Chapter 20
Six minutes later we’re in the back of an Uber, slowly heading down Old Compton Street.
I look out through a rain-streaked window, searching for the building I saw on Olivia Coombes’ post. The street is bathed in pink and red light from neon signage, pedestrians wander arm in arm down the pavement, a rickshaw drives past us, then . . .
There it is.
A black building, with a line of maybe ten people standing outside, behind red ropes.
‘Here’s fine,’ I say. The driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror then pulls over.
We get out and weave our way across the road as I conduct a quick assessment.
My hypnotism seems to be working tonight, the line is moving slowly and time is of the essence—we need to get inside, seated and halfway through our first drink, before my hypnotism invariably wears off and Es decides she wants to go home.
I go up to the bouncer and as he looks me in the eye I feel my pupils flare and a warmth in my solar plexus.
In a perky voice I say, ‘You will let us in first.’
He grins. ‘Will I?’ Then he looks me up and down the way men always do.
Shit. It didn’t work.
My cheeks get hot and doom pulses through me as I glance over at Es, who is still in a bit of a trance, but who knows how long for . . .
But then he says: ‘I like your confidence, blondie. Sure, go in.’
I reach for Es’s hand and we rush inside before he can change his mind. It smells of beer and cologne, and in the far corner, just past the bar, is a darkened staircase with a printed sign at the bottom reading: Spoken Word Open Mic upstairs tonight! Just ￡7!
‘This way,’ I say to Es. I lead her up the stairs.
A woman with three nose piercings and a mauve pixie cut takes our payments, stamps our hands with red stars and gives us two pink drink tickets. Then we go inside and, keeping my head angled down, I surreptitiously scan the room for her.
I see dark blue sofas and low tables, a small bar with one bartender behind it, a stage area at the front with a mic and a small red rug for the performer to stand on. There are maybe twenty people in the audience, all seated with drinks, chatting and laughing.
And then I see her. At a table right at the front. Olivia Coombes.
Her back is to us but I know it’s her immediately, I recognise her long curly dark hair from Jonathan’s living room last night. She’s sitting flanked by the same two friends I saw in her Instagram post: the blonde woman and the guy in the small ostentatious hat.
‘There’s one over there,’ I say to Es and she follows me vacantly over to a table against the wall, far enough away from Olivia and her two friends that they won’t notice me, but at the perfect angle for them to be in my direct eyeline.
We put our coats on the backs of the chairs, and as Es takes off her scarf and goes to sit down I say, ‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ holding up the pink drink tickets.
Then I leave her there, staring blankly at the stage.
As I wait for the bartender, I glance back at Olivia’s table.
She tosses her hair back as she laughs, and as she looks around the room, I take her in.
In real life, without the softness of Instagram filters or the glass of a rainy window between us, I can see that objectively, I’m prettier than she is, but even so, all I can think as I trace her features is: She’s so perfect.
Because her nose may be a bit bigger than we’re told a nose is meant to be, bigger than the images of women in magazines, and her face is self-consciously sculpted by bronzer and highlighter, but she’s so normal.
So human. And that wins out over everything, because that is something I will never be.
I look at her with envy as I home in on her conversation. ‘Well, I think it’s very telling that he still hasn’t posted a photo of you online after three months,’ she says, and her friends nod. ‘It’s like you don’t exist.’
‘I know,’ says her blonde friend in a sad voice—they must be talking about some guy she’s dating. ‘But he al—’
Then the bartender’s voice distracts me; draws me back. ‘What can I get you?’
I turn back to him, annoyed by the interruption. ‘Two glasses of house red,’ I say.
He takes my drink tickets and heads off and I turn back to Olivia’s table. ‘Babe, no guy is that private . . .’ That’s Olivia speaking again.
‘I know,’ says the blonde. ‘You’re both so right.’ Then she looks at Olivia. ‘So what’s the latest with you and Jonathan? You’ve been spending a lot of time together recently.’
Time all but stands still. Because: What? They’ve been spending time together? And her friends know about him? Already? This isn’t putting my mind at ease at all. It’s worse than I thought.
I mean, does he . . . like her?
Could he?
If he does like her, then what am I doing here? I’m being so selfish. I should just leave them alone. Let him be happy. Let him choose whomever he wants. That would be the right thing to do. Abort the mission. Go home right now. I want to do the right thing.
But I really, really, really want Jonathan.
‘Here you go,’ the bartender interrupts again and I take the drinks back to Es. I sit down, putting my phone on the table and obscure my face with my hair.
‘Thank you,’ Es says, then takes a big gulp. ‘But should we skol this and leave?’ she asks, looking back towards the door. ‘Quickly, before it starts?’
Her eyes are clear now, and so is her mind. I guess my little trick has worn off. But at least it worked for long enough to get us here.
I smile and say, ‘We’re here now, let’s stay for a little bit.’ Then I crinkle my nose like it might be fun, take a gulp of my drink and glance back over at Olivia.
She’s holding up her phone, taking another selfie of the three of them.
Then the blonde woman says, ‘You must be making some progress, how did the other night go?’
‘It was okay, but Baxter was hanging around again. God I wish he’d get a girlfriend or something, he’s just always there. I mean, I know we all work together, but I’m never going to get to the next stage with Jonathan if Baxter doesn’t leave us alone.’
That syrupy hope is back and pulsing thickly through my veins as I cling onto the phrases next stage and work together.
Never have I been so grateful for Baxter’s homebody ways.
Because this is good. It means the only reason Olivia was in Jonathan’s living room, the only reason they’ve been ‘spending time’ together is because they work together.
It’s not his fault that she fancies him.
He can’t control that. And it sounds like maybe nothing has happened yet.
‘You have such patience,’ says the guy in the hat. ‘Hope he’s worth it. I mean if it didn’t turn into anything when you hooked up last time, maybe it’s not meant to be.’
‘That was two years ago,’ Olivia replies, terse.
‘I’ve grown since then, so has he. Besides, “meant to be” is so juvenile.
What matters most is that we make a good team.
We have similar life goals. I mean, I’m almost thirty now and he’s thirty-three.
We both know what’s out there, and you can’t hold out for butterflies forever.
Eventually, you make the sensible choice.
’ She shrugs. ‘I just need him to see that and stop focusing entirely on work for a moment.’
My vision gets all wavy and this is all wrong.
She doesn’t love Jonathan. Not even a little bit. He doesn’t even give her butterflies. And I bet she absolutely knows about me—it sounds like she’s had her sights on him the whole time we were together—but she doesn’t care. She’s awful. He deserves so much more.
She shrugs. ‘Eventually he’ll figure it out. We just make sense. Men are always slower with these things.’
‘You’re so wise,’ says her blonde friend. ‘I wish I could focus on men who made sense.’
‘I know, I’m an old soul . . . it has its drawbacks,’ Olivia says and my gums tingle because this is so unjust! She doesn’t know the first thing about what it is to be an old soul. The torment.
Stay calm, Aubrey. I can’t afford to have my fangs pop out right now.
Besides, this is all good.
It sounds like she has her sights on Jonathan but he hasn’t reciprocated. Not yet, at least. But also, she sounds pretty determined. I need to get him back before he falls for her trap.
My phone lights up with a text message and I reach for it. Daphne: Did you get my voicemail???
I’m frowning down at my phone, wondering what she means, what’s so urgent, when one, two, three, one, two, three comes over the mic, and I look up.
It’s a man with a buzz cut, readjusting the mic stand to be a bit higher.
‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘I’m Karem and I’m your host for tonight.
I ask that you all put away your devices and give your full attention to the talented poets we have gracing our stage this evening. ’
I put my phone in my bag and Es tugs on my sleeve. ‘We could still sneak out,’ she whispers.
I smile over at her and say, ‘We’ll leave after the first set.’ Because now that I’m here, I know exactly what I need to do.
I have to put Olivia off Jonathan somehow. I imagine myself following her to the bathroom, giving my hypnotism another shot, telling her to block Jonathan’s number and never see him again. Maybe she could put in a good word for me while she’s at it.
But then . . . a dizziness falls over me.
My ears start to ring. Loudly. So loudly it hurts.
So loudly that I can’t hear what Karem is saying.
It’s like the worst kind of speaker feedback.
I press my hands over them and look around, but nobody else is flinching.
And that’s when I realise the sound is coming from inside my head.
I’m struggling to breathe. The first poet—a woman in a long purple dress—gets up on stage and speaks into the mic, but I can’t hear what she’s saying, all I can hear is Oscar’s voice in my head.
He’s whispering, but it’s loud, so loud.
‘It’s nine-thirty, Aubrey, where are you?’
I swallow hard and try to ignore it, try to focus on Olivia instead. But the ringing gets louder and louder. And I know what I have to do, I can feel it in my chest, it’s like a magnet, pulling me towards him . . . I know where it wants to take me, but I don’t want to go.
Because Olivia is right there, and when else am I going to get this chance? I need to talk to her. I need to do something. But my eardrums feel like they’re going to explode.
So I stand up, my hands still over my ears, and rush to the back door. Es watches me go, frowning and worried, but I just run.