Chapter 2
GUY
At the Hen Party
‘A technical glitch.’ That’s the explanation the engineer gave Lyra and me when he greeted us on the top floor. ‘Sorry,’ he’d said, wholly unconvincingly.
Then he looked at my semi-nude form, the two bottles of tequila and empty taco box, winked at Lyra and told us, ‘Doesn’t look like it was too stressful.’
What would he know? I was on the verge of meltdown and would have had an anxiety attack if it hadn’t been for the random musings and non-stop talking of my indecisive, sanctimonious fellow prisoner.
Funny though, now that we’ve been freed and we’re standing at the same door, listening to the Spice Girls playing from inside and waiting to be welcomed to the hen party I have no desire to be at, she’s stopped talking.
In fact, she’s worrying her lip, holding on to the bag slung across her shoulder. She’s staring at the apartment door as it’s opened by a red-haired woman wearing a short sparkly dress and skyscraper heels.
‘Lyra, hi! You’re later than I thought. Did you get lost?’
Nice way to make your guests feel welcome.
‘Lift problems,’ Lyra says, smiling gently, apologetically. ‘It jammed.’
‘Oh,’ the redhead says.
Then she turns to me, eyeing me from head to toes and back up again like I’m a piece of meat. I guess that is what I’m getting paid to be, but it makes me feel like even more of a prat than I already did, if that’s possible.
‘I assume that’s why you’re late too?’ she asks me, not introducing herself, not even saying hello. ‘Could you head to the kitchen? People are having to make their own drinks.’
I run my tongue along my teeth, close to needing to bite it to stop me retorting, but I grin. Kill them with kindness, Dave told me. This is my job now.
Position: Naked Twat.
Date of employment: April 2025 to present.
Qualifications: none.
Soft skills: reluctantly sociable recluse.
‘I’ll get on it,’ I say through my drawn-up lips.
I hand her the unopened bottle of tequila – the one that’s actually full of tequila, as opposed to mine, which has been emptied and refilled with water.
‘This is for you. To spice things up.’ I hate myself for it but I wink.
Because that’s my role tonight – cheeky chappy, confident but not cocksure, paid to flirt and get the party started.
Paid to disperse with any last trace of dignity I’ve been clinging on to.
Red takes it and inspects the label. ‘Actually, I’m not the bride, just a bridesmaid, but I’m sure this will get the party going.’
Like Lyra, Red has a hint of a north-east accent. It’s like nondescript rich girl meets north-east twang. I can’t help wondering, if all the guests at this party are uppity, who the hell misjudged so badly that they arranged a naked butler?
She steps back from the door and I gesture for Lyra to head inside before me, oddly less comfortable without her next to me – the near-stranger, who is uncannily familiar, maybe in the way a girl next door is, or something, I’m not sure.
An old Sugababes track is playing now and there are probably two dozen women in clubbing attire – not at all dressed sweetly like Lyra – mingling in the red brick walls of the loft-style apartment.
The entire bottom floor of the duplex is open plan, a great social space, and it’s twinkling with tea lights and loads of sparkling stuff.
Streamers, disco balls, confetti. In the middle of it all, hand over her mouth as she giggles, her eyes on me, is an attractive woman wearing a white dress, veil and tiara that make her look like a Vegas bride.
Wild guess, she’s Charlotte, the bride-to-be.
I set my bags by the door, cringing internally as I turn my arse to the room, take off my trainers and drop my trousers, leaving my modesty preserved only by a pair of tight-fitting boxers and a short apron.
Then I make my way to the kitchen against a soundtrack of cat calls and wolf whistles.
A few already drunk hands grope my pecs.
I feel cheap and stupid, rather than flattered by the attention. There’ve been plenty of headlines written about me in the past and I can imagine what the rags would say about me now: How the mighty fall. Hard. And never manage to get back up.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I set about locating things in the kitchen to mix cocktails. Dave.
Ur at a party with a group of horny women, let em have their wicked way with you. Or don’t. But whatever u do, do it with a smile on ur face and remember it’s my reputation at stake.
For him, the message is almost heartfelt. He’s never been a man to beat around the bush.
‘I look like a fucking muppet, Dave,’ I gripe into my phone, sending him a voice note in response.
‘Ah, ha way, man, ya can’t look that bad. Send me a selfie,’ he fires back.
‘What, so you can roll it out whenever you need to bribe me into going along with one of your idiotic ideas?’ I’m shaking my head as I speak into my phone, as subtly as I can. ‘You owe me for this, big fella.’
‘Owe ya? Yey were the one who begged me for a job,’ Dave replies.
He’s got me there.
I was desperate
I type this time.
‘And I’m your saviour, fella. Have a good neet. Try not to sleep with any of the hens, especially the bride. I can tell ya from experience, it’s not good for business.’
I shove my phone into my apron. I’m not going to sleep with anyone at the hen party.
Then again, maybe that would make this night tolerable because I don’t think anything could make it worse.
How did I get here?
But I know exactly how I got here. I had no job. I had no money. Which really goes hand-in-hand with the first problem. I was forced to move back to Newcastle from London because of the second problem. And my old mate and band manager, Dave, was the only person who threw me a lifeline.
So, here I am, semi-naked, utilising the only option I have available.
As I’m mixing cocktails with ingredients that have been bought in for the purpose (dropped off by Dave or one of his staff earlier today), I feel greedy eyes on me.
I want to tell them, It’s only good for one night, but I think that might be the intention.
Look, tease, flirt, then go back to their respectable other halves.
Having a group of people staring at me doesn’t bother me much.
I once had tens of thousands of people staring at me as I performed with the band at festivals, on arena stages, even stadiums at the end.
What bothers me is that these people see me for what I am these days: talentless and pointless.
Back in the day, crowds sang along to my lyrics, they danced to the rhythm of my guitar.
What’s worse is, I don’t want to remember those days. I don’t want to think about my time in the band, about Scott and how I let him down, let everyone down.
It was a close shave in the lift. Lyra knew it was me, that I am the man behind the songs that The Hand Me Downs played. Now, my hair is shaggier, I have a beard rather than gruff, my face is older. But the way she looked at me, it was as if she knew me.
The reason I know she doesn’t is because she’s sweet. I don’t know and never have known sweet girls.
I seek her out now, amongst the increasingly rowdy group of women.
When I do, I find her looking my way, a large camera around her neck and held between her hands.
She doesn’t look away, or smile, or react at all really.
It makes me swallow so hard against something building in my throat.
Something that I think could be embarrassment. Mortification even.
She has big dark-brown irises, outlined with thick black, so unusual that in the lift, I lost myself to them for a moment, fascinated.
She has naturally full lips, soft pink beneath clear gloss. Long hair as dark as her irises flows down the back of her pretty dress and thick knitted cardigan.
It’s not as if I was noticing in the lift but there was very little space and very little else to concentrate on, besides the fact it felt like my life was hanging by a cord. In fact, the most terrifying moment was her reminding me that I was once someone to people.
God, this job could be a disaster. Will people know who I am? Who I was?
I raise my cocktail shaker to her: Want one?
Lyra shakes her head, then lets her camera dangle from the neck brace and gives me the international gesture for driving.
So, she’s here working as a photographer. I guess that explains the mismatch of her outfit to the others in the room.
I finish mixing and pour two cosmopolitan cocktails. This is going to be a fairly inefficient use of my time. Hopefully, most women want Prosecco.
‘Lyra!’
My attention is dragged to a woman who looks a lot like Lyra, only with salon-perfected hair and a face full of shimmering make-up.
She’s waving over my fellow lift captive to where she’s holding court on a sofa with four other hens.
‘Lyra, do you remember that time when Joshua came to our house for Valentine’s Day?
’ She almost sings the name Josh-u-ahhh as if she’s been taught to in finishing school.
Lyra looks up from her camera. ‘Oh, yeah.’ She gives a short laugh, clearly uncomfortable but smiling for – best guess – her sister’s benefit.
‘So, Joshua came to our house on Valentine’s Day. His mum dropped him off in their Bentley and Joshua got out of the back wearing a shirt and chinos and holding a giant stuffed dog. I mean, enormous.’
‘Aww,’ one of the other women coos. ‘Olivia, that’s adorable.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t calling on me,’ Olivia says, casting a look across her shoulder to Lyra and beckoning her over. Lyra obliges, making her way across the room as Olivia continues the story and I eavesdrop, multitasking by filling shot glasses with tequila.
‘He was coming to see Lyra.’
Gasps ensue from her rapt audience.
‘It’s true, isn’t it, Lyra?’
Lyra nods. I don’t really know her but I find myself wanting to get her out of here, away from her sister’s performance.