‘Don’t look at me!’ she said after a minute. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re meant to be.’
‘Seriously?’ Eli waved the hand he had a packet of Sainsbury’s wafer thin ham liberally sellotaped to. ‘Come on!’
‘Nope.’
He slapped his hands together like he was making a sandwich. ‘You see?’
‘I so don’t see,’ Bea assured him archly. Eli futilely clapped his hands together again. ‘You know, that really isn’t helping any,’ she snapped.
‘Let me put you out of your misery,’ Harry interjected, crowding the small entrance hall even further. He rolled his eyes. ‘He’s Clapham.’
Eli cheerfully clapped his ham again. ‘Geddit?’
‘Yes, but I wish I didn’t,’ was Bea’s blunt feedback.
‘What’s with the hat then?’ Daisy asked, confused; Eli was mystifyingly wearing a Burberry baseball cap.
He grinned. ‘I’m Clapham Common.’
Groaning, Daisy side-stepped past and followed Harry back through to the kitchen to see to the music situation.
‘You are so lame,’ Bea informed Eli, shaking her head fondly.
‘Come on, deep down you think I’m really funny and you know it.’
‘Really deep down.’
Eli stretched a tentative hand out and stroked Bea’s feathers. ‘I like these,’ he told her quietly.
‘Yeah, well, they’re going to be a right pain in the arse once this tiny place starts filling up,’ Bea moaned.
‘They suit you.’
Bea arched an eyebrow. ‘Angel wings suit me?’ Eli nodded, smiling widely. ‘They were meant to be ironic,’ she laughed. Eli opened his mouth to respond, then clamped it shut as the flat buzzer shredded the silence.
‘DOOR, PLEASE,’ Cleo bellowed from the depths of the kitchen and Bea, by merit of being closest, turned to welcome the next party guest. It was Claire, fittingly with what appeared to be half of Claire’s Accessories clipped to her long mane of fair hair (‘I’m Bow Road!’ she informed everyone with delight). Dumping a token bottle of room temperature, corner-shop wine on the breakfast bar, Claire helped herself to a gin and tonic and disappeared off to gossip with Bea and Nora.
‘So, when you say people from work are coming,’ Eli asked Cleo, leaning against the breakfast bar next to her and Daisy. ‘Are you including Mr Fifty Shades?’
Cleo groaned. ‘Seriously, Eli, do not get drunk tonight and call him that. I’m not kidding. I’m embarrassed enough around him as it is at the moment.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tap that,’ Daisy shook her head (this had been her and Nora’s favourite theme for the past several weeks).
‘I don’t even know if I fancy him,’ Cleo lied.
Daisy made a pffft noise. ‘Girl, please. I haven’t even actually met him and I fancy him.’
‘It might just be, you know, that he’s really good-looking. And I like spending time with him.’
‘At the risk of getting bogged down into this swamp of oestrogen, I think you’ve basically just summed up what fancying someone is there, Cleo,’ Eli ventured with a grin.
‘Elliott, darling, I love you, I do – but you should really get your own house in order before you try and give out love advice,’ Cleo scolded, only half-joking, with a pointed look across at Bea. Eli took the hint and he and his beer made a swift exit.
‘Speaking of men who are being tapped, Darren is going to make an appearance later. When he’s done festering in that pub,’ Daisy rolled her eyes, her fingers restless on her phone’s touchscreen. Tonight’s playlist-of-choice was a magnum opus in 90s R&B, although Cleo did feel faintly ridiculous to be standing in her kitchen dressed in a French Maid’s outfit from Ann Summers complete with friend’s wedding accessory (she was ‘Maida Vale’, of course) while Ginuwine’s Pony blasted from the Bluetooth speakers.
‘Why are you so down on this poor guy? You’re either going to have to dump him or start being nice to him, Daise, seriously.’
‘I know, I know. I’m getting round to it, honest. I’ll dump him soon.’
‘The poor guy. Why don’t you just tell him you don’t appreciate him pissing in front of you?’
‘It’s not just that. God, if only. You see, his toenails are weird. They’re really sorta square. And he talks over the TV when I’m trying to watch Special Victims Unit. He wears those weird baggy-style of boxers – seriously, why do they even make them like that? His sister is a Scientologist; super creepy. And his thighs are completely hairless, it’s bizarre.’
‘His thighs? But what about the shins?’ Cleo managed to ask through her giggles. ‘Surely it all hangs on the shin situation?’
‘Perfectly normal. I don’t know what is going on above the knees. He’s smooth until you get to the nuts. Which, if anything, are overly hairy. Very selective hairiness, with that man; it’s creepy.’ Daisy shuddered theatrically.
‘Okay, okay, Daise, you’re hardly bigging him up here, but I’ve gotta tell you – this isn’t the sort of stuff you notice when you really like someone.’
‘It’s true,’ Daisy sighed. ‘Basically, the thing is, Darren is just not the guy I’m going to marry, is he?’
‘They don’t all have to be, you know,’ Cleo pointed out. ‘Some of them are just for fun.’
Daisy raised one green eyebrow. ‘I know that hun. Do you?’ And with that she wandered away, holding her witch’s hat in place with one hand, presumably in search of a conversational companion who would be more gratifyingly affronted by her boyfriend’s bald shins/hirsute nuts combination.
Cleo glanced at her kitchen wall clock for what was definitely the eighth or ninth time in fifteen minutes. Maybe if she’d pinned Gray down to a specific ETA she wouldn’t be feeling so jittery? (Ack, no – someone saying ‘sure, around eight o’clock?’ was a perfectly acceptable party RSVP and she had to stop being vaguely psycho.)
She’d been right, of course (she was always bloody right). Dancing with him during Nora and Harry’s engagement party had caused…issues. The party had been naturally approaching its conclusion, the tube ended for the night, the songs becoming all too slow and soft. Gray’s palms had skimmed over the fabric of her dress while he’d breathed the almonds of his drink into her hair, and even after the gentler songs were done, and the pop tunes returned, he’d stayed too-close, too-slow. She’d shot desperate looks across the room at Nora, who was doggedly facing the other way, like she thought she was giving them privacy at the centre of a crowded function room. She’d been even surer then that Gray was drunker than he’d let on; his eyes were too careless as they’d met hers, his movements just that little bit graceless. She’d pictured him getting lathered with his mate in the pub earlier that evening, and wondered how many beers it had taken before Gray decided he was going to turn up at this party after all, decided that in the absence of any other bedwarmer, his mate from work would do for the night.
And just as Cleo’s head had successfully managed to temper her heart (and genitals) Bea had appeared, bare-foot, jaw set, pint glass of water in hand.
‘Hey, sorry to butt in,’ she’d announced, not sounding very sorry at all. ‘Just need her for some photos real quick. Here, do you want this?’ Before Gray had a chance to answer either way, like a magic trick – presto chango – the pint glass was in his hand and Cleo’s arm was in Bea’s as she’d marched