“Well, good luck for tomorrow,” says Jools. “I’ll be thinking of you. You’ll boss it.”
“Thank you. I hope so.”
“I know so.”
—
Our dinner is classic conference, whereby they seat delegates from the same company at different tables as a sort of icebreaker, although to be honest, the free wine mostly takes care of that anyway. I’ve found myself next to Jon, a graphic designer. He works for a rival agency in Shoreditch that I happen to know Zara absolutely loathes. After a couple of glasses of wine, he tells me he’s just found out his wife of eight years cheated on him with his best friend, a matter of months after they got together.
He’s blond and a bit manic, talks very fast. He might be high. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes are slightly crumpled, like being asked to look smart is an affront to his creative genius.
I’ve tried to go classy tonight in a midnight-blue knee-length lace dress, with capped sleeves and a high neck, plus the Jimmy Choos I wore for my date with Max, that night he got back from the Seychelles. I felt fancy earlier, when I stood dressed-up in front of the mirror in my room, so I sent Max a selfie, which he replied to with a string of complimentary messages.
“I mean, what I can’t figure out is, does it actuallymatter?” Jon’sasking me. He’s swaying a little as he speaks, like he might be about to face-plant into his panna cotta.
“Only you can answer that.”
“She keeps saying, ‘Ten years versus three months, Jon.’ ” He mimics his wife’s voice at a bitter, unflattering pitch. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t picture them together every time I shut my eyes.”
I sip my orange juice, blink away an image of my sister with Max. “Mmm-hmm.”
“You married, Lottie?”
“It’s Lucy, actually.”
He frowns. “Your place card says Lottie.”
I pick it up, waggle it at him. “Nope... it definitely says Lucy.”
“Okay,Lucy,” he says, like I’m being particularly obtuse. “You married?”
I shake my head.
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“So then you know.”
“Not... exactly.”
“Well, put yourself in my position. We’re creatives, aren’t we? Let’s use alittle imagination, for God’s sake.”
“All right,” I say curtly, because he’s talking to me as if this is all my fault.
“What would you do, if you were me?”
I glance at him, and it’s then that I notice there are tears clinging to his eyes, just waiting for him to blink so they can fall. I feel bad for him suddenly, recalling the anger I felt myself, when I first found out what my sister and Max had done.
I wait for a couple of moments. “If I were you... I’d go upstairs, drink a pint of water, and sleep it off. And whatever you do, don’t drink-dial your wife. Or your friend.”
He nods, and it’s hard to tell if he’s mulling this over, or if his mind has just popped off on a detour. “She loves that I have this job, you know.”
I guess it’s the latter. “Does she?” I say, weakly.
“Yeah. The money. The kudos. Shebragsabout it.”
“What does she do?”
