“Don’t ask me,” she says. “I’m useless with men.”
“You could say you want to see him again. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from you,” Abby adds.
I huff. “I should’ve called Hattie.”
“Ugh her boyfriend is so hot,” Millie says.
“Freddie? Heishot,” Abby agrees.
I click my fingers. “Can we focus please? I’ve never actually asked someone out before and I’m nervous.”
“Never? What a humble brag…” Gemma croons.
I ignore her. “What if it’s awkward? What if he’s moved on?”
They all collectively agree that I shouldn’t worry. I should ignore my head and listen to my heart. So, fine. I just wish the thought of seeing him again didn’t make my stomach feel like it’s trying to backflip.
We arrive in busy Piccadilly Circus and run round the corner to find the massive Waterstones, only to be greetedby a queue that winds all the way out of the shop and up the side of the street for as far as we can see.
All these people came to see Gus.
The man I spent two weeks with.
The man I was very intimate with.
All these women (and some men)wantthis man.
Lovethis man.
“This is waste of time,” I say.God. My heart is beating so hard. “There’s no way we’re going to get to see him. Not with that queue.”
“Pfft. This is nothing,” Millie says. “You should see the queues I’ve skipped in Ibiza.”
Gemma snorts. “Yeah. If needed, Millie can shag a security guard.”
“That was Magaluf.”
I give them a look. “You actually…?” I shake my head. “You know what? We share genes. It tracks.”
“HEY!” Abby shouts beside me. I grab onto Gemma in surprise. Who is this person and what has she done with my darling little sister? “WHO WANTS TO GIVE UP THEIR TICKET FOR TWO HUNDRED QUID?CASH.”
“What the actual fuck, Abby,” I hiss.
“If I’m going to pimp myself out, I’d rather spend the cash on something I care about. Plus, I didn’t want to put it in the bank in case HMRC try to tax me and ask where I got it from…”
“I don’t think they’re too worried about…”
“I’ll take it,” someone in the crowd says, stepping towards us. A big bloke with tattoos all up his arms holds out a book with a ticket poking out the top like a bookmark. “I didn’t want it anyway. My girlfriend made me come. If youwant to queue with her – she’s over there.” He points to a dark-haired woman who looks conflicted about being left to queue alone.
“How much was the ticket originally?” I ask the man.
He scratches his forehead. “Twenty quid.”
“Right. Good. Great.”
Abby fishes the cash out of her bag. It’s even been folded neatly into a brown envelope. I need to pay more attention to her. This is probably drug money. “I don’t know if I want to spend your hussy money,” I tell her as she hands it to the man.
He gives us a strange look.
