“I thought,” she says, spinning in my hold without going far, “we might need some liquid courage to help us get through tonight. Or, at least, until we can take full advantage of the free bar. What do you say?”
My face scrunches up of its own accord. “Is that tequila?”
“Sure is. The very drink that brought us together.”
I laugh at that, peering over Calla’s shoulder as she haphazardly slices into a lime. “Where’s the salt?”
“Top cupboard.”
Sprinkling a little onto each of our hands, I accept the shot and my lime wedge.
“Eyes on each other, remember? Otherwise, it’s ten years bad sex.”
Keeping my gaze on Calla’s, I raise my hand to my mouth, lick off the salt, knock back the tequila and shove the tart lime between my lips. “We can’t be having that, can we?”
Calla follows the same routine, her kiss-bitten lips pursing, lines bracketing her mouth as the bitterness sets in.
“No,” she all but chokes out. “No, we can’t.”
After reapplying her lipstick, Calla and I catch a tube to the large hall where the charity gala is being held on the outskirts of Soho.
Keeping a steady hand upon the base of her spine, we duck into the grand entrance, which is swathed in opulent gold furnishings and expensive looking artwork, the imposing stares of unfamiliar dukes and other royalty peering down at us.
We’ve hardly been waiting a minute or two before a dapper looking gentleman appears, crossing Calla’s name from the list in his hand and leading us to our seats with a well-practised smile.
The inside of the great hall is just as expensive looking as the outside; the flooring polished until I swear, I can see my own reflection. Golden archways, decorated with sculptures of cherubs and the apostles, leading off to darkened corridors.
I slide into the chair beside Calla, noticing the nametag resting on the luxurious violet coloured tablecloth in front of me.
Mr Blake Millen.
Calla turns to politely greet the woman sitting to her left and when I’m sure nobody else is looking, I make a grab for my nametag, stuffing it into the pocket of my suit jacket.
I don’t want any attention tonight, not if I can help it.
A small hand grazes my upper thigh, pulling me back to the here and now, the waft of Calla’s perfume, familiar and spicy, tickling my nose.
“Dinner isn’t going to be served for at least another hour yet. Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”
I nod, taking her outstretched hand.
Inquisitive stares burn into the back of my head, and I fight the urge to shrink back, to make myself smaller, to get them to stop looking. Instead, I squeeze Calla’s hand and stand tall, my spine straight, chin up.
What’s that saying? Fake it until you make it?
At least the grin on my lips isn’t faux when Calla introduces me as her boyfriend to the handful of people milling about the bar.
I order a whisky on the rocks and Calla a fruity looking cocktail, before I strike up a cordial conversation with a man, whose name I’ve already forgotten, when Calla presses her tight body against mine, her lips inches away from the shell of my ear. “You’ll be okay if I leave you for a second, won’t you? The girls—”
Peering over my broad shoulder, I find a group of well-dressed women standing in a circle, a space leftover for Calla as they wait for her to join them.
“I’ll be fine,” I promise, taking a small sip from my glass of whisky. “Come find me when you’re ready.”
A quick peck to my lips, a reassuring hand tightening around my upper bicep and Calla is gone, replaced bybusinessmen in tight fitting suits and comb overs to hide their already thinning hair.
They launch into a conversation I have no real interest in – stock market this and bitcoin that – leaving me in the dust. At least, I try to nod and hum and appear interested in all the correct places, for Calla’s sake, but boredom sets in, leaving me with nothing to do but sip at my whisky until it’s almost all gone.
I order another from the free bar, only realising one of the men must have asked me something when the rest of them fall silent, each looking at me, waiting for my answer.
