Chapter 8
EIGHT
DECEMBER 2009
I don’t know whose idea it was to have a party on New Year’s Eve. Quite honestly, it could have been any one of us – we were all young enough not to know that it’s categorically the worst night of the year: a night that over-promises and under-delivers, inevitably ending in drunkenness and despair.
It was probably Zara. Lately, when Patch was in town, she’d been very keen to bring him along to gatherings – to Kate’s housewarming, of course, but also to Rowan’s baby shower, which seemed a bit random. And when the Girlfriends’ Club met up on Wednesday evenings, Patch would often turn up towards the end of the night, have a drink with us and then go off somewhere else with Zara, Andy occasionally joining them.
‘It’s like she wants to show him off,’ remarked Abbie.
‘Well, I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?’ asked Kate, who was currently single. ‘He is hot as fuck.’
‘But we all know he’s hot as fuck,’ Rowan pointed out. ‘It’s not like there’s some big reveal. It’s more, “Oh hi, Patch. How are the biceps doing?”’
We’d all laughed, slightly awkward because we’d been – not bitching, exactly, but talking about Zara when she wasn’t there, which was bitching’s more subtle little sister.
I wasn’t so sure, though. Of course, given the long-distance nature of their relationship, Patch and Zara would want to see as much of each other as they could. But it felt like more than that – it felt as if when they weren’t kept apart by distance, Patch literally didn’t want to let Zara out of his sight.
I remembered Zara’s quip: Absence makes the fond heart wander . And I wondered whether Patch was aware of the possibility of Zara’s heart wandering, and was doing whatever he could to stop it happening.
So I approached the New Year’s Eve party planning with a degree of misgiving. But none of the others seemed to notice that I was less than enthusiastic; every time we met up or someone posted on the Facebook event page that had been created for the occasion, the plans seemed to be getting more elaborate.
No one had a flat big enough for us to use, so Abbie hired the function room of a pub near where she and Matt lived. Andy’s friend Daniel offered to be DJ for the night. Kate spent ages negotiating the food menu with the landlord over email. Zara announced that she’d bought an outfit in a sample sale, but wouldn’t show anyone photos of it because it was going to be a surprise. I felt I couldn’t give the vintage Biba dress I’d purchased with Zara another outing so soon, and ended up panic-buying a black lace number in the Boxing Day sales. When New Year’s Eve eventually came, I arrived at the Barley Mow almost half an hour late to find the party already in full swing. Handsome Daniel, who I’d only met once before, was presiding over the decks, Oasis blaring out at full volume. Andy, Matt and Paul were playing a good-naturedly tipsy game of pool. Kate, Abbie and Rowan were drinking champagne.
Zara and Patch were on the dance floor, Zara in a silver sequinned dress that left the whole of her slender, toned back bare. I noticed how Patch’s hand rested possessively on her skin and he leaned over occasionally to whisper in her ear. She, on the other hand, was holding a glass of champagne, her eyes flitting constantly around the room over his shoulder.
‘Bloody hell, missus,’ Kate said when she saw me. ‘That dress is off the scale.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ Abbie confirmed, pressing a glass into my hand.
‘Honestly, your legs,’ said Rowan. ‘I don’t know why you ever cover them up.’
Wrapped in the comfort blanket of my friends’ admiration, I set about enjoying myself. I drank the champagne and then had another glass. I asked Rowan how Clara was doing, left for the first time with a babysitter for the evening. I ate three miniature burgers. I danced with my friends, although Zara didn’t come over and join our group.
Perhaps things were okay between Zara and Patch after all, I thought.
But when I glanced over my shoulder fifteen minutes and two more glasses of fizz later, Zara was nowhere to be seen and Patch was standing unsmiling by the bar alone, one elbow propped on the wooden counter top, a beer in his hand.
I nudged Rowan. ‘Do you think he’s okay?’
‘He looks kind of down. Why don’t you go and ask?’
Empty glass in hand, I strolled over to him.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You look like you could do with some company.’
‘And you look like you could do with another drink.’
‘Well, now you mention it…’ I smiled and he smiled back. The warm, easy smile that revealed his slightly crooked front teeth changed his face completely – he was still dazzlingly handsome, but it made him look more normal somehow, less like a brooding hero on the cover of a trashy romance novel. ‘Are you having a good time?’
‘Hey’ – he shrugged – ‘you know me and parties. We don’t get along so great.’
He clearly remembered the brief conversation we’d had in the bathroom of Zara’s flat.
‘Maybe that should be your New Year’s resolution. Find your inner party animal. I bet it’s lurking just under the surface.’
‘Like your inner goth,’ he teased.
‘What do you…?’ I felt myself blushing. ‘Oh, the dress.’
‘You could use a bit more eyeliner and maybe some black lipstick,’ he suggested, grinning.
‘Wasn’t it more leather and corsets?’
He pressed a hand to his face. ‘Stop. I don’t want to imagine you in a leather corset.’
What was I doing? Was I flirting with Zara’s boyfriend? Was he flirting with me?
‘Don’t worry,’ I said hastily, ‘it’s never going to happen.’
‘A guy can dream, though. I still have that CD you made for me, you know. I listen to it all the time, while I’m driving up to Aberdeen. It helps with the…’ He trailed off with a vague gesture of his hand, like he was trying to grasp a word that wasn’t there.
‘The what?’
‘Loneliness, I guess. I’m used to it now, but I always feel it anyway, when I leave. Like going back to school. Like I’m leaving something important behind.’
His openness – vulnerability, almost – was another surprise.
‘You mean Zara?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Does she ever talk to you about… you know. About me?’
I wasn’t sure what to say. The truth was, Zara didn’t. She only mentioned him with a kind of glib casualness, as if her handsome boyfriend was another accessory to her life, like her Fendi handbag.
Patch took my silence as an answer. ‘I thought not.’
‘She really likes you,’ I said hastily. ‘Anyone can see that. I mean – anyone would like you. Obviously.’
He laughed, but it didn’t sound genuine. ‘That’s sweet. Thank you. But sometimes I’m not so sure.’
‘You could try asking her.’
‘I could. But then I might not like what I heard.’
‘But you should. You should go and talk to her right now.’
‘Only she’s outside having a fag with the DJ.’
Automatically, I glanced up. The decks where Daniel had been standing were abandoned, the music pausing then moving on to the next track.
‘I’m sure they won’t be long.’ And they weren’t. Just a couple of seconds later, I felt a cold blast of air from outside and saw Zara and Daniel re-enter the room. Her face was turned up to his and she was laughing, one hand raised to brush raindrops off her gleaming dark hair. I saw her look around the room, her chin tilted upwards, her green eyes bright as lasers. When she saw me and Patch, her smile faltered, then reappeared even more dazzling than before.
She didn’t come over to us. Instead, she said something to Daniel, her smile dialling up another notch. He shook his head, laughing. She spoke again, inaudible over the music, and took his arm, leading him on to the dance floor, Daniel laughing and protesting as Lady Gaga’s Just Dance began playing.
Zara, though, was doing more than just dancing. Her body was moving as sinuously as water in her sparkling silver dress. Her slim arms reached up to Daniel’s shoulders and she pulled him towards her, Daniel still laughing and shaking his head. Her hands found his hips and she moved him closer still, until their groins were touching, their bodies moving together in time to the music, Zara’s smile unfaltering.
She didn’t look in our direction, but I was sure she knew we were watching. The smile had vanished from Patch’s face and I felt a pang of sympathy for him.
‘They’re just dancing,’ I said, although I knew that from his perspective, it would look like far more than that.
‘Do you have your phone on you?’ he asked.
‘My— yes, of course.’ Automatically, I reached into my bag and took it out.
‘Give it to me.’
I was too bewildered to refuse. I watched as he swiped the screen to life and tapped it a few times, then entered eleven digits and returned it to me.
‘Is that…?’ I asked.
‘My number. “Just” my number. Use it, don’t use it. But I’ve given it to you now. You can tell her if you want.’
But I knew I’d never tell Zara. I took back the phone gingerly, as if it was an unexploded bomb. And then, my fingers fumbling because I was a bit drunk and a bit shaky, I typed in his name. It took me three goes to get it right.
Patrick Hamilton.