And yet here I am, walking through the club, surrounded by beautiful people who look like they’ve been picked straight off their busy Instagram grids. It’s a weird feeling, like I’ve somehow wandered on to the set of a movie, but I’m trying my best to blend in.
To play it safe, I opted for an outfit that screams ‘I totally belong here, honest’. A sleek black jumpsuit with a plunging neckline (I know, not demure, not mindful at all…) paired with a tailored leather jacket that’s warm enough to survive the chilly January weather outside. My boots are designer knock-offs, but they’re the best ones you can get without actually being designer, and my hair is styled in loose waves that I’m hoping read aseffortlessly cool and chic. It is just hair, though, so who knows if I’m pulling it off.
You don’t have to look far to spot a famous face – and while it could be a good idea to take a famous person to the wedding (assuming I could talk one into it – doubtful) because they could totally overshadow the whole thing, it’s also possible that Seph and Chester might think it’s cool, like it would give them street cred, even as a novelty, so that might backfire. I need someone more like them, some old-money A-hole. Someone well off, someone full of it, someone who will compete with them and annoy them and make them feel bad about themselves so that they can see how it feels. I don’t know how I’m going to find someone like that, but I’m going to try.
I make my way to the bar, feeling a little out of place as I order a drink.
‘One porno martini, please,’ I say, reading the edgy name from the menu.
The barman looks at me like he’s sizing me up, but then nods and gets to work.
A moment later, he slides the drink over and says, ‘That’ll be £32.’
It’s funny, that it’s called a porno, because I really feel like I’m getting fucked. £32 for one drink? Wild.
I take a sip (it’s nice, but £32, come on!) as I wander around the club, trying to look like I belong here. But as I weave through the crowd, it quickly becomes apparent that I’m invisible. No one makes eye contact, no one smiles or nods in my direction. It’s like they can all sense that I’m not one of them, like rich people have some kind of sixth sense for spotting impostors. Which is ironic, really, because I feel like a ghost right now.
As I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to pick someone out and actually get them to talk to me – and that’s before I convince them to be my wedding date – I feel a hand on my arm.
‘Hey, you,’ a voice says, and I spin around, my heart leaping at the possibility of a man approaching me. But then I realise it’s someone I know.
‘Oh my gosh, Fergus, hello,’ I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.
Fergus leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
‘It’s been forever, Lana. How are you?’ he asks.
I smile, a little awkwardly.
‘I’m doing great. How about you?’ I ask.
‘I’m good, I’m good,’ he says, nodding. ‘Well, apart from a knee injury that put an end to the old ruggers career. Now I just play for fun, but I’m doing all right. It’s so good to see you. Can I buy you another drink when you’re finished with that one?’
I glance at my half-empty glass (ha! I told you I was a pessimist), and I know that I can’t really afford to keep up with the drink prices here. ‘Sure, thanks. That would be great.’
It’s worth pointing out, at this point, how I know Fergus, because it explains why I’m feeling slightly awkward. Fergus is Seph’s ex-boyfriend.
‘Let’s grab a seat, catch up a bit,’ Fergus suggests, and I follow him to a quiet corner where we can talk.
We settle into a plush, dimly lit booth.
‘How’s the family?’ he asks.
‘They’re all fine,’ I reply, not really wanting to dive into that particular topic.
‘Good, good,’ he says, nodding again. There’s a pause, and then he looks at me with a smile. ‘You’re looking good, Lana. I always really liked you, you know? You were different from the rest of your family.’
I laugh, though there’s an edge to it.
‘I know I’m different. But people who know my family don’t usually think that’s a good thing,’ I point out.
Fergus shakes his head, his expression softening.
‘No, I mean it as a compliment. You’re… normal,’ he tells me. Erm, is that a compliment? ‘And in our circle, that’s rare. Most of the people we grew up with are a bit mental, honestly.’
I can’t help but laugh at that.
‘Yeah, I guess they are,’ I reply.
