‘Yeah. I knew,’ she says and looks into her glass.
‘Oh,’ I reply quietly. And then I pick up on the other thing she said.
‘What’s Ollie too afraid of?’ I almost whisper. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
‘Ben’s wrath; you turning him down; me telling him I knew you were probably the reason why he wasn’t ever as into me as I was with him.’
So much sad information. I can’t work out what I’m more concerned about: Liv’s fears from long ago, or how grounded they sound and how I feel about it now. ‘You’ve been sitting on this for a really long time.’
‘Years,’ she says. ‘I can say it aloud now. To you. Which is progress. I’ve moved on. I think Ollie’s happy and still seeing someone. And you’re with one of the hottest men on the planet.’ She practically shouts this last sentence, which means that most of the people sitting at tables around us turn and look at us. I sink lower in my seat out of embarrassment.
‘Liv!’ I reprimand her. ‘Shh. Please. And it’s early days. It’s only been a few months.’
‘Sorry,’ she replies.
Then it happens: the thing I never thought would ever happen to me. Someone brazenly holds up their phone and takes my picture. They put it away again, studiously not looking at me. Although it happened in LA with Sam, this feels different. We’ve been on dates a few times over the last few months when he’s come over to London and we’ve been photographed, but so surreptitiously that I didn’t know it was happening. The pictures the next morning are always a shock, but we look good, holding hands while walking in the park or choosing books together in Waterstones. I never know when I’m having my photo taken on the sly, whereas this is so obvious, so close, such a brazen invasion of privacy, and I’m so stunned I don’t speak, don’t do anything. I simply sit still.
Liv stares in the girl’s direction. ‘She just took your photo,’ Liv declares in horror.
‘Yes. She did.’ I don’t know what to do. What can I do? Nothing. The girl is sitting, chatting with her friend as if nothing’s happened, avoiding looking at me.
‘Aren’t you going to do something?’ Liv asks in disbelief.
‘Like what?’ I enquire, puzzled. ‘Wrestle her phone off her? She’ll just take another photo while I’m doing so. It’s only because I’m with Sam. I didn’t think I was famous enough for this, to be honest. And now I definitely don’t want to be.’
‘Too late,’ Liv says, ‘it’s happened. Or rather it’shappening. People – women –loveSam Charlton. Some more than others, as that girl clearly follows him online and knows who you are.’ Without warning, she stands up.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sit down.’
‘No,’ Liv replies and walks over to the young woman.
‘You took my friend’s photo,’ she declares. I notice Liv is not asking; she’s telling. ‘Hand it over.’
The girl’s mouth drops open. ‘What?’
‘Hand. Over. Your. Phone.’
‘N … no,’ the girl says but she’s not denying the accusation.
‘I’m her lawyer,’ Liv fibs. ‘There are legal steps we can take, once I find out who you are, which won’t take me long. Or you can delete the photo, then go into your deleted items and remove it from there too. The clock is ticking. Get on with it.’
I’m cringing massively, while also wishing I was more like Liv. Where did this powerhouse come from? The girl does as instructed, hand shaking; she taps on her phone and, by the end of the ordeal, her cheeks have flamed red. I half expect her to get verbal with Liv, but she doesn’t at all.
‘Well done,’ Liv says. ‘You know it makes sense. Now fuck off.’
‘Oh my God,’ I moan into my drink with mortification. Posh Liv has turned into some kind of gangland heavy, worthy of a Guy Ritchie movie.
The girl blinks, stands up and she and her friend stare me out and then move towards the door.
‘Liv!’ I say in awe as she sits back down. ‘I can’t believe you just did that.’
‘I can. But I’m not going to be around to do that all the time. You’re on your own after this one, I’m afraid.’
I’m too in shock to string another sentence together.
‘Maybe you and Sam will fade into obscurity and you won’t have to worry about it happening again,’ Liv sayshopefully, but a sympathetic smile tells me she hasn’t quite worked out what she’s said. ‘When are you seeing Sam next?’
‘He’s coming to London again next week.’
