He nodded, still squeezing her thigh.
I knocked his hand away from her leg.
‘Enjoying what exactly?’ I continued, hands on hips. ‘A middle-aged, married man trying to bribe her to have sex with him? Yes, that must be it. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be tempted by the exciting prospect of all the glittering diamonds she could acquire simply by straddling your flabby paunch and pretending your piddly cocktail sausage was a donkey schlong?’
Timothy’s eyes widened.
‘And what about your wife?’ I continued, gesturing to his wedding ring. ‘Does she know you’re sleazing around bars groping any body part you can get your doughy little digits on? Or more likely she’s relieved that she doesn’t have to have sex with you any more. Grateful for the fact that you can’t get it up, unless you’re with a girl who’s half your age and half your weight?’
I paused for breath, keen to continue, when suddenly I felt Cordelia’s grip on my arm. She led me towards the staircase, then tossed my coat at me.
‘A simple goodbye would have sufficed,’ she said.
I glanced back. Josh was giggling and Nate gave me a thumbs-up.
I shook my head. ‘Men like him think a restraining order is playing hard to get.’
She laughed. ‘You can’t be a matchmaker if you’re going to shout at everyone who isn’t behaving how you’d like.’
‘Yes I can, when it’s my business.’
She laughed. ‘Dictator dating. Love it.’
I huffed, wondering if it was feasible to restrict my services to those I felt morally deserving. ‘But those other two, they seemed nice—looked so familiar.’
She paused on the step below me, and looked up. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’
‘Or is it that they all look the same, those American preppy types?’
‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who they are?’ she said, striding ahead in her structurally engineered Diors.
I followed her down the stairs as speedily as my Primark peep-toes would allow. ‘What do you mean? Who are they?’
She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to figure it out.’
‘Fine,’ I said, folding my arms, which was a brave move considering my questionable stability.
She smirked, clearly entertained by my wobbly sulk. ‘So where to next?’
‘The target was fifty men and women by the end of the night.’
‘Right,’ she said and glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s head to Apt.’
A three-tiered bar in Mansion House, Apt was where all the office workers within a half-mile radius ended up for ‘one more drink’. After which, the original plan was generally abandoned in favour of an alternative, which most likely involved sambuca shots, a few grams of cocaine, terrible dancing and inappropriate liaisons with colleagues.
‘But we’ll have to go right now though,’ Cordelia said, ‘before they’re too wasted to bother with.’
We flagged a cab. Although we were within easy walking distance, Cordelia insisted Dior heels were not made for walking, especially in the city, where she was convinced cobbles and cobblers were in a conspiratorial partnership.
When we arrived at Apt, there was a queue around the block and a one-in-one-out entrance restriction. Having decided that it was imperative, in the name of love, that I find a way to push in, I made a beeline for a group of men who were swaying precariously at the front of the queue. Thrusting my shoulders back, I adopted my most convincing smile and paired it with a less clumsily executed Cordelia hair flick.
‘Like your style,’ said the most sober one, after I’d explained how, by allowing two girls to push in, he was actually increasing his chances of entry. Rugged and stocky, and with a thick Irish accent, he seemed decent enough, although obviously unaware that the door policy was in no way as discerning as I had implied.
‘These girls with you?’ the towering doorman asked him.
He slid his arm around my waist.
‘She’s my fiancée,’ he said, his hand inching down as we walked in, clearly aiming for a bottom grope. When I blocked its path and placed it back on my waist, he turned to me and frowned.
‘A fair exchange, do you think?’ he said. ‘You get the front entrance, and I get the back entrance!’
The entire group erupted in a simultaneous belly laugh. I glared at him, opened my mouth to say something and then immediately closed it again after thinking better of it. His point was valid. Accepting diamonds for sex was much further along the spectrum, but hair-flicking for door entry was most definitely in the same category.
Leaving them still sniggering and inwardly apologising to my better self, I followed Cordelia through to the main bar area, down the staircase and into the darkness of the basement.
Two hours later, as shirts were being shed and coked-up city workers danced their interpretation of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’, Cordelia and I retreated up the stairs and out of the bar.
‘That’s the hard part over with,’ she said, handing me a stack of business cards.
The beat of the music faded into the distance and the faces of all the people we’d met that night flashed through my mind. I gripped the cards tighter, wondering if, when it came to it, they would trust me enough to put their hearts in my hands.
I was hoping Matthew would still be up when I arrived home, but the flat was silent apart from gentle ‘beer’ snores coming from his room. He only ever snored after he’d been drinking beer, never wine or spirits. I’d always thought that was odd. I flopped down onto the sofa in the lounge, realising that it was the small intimacies in a relationship that gave it meaning.
Just as I was drifting off to the hypnotic rhythm of Matthew’s snores, something on the coffee table caught my eye. It was the property magazine that thudded through our letter box every month. Usually I binned them straight away, but, for some reason, I felt inclined to pick it up. There was something familiar about the house on the cover.
Right away, I sat up. My stomach churned as I stared at the wisteria-cloaked walls and beautiful bay windows. The gravel driveway. The willow tree in the front garden. I flicked through the pages to find a photo of a slick-haired estate agent wearing an oversized tie and a capital growth smile. I had never met the man, but I knew I hated him. According to the quote above his portrait, he was delighted to present to the market … my house. Or rather, the house Robert and I were once planning to buy. I sank back down into the sofa and let the publication fall onto my chest. Suddenly, as though the street lights were on a dimmer switch, the room darkened. I felt a heavy weight bearing down on me. I knocked the magazine onto the floor. It made a loud bang and Matthew’s snores momentarily paused. I closed my eyes tightly, willing him to wake up, but he didn’t. When his snores resumed, I sank my head into my hands and let out a deep sigh. It was the first time since I’d packed up my car and wheel-spun out of Robert’s life that I’d felt truly alone.
Until now, I thought I’d been riding the wave of resilience. As it turns out, drinking every night and suppressing three years of memories hadn’t been an ingenious way to avoid the pain. Instead it had only delayed it. I ran into my room and pulled out a box from my wardrobe. Until now, I’d been too scared to open it. I tipped it up and the photos spilled onto my bedroom carpet. I’d heard people say that when you face the enemy, the fear is gone. I never would have believed them until I stared at my old life. The life I’d always wanted, the life I’d almost lived, scattered around me: Robert and I snorkelling on the Barrier Reef, wine tasting in South Africa, skiing in Verbier, laughing and drinking as though our happiness would never end. A tear trickled down my cheek, then another