‘Me too.’
‘I think we got really lucky in our flat.’
‘Definitely,’ I reply. ‘I think we got really lucky with ourblock.’ I take the bottles and hand over my twenty, wait for my change and hand Ben two bottles to carry back. We got the party started in the flat long before we went out, operating an open-door policy so that some of the other flats could party with us. So now we’re already buzzing on the excitement of the past few days settling in, and on the vodka my mum left as a flat-warming treat. These bottles of noxious nuclear booze are hitting the spot, though.
Ben and I move away from the bar and back towards our friends. Liv’s gallantly taken over my duties, holding on to Ollie, swaying with him drunkenly to the beat, and he looks as if he’s enjoying himself now, one hand on her back as she grinds into him. Actually he looks a bit bemused.
He glances at me, stretches his hand out and I palm him his drink. Liv turns, sees me and beams me her bright, happy smile and I hand her a bottle. I love Liv. Already she’s like a sister. And I’ve never had a sibling before. I wonder if she and Ollie might get it on? She looks keen. I want to shake some fun into him. Liv might shake some fun into him.
Ben looks cool tonight. He’s got the same Ralph Lauren polo shirt that Ollie’s wearing, which made me laugh when they both emerged from their separate rooms wearing the same outfit. Neither could be bothered to change, so Ben’s accessorised his with his battered leather jacket.
‘You not hot in that jacket?’ I ask. I thought he’d want to put it in the cloakroom when we arrived, but he’s wearing it determinedly.
‘A bit,’ he grins. ‘But on reflection I’m not twinning with boyo over there, so it’s staying on. Come here,’ he says, pulling me towards him, and I dance with my friend the way Liv’s dancing with Ollie, a little manically.
‘What are you doing?’ Ben laughs. ‘You look deranged.’
‘I think I might be drunk,’ I say. ‘I dance like a robot if I’m drunk.’
‘I’m not drunk and I always dance like a robot,’ he replies.
‘No, you don’t. You’re a really good dancer,’ I fib. Then I decide to tell the truth. ‘You need to lighten up and stop trying to look cool,’ I say.
‘What?’ he asks, looking offended.
‘You heard me,’ I say, taking a swig of my drink.
‘Maybe I’m just nervous,’ he says.
I scoff and then realise he’s being serious. ‘You? Nervous?’
‘Yeah,’ he shrugs. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re …you.’
He laughs, sips his drink. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You’re Ben. You’re cool. Effortless. By far the best-looking guy in the room. You’re nervous in a nightclub? What about?’
‘I’m the best-looking guy in the room? I’m going to remember that for ever. Maybe I’m nervous about looking like a loser. Maybe I’m nervous about looking like a loser in front of you.’
I smile, drink, then fully pay attention to what he’s said. ‘Me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Specifically me?’ I query, as this doesn’t sound right.
He chuckles. ‘Yeah. You think I’m cool and effortless. Have you seen yourself?’
I scoff again. ‘As if.’
‘It’s true,’ he says and his expression is genuine. ‘You are the fittest girl here.’
I roll my eyes at this blatant fib.
‘Seriously. You must see it. You’re beautiful. All six foot twenty-eight of you.’
I really laugh now. ‘Six foot twenty-eight? How dare you?’ I tease. And then, more seriously, ‘I’m too tall for a girl.’ I am. I can see over everyone’s heads in here. I feel like a giant, regretting my choice of heels. It only exacerbates the problem, but I do love a nice Topshop heel.
