Oh, shit. It’s happening again. How have I allowed this to happen again? No, it’s fine. It isn’t happening. We’ve discussed this. He specifically told me that we would avoid the fake-dating scenario.
But then, is that why what didn’t happen last night had happened? Was he making a move to become my happenstance boyfriend while our friends carry on? I’m a pretty safe bet, from his perspective. Maybe he thought I’d give him a grateful blowjob.
That’s ungenerous and a completely factless assertion. He deserves better than that.
Unless I imagined anything coming from his end, in which case from his perspective I threw myself at him and he humoured me to save me from embarrassment. But why be so nice? Oh, right. Because I’m a charity case who basically forced him.
All right, there is no way in hell that I am ever going to go anywhere near Arthur in a romantic and/or sexual manner. There will not even be awhiffof Eau de Fake Dating. A line has been drawn. A strictly platonic line keeping us much more than a foot apart. A line that will prevent incidental or not-so incidental touching.
Bee doesn’t wait for an answer, but presumably my consent(and Arthur’s) to this next step in our relationship isn’t required.
‘Oh my god, did I tell you that William bought my favourite body wash and face wash to keep at his house for when I’m there? Like, he just saw what was here when he stayed here and then just went and bought it. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?’
‘Absolutely! The sweetest.’
‘I think it’s really serious.’
‘I think so too. I’m happy for you, Bee.’
‘I’m happy for me too!’
IT TAKES SEVERALdays for my voice to truly return, the rasp at the back of my throat a constant reminder of an evening I would rather forget.
No. That’s a lie. Or…it isn’t wholly true. I don’t want to forget how freeing it was to toss around my damp and matted hair and look like an ass with no other agenda than to please myself.
I would instead prefer to forget the fact that I got a little bit of someone else’s vomit on my wrist and essentially threw myself at someone who is patently not interested because I am apparently incapable of breaking old patterns of behaviour.
I haven’t spoken to Arthur since. Two days after the incident, he sent one (1) gif featuring Donkey fromShrekwailing about not being able to feel his toes (‘I don’thaveany toes!’). I took that to mean his feet were sore from all the dancing. Which is a bit left field, since to my knowledge wehave never discussedShrek,and dancing was the least of our issues during karaoke.
I heart it, then close the app.
In the locker area at work, I am now more open than I once was to having a chat while getting ready. The colleagues who weren’t there to witness my actual attendance at after-work drinks at Nicole’s gave me suspicious side-eye at first. Like I was a double agent or something, spying for management. But when they saw the drinks crew chat with me like we were old friends, I fell into their easy rhythm. Friendships move fast in hospo, Stewart tells me. It’s a pressure cooker. He laughs at his cooking pun. I do too.
Reg burst into giggles in response to my croaked greeting. ‘What haveyoubeen doing?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow and poking a tongue into his cheek. He has a knack for making even the tamest of situations inappropriately sexual. I don’t answer, which he takes as confirmation. ‘Yes, Gertie! Get it!’
I probably should correct him, but it’s kind of fun to have something to gossip about, even if it is totally pretend. Reg puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘If you ever want to share details, I’m all ears. I am a sad old married man now, and I need to live vicariously through you hot young things.’
I shrug off his hand. ‘Oh, fuck off, Reg! I’ve seen your husband, he looks like a young Ricky Martin. Sad old married man my ass.’
He considers for a moment and then says, ‘Yeah, you’re right. You could probably learn a thing or two from me, actually.’
‘Feel free to share that hard-won wisdom anytime you like.’I run a finger tenderly over my dried and cracked lips and take the lid off my lipstick and swipe it on without a mirror.
‘I can’t just be giving that shit away for free. I will accept free leftover champagne after work as payment only.’
‘Sure thing, Reggie.’ I blow a kiss, and he makes a cheesy show of catching it.
In flies Nicole, hair everywhere, uniform unironed, clutching her phone. Chaos personified. ‘I booked tickets!’ she cries.
That is the last breath that Nicole takes for the next sevenish minutes. To be honest, I glaze over a little bit in the middle, but the gist is: Europe. Premium economy. Four months. Three girlfriends. Italy, France, Spain, Greece. Places I have only seen in Mary-Kate and Ashley movies. I went to Bali when I was twelve. We mostly stayed at the resort. My passport isn’t even valid anymore.
Travelling is off the cards for a number of reasons (the number of my bank balance, the number of my direct rent debit, the number on my regular transfer to Bee for all the other bills…). I listened to a podcast once that Bee recommended that said that comparison is the thief of joy, and I don’t begrudge Nicole her own joy, but I might be comparing a bit, and I might be envious. Just a bit. I’ll have to live vicariously, like Reg. So I nod and smile and push any other emotions down to my feet where they belong.
Nicole is tying her thin hair into a ponytail when Bee enters the room, typing a hurried text. She looks busy and pissy. ‘Hurry up, everyone. We are briefing in five minutes, and you haven’t even started cutting limes yet.’ She looks up. ‘Oh, Gertrude! William just texted saying he made a late bookingat Farina. I’ll probably stay at his after, so don’t expect me home. We can debrief tomorrow night over pho?’ She glances back towards everyone else in the room. ‘Two minutes! And go shave, Sam. You missed a giant spot under your nose.’ She walks out, leaving behind only the lingering traces of her Baccarat Rouge 540 and disgruntled looks on six of the seven faces present.
Sam thrusts his two middle fingers at her back with feeling. I look at him. He looks at me. And I think I’ve upset some very delicate ecosystem by being here to see his outburst as opposed to out there, early for the briefing and cutting limes for my best friend.
I laugh, all light and glittery, and it echoes around this tense glass box we’re in instead of shattering it. ‘Come on, guys. I told you before. I know perfectly well that my Bee isn’tyourBee.’ The words feel a bit wrong on my tongue, like I’m betraying Bee by not coming at them with a full-throated defence. But I justify it in real time by reminding myself that she doesn’t much like them either. It’s a mutual non-admiration society.
