like someone sitting in a bar with a sad, wistful look. And when I bring women chocolate cake to cheer them up, they look at me like I’m the devil.’
Tig raised an eyebrow. ‘You need to hang out with better women.’
‘I’m trying,’ he grinned.
She tensed, then decided that maybe, yes, not every man needed the Wrath of Tig. Especially when they had green eyes and toned arms and tattoos. Not that he wouldn’t turn out to be a massive dick, and it wasn’t like it mattered, but … well, he was quite nice to look at. And he brought her wine. And there was the possibility that he might bring her cake.
‘We didn’t do the name thing,’ Tig gestured between them.
‘Right. I’m Ollie.’ He reached out to shake her hand, whilst she stared at him before shaking back briefly.
‘Formal. Okay.’
‘You’re Tig. Ruby said you’re a regular,’ Ollie nodded. ‘What’s Tig short for?’
‘Tigerlily.’
‘Bullshit!’ He laughed, and watched as she raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.
‘Um, and by that I mean, my name is Ollie and I’m new here and nervous and jetlagged and once again going to use every excuse I can to undo what I just said. Tigerlily. I like it.’ He made a face, wincing at her to see if her stern impression had weakened. ‘How about if I give you free chocolate cake and back away slowly? That sound good?’
She broke, smiling a little to herself. Somehow he was even more appealing chewing at his lip, nervously dragging a hand across his jaw. It was nice not to be the one saying the wrong thing for once.
‘It’s okay. I get it a lot. My parents are hippies.’ She paused. ‘Also, today is the first time in months I’ve managed to talk to a man without wanting to throttle him for things that my ex did, so, you know, congratulations on that. I’m afraid I don’t have a prize for you.’
Ollie tilted his head to the side like he was trying to tell if she was joking. ‘Okay, in which case, definitely cake. Let’s try and keep this whole “not throttling me” business going.’
He had a nice voice, she decided, warm, with a slight American lilt behind the London sharpness. She wondered what that was about, whether he was jetlagged from a trip back from America. And then Tig realised it was none of her business. But she smiled again, and shrugged, because you never turn down cake. A yell from behind the bar broke the moment, and he grinned, saluting. ‘Lovely to meet you, Miss Tigerlily, I’ll return with your bribe momentarily.’ He went to walk away. ‘Oh, wait, Ruby said you’d left these papers here?’
He placed a collection of letters and notes on the table, smiling as he rushed back to the bar.
Tig traced the mosaic tabletop with her fingers, riffling through the papers absentmindedly as she sipped her wine. Things were changing, she could tell. Everything was already starting to get better. Her positive attitude had created a positive situation. Maybe this rut was finally done.
There was an unopened envelope in the pile, thick and cream, her name written in royal blue ink. It looked official. Tamara was probably getting married, or Dahlia, or any of the other nice enough posh birds from uni that she had never really been close to, but who still insisted on calling her ‘bestie’ and crushing her ribcage whenever she ran into them on Essex Road.
She opened it, noticing the sweet lace edging, the soft feel of the textured paper. Expensive. She’d spent ages looking at invitations. She’d gone with a more informal feel, more shabby chic, laid-back. More like them … like her.
She scanned through the parents to the names of the happy couple. She thought she would fall off her chair with the shock, and held tight to the table for fear the world was turning on its axis. Darren was getting married. The bastard.
*****
Her only choice was to get as drunk as possible. And it wasn’t far off closing time at Entangled.
‘Hey, Michelle?’ Tig waved over to the dark-haired girl behind the bar. ‘Could I have a bottle of red wine, two shots of sambuca, and absolutely no judgement, please?’
Michelle blinked a couple of times and then shrugged. ‘I’ll bring it over.’
That was how Tig came to be craned over the invitation, tracing the embossed lettering and wondering who the hell Abigail Jensen was.
‘Uh oh, what happened here?’ Ollie sat in the chair next to her.
‘Nothing,’ Tig grumbled, not looking up.
‘Well, when I left you ten minutes ago, there was a glass of wine. There is now half an empty bottle.’
‘Or half a full bottle,’ she said seriously, ‘plus two shots of sambuca. I hate sambuca.’
‘So …?’ Ollie tilted his head to the side again, and she got the feeling she was a fascinating exhibit in a museum, like a strangely grotesque thing you’d find in one of those old-fashioned circus acts. It was irritating.
‘Here,’ she thrust the invitation at him, and refilled her wine glass.
He held it close to his face, then held it at arm’s length, squinting. He looked at her, and said, ‘Well, that is tacky as fuck.’
‘Really?’ Tig replied, hopeful.
‘No idea, seemed the thing to say.’
Tig rolled her eyes, and slumped back in her chair, arms crossed.
‘Ex?’
‘Yup.’
‘How long?’
‘Broke up seven months ago …’
Ollie winced.
‘On Valentine’s Day… five days before our wedding,’ she finished. His eyebrows shot up.
Ollie ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply, his eyes wandering around until they settled on her. Pity. She couldn’t stand pity.
‘Do you want that cake now?’
‘Promises, promises,’ she said. ‘Thanks, but I think I’m okay.’
‘You do seem okay. How are you doing that?’
‘Sheer force of will,’ she exhaled, ‘and alcohol.’
She sipped at her wine, a little more delicately now, allowing the warmth to settle in on her. Ollie was a surprisingly comforting presence. Moaning at someone who didn’t really know you, didn’t try to fix everything. Maybe that’s what the Misery Dinners were trying to achieve, when really they all needed therapy.
‘So, why’d you break up?’
She tapped at the table, trying to find the best way to phrase it. She’d been asked that question so many times at the beginning. To strangers, she said it just didn’t work out,
