7
I do my best thinking while peeing, but right now I’m torn. Probably because I’m doing that weird squat thing girls do to stop their bums from touching the toilet seat like it’s going to give them herpes.
Honestly though, is the toilet seat any more gross than the glasses you drink out of at bars? Because I’ve worked in my fair share of bars and seen the water they empty out of the glass wash at the end of the night, and let me tell you, you’d rather you were served your drink in the toilet bowl. At least it probably gets regularly bleached.
My dilemma here, of course, is that I am incredibly bored, but I also don’t know how clever it is to go with an almost stranger to a party and pretend to be his date. I mean, he’s pretty normal—except for the drug dealing part.
He’s also pretty damn hot. He’s the kind of hot that I actually couldn’t pull too. You know, like the celebrity crush that all of your friends think is weird because you’ve never dated a guy that looks like Jason Momoa kind of hot? Even though that’s 100% because men who look like Jason Momoa are not interested in pale, ginger, freckled messes who have verbal diarrhoea and are as anxious as a red panda—not because you’re not attracted to them…
And spending an evening with Miles was pretty fun last time. I’m assuming it will be just as fun again this time. Except for the whole acting like his girlfriend part. I was never very good in drama class. Inconceivable since I’m the most melodramatic person on this side of Jupiter, but it’s true.
There is, of course, the possibility that if I do this now, I could wangle a fake date from him in return. I’m sure he’d be absolutely fine with travelling way up north and spending a weekend with my completely chaotic relatives, right? I’ve seen films and I’ve read books where the guys do that so it is a possibility.
Or maybe women just write better men than actually exist.
Maybe the fake dating shenanigans shouldn’t be that extreme.
I am washing my hands and considering the pros and cons when my phone flashes up with a text from Emme.
Emme : Where did you go? We want to go to Koko.
I groan. I don’t want to go to Koko. I don’t want to trek all the way to Camden. The tube takes ages and I will have to hold in a pee the entire way. Plus, I don’t want to have to hold all of the girl’s bags while they hook up with people. Because that always happens. I become the equivalent of a mum at a theme park waiting for everyone to get off the ride (mind out the gutter, thank you), while everyone else gets their egos stroked.
I’ve always been crap at speaking to guys in clubs. When I try to dance, I either look like I’ve taken LSD (usually when ABBA plays) or else I awkwardly sip my drink and sway like a baby giraffe learning to stand on its own legs. Guys aren’t attracted to that. And if they come up to me at the bar, my stupid mouth always, and I mean always, makes a joke about them roofying me which brings the tone down, everyone in a five-mile radius wants to die because of me, the guy moves onto someone who is way more normal, and I go home with Emme who loves me for who I am but wishes I was an entirely less awkward person, I’m certain.
So, I go to Koko, or I could spend the night with Miles which sounds infinitely better than going all the way to Camden for a frankly overrated night out.
I sigh and hit reply.
Me : I went home. I suck.
Emme : No you didn’t.
Me : Didn’t I?
I roll my eyes, knowing she will just come and look for me in a minute anyway.
Emme : What is going on?
I sigh, typing the only thing I know will get Emme to leave me here and go to Camden without me.
Me : The hot guy from Daisy’s party is here ;)
Emme : OMG. I’ll see you tomorrow ;)
I snort and shove my phone back into my bag. How nice of Emme to think I could pull someone that quickly, or at all. Especially if I’ve already spoken to them.
The door opens as a girl comes in and I get a glimpse of Miles waiting patiently outside the door. I grin, thinking I’ll make him sweat it just a little longer, and grab my lipstick out of my bag. I swipe another layer onto my lips and then head out.
“Okay,” I say, “Conditions for doing this,”
His head whips up, “Conditions?” he asks, looking like he would man a mission to Mars in return for this if I asked him to.
I nod, “I get to tell people the story of how we met,” I say, “I’m thinking something incredible, like, you caught me when I fell from the runway of New York Fashion Week,”
He snorts, shaking his head, “Okay,” he says, “Anything else?”
“I get a fake date from you,” I say with a grin, deciding on the spot to throw it out there. You never know. Maybe someone finally willed a rom-com guy to life. Maybe Miles is the guy every romance author based their love interests on. Maybe he’ll tell me to fuck off.
He nods, “Deal,” he says, “And if it’s for your friend’s wedding, I’m ready to make your ex rue the day he let you go,” he adds with a wink.
I laugh, “How exactly does one rue?”
He shrugs, “I heard it on an episode of iCarly ,” he says, enveloping my hand in his and leading me toward the door. His hand is warm and smooth and probably now sticky because I’m clammy.
“Okay, boyfriend. Let’s do this,”
He grins at me and then pushes the door open, “Watch your step,” he says, nodding at the step down into the room, “I don’t think I could recreate catching you as you fell from the stage at the Jacquemus show,”
“Wow, Jacquemus,” I say, “Impressed you knew that one,”
He winks, “Not just a pretty face,”
I step down after him and take in the room, looking around at the people milling about. There is a small dance floor set up, but no one is dancing yet. No surprise since they’re playing a cover of Mr Brightside as if it shouldn’t be jail for anyone trying to replicate the one song on the planet guaranteed to get even the most British of British people out of their seats and scream-singing: But she’s touching his cheeeest now. He. Takes. Off. Her. Dreeeeeesss. Now. Like they’re Cameron Diaz in The Holiday .
I sigh, worrying about the DJ’s career and resuming my perusal of the people here.
Everyone looks very middle class in a way I can’t quite describe. I mean, there are lots of white dresses with ruffles and quite a number of male ankles on show. I look down at my own, rather eccentric outfit and suddenly feel out of place.
“So, you’re going to have to give me a quick family history,” I whisper to Miles as he pulls me to the bar, “All I know about you is that you used to work at a bar and now you sell weed for a living,”
“Well, I technically sell all kinds of flowers for a living, not just cannabis,” he says, “And I don’t know… I grew up in West London, I went to uni in Manchester, and everyone in my family works for my dad except for me,”
I raise an eyebrow, “What does your dad do?” I ask, “Wait, don’t tell me. He’s your drug dealer rival?” I say dramatically, like I’m narrating a mafia romance.
He laughs, “He owns a business,” he says.
“Is that more code?” I ask.
He winks and then chuckles, “He’s in acquisitions, which I’m pretty sure is code for making lots of money for already-rich, old, white men, just like my dad,”
I snort, “I knew I was getting middle-class vibes,” I say, “ Did you go to a private school?” Miles suddenly looks uncomfortable, and I laugh, “Oh my god, you did!”
“Okay, fine,” he says, “I did. I’m privileged as fuck, okay?” he says, shaking his head at me and barely suppressing his grin.
I snort, “Wow, do you think they’ll let me stay when they hear my northern accent? Oh my god, can they already sense I’m working class,” I add, looking over my shoulder like they’re going to smell me out.
Do you think they shoot poor people on sight? Do you think I’m a deeply unserious person??
He nods, “Oh for sure,” he says, “I knew the moment I met you. Very working-class aura,” he says, waving his hands around my head.
I wink, “Grey, like the smog over my hometown,”
He shakes his head, grinning, and then leans over the bar to order two beers. When I realise it’s an open bar in this very expensive part of London, I wonder at how much money his family must actually have. He hands me the beer and I take a sip. He looks like he’s about to speak when someone screeches his name.
“Miles, thank fucking Christ you’re here,” says a girl with long dark hair and the same colouring as Miles. She’s got to be family. Are they all fucking gorgeous???
“Carrie,” Miles says, turning to me as though to introduce me when he is interrupted again .
“Julian is such a fucking prick. Do you know how he just introduced me to his colleague? He said, ‘This is Carrie, my less successful, spinster of a sister,” she says, “He’s such an arsehole. As if he didn’t get his job from good old-fashioned nepotism. And I’m unsuccessful? I bet nobody can sing a fucking thing he’s worked on, but we all know the Kween Klean jingle, don’t we?” she rants, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t take a single breath the entire time she does. It’s impressive. Really.
I would be amazed as she continues to rant, but the Kween Klean jingle takes over my brain the minute she says it, and I have to get to the end of the song before I can zone back in. As I do, I realise Miles is introducing me.
“… Delaney, my girlfriend,” Miles says, “Del, this is Carrie, my cousin, and Julian’s younger sister,”
I am momentarily blindsided at being given a nickname. It makes my heart feel all fuzzy because I’ve always wanted a nickname and no one has ever given me one—as an adult, at least. I don’t know how seriously people would take me if I allowed them to call me Dellie, like Tilda does when she’s drunk or excited or happy to see me—or any other time apart from when she’s mad at me, if I’m being honest.
I mean, it clearly wasn’t hard work to come up with an adult nickname since a man I’ve met twice has just shortened my name to one syllable and made my heart hurt, but whatever .
“Nice to meet you,” I say to the beautiful woman standing in front of me. She's exceptionally cool too. She’s wearing a strapless black jumpsuit and her hair is curled in a way that I have only ever seen on movie stars from the 1920s. I’m going to have to Google how the fuck you do it.
“Fuck, Miles,” Carrie says, eyeing me, “She’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous,” she adds to me, continuing to look me up and down with her eyes wide. I find it oddly satisfying that she thinks I’m not waaaay out of Miles’s league.
“Uh,” I start but don’t need to continue because Carrie starts up again.
“Don’t worry, Miles,” she says, “Stealing your girlfriends doesn’t run in the family, my brother is just a prick.” Then she turns back to me with a grin on her face, “So, you’ve been thrown in at the deep end, Del,”
I raise an eyebrow, “I have?” I ask, trying not to sound like she’s just announced she’s going to be hunting me for sport later.
Carrie nods, “Have you met his shark of a father yet?” I shake my head and she grins, “Oh, he’ll love you,”
That whole being hunted for sport thing starts to feel more likely. Do rich people hunt the working classes? Is that a thing?
“We’re going to avoid him for as long as possible,” Miles says, “If only so he doesn’t ask me how the gift shop is going,” he adds .
I wonder for a moment if he’s trying to avoid introducing any more of his relatives to his fake girlfriend—or the crazy lady in my head wonders it exceptionally loudly. She also adds that it’s probably because I’m super embarrassing as a person and ugly too while she takes a deep drag from one of those long cigarettes women have in old films. But then the logical and much less evil part of my brain tells her to shut up. Miles literally brought me here to show me off to his family. Avoiding them is counterproductive to the mission at hand.
Carrie snorts, “I would help you, but your parents have already spotted you and are on their way over,”
Miles goes to look over his shoulder when Carrie grabs him, “Don’t fucking look,” she says, “They’ll know I told you and I don’t want to be cut out of your dad’s will,” she adds with a shit-eating grin.
Miles snorts.
“Don’t worry,” Carrie adds looking at me, “Art, Miles’s dad, is a hard bastard but Aunt Jen is an absolute sweetheart. She always wanted a daughter so she fucking loves it when one of her horrible boys brings home a potential daughter-in-law,”
I choke a little but don’t get to finish my meltdown because I am suddenly being turned towards two people who are so undoubtedly Miles’s parents it’s hard to look away. His father is like a carbon copy, only with cropped, greying hair. He’s also wearing a crisp grey suit that would make Miles look crazy, or crazy hot, I don’t know which.
His mother is soft, delicate, and smiling at me with something like inexplicable hope on her face.
“Miles,” she greets him with a kiss on the cheek, “When did you arrive?” she adds, pulling her eyes from me as if she’s just realised she’s still staring.
“Just now,” Miles says, looking down at his mum like he is actually happy to see her.
“You didn’t think to tell us?” his dad says.
Miles turns to him and the shift in his eyes is unmissable. He is certainly not as happy to see his father.
“I was on my way to find you when Carrie body-slammed me, sorry,” he says, nudging Carrie and drawing attention to her presence as if to get the subject off him as soon as possible.
“Liar,” Carrie says, “He was going to hide from you,” she adds, sticking her tongue out at him.
“Traitor,” he mutters.
“Carrie, my darling,” his mother says, kissing her cheek too, “You look lovely,”
The hug has all the warmth of a mother greeting her daughter, and I wonder how true what Carrie said is about her aunt always wanting a daughter.
“Thanks, Aunt Jen,” she says, “Have you met Miles’s new girlfriend yet? This is Delaney,” she adds, turning to me and pulling me forward slightly.
His mother looks at me again and smiles deeply, “Delaney,” she says, “How lovely to meet you. I’m Jennifer, Miles’s mother, but please, call me Jen. We had no idea Miles was dating, but it’s so wonderful to meet you,”
I grin, usually when people with posh accents say something is wonderful it sounds like they mean the opposite, but the warmth radiating from the woman in front of me makes it clear that she absolutely means it.
“Have you been keeping me a secret from your parents, Miles?” I chide, grinning at him and then turning back to his mother, “It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, and I mean it too.
She beams back at me and then turns to her side, “This is Miles’s father, Art,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say,
Art’s eyes rake over me. They linger on my feathery top, and then on the delicate flowers winding their way up my left arm and over my shoulder. He’s clearly not a fan of tattoos but since I’m standing next to his son who looks like an artist just went ape shit with black ink, I’m hardly the greatest offender here.
“Where are you from, Delaney?” Art asks me after finishing his punishing perusal of my looks, piercing me with his gaze again.
“Uh, the Northwest,” I say, knowing that whatever I say, it’s likely to be wrong. I get the sense that these are the kind of people who think the North starts at Watford.
“Of London?” Jennifer asks.
Like I said…
“Of course not, Jen,” Art says, looking at his wife like she just asked if Venus was a country in Asia, “Can’t you hear the accent?” he adds.
My eyes must widen because Jennifer looks at me apologetically. Don’t know why she’s apologising. Though I might have to apologise if Art belittles his wife in front of me again.
Sorry Miles, your fake girlfriend might have to punch your dad.
“Near Manchester,” I say kindly, looking at Jen.
“Oh, did you and Miles meet at university?” his mum asks, looking between us.
“Uh no,” I say, “I was there a few years later though. We actually met through friends,”
Even though I’m exceptionally tempted to tell the Jacquemus story, I do think that sticking as close to the truth is probably going to be best here.
“Yeah, she just fell into my life,” Miles says, grinning at me.
I grin up at him and am momentarily lost in the joke, gazing into his brown eyes and noting the flecks of gold in there. Wow, he really is a beautiful human.
Carrie coughs and we both look away .
I want to feel like an idiot, but since we’re playing the doting couple anyway, it’s just good story-building really.
“Incoming,” Carrie says, nodding at two men walking towards us, “These are Miles’s brothers. They may look like Miles, but they’re absolute pricks. All the good personality traits got put into Miles,” she adds for my ears only. I hold back a snort.
When the two men are close enough for me to see them, I consider for a moment that they were made in a lab that creates the most perfect men on earth. They’re both ridiculously good-looking too. I mean, less rugged and handsome than Miles, but still up there as some of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met.
Both are tall and broad, with deep olive skin and dark hair. They have the same pouty lips and high cheekbones as Miles. Unlike Miles, both have cropped hair and are dressed in standard Finance Bro attire.
“Heard the young ‘en has a new bird,” says the one who I assume is older because he’s slightly more filled out than the other.
“This is Miles’s elder brother, Jem, who refers to Miles as the ‘young ‘en’ as if there aren’t only two years between them,” Carrie says, “Jem, Elliot, this is Delaney,”
“Delaney,” says the younger one, grabbing my hand and pressing his lips to my knuckles, “I’m Elliot, Miles’s younger, and yet much more charming brother, ”
“I see,” I say, eyes wide and still staring at where he pressed his lips. I mean, that toilet seat is looking cleaner by the second.
“Have you been watching Bridgerton ?” Carrie asks, looking at my hand with a raised brow and then at Elliot, “What the fuck was that?”
“I think the makers of Bridgerton would be offended by the comparison, Carrie,” Miles says, also looking at my hand. Except, Miles is looking at my hand like he’s about to set his brother on fire. Honestly, Miles, me too, man.
“What is a Bridgerton ?” Jem asks, looking between the two of them, “Is it some weird show you two have time to watch because you don’t have real jobs,” he adds, winking at me as though I’m part of his joke. I am close to pointing out that he obviously knows what it is since he knows it’s a TV show, but Miles beats me to it.
“Yep,” he says, hardly looking at his older brother, and rolling his eyes.
“What do you do, Delaney?” Jem asks, with the air of a man who is going to judge me by what I do rather than by who I am.
“I work in podcast production,” I say, awaiting some kind of scoff at working in a creative field.
“Is there much money in that?” Elliot asks, looking between Miles and me curiously.
“Absolutely none,” I say, with a grin .
Elliot looks at me blankly but Miles chuckles beside me.
“Some people choose fulfilment over money, El,” Carrie says.
“Oh, there’s not much of that either,” I say to Carrie, winking and turning back to Elliot.
Carrie and Miles laugh, but the rest of the family stare at me like I’m mad.
“Then why would you do it?” asks Elliot, completely seriously.
“I just really like the sound of my own voice,” I deadpan.
“Elliot can relate,” Miles says with a wink.
“Funny,” Elliot says, “So, do you want to make your own podcast or something?” he asks, because, as suspected, he really doesn’t get the fact that the 99% simply work because it costs money to be alive.
“Uh…” I start, not really knowing how to explain the concept of bill-paying to a man who got his job–and what appears to be a very good salary to boot, judging by the state of his clothes–simply because he was born to the right parents.
I don’t want him to think I’m bitter and working class. I mean, I am—he doesn’t need to know that though. I’m not going to tell him that I’d do extreme things for a trust fund and never having to work for aggressively mediocre men ever again .
“Could you stop interviewing her, please?” Miles says, saving them the lecture on communism I felt brewing, “We’re going to find Isaac and Owen,” he adds, taking my hand and pulling me away.
“What…” I trail once we’re out of earshot.
“Yeah, they have that effect on everyone,” he says, slightly stiffly.
“I didn’t even get to tell them my elaborate meet cute,” I say, sighing and trying to break through some of the tension suddenly holding Miles up pin-straight.
Miles chuckles, still pulling me far from his family and towards a group of younger-looking men over by the door to the smoking area. He relaxes slightly and gives my hand a squeeze just as we reach our destination.