Chapter 2
Luke
“When did Soho get so busy on a Wednesday night? Is Wednesday the new Friday? Is Thursday the new Wednesday?!” Nick throws his arms up as he squeezes through the crowd.
Eventually we claim a booth towards the back and I fight my way to the bar to grab us a nice bottle of red.
Nick and I have been best friends for years and we still meet up most weeks for a drink.
We’ve been through a lot together and he’s always had my back.
He got married two years ago and his wife is expecting a baby, which means our weekly drinking sessions are on borrowed time.
He’s in a permanently jittery mood at the moment, flitting between wild excitement, moon-eyed adoration for his wife Priya, and total panic about being a dad. Tonight, it’s panic; I can tell as he pours us both heavy glasses of wine and lets out a theatrical sigh.
“What’s on your mind, Nick?” I prompt, waiting while he runs anxious fingers through his floppy hair.
“Ok, so, what happens if I lose my job? What if the company tanks, or a client bails, or we go bankrupt? What will we do? What will her parents say? Where will we live?” His eyes are wild as the questions tumble out.
I school my face into something resembling sympathy.
This must be the sixth or seventh rerun of this conversation.
“Nick, mate. Breathe. Where is this coming from?” I keep my voice low and steady. I know I can be incredibly grounding when people are spiralling. It’s a talent of mine.
“We had a pitch go south today and it just made me panic. Everything in life is so fucking precarious and we’re taking on this insane responsibility and what happens if it all goes totally fucking wrong?
! What if I can’t do this?” He’s practically breathless with panic now.
He looks at me desperately and then down at his hands, fingers anxiously twisting on the tabletop.
The fear and the weight of his responsibilities are written all over his face.
I get it. When Nick was twenty, a drunk driver hit his parents’ cab on the M4.
They were killed instantly along with their driver.
Overnight, Nick became guardian to his 13-year-old sister.
If anyone knows life can collapse in a heartbeat, it’s him.
He went to hell and back while most of his mates were getting pissed at university and worrying about where their next shag was coming from.
I rest a hand over his to stop the fidgeting.
“Nick. Look at me.” My voice drops into command mode and his eyes snap up.
“Life is precarious. Nothing’s guaranteed.
But you’ll be fine. You’re not losing your job – and if you do, I’ve got you.
You, Priya, the baby. You’ll be okay. Besides” – I squeeze his hand – “you’ll be a great dad.
You already raised Emmy. And she turned out alright. ”
He relaxes slightly at the mention of his sister.
“You’re right, mate. You’re right. It’ll be ok.
” He lets out a breath and smiles brightly.
The tension leaves his shoulders and I give his hand a firm squeeze before letting go and grabbing my wine.
Nick doesn’t realise it, but he’s incredibly receptive to someone taking control.
He’s always needed reassurance and I’m as unflappable as they come.
“You’re right,” he repeats, and takes a long sip of merlot as the tension melts from his shoulders. The panic is over. “You know it was her birthday last week?”
“Emmy? No, I didn’t know.” I shift in my seat.
“Hard to believe she’s 32! She’s still a moody teenager in my head,” Nick says with a wistful smile.
I make a vague noise that doesn’t quite resemble agreement. “She and Colin do anything to celebrate?” I aim for offhand and disinterested and totally fail.
“Not sure to be honest. Can you believe they’ve been married 10 years now? She was practically a child bride. He’s dull as fuck but at least he’s steady, I guess. I’m sure they’ll start popping out sprogs sometime soon.”
I try to hide my wince as I pour another glass of wine. I’m still staring into it when Nick suddenly stands. “Speak of the devil!” he cries, prising himself out of the booth. “We were just talking about you!”
And as if summoned, Emmeline Warner strolls into view, her chestnut curls catching the light.
Her eyes are sparkling and she’s smiling so widely she looks a bit unhinged.
My cock twitches and I curse myself. She’s beautiful.
Married. My best friend’s little sister.
Someone I’ve known since she was a kid. Every reason in the world to keep my distance, none of which appears to matter to my traitorous libido.
She gives Nick a long hug and leans over to give me an affectionate squeeze. Her hair brushes over my shoulder and I try my hardest not to inhale her soft, jasmine scent.
“Hello boys,” she says, plonking her bag down in the middle of our table. She sits down next to me, opposite Nick. “Why is it so fucking busy in here? It’s a Wednesday!”
“Happy birthday kiddo,” replies Nick with a grin. “What did you get?”
“Firstly, thank you for the John Lewis voucher. It’s a classic for a reason.
Definitely not boring.” She winks at him as Nick fakes a knife to the heart.
“Chloe – well, Annabel – threw me a party. It was a perfect day. I got a cake and a party bag and everything.” She smiles but there’s a slightly wild look in her eyes and I start to hold my breath.
She scans around the room and sighs. “So much for table service,” she mutters.
I look over to the bar and that too is several people deep.
She stares longingly at it for a moment, and I rise up out of my seat, about to offer to wait in the queue for her before she speaks again.
Her words come out in a breathless rush.
“After the party, I came home and found Colin fucking his colleague, Stacey. In our bed. He thought I’d be at Chloe’s, but I came home early.
She was practically wearing my pyjamas. Can you believe it?
The audacity!” Emmy cackles and the sound is too loud, too bright.
All the colour drains from Nick’s face as his jaw drops.
I sink back in my seat, fighting the urge to step in, to steady her.
Rage floods my nervous system and I grip the edge of the table as if it can dispel any of my fury.
Emmy’s a thoroughly lovely person. She’s smart, sensitive, funny, and kind.
Sort of scatty but in a charming way. And Colin?
He’s a spineless, privileged little twat.
Married to his job, sure, but screwing around on her?
What a pathetic cliché. The fact he’s hurt her makes something violent unfurl in me.
“Apparently men have needs and I’m overreacting.” She’s really laughing now but it sounds hysterical, as if any second now it’s going to turn into sobbing. A few people in nearby booths are turning at the sound of her voice and words as they get louder and faster. I swallow.
“So, big brother of mine. I guess you could say what I got for my birthday is a divorce.” She grabs my glass of wine and downs it with a flourish.
Well, fuck.