I’m searching for that arse in those jeans, and the cling of cashmere on those incredible tits. Failing to see Stell, I turn my attention back to the woman at the bar.
‘There’s a lot to be said for playing sport at that age,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘Keeps them out of mischief. Not that I’d know!’
Where the hell is Stell?
‘But you don’t have any children of your own?’ The woman pauses, drops her voice a notch and I see her eyes gleaming, keen to absorb any confidences I might want to share. ‘I hope there isn’t a…’
‘A problem?’ I ask smoothly. I drop my gaze then look back at her. ‘I suppose there is…’
She leans in, all ears, and I look at the floor in an attempt to keep my face straight. She’s so close I can smell the scent of her skin; feel the warmth coming off her. It would be so easy – so easy – to lead her round to the car park out the back for a quickie. Not that I would, of course; not with Ness here. Just hypothetically. I look up and search for her hand. I take it in mine, look her in the eyes and blink, as if holding back tears. ‘I suppose there is a problem,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m here if you need to talk,’ she breathes, inching her face even closer to mine and squeezing my hand. Now I can smell the wine on her breath; see the little dots of mascara gathered beneath her lower lash line. I lean in even further and whisper into her ear, my lips touching her skin; teasing.
‘Well, it’s just that…’ I pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing it right.’ I step back and hold my other fist at hip height and thrust my pelvis suggestively a couple of times towards her. ‘Know what I mean?’ I give her a big wink.
I watch her expression change as she realises she’s been had, then I burst out laughing as she turns away, embarrassed.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, George!’
‘Come here!’ I say, pulling her in for a hug. ‘Just kidding. Just a bit of banter!’ I kiss her hair, enjoying the scent of it and the soft feel of her in my arms, then I let her go, clinking my glass to hers. ‘Cheers, darling! You have a great night!’
I saunter across the bar, slapping people on the back and shaking hands as I go, working my way over to Ness. She’s with a group of girls – women, I suppose now – she used to hang out with at school: the popular ones; the netball team; the pretty ones; the smart ones. This was her crowd. She looks good. She’s in her element; the queen of them all.
‘All right, sweetheart?’ I ask, giving her a showy kiss on the cheek and snaking my arm around her waist. ‘I trust these lovely ladies are keeping you entertained?’
‘Yeah, all good. You?’
‘Just going to the little boys’ room.’
I unwind my arm and slip through the double doors that lead to the bathroom. There, in the service corridor, even though it’s muted, I can still hear the racket from the pub; the screech of voices straining to be heard over other voices; the thump of the music in the background. The floor’s slightly sticky and, under it all, there’s the smell of old coats and stale beer. I pull out my phone and message Stell.
‘Where are you?’
I wait but, when she doesn’t reply, I type again. ‘I can’t see you.’
I’m still there in the hallway, staring at the phone, when the door to the pub kicks open. Ness, her glass in her hand, is framed in the doorway, her hair backlit and slightly wild, and she looks for a second like a modern-day Medusa. Neither of us moves. Then, quickly, I slide my phone back into my trouser pocket, knowing as I do so, that there’s guilt written all over my face.
‘I’m just going to the loo,’ I say to her, ‘then we’re leaving.’
‘But I was just…’
‘No buts. I’m done here.’
Back in Hampstead, I wave to the doorman and press the button for the lift. My phone chimes as I step into it and I ignore it: I’ve long stopped bothering to try to get a connection on the ride up to my apartment. The lift pings and I shove the key in my front door and breathe in that familiar bergamot smell of home.
I kick off my heels and saunter into the bedroom to change before pouring myself a glass of wine and collapsing onto the sofa. The blinds are open and I can see the glittering lights and sodium glow of London stretching beyond the blackness of Hampstead Heath. I lean back and relax, circling my ankles and enjoying being home. My phone chimes again. I look. It’s a Facebook message from George. Two in fact.
George Wolsey.
I stare at the name for a minute. I’ve never seen his name on my phone or in my inbox. It used to be letters. Paper envelopes or folded pieces of paper with my name written in his scruffy, boy-writing. Birthday cards. Postcards. Once, a Valentine’s card. The sight of his name in my inbox makes me feel as though we’re travellers – astronauts who’ve made it from a distant galaxy in which technology doesn’t exist.
Oh, George. Good at school. A sportsman. Quietly good-looking. Average intelligence. Excess confidence. A bit of bluster. He played the game. But even I wouldn’t have picked him out to be the most successful product of our year. He didn’t even go to university – he got offers, yes, but he changed his mind after getting a summer job at an advertising agency. From what I’ve read about him, I imagine that he lived and breathed the business; worked his way up, charming people left, right and centre. And now – now if you sing a tune from an ad – any ad that you hear on television or radio – the chances are that Wolsey Associates is responsible.
But that’s not why George is in the media; that’s not why we read interviews about him and see the odd picture of him rubbing shoulders with pop stars, artists, ‘it’ girls and actors at various black-tie events. No, what George is most known for these days is the pro bono work and the fundraising initiatives his agency does for children’s charities. It’s all about corporate responsibility for George now. As I said: he plays the game.
But what game is it he’s playing tonight? I open the first message. Where are you?
And then the second one. I can’t see you.
I put the phone down and take another sip of wine. Should I reply? Why not? Why not let him know that I left him? Typing with my thumb, balancing my phone in the same hand, I write back. At home.
Before I close Facebook and put the phone down, George has answered. You left already? I wanted to see to you.
You saw me.
I wanted to speak to you. Properly. Why did you leave?
‘None of your business,’ I say to the apartment. I put the phone down and head back to the kitchen for some cheese to accompany my wine. I have a salty Old Amsterdam and some Beaufort D’Ete, which I take out of the fridge almost reverentially. The phone pings again, and then again and again. I take my time cutting the cheese and arranging it on a plate. I pick up a crisp linen napkin and top up my wine glass. Back on the sofa, I put my plate
