Chapter 12
Daphne belongs to an exclusive members club in Mayfair, right near Marble Arch—she got membership from one of her sugar daddies a while back—so that’s where we go tonight.
We stand on Dunraven Street in front of a relatively innocuous-looking wooden door.
There’s a brass intercom with a snake logo at the top, and she presses the button, stands in front of the lens and smiles. There’s a click, then the door opens.
A hostess with a short black bob greets us. A big, brass STRICTLY NO PHOTOS sign hangs on the wall behind her, and there’s an iPad in front of her. ‘Welcome to Serpentine,’ she says, then she nods to Daphne. ‘Nice to see you again, Ms Roberts. You know the way?’
Daphne nods and strides through an open doorway to our left, into a low-lit bar, ornate lamps on every table emitting an amber glow.
As we move towards the bar I feel awkward and conspicuous; everything smells of old money and heritage.
You’d think that would make me feel right at home, but I’ve spent my whole life on the edges of society, avoiding rooms like these.
If somebody wealthy said I was a vampire, they’d probably be believed.
Daphne, on the other hand, moves like she doesn’t have a care in the world, like she feels safe being noticed, and oh, how I envy it.
We sit on high stools at the bar and a barman comes over to us. He’s clean-cut, late twenties, maybe early thirties.
‘Two dirty martinis,’ Daphne says to him as her eyes dart around the room, then she turns to me. ‘Okay, I’m going to tell you this stuff, but only if you promise to cheer up,’ she says, frowning at me.
I plaster on a smile. ‘I promise,’ I say.
‘Good,’ she says. The bartender begins pouring our drinks, and Daphne stops speaking, like she’s worried he’ll overhear her war strategy. Finally, he’s done, pushing them across the bar on two napkins. Daphne goes to pay but the bartender says, ‘Compliments of the two gentlemen behind you.’
We both turn to look.
One is short and sturdy looking with dark hair, while the other is tall and lanky with mousy-brown hair and a deep side part.
Both mid-forties. Daphne flashes them a quick smile and a wave, and I take a sip of my drink.
I like martinis—the shape of the glass, the romance of them—even if they don’t really work on me.
While I can drink alcohol and do drugs, and they do affect me eventually, I’d need a LOT more than Daphne or any other human would to get a real buzz.
Lord knows I’ve tried it all over the years, looking for something, anything, to take the edge off, even if just a little.
Cigarettes are the most effective thing I’ve found—probably because their toxicity rivals mine.
But the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real high in recent years was Jonathan.
‘Where were we,’ Daphne says, leading me to a table and taking a sip of her drink. We both put our coats on the backs of the chairs then sit down.
‘Right, getting him back,’ she starts. ‘Well, I mean there are the standard things like not texting him, and posting pictures of yourself living your best life, blah-blah-blah. But men aren’t completely stupid, and they can be a teensy bit arrogant.
You just have to look at them and they think you’re picking out bridesmaids’ dresses.
He’ll automatically assume you’re doing it all for him unless you’re a bit . . . sneaky.
‘So,’ she says, leaning in and lowering her voice a little, ‘when you post pictures, make sure you’re not just posing and smiling and looking super hot.
You need to look natural and be laughing, it needs to be the kind of picture where you just know someone else was there taking it.
He needs to think you’ve totally forgotten him—that way, his ego gets involved.
’ She nods, as if to drill the truth of what she’s saying into my head.
And I nod too, saying ‘right, right,’ even though I’m not sure I like the sound of this. It doesn’t sound very soulmatey.
‘Then,’ she continues, ‘when he starts watching your Instagram stories or texts you something inane, you reply with the exact same thing. He sends a fire emoji, you send a fire emoji. He sends “Hey” then you send “Hey”.’ She uses her fingers for air quotes.
‘Nothing more, nothing less. Eventually he’ll start to think he’s lost his hold on you and that, my friend, is the key.
When men think they have you, they stop seeing you clearly, they think you’re replaceable.
You need to show him you’re not bothered. ’
She takes another sip of her drink. ‘But . . .’ She pauses for drama, and I wonder how many other times she’s imparted this wisdom.
‘You only get one shot at this, so Aubs, you can’t crack first. That’s the mistake we always make, we give up right before they crack.
And they always crack—they can’t help themselves.
You just need to wait it out. That’s when the real work starts. ’
‘What do you mean?’ I frown.
‘Well,’ she says, leaning in a little further, like she’s just getting to the good stuff, ‘that’s when you have to start being different.
Like Aubs, but version two-point-oh.’ She raises her eyebrows and smiles.
‘Now you’re fun and elusive and unpredictable.
Think mysterious, alluring . . . maybe a little bit dangerous. ’ She winks.
I recoil at the word dangerous . . . she has no idea.
‘That sounds like playing games.’
She shrugs. ‘Oh, it is. But they do it too. And honestly, you’re doing him a favour.
Men produce vasopressin when you stress them out, and that’s the same chemical that makes them bond with you.
It’s science.’ And that’s typical Daphne, she’ll spout all these mind games that make her seem a bit mean or manipulative and then pull out a scientific fact to back it all up.
It’s pretty convincing. ‘Still, I don’t even know why you’re wasting your time with all this.
It’s not like he was paying your rent or something.
And you could have anyone you want. I could introduce you to some others? ’
I take a small sip of my drink while I think about this. My eyes meet hers. ‘I just want him.’
She shrugs. ‘Ah, young love. Well, then there you have it. That’s how you get him back.’
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it and a warmth rolls through me.
And for a single moment, I have a friend.
A real friend. But then I remember that a few years from now I’ll be nothing but a memory to her, that if she ever knew my secret she’d run as fast as she could. And the loneliness is back.
Her eyes move over my shoulder and her voice drops to a murmur. ‘Oh god, they’re coming over. You can practise being mysterious on these guys.’ Then she puts on a big, beautiful, billboard-worthy smile.
I glance behind me and see the two men who bought us drinks approaching. I quickly look away from them, back down at the bar. I shouldn’t have come.
Daphne arches her back.
‘Good evening, ladies, could we join you?’ the tall one asks, in one of those rah-rah British accents that indicate he’s never had to work a day in his life, but probably has a job as a fund manager that his father or a ‘friend from school’ got him. ‘I’m Timothy, and this is Ray.’
‘Sure,’ Daphne says, batting her eyelashes. ‘I’m Jasmine and this is Harriet,’ she lies. Daphne often lies about strange things, I think she gets off on it, so I just smile along.
‘Hi,’ I say, and they both look at me in that way men always look at me.
Timothy sits by Daphne and Ray sits closer to me. His blood type is B positive and there’s a little white indent on his wedding ring finger where a ring should sit. It’s probably in his pocket.
‘So, what have you girls been up to tonight?’ Ray asks, edging his body closer to mine. He smells sour.
‘We just got off from work,’ Daphne interjects, answering for me.
‘Working late . . .’ he says. ‘What do you do?’
‘We’re in PR,’ Daphne lies again with a sweet smile, taking one of the martini olives seductively in her mouth.
‘Groovy,’ he says, and I flinch. I remember that word.
Remember it fading out of fashion and me dropping it at the same time everyone else dropped it so I wouldn’t give myself away.
There are many words and phrases I love but cannot use in conversation: glad rags, swell, dope, cataclysmic, petrichor, mellifluous .
. . nothing that suggests I’ve read more books than my twenty-two years might allow.
Or, worse still, that I was around when those words were in routine circulation.
Though, conversely, I do love how I can say ‘fuck’ so freely these days.
So, you win some, you lose some, I guess.
Daphne throws me an amused look—she noticed ‘groovy’ too—then spits out the olive pip and downs the rest of her drink.
‘We have a place near here,’ Ray says.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Daphne says, not taking the bait.
Ray grins at her, his eyes narrowing like he’s accepting an unspoken challenge. ‘How about we get you another?’
‘Sure,’ Daphne answers with a shrug. ‘Harriet?’
I nod and smile, even though I’m still sipping my first drink.
‘I’m going to go and powder my nose,’ she says, and disappears.
Ray heads to the bar and Timothy follows him, leaning in and whispering something. I tune in, curious, just in time to hear, ‘Like shooting fish in a barrel.’ They laugh.
My darkness gathers beneath my ribs, an anger starts to rise, but NO. I push it down.
This is why I don’t socialise much—it’s always disappointing. That, and I might slip, do something I regret.
My phone vibrates with a message and I reach for it in my pocket. It’s a text from Daphne, from the loos. It reads: OMG isn’t he so fucking tedious? Like anyone cares.
I frown down at it, a little confused, as more typing bubbles flare, then: Beep.
In comes an image.