coffee. Besides, it doesn’t do to give them names. You know, like with a stray dog you might find wandering the streets.’
‘Pardon?’
Vivi’s attention turns to me as though she’s just remembered I’m sitting next to her.
‘If you give a male casual acquaintance a name, they might think you’re intent on keeping them.’
‘But you wouldn’t be giving them names because they already have names.’ Presumably.
‘But that’s not how I remember them.’ She shrugs, a sort of one-shoulder affair as though the point has no significance. ‘Like ginger beard.’
‘Hey, enough of the ginger jokes. Ginger sitting here
,’ I say, pointing at myself.
‘Give it a rest. You’re strawberry blond. Besides, ginger is no longer an insult.’
‘I’m sure there are people who would argue.’ People like me.
‘And ginger beard doesn’t even have a ginger beard,’ Daisy offers with a chuckle.
‘Exactly! But because he’s so very pretty that after a couple of cocktails, I’d probably have taken him home, even if he’d had a ginger beard.’
‘Aha! Ginger discrimination!’ I cry melodramatically, which is really a way of covering up the fact that I just don’t get it. It being casual sex.
It’s beyond my comprehension and always has been. How does a person ever become comfortable enough with a complete stranger to take them home? Heck, how do they become comfortable enough with themselves, for that matter? It’s something I just can’t reconcile, something my brain won’t compute. How do they do it? How do they get naked and sweaty with someone they don’t know—therefore, they can’t trust—throwing their inhibitions and sense out the window in exchange for a quick roll on the bed. Or a sofa. Or even a wall, so I’ve heard. Blame Vee for knowledge of that last one.
‘He’s gorgeous and quite sweet, and that’s exactly the reason I met him over coffee. To see if we fit. Sadly, we didn’t. There was no spark. And then there was lefty—’
‘Because he’s left-handed?’ Maybe?
‘Because of his communist tendencies.’
‘How?’ Should I even ask?
‘He insisted we go Dutch. My soul mate wouldn’t make me pay for my own drink.’
‘Of course, he wouldn’t. Silly me.’ There’s little point in arguing because Vivi has very particular ideas when it comes to finding love. Despite her peculiar philosophies, she never wants for a date mainly because she looks like the result of a weekend bang-fest between Sophia Loren and the Archangel Gabriel. She also happens to be one of the brightest women I know, and like Daisy, she’s fiercely loyal. Even if she happens to enjoy teasing me.
‘And over previous months,’ Daisy adds with a titter, ‘I believe there has also been a Grumpy, a Dozy, and a Doc.’
‘She went out with all of Snow White’s cast-offs?’
‘If they were all on Tinder,’ our friend affirms. ‘Dating apps are an endless source of fascination. I’ve met so many interesting people.’
‘That’s like saying she watches porn just to see if the pizza delivery guy offers extra sausage,’ I mutter.
‘Hey, I’m here, you know,’ Vee protests.
‘Of course you are. And we love you for your little idiosyncrasies.’
‘Says the woman who was dumped by a man with a jaw like a bulldog.’
‘Ladies, ladies,’ Daisy placates.
‘I’d say ginger beard is a definite maybe.’ Vee, as usual, is like a dog with a bone. ‘He has such beautiful manners plus, as an artist, he’s bound to be dirt poor.’
‘Hence the incentive of a free bar, not the incentive of a night with me.’
‘But you’re not offering him a night with you, are you?’
‘Oh, but that’s an idea,’ Vivi adds quite suddenly. ‘You could book an escort.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ My answer hits the air so fast, it’s almost one word.
‘But it’s a brilliant idea! Hot, handsome, attentive, and all business. Whatever you want that business to be.’
‘I wouldn’t pay for that kind of business,’ I answer primly. ‘Not that I’d judge anyone else for doing so.’
‘Then it looks like you’re stuck with ginger beard, unless you have a straight acting gay best friend I don’t know about?’
‘All my friends are your friends,’ I bemoan, pulling my hands from both of theirs. I reach for the wine bottle, tipping the last few drops into my glass. Sadly, there’s so little, it’s not worth drinking. ‘Oh, what about the hottie at the coffee shop? The one who flirted with Joe?’
‘Which one?’ Daisy’s shoulders stiffen. As if her fiancé would ever be interested in anyone but her, let alone a penis-owning someone.
‘The gorgeous one—the blond. Come on, Vee, you spend almost as much time there as you do at work.’
‘That’s because the men behind that counter are the only men in my life who can anticipate my needs before I’ve opened my mouth.’
‘Because they sort of wank the steaming spout after every cup? Well, they do. Haven’t you noticed what they do with the cloth?’
‘Oh, God, you should go into comedy.’
‘Well, if that’s not what you meant, you’ve lost me.’
If only real life was like that sometimes.
‘I meant because the minute I walk into the place, one of them will say, I know exactly what you want.’ She sighs. ‘They say it so convincingly, too. God, that’s sad, isn’t it?’
‘No, that’s an indication that you spend too much time in there. Maybe if you drank less coffee, you’d have time to stop treating the men you date like speed dating contestants.’
‘You know my feeling on chemistry. If it’s not there, it’s not there. Why suffer through a whole evening if you know there’s no spark before your coffee has even cooled?’
‘What if chemistry takes more than fifteen minutes to reveal itself? You’ve been on a dozen dates this month and not one of them have lasted beyond the fifteen-minute mark.’
‘Because they weren’t worth the effort. No spark means no time invested.’
‘Well, whatever. I’m about to go and invest in another round of drinks.’
‘The birthday girl does not pay,’ Vee says as I stand. ‘I’ll come with you.’
2
Heather
We make our way from the secluded corner our table is in past tables of alcohol-infused patrons, clinking glasses, and happy hour revellers, through an archway and into the throng of the main bar.
‘God, it’s loud in here.’
‘Thursday night,’ Vee yells back over the din. ‘The eve of the eve of the weekend.’
We’d agreed to meet at The Swan today, on my actual birthday, rather than leave our meetup until the weekend, as it’s roughly equidistant from our places of work. I also tend to have birthday parties to run on Saturdays and Sundays, and Tinkerbell should never be hungover and in charge of thirty kids, and she shouldn’t emit stale booze from her pores. We must keep those little darlings living in la-la land.
I’ve been so looking forward to tonight, and while it’s always great to catch up with the girls, I’ve been wanting to visit this place since I read about it in one of the Sunday supplements. The article was right; there’s something a little jewellery box about it. Maybe the sapphire-coloured padded velvet walls, or the garnet-coloured leather banquettes, I’m not sure. It’s very luxe, but what intrigued me most was the mention of a portrait wall where a bevy of literary heavyweights stare down at the drinkers of South London. There’s also a literary-themed cocktail menu, which might explain why the portraits appear to be frowning down their disapproval.
‘It’s a universally acknowledged fact that a girl in charge of a credit card is in want of a round of drinks,’ Vee announces as we reach the rich mahogany bar, trying to squeeze between a row of emerald green velvet barstools. I grab a cocktail menu and begin to peruse the literary-inspired offerings.
Margarita Atwood. Tequila Mockingbird. Catcher in some Rye.
Oh well, at least the wine was decent.
‘Does it make you want to join a book club again?’
I bark out a laugh. ‘Life’s too short to read books other people think you should read.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t apply that ethos to wedding invitations.’
‘Har-har.’ I turn my attention back to the busy bar, not to be drawn into this again. I’m not going solo to a wedding filled with people I happen to have told I have a boyfriend. And tell them what? He was called away on business? I already feel ridiculed by my boss and have no intentions of adding the cherry to the top of his serve of shit.
Back when I’d received the invitation, I’d assumed I’d take one of the girls, but since I’d announced (loudly) that Haydn didn’t know what he was talking about, my colleagues have begun to ask me questions about my mystery man. Turns out, he is a bit of a mystery, even to me, so my answers have been vague at best, or else I’ve changed the subject and left people figuratively shaking their heads. I really can’t announce I’ll be going on my own now because apart from giving Haydn the opportunity to gloat, I’ll also be shoved on a table which will be, at best, a table full of people I have only one thing in common with; that great crime of being single. At worst, it’ll be a table full of oddballs and misfits. Not that I have anything against misfits. Hell, I’m a card-carrying member of their club, though it’s more like an online membership. One that I try not to advertise.
But worse than a singles table or an oddballs table is a fate worse than death; being placed at the same table as Haydn. On my own.
I’m beginning to wish I’d never been invited.
‘Why is it so busy in here?’ Vivi complains, waving her Mastercard over my shoulder in an attempt to get the barman’s attention. ‘Do you think their vests and bow ties are made from offcuts from the velvet wall?’ She suddenly squeezes through a gap created by someone leaving the bar. ‘Uniform aside, he’s quite cute,’ she adds, pointing the corner of her card at the barman in the amber-coloured crushed velvet vest and seventies-style bow tie. The other bar staff wear matching outfits in other jewel colours, the only female has her hair pushed up on one side in a sparkling barrette in a look that’s a little Veronica Lake.
‘Are you going to wet yourself?’ I ask, noticing she’s almost hopping from foot to foot.
She seems to consider her answer for a moment before answering. ‘My head says no but my pea-sized bladder seems to be screaming yes. Here.’ Leaning closer, she shoves her card in my hand as the girl next to us pulls a horrified face as she sort of shuffles off to the side.
‘You’re frightening the patrons of this fine establishment.’