He placed a collection of letters and notes on the table, smiling as he rushed back to the bar.
Tig traced the mosaic tabletop with her fingers, riffling through the papers absentmindedly as she sipped her wine. Things were changing, she could tell. Everything was already starting to get better. Her positive attitude had created a positive situation. Maybe this rut was finally done.
There was an unopened envelope in the pile, thick and cream, her name written in royal blue ink. It looked official. Tamara was probably getting married, or Dahlia, or any of the other nice enough posh birds from uni that she had never really been close to, but who still insisted on calling her ‘bestie’ and crushing her ribcage whenever she ran into them on Essex Road.
She opened it, noticing the sweet lace edging, the soft feel of the textured paper. Expensive. She’d spent ages looking at invitations. She’d gone with a more informal feel, more shabby chic, laid-back. More like them … like her.
She scanned through the parents to the names of the happy couple. She thought she would fall off her chair with the shock, and held tight to the table for fear the world was turning on its axis. Darren was getting married. The bastard.
*****
Her only choice was to get as drunk as possible. And it wasn’t far off closing time at Entangled.
‘Hey, Michelle?’ Tig waved over to the dark-haired girl behind the bar. ‘Could I have a bottle of red wine, two shots of sambuca, and absolutely no judgement, please?’
Michelle blinked a couple of times and then shrugged. ‘I’ll bring it over.’
That was how Tig came to be craned over the invitation, tracing the embossed lettering and wondering who the hell Abigail Jensen was.
‘Uh oh, what happened here?’ Ollie sat in the chair next to her.
‘Nothing,’ Tig grumbled, not looking up.
‘Well, when I left you ten minutes ago, there was a glass of wine. There is now half an empty bottle.’
‘Or half a full bottle,’ she said seriously, ‘plus two shots of sambuca. I hate sambuca.’
‘So …?’ Ollie tilted his head to the side again, and she got the feeling she was a fascinating exhibit in a museum, like a strangely grotesque thing you’d find in one of those old-fashioned circus acts. It was irritating.
‘Here,’ she thrust the invitation at him, and refilled her wine glass.
He held it close to his face, then held it at arm’s length, squinting. He looked at her, and said, ‘Well, that is tacky as fuck.’
‘Really?’ Tig replied, hopeful.
‘No idea, seemed the thing to say.’
Tig rolled her eyes, and slumped back in her chair, arms crossed.
‘Ex?’
‘Yup.’
‘How long?’
‘Broke up seven months ago …’
Ollie winced.
‘On Valentine’s Day… five days before our wedding,’ she finished. His eyebrows shot up.
Ollie ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply, his eyes wandering around until they settled on her. Pity. She couldn’t stand pity.
‘Do you want that cake now?’
‘Promises, promises,’ she said. ‘Thanks, but I think I’m okay.’
‘You do seem okay. How are you doing that?’
‘Sheer force of will,’ she exhaled, ‘and alcohol.’
She sipped at her wine, a little more delicately now, allowing the warmth to settle in on her. Ollie was a surprisingly comforting presence. Moaning at someone who didn’t really know you, didn’t try to fix everything. Maybe that’s what the Misery Dinners were trying to achieve, when really they all needed therapy.
‘So, why’d you break up?’
She tapped at the table, trying to find the best way to phrase it. She’d been asked that question so many times at the beginning. To strangers, she said it just didn’t work out, spared Darren for some reason. Some days, when she was feeling kind, it was that they were too young, the spark had gone, and you grow out of each other. But it was the sort of evening where she had to be brutally honest.
‘He dumped me because I started going to the gym and my tits got too small. Apparently.’
Ollie coughed. ‘Well, obviously he’s an idiot. A blind idiot. A massive, blind idiot.’
Tig grinned, somehow comforted when other people lost their cool.
‘Not that it’s polite to point such things out,’ he added primly, ‘but really … your boobs are magnificent.’
‘Magnificent?’ She tilted her head to the side.
‘Not that I’ve looked. But you know, peripherally, the idea of them that I got from only looking at your face during all our interactions would suggest that they’re magnificent.’
She snorted. ‘Thanks, I think.’
‘You are most sincerely welcome, Tigerlily,’ he grinned.
What was going on here? Why was he sitting with her, listening to her moan, offering her cake and telling her how great her boobs were? Was he trying to make sure she was on his side, knowing Ruby would probably ask her opinion on the new bar staff? Ame would have told her to stop being an idiot and realise he was trying to shag her. Dana would have shrugged and said she really didn’t get men and their motivations. He was painfully beautiful. Thick Bambi lashes and green eyes that seemed a little too bright to be natural. She felt awfully plain around him, sitting in her yoga pants, clutching her wine glass, tugging at her red braid. There would have been a time when she’d have walked in, and talked to Ollie without thinking anything of it. Not questioning his motivations, just secure in knowing that she was a good enough person to talk to. Funny how dropping a few dress sizes had changed the game. Well, that and Darren.
‘No one really calls me Tigerlily. It’s just Tig.’
‘Not Lily?’
She thought of Darren, all the bunches of lilies he’d bought for her over the years, after staying out late, missing her birthday, the text messages from other girls. Lilies were for apologies, and that wasn’t her anymore.
‘Nope. Just Tig.’
‘Or Tigger?’ he grinned.
‘Well, you know what the wonderful thing about Tiggers is?’
‘That Tiggers are wonderful things?’
‘No. That they will punch you in the face if you can’t get their fucking name right.’
He drew in a sharp breath, staring at her, then burst out laughing. ‘You are a strange and terrifying lady.’
‘That’s what they tell me.’
They sat quietly for a moment, listening as the faint sound of The Smiths floated around in the background.
‘How are you getting over this ex, then?’
By sitting at home each night with my bitter housemate, imagining bludgeoning him to death with my bra?
‘Um …’
‘Are you dating?’ Ollie leaned forward, as if he was suddenly her therapist.
‘I don’t date.’
‘Casual sex, then?’
Her