‘What the hell have Nicole and Tom got to do with Tate hooking up with a woman who has tennis balls for butt cheeks?’ Scarlett’s voice rings out again. ‘Drink your next drink, you’re falling behind.’
I’m aware that the person I’m obeying is five thousand miles away, but I pick up my mojito and slug it back. Its minty fizz is so refreshing that I empty the glass. Then I think,what the hell, I need calories from somewhere, and finish the next one, too.
‘If Tate’s crossed the Atlantic for this tennis player, it must be serious.’
Scarlett nods as she swigs. ‘Thank you for acknowledging that, Bets!’
I’m swirling the ice round in my next to last glass with my straw, watching the grenadine rise through the orange juice. ‘There’s one flaw in this. If Tate was seriously pursuing a transatlantic office crush, why did he take you?’
Scarlett lets out a groan. ‘Me adding myself in was a last-minute impulse. By the time I decided to leap on the love train, there wasn’t time for him to stop me.’
Paul wanders over and picks up my empty glasses. ‘Same again? Maybe a jug this time?’
With what Scarlett has thrown at me a bucket might be better than a jug, but I know drinking’s not an answer, so I offer a token protest. ‘I’ve already had four.’
Paul laughs. ‘The trick is to stop counting after one.’
Scarlett fills my screen again. ‘Tell Paul jugs are good.’
At one time bottomless cocktails were my idea of the best night ever. I’m guessing they went with the heady days of student finance when I’d survive on a pack of crisps a day all week and save the cash for a blow-out of weekend clubbing instead. Good nights out were harder to find back in Somerset, but there were still some blinders at local fetes and county shows. Then, when I hurt my arm I swapped late nights for early mornings and Saturdays on the market stall, which neatly fitted with me never wanting to go out anyway, and that was the final part of my transformation to the country mouse who sat on my bed watchingBridgertonandThe Crown.
As Paul fills up my glass, I haven’t completely let go of my hope for a decent ending for Tate and Scarlett.
I’m sucking a cherry off its stick. ‘Aren’t workplace attachments frowned upon now?’
Scarlett blows up her fringe again. ‘They still happen. Proximity and power are a heady mix.’
I pull a face. ‘It could be Tate’s mid-life crisis kicking in?’
Scarlett sighs. ‘If only. The truth is, Virginia is warm and smart, and her Long Island accent is gorgeous. I feel like a very small nothing beside her.’
She’s being so unfair on herself, I have to shout. ‘Don’t ever say that! You’re the most determined, together, clever, attractive, captivating, high-achieving person I know, Scarlie.’
She gives a rueful grimace. ‘And I’m also wise enough to know when I’m beaten.’ The breath she blows out makes her look even smaller. ‘We had our worst fight ever last night after the reception. When Tate suggested we meet up this afternoon I hoped it was to clear the air. But as he’s not here, I read that wrong too.’
Giving up is so unlike her. If she’s about to toss away everything she’s worked for since she was seven, it’s up to me to fire her up. ‘Promise me you won’t go down without a fight.’
She rubs her nose. ‘I do havesomepride left. I refuse to go through his messages.’
As the gravity of the situation hits me, filling my glass to overflowing feels like the best support I can offer. I abandon the straw, tip back my head, let the sweet liquid flow down my throat, and only put my glass down again when it’s drained. But instead of the sensation of the proverbial sun climbing the sky inside my chest and raising my spirits, all I feel is blurry.
As Scarlett shouts at me from my screen she’s sliding out of the frame. ‘Bottoms up, Bets. I refuse to allow a guy to define who I am or wreck my happiness.’
It’s like she’s reading me my own private mantra.
I’m not sure, but it always felt like Scarlett and Tate totally defined each other, so I add another thought. ‘I refuse to let a guy take you down, Scarlie.’
There’s a momentary blanking of the screen, a view of what looks like the ceiling, then I hear a guy.
‘Scarlett, what are you doing? How many cocktails have you had?’
I recognise Tate’s voice, wave at the screen, and leap in to explain why Scarlett is sitting on a bar stool in Manhattan completely rat-arsed.
‘Scarlett and I are going drink for drink while we discuss you.’ There’s no point in sugar-coating this. ‘Shagging your counterpart in New York? What were you thinking, Tate?’
Tate gives a cough, which is worrying, because I’d rather have had a hard denial.
‘It’s not how it looks, Betsy. I’ll make it right. I mean, I’m here now, aren’t I?’
