CHAPTER 11 #2
Ben. He’s Ben! I thought I’d make it longer than half an hour before someone asked me to leave, but it was nice while it lasted. ‘I don’t,’ I admit. ‘I’m technically a crasher. My flatmate’s new partner knows Ben, and they dragged me along then proceeded to ditch me.’
‘Oh, you’re Bianca’s friend!’ Rani and Mish look at each other. ‘We met her. She seems lovely.’
‘Well, I think so.’
‘They’re quite smitten.’
‘Absolutely they are. Thankfully the walls are thick at home.’ They laugh.
Instead of politely moving on, Rani and Mish tell me about their toddler and four-month-old, currently at home with Rani’s parents. It’s their first night out since the new baby arrived. I tell Rani she looks glowing, not sleep-deprived, and Mish nods.
‘Retinol anti-ageing serum by the litre. By rights she should be incandescent.’ Then he gets out his phone for photos, showing impressive restraint given that their two kids are objectively cuter than buttons.
He apologises for monopolising my time as he tucks the phone away. ‘But I’ve been so absolutely bereft of adult human conversation,’ he says, drawing a theatrical scowl from Rani, who looks amused rather than insulted.
Then they ask about me, and I’m regaling them with enthralling paintball anecdotes when a low voice in my ear says, ‘Is that your friend over there?’
I smile as I turn my head.
He’s wearing the same suit as that first night, and has paired it with a plain black felt mask that can’t hide the glint in his eyes.
‘The one talking to the finance bro?’ I say. ‘Yep, that’s my friend, Bee.’ He grins.
‘You know Gertie too, Art?’ Rani asks, leaning in for cheek kisses.
‘Oh, we go way back,’ he says, and now he has a hand at my back.
What are they talking about now? His hand is warm.
His thumb is moving slowly back and forth, catching on the slinky polyester of my dress.
His pinkie is about two inches from my ass.
Can he feel my pulse racing from there? Can he hear my heart in my throat?
Then a tray of rice paper rolls comes around, and the hand is gone.
The three friends are chatting away while I stand there musing over hands.
I think I’ve overstayed my welcome now. No one has looked at me in a few minutes.
I should make a polite exit and leave them to it.
I finish my drink and gather the courage to speak up.
I’m already moving away when I hold up my empty glass and say, ‘I’m going to get another drink. ’
‘Good idea!’ Rani calls, looping an arm with mine and leading us off. Over her shoulder to the men, she says, ‘I’ve adopted Gertie because Bianca ditched her. She’s mine now!’ I can see a hint of pride in Arthur’s eyes as he follows us.
But I do actually really need to pee, so I hope Rani lets me go soon.
Talking is exhausting, and I seemingly haven’t stopped.
After Rani gets called away by some old high-school friend, we chat to Ben, the birthday boy, and his wife, who seem to accept my interloping ass, presumably because they think I’m Arthur’s date.
He doesn’t put them straight, good protective friend that he is.
I can’t really remember all the names of the people we talk to, but we stand rooted to the spot by the window and are approached from all directions for over an hour until the sun has fully disappeared below the horizon.
Arthur. He’s so good at this. I know these are his people, but he’s in his element.
He remembers details about everyone’s lives.
He makes the effort to include me in the conversations.
He’s not one of those prats who lean on inside jokes and shared nostalgia that predates me.
He seems to absorb people’s energy and emit it back—through his infectious smile and bright eyes.
It’s almost blinding when he directs them at me. But I still really need to pee, and I finally see an opportunity when a work colleague of Arthur’s sidles up to out himself as that guy who talks about work at a Saturday-night party, so I slip away, leaving Arthur with my half-full glass.
As I round the corner, I see a man and woman standing against the wall near the bathroom, his hand on her waist. He’s leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She’s smiling, giggling, running her hand up and down his arm.
Then I recognise the fetching green suit.
That’s William.
But that’s not Bee.
This woman has noticed me now. ‘Oh, sorry!’ I say, like I’m the weird voyeur one and not the one just trying to go to the toilet.
The man—William—doesn’t turn around, but his back has stiffened, tension radiating through his shoulder blades.
I shuffle past, looking at neither of them, tripping on my heels slightly in my haste to get the hell out of there.
When the door closes behind me in the ladies toilet, I lean back against the door. Inhale. Exhale.
How am I going to tell Bee?
They are gone when I emerge from the bathroom. I’m totally alone, and I can almost convince myself that I imagined it. Life would be so much easier if I had just imagined it.
But I’m not a good enough liar to convince myself, and it turns out I can’t lie to Arthur either. One look at my face when I blindly take back my glass and throw the contents down my throat, and he asks, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
His expression says, ‘Bullshit.’
‘Really, nothing,’ I say again. I put on my best and perkiest fake smile honed from years of politeness in the face of abuse from customers. ‘Have you been to the bathrooms yet? They’re so cool. It’s all round, and the sink is just a lone pipe hanging over a flat concrete slab.’
‘Yes!’ Rani says, jumping a little in excitement. ‘It was designed by some famous architect who’s all about taking the mundane and making it art. I saw it on Grand Designs or something. He was all “no one looks to the bathrooms.”’
‘He’d probably turn a linen cupboard into a nightclub,’ I say, and we all laugh. Arthur is still looking at me a little funny, but he lets it go.
There’s a shiver on the back of my neck now, and the little hairs stand up on end. Looking around, I see William’s eyes trained on me, narrowed. My whole body flinches. ‘Sorry, did I step on your foot?’ Arthur asks.
Every second of the next hour drags out like when I am doing a side plank during an exercise class.
I feel William watching me as Arthur and I slowly migrate around the room, like an overly starched Mona Lisa.
Even with my back to him, his beady eyes burn a hole in the back of my head.
I glance at him a few times, and I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the situation, but he’s getting even handsier with Bee than he was before, a marking of territory.
The back of his hand gently strokes up and down her bare arm.
He grasps at her waist, crinkling the fabric that rests there.
He squeezes the back of her neck before draping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her into his side.
It kind of reminds me of what I saw outside the bathroom.
If I do a few shots, will that be burnt from my brain?
The party ends—finally—and several guests plan to kick on to an upmarket pub around the corner.
I have no desire to wait forty-five minutes in a line that weaves down the street for the privilege of paying thirty dollars to get in and twenty dollars for a drink, and stand around looking at the same strangers I’ve exhausted myself making small talk with for the last four hours.
I bid farewell to a jolly Arthur, and he walks off down the street, leaving me waiting for my ride.
‘How far is the Uber?’ Bee is standing next to me now. Her eyeliner has smudged into the crease of her eyelids, and she has a slightly glazed look.
‘Two minutes. You aren’t kicking on?’
‘William is training in the morning. I don’t want to be up at eight on a Sunday to leave his place with him.’
We don’t speak again until we’re back home.
We’re removing our makeup, Bee is removing her contact lenses, we’re brushing our teeth side by side.
She keeps sending me furtive little looks in the mirror.
Her eyes are narrowed in a way that reminds me strikingly of William’s expression, and I really can’t wait to go to bed because I can’t even remember the last time I was looked at this much by this many people over such a prolonged period of time.
It’s unsettling. How on earth do popular people handle it?
‘You aren’t going to say anything?’ she says, finally, looking at me through the mirror. I’m actually not going to say anything just yet, since she has chosen the exact moment my mouth is full of toothpaste. Taking the time to spit and rinse buys me time.
Because Bee must know. And know that I know. And know that I did not immediately tell her.
It all makes sense why she isn’t staying at his house tonight.
Are they in a fight? Did they break up? Have I already been lax in best-friend comforting duties? I’m not sure I have any gems in the freezer, so I might have to order in something fried…
Oh, right. I still haven’t said anything.
‘I was going to tell you,’ I say, but I’m not even sure if that’s true. I think that’s obvious from the waver in my voice.
Bee’s reflection worsens (for me). She’s pissed off, not upset. She’s shooting the messenger. ‘Okay. So, apologise then.’
I immediately jump to respond, turning to face the real Bee, clasping her hands. ‘I’m so, so sorry. What can I do to help?’
‘You can start by texting sorry to William as well.’
Wait, what? I shake my head. ‘Hang on, what am I apologising to that shitstain for? Interrupting his little bathroom rendezvous? Forcing him to come clean to you before I did?’
‘What?’
‘What?’
We stare at each other. It dawns on me that we’re having two different conversations.
‘What do you think I’m apologising for?’ I ask.
‘Your behaviour tonight,’ she says, like it’s obvious.