“Would you like to make a speech?” Owen says, holding the mic out.
Eggo takes hold of it and manoeuvres it under the stiff fabric of his helmet-mask. “Diglett, dig!” he squeaks.
Owen wrestles the mic back from him. “Oh-kaaaay.Now the prize for the best couple.”
Viv passes Owen another note, and Owen opens it.
“Congratulations . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Madeline Ashton and Helen Sharp, or as they’re also known, Orlando Oakham-Goodwin and Harry Ellis.”
“Get the fuck in!” shouts Harry from beside me.
I grab his hand, and we make our way to the front.
“Do you feel bonita?!” someone yells out. I think it’s Dan.
“I feel fucking muy bonita!” Harry screams, throwing his hands in the air, revealing sweat patches under each of his arms.
Nobody seems to care. His teammates are whooping and wolf-whistling.
Owen doesn’t offer us the mic to make speeches, and honestly, I can’t say that I blame him. Harry is sure to say something along the lines of,“Ha ha ha, in your face, Mathias Jones.”Not that Owen would have any inclination of Harry’s distaste for his boyfriend.
Or does he? Is it as obvious to everyone else as it is to me? I remember that video Daisy sent me months ago.“This is the lad who has beef with Matty.”
As our prize, the bar is opened for us and we hit it hard, drinking until the “last round” bell rings at two forty in the morning. When the lights come on, it feels like our eyeballs are being sandblasted, but we’ve spent the entire night wrapped up in each other’s arms. Nobody mentions it until Pi drunkenly stumbles back from the toilets. He grabs my arm and pulls me outside.
“Ew, did you wash your hands?” I say, brushing his damp fingers off my silk blouse.
“I really like you. I think you’re really good for him,” he says between hiccups. “But . . . you need to . . . wait, okay . . . don’t break his heart, okay?”
“No, that’s not how you’re supposed to threaten someone,” says an even drunker Dan, slurring his words. He appears to be waiting for a taxi.
“What am I supposed to say?” Pi asks Dan.
“You’re s’posed to say, ‘Don’t you fucking hurt him or I’ll beat the living shit out of you,’” he replies.
“Huh?” Pi looks like a puppy that got lost at the park.
“Say summat like, ‘If you don’t treat him proper, then Imma roundhouse kick you in the face,’” Dan says.
“Aren’t you the beloved captain of the Bath Centurions?” I say to Dan. “Imagine if the ordinary folk could hear you now.”
“Ooh!” Dan swings his eyes from me to Pi like he’s not heard a word I’ve said. “You could use the word ‘mangle.’ That’s a good word. I’ll mangle your face.”
“My face?” Pi asks, still confused.
“No . . . wait, Orlando’s face.”
Pi spins around to look at me. “Oh, yeah, that. Don’t be mean to him. I work out, and I’m older than you, and we all do sports.” Pi nods his head,convinced he’s got it bang on. He leans close, and hot boozy breath spills over my cheek. “Please treat him goodly.” Hiccup. “I think he loves you.”
A black taxi cab pulls up, and Dan climbs into the back seat with his wife. Pi drops my arm and rushes over.
“You getting in too?” Dan says, seeming nonplussed in both the UK and US meaning of the word.
“Wait!” Diglett says, running out of the pub holding onto his helmet. He hops into the front, and the car pulls away.
“Hey,” Harry says, joining me outside. His wig is lopsided, lipstick non-existent, and his eye makeup has smudged into his now bloodshot eyes.
“Hey,” I reply.
