‘Is she okay? I have a meeting with her tomorrow…’
‘How much do you know about blood clots?’ I check.
‘Thrombosis? A fair bit…’
Well, that’s no use.
‘No, period clots,’ I say, pivoting, with no idea what else to say. ‘She’s having a mare.’
‘You said it sounded painful?’ he points out.
‘Oh, yeah, so painful,’ I continue as I gather my things. ‘They cause, these, eh, vulval fractures. They’re so bad. So I need to go, to get her some painkillers – but she’ll be fine for the meeting. Everything just…’
I make a weird sound and do a strange hand action that sort of symbolises everything going back into place.
‘Don’t mention it though, she’ll find it so embarrassing,’ I add.
‘Oh, I won’t,’ he replies. ‘Periods – ugh.’
‘Right? So gross.’ I play along – of course he thinks that way. ‘Anyway, thanks for everything.’
‘Yeah, okay, bye…’ he calls after me.
Outside, I finally feel like I can breathe. It’s dark, obviously, but it feels so much lighter and safer than the dimly lit bar.
Did I think he was going to kill me? No, of course not. I’m 100 per cent certain… I’m 99 per cent certain. Okay, 95, if I let my imagination run for a minute. But the one thing I am sure of is that Pete did nothing for me, I didn’t fancy him, he annoyed me, we had different views – there was no basis for anything, nothing to work on, nothing to cling to that would make a second date seem like a good idea. I know, JJ probably thinks I should have kissed him, to test for that spark, but I think when you know, you know. No physical contact required.
Obviously the first thing I do – carefully, while I’m walking, because the last thing this night needs is slapstick humour – is grab my phone to text Andy. It’s strange, even though he’s working, and I’m not hearing as much from him, he’s still the first person I want to tell about everything. I know I’ll feel better for messaging him, even if all I do is hype up the story to tell him on the phone later, and whatever he replies, it will instantly make me feel better. Whatever shit I’m going through, he has this way of making me laugh, of seeing the funny side… I’m sure this night will seem funny at some point.
I love JJ, really, I do, but her taste in men ain’t it. Unless ‘it’ lands you a role (preferably pre-humously, to use a word I’m not sure exists) in a Netflix documentary about the novelist who murdered women.
I think he’s just a bit of a dick, and a narcissist, who thinks he’s better than everyone and that men are superior – but being with someone like that sounds like a fate worse than death to me. Maybe. It’s pretty close.
The only thing I’m sure of is that Peter Flack is not getting a sequel. Not a chance.
6
It takes all my strength to keep my head held high when all I want to do is let it sink to the table beneath me, press my forehead against the cool marble, and think about my life choices. But this is a nice bar, with a dress code, and rules of conduct. You can’t have an existential crisis here; it’s not the vibe.
JJ arrives – effortlessly carrying two drinks in each hand by the stems of the glasses – before I can sink any lower.
She looks fire, in a red jumpsuit with matching red lipstick and pumps with huge heels. Of course, as always, her best accessory is her self-confidence.
‘So, how did it go?’ she asks. ‘Well?’
‘I think your ponytail is too tight,’ I reply, pulling a face. ‘I messaged you a frog – that only means one thing.’
‘Froggy style?’ she offers up through a daft grin.
‘This is why I’m the writer and you’re the agent,’ I say, playfully wincing at her joke. ‘And also why you’re going to get me a book deal, because the date was awful.’
‘Awful is a big word,’ she replies as she lifts her Martini and takes a delicate sip. ‘There’s a whole spectrum between awful and ecstasy.’
‘I mean, I’m ecstatic to be alive,’ I reply. ‘He basically talked about how he was going to choke me.’
‘Whit, a lot of people are into that sort of thing, I think you need to cut him some slack,’ she replies.
I simply stare at her for a few seconds and slowly blink my eyes.
