‘Thursday night,’ Vee yells back over the din. ‘The eve of the eve of the weekend.’
We’d agreed to meet at The Swan today, on my actual birthday, rather than leave our meetup until the weekend, as it’s roughly equidistant from our places of work. I also tend to have birthday parties to run on Saturdays and Sundays, and Tinkerbell should never be hungover and in charge of thirty kids, and she shouldn’t emit stale booze from her pores.We must keep those little darlings living in la-la land.
I’ve been so looking forward to tonight, and while it’s always great to catch up with the girls, I’ve been wanting to visit this place since I read about it in one of the Sunday supplements. The article was right; there’s something a little jewellery box about it. Maybe the sapphire-coloured padded velvet walls, or the garnet-coloured leather banquettes, I’m not sure. It’s very luxe, but what intrigued me most was the mention of a portrait wall where a bevy of literary heavyweights stare down at the drinkers of South London. There’s also a literary-themed cocktail menu, which might explain why the portraits appear to be frowning down their disapproval.
‘It’s a universally acknowledged fact that a girl in charge of a credit card is in want of a round of drinks,’ Vee announces as we reach the rich mahogany bar, trying to squeeze between a row of emerald green velvet barstools. I grab a cocktail menu and begin to peruse the literary-inspired offerings.
Margarita Atwood. Tequila Mockingbird. Catcher in some Rye.
Oh well, at least the wine was decent.
‘Does it make you want to join a book club again?’
I bark out a laugh. ‘Life’s too short to read books other people think you should read.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t apply that ethos to wedding invitations.’
‘Har-har.’ I turn my attention back to the busy bar, not to be drawn into this again. I’m not going solo to a wedding filled with people I happen to have told I have a boyfriend. And tell them what? He was called away on business? I already feel ridiculed by my boss and have no intentions of adding the cherry to the top of his serve of shit.
Back when I’d received the invitation, I’d assumed I’d take one of the girls, but since I’d announced (loudly) that Haydn didn’t know what he was talking about, my colleagues have begun to ask me questions about my mystery man. Turns out, he is a bit of a mystery, even to me, so my answers have been vague at best, or else I’ve changed the subject and left people figuratively shaking their heads. I really can’t announce I’ll be going on my own now because apart from giving Haydn the opportunity to gloat, I’ll also be shoved on a table which will be, at best, a table full of people I have only one thing in common with; that great crime of being single. At worst, it’ll be a table full of oddballs and misfits. Not that I have anything against misfits. Hell, I’m a card-carrying member of their club, though it’s more like an online membership. One that I try not to advertise.
But worse than a singles table or an oddballs table is a fate worse than death; being placed at the same table as Haydn. On my own.
I’m beginning to wish I’d never been invited.
‘Why is it so busy in here?’ Vivi complains, waving her Mastercard over my shoulder in an attempt to get the barman’s attention. ‘Do you think their vests and bow ties are made from offcuts from the velvet wall?’ She suddenly squeezes through a gap created by someone leaving the bar. ‘Uniform aside, he’s quite cute,’ she adds, pointing the corner of her card at the barman in the amber-coloured crushed velvet vest and seventies-style bow tie. The other bar staff wear matching outfits in other jewel colours, the only female has her hair pushed up on one side in a sparkling barrette in a look that’s a littleVeronica Lake.
‘Are you going to wet yourself?’ I ask, noticing she’s almost hopping from foot to foot.
She seems to consider her answer for a moment before answering. ‘My head says no but my pea-sized bladder seems to be screaming yes. Here.’ Leaning closer, she shoves her card in my hand as the girl next to us pulls a horrified face as she sort of shuffles off to the side.
‘You’re frightening the patrons of this fine establishment.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a little pee. According to the internet, it’s apparently great for the skin.’
‘A, I don’t want to know what you were googling when you discovered that. And b, I’d prefer not to have it splashed on the skin of my legs, thanks.’
‘You know my pin number.’ Vee begins to pull away.
The reason I know her pin number? So when she forgets it three times a week, she can text me, and I’ll send it to her. The same with her phone number and all sorts of other things. I suppose I’m her human version of KeePass.
‘I can pay for a round of drinks,’ I call after her.
‘Not on your birthday!’ Without turning to answer, she cuts through the crowd with the speed of one desperately needing to use the facilities.
‘What do you want?’ The cute barman suddenly appears in front of me.
How about a date next Saturday in exchange for free drinks and buffet food, I almost request. Instead, I open my mouth and order a round of gin and tonics.
Drinks made, I make my way back through the bar, reverse weaving through the tables, my fingers wrapped around my triangle of precious cargo, until I reach the table.
‘Grape or grain, but never the twain?’ Daisy says, lifting her glass to her lips.
‘Even if it’s exactly what the teacher ordered?’
‘Where’s Vee?’
‘Taking a tinkle,’ I reply, sliding into my seat.
