But then a little voice at the back of my head pipes up. It’s a tiny voice, weak and one that I could do without.
You’re not shaking because the dickwad screwed you over. You’re shaking because he just took away your survival plan.
I am over this week, this month—hell, this year! And as one of the bar staff breezes by with a tray of the E-Volve signature cocktails, I find myself whipping a glass from his tray.
‘Cheers.’ But he’s already gone as I throw the contents down my throat without even tasting it. Then I go looking for another.
* * *
‘If at first you don’t succeed, get another drink and try another table. You’ll be amazed how much less you care.’ Glass in one hand, I snatch the note from the woman in front of me, twirling it high above my head. ‘Off you trot.’ I make a shooing motion with the fingers still wrapped around the glass, almost dropping it in the process.
‘The men are the ones who move tables,’ Olivia grumbles. ‘How much prosecco have you had?’
‘Just a couple.’ A couple of prosecco and more than a couple of cocktails. Along with my answer, I shrug, undeterred and unconcerned. It’s all right for her to be living in her big house with her handsome husband. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be shat on from a great height by the man who professed to love you—shat on twice—and she doesn’t know what it feels like to have your life slipping through your fingertips and not be able to do a thing about it.
‘Give it to me,’ she demands, taking the note from my hand.
‘Where’s your favourite place to have sex?’ Heather reads over my shoulder.
‘That would be telling,’ I think I say. Or think I think? It’s hard to tell as I find myself squinting to make the two Heathers merge into one.
‘It’s not as bad as the last one,’ she says to the boss babe.
‘Except she said his answer was in the bum.’ I snigger, rolling my lips together to mute the sound. ‘His favourite place to have sex is up the bum! Geddit?’
Olivia glares, and Heather looks like she wants to shake me.
Fuck it, I don’t care and display my lack of concern with another careless shrug. And possibly a little stumble.
‘I bet it was one of theLust Islandguys,’ Ols says.
‘They did seem to have the sense of humour of fourteen-year-olds,’ Heather adds.
Ah, Heather-feather. Don’t you know men don’t evolve? They get older, but they don’t grow up. They get crueller, but they never really... fuck, I can’t remember the word I was looking for. Not that it matters because neither of the pair is paying me any attention.
Little boys. The little big littleLust Islandboys.‘They’re hot.’
‘Ew, Mir! One of them is wearing a pair of pink pants that don’t touch his ankles. ‘And white shoes. He looks like a Club Tropicana reject.’
‘Pssht!’ I wave a hand and accidentally slap Olivia’s shoulder. ‘They’re fashionable.’
For some reason, Heather bleats at me like a sheep.
‘Miranda, go and sit down, please.’ Olivia’s expression is firm and just a teensy-weensy pissed off as she points to an empty booth at the other end of the room.
Fine. These shoes are killing me anyway.
I weave my way in and out of the tables, stopping to peek now and again at the things the attendees have written on their little scoring cards even though the words are mostly blurry.
‘Oh, dear.’ I pause at a table, a girl with blue hair and her four-minute date who’s wearing a lumberjack shirt with a big sticker on one side which reads “Chris”.
‘Hey, Chris. Four minutes are nearly up.’ I pluck the card from in front of him and close one eye to read it. ‘That’s cool. He likes you.’ I point my finger at the blue-haired woman on the other side of the table before bending and bringing my mouth level with Chris’s ear. ‘Sorry, mate. It doesn’t look like you’re scoring tonight,’ I might whisper. Or possibly hiss at regular volume. ‘Not after what she’s written on her card.’ Along with this, I hitch a thumb at his tablemate. ‘Never mind. She looks like a raspberry Slurpee, anyway.’ I snigger as I straighten before pressing a lipstick-y kiss to the top of his head. ‘And I don’t think you look like a boiled egg. Oops!’ I stagger a little, one shoe tripping over the other. Chairs scrape, and hands reach out to prevent my fall, but strangely, I don’t meet their pals, lurching backwards as arms bring my back into contact with a very firm something that feels a bit like a chest.
I twist my head, bringing my ear in contact with a soft pair of lips.
‘Hello, Batgirl. Fancy meeting you here.’
10
