“You could always buy a different villa in the same town, you know?” I suggest.
My father sighs, pushing his plate away from him.
“There are memories in that villa, Darius. You took your first steps there.”
I can’t hold back the half laugh, half scoff that passes my lips.
“Since when are you sentimental?”
“Just because I’m not cuddly and affectionate like you, son, doesn’t mean I don’t treasure this family.”
He’s not an affectionate man, or at least he isn’t anymore. I have vague memories of him at different times in my life, when he was, but those times have long since passed. Traded in for stoicism and boardrooms.
Lifting my hands, palm up, I say, “I know you do.”
He nods, drawing a close to the conversation.
“Now, let me tell you about your date for tomorrow night, or more importantly, about his family.”
The date is a fucking disaster. The guy my father set me up with is the son of a Chelsea socialite and bigwig finance director with ties to something or other that has clearly given my father a boner.
My date, who insists I call him J, is not the slightest bit interested in me, more interested in whatever is happening on his phone. We tried to make small talk. Two guys shooting the shit, but found we have nothing in common and there’s definitely no connection between us on any level. I’m not ashamed to admit I zoned out when he started on about Premier League football. When the conversation fell into a lull, he reverted to scrolling on his phone while we ate mediocre soup. Now he’s standing outside, leaning against the wall, his phone to his ear.
I’m tired, frustrated and would rather be anywhere but here. After dinner last night, my father cut out early for a ‘sudden and urgent’ meeting at the social club he frequents when up north and my stepmum went out with friends, leaving me alone in the too large house. Then today, I worked a double at the coffee shop after which I walked three dogs at the shelter I occasionally volunteer at.
I was exhausted before the date had even begun and yet, I still took the time to make myself presentable. I look fucking incredible, actually, in a custom made merino pink shirt, a pair of cream tailored slacks, dark-lined eyes and a dab of pink blush on my cheeks. My date? He rocked up in grey joggers and a Henley. I almost feel annoyed at how much effort I put in,alwaysput in, for these fucking arrangements of my father’s. But it’s not worth the stress headache.
When it’s clear that my date is not returning, I gesture the server over, pay our bill, stand and walk out.
A group of my close friends had invited me out this evening to a sports bar not far from my place. Looking at the time, it’s noteven eight thirty, which means there’s still a chance to rescue this night.
I hail a black cab, give the cab driver the bar’s name, then drop a message into the group chat to say I’m on my way.
Darcey, Lachlan and Finch are all crowded around a small table at the back of the bar. It’s hot inside, the lights dim and some god-awful music is playing from the bar’s antique jukebox. There’s a fortieth birthday party happening in the far corner, the area adorned with gold and black streamers and a large helium balloon.
My shoulders relax as I sidle up to my friends, taking the empty stool next to Darcey.
“Didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” she says, her long blonde hair sweeping my shoulder as she leans in to be heard over the music and chatter.
“What are you drinking, Darius?” Finch asks, sliding off his stool and indicating that he’s headed to the bar.
“Vodka cranberry, please love,” I say, turning my attention back to Darcey. “I didn’t either, but my plans changed.”
Darcey nudges me with her shoulder. “Well, I’m glad. We don’t see you often enough.”
“Last I checked, it was you who kept cancelling now that you’re living in domesticated bliss.”
Darcey laughs. It’s a warm and bubbly sound that is the very thing that drew me to her back in high school. She lifts her left hand, the giant diamond engagement ring glinting.
“Can you blame me, though? You’ve seen my fiancée. She’s gorgeous. And smart. And sexy…”
“Yes, we all know that you’re punching above your station,” I joke. It results in Darcey slapping me on the arm, which only makes me laugh along with her.
Lachlan, who is the quietest member of the group, smiles, shaking his head ruefully. Finch returns with our drinks a littlewhile later and we fall into rowdy conversation as though no time has passed at all since we last met up. At some point Lachlan leaves to get us another round.
While the others are chatting, I pull out my phone and check for messages, frowning with disappointment when there still isn’t a reply from Oliver. The last thing he sent me was a heart eyes emoji in reply to the selfie I sent him of the two of us. That was early on Friday morning. He’s been unusually quiet the past day and I wish I knew why.
“Waiting for something?” Darcey asks, gesturing to my phone, which I lock and shove back in my pocket.
