The party is really warming up now, with people spilling out of the living room into the back garden. Someone has won battle of the iPods (Marvin Gaye). I see Fraser talking to his flatmates in the middle of the living room and decide to say hi.
‘Here she is!’ exclaims Ant as I walk up. I snogged Ant once, when I first met him, under the influence of tequila and…uh, tequila. Regretted it instantly. He would be handsome if he wasn’t so sleazy. And mildly monobrowed. He now seems rather happy with himself. ‘The girl everyone’s talking about! She’s taken a vow of spinsterhood!’
‘You’re all talking about me?’ I say. Great. Looks like I’m a laughing stock, then. ‘How dull your lives must be.’
‘A serial dater like you, renouncing all men? I’m surprised it wasn’t in the News of the World.’ Ant laughs like a hyena, and the other flatmates, apart from Fraser, join in.
‘When did your Dating Sabbatical start, Ant? About eight years ago?’ says Fraser. I smile at him gratefully. Now that is a riposte.
‘We were just talking about the recession,’ says one of the flatmates earnestly, a rather sweet geek called Felix who I think has a thing for me. However, he laughed along with the rest of them so I’m not going to be nice to him.
‘How fascinating,’ I reply. He looks crushed and I feel bad. I shouldn’t pick on geeks. ‘I’m a bit clueless about it, I’m afraid, Felix,’ I add.
‘It’s bloody boring stuff,’ agrees Fraser.
‘You won’t be clueless soon, when you have to pay for your own meals every night,’ says Ant. ‘No more steak dinners à deux for you.’ I hate to say it, but he has a point. Dates have been a good source of meals for the past few years. Of course I always make an effort to pay, but they never let you. Certainly not on the first date. I wonder if Jake likes steak. I could cook it for us both at home. In my kitchen. Perhaps, if we all become really poor, we’ll have to share baked beans on toast. No, scratch that. Baked beans are not a date-friendly food. I could…oh, I could make an omelette. I wonder if he likes eggs.
I’m interrupted from my—utterly ridiculous and very non-Sabbatical-compliant—reverie by Mitch, who approaches the group with his arm thrown around the neck of the white jeans girl.
‘Don’t talk to Sass, darling. She’s a MAN HATER,’ he stage-whispers. The girl giggles, hiccups, and seems to throw up slightly in her mouth.
As everyone falls about laughing, I smile/grimace at Mitch and wait to see if I’ll think of something witty to say. I don’t. I wonder if Mitch told Jake about the Sabbatical already. Oh God, I shouldn’t care. Suddenly I feel very tired. I decide to avoid all men for the rest of the night, and walk over to talk to Tory, a girl Eddie worked with years ago. She’s nice enough, but she talks about sex almost constantly. It’s kind of weird. I think he invites her to parties because she’s guaranteed to score with someone. She’s party insurance. (Is that mean of me? Oh well.)
‘So, no dating for you, Sassy, yeh?’ she grins, after a bit of basic chitchat. ‘I heard all about it. I’m going to do it too!’
‘Really?’ I say. I hate being called Sassy. ‘Er, wow. That’s great.’
‘Yeh. Just sex, you know? The whole emotions-and-talking thing is just…such a waste of time,’ she says, taking a long swig of her drink and casing the room.
I nod, and excuse myself to go to find Bloomie. I manage to stop at only two groups as I walk around the party, and have a moderately entertaining banter with them. However, my paranoia is now switched on and I’m convinced everyone is laughing at me. I can’t see Jake anywhere. Not that I’m looking for him, I meant because I’m trying to avoid him. I finally find Bloomie in the backyard with Kate—who I didn’t think was coming, so it’s a rather nice surprise—and Eugene.
‘Hello, princesses,’ I say, kissing Kate and Eugene. He’s not really a dork, obviously. He’s in his early 30s, works in finance with Bloomie—they met in a conference call, of all the romantic stories—and is half-French, though he grew up mostly in London and has no trace of an accent. He still has that skinny, sexy, floppy-haired French guy thing going on. He can wear big square scarves knotted around his neck and still look pretty hot, which is an incredible feat when you think about it.
‘What’s news here then? Everyone in the rest of the party is talking about me, apparently.’
Kate nods. ‘You or the economy. And you’re more fun.’
I sigh. ‘Sheesh. How you doin’, Eugene?’
‘Smashing,’ he grins, and looks at Bloomie. She giggles and grins back. What the sweet hell is that about? Other people’s relationships are mystifying.
‘Where’s Tray?’ I say, as though I suddenly noticed his absence and was upset by it.
‘Oh, he’s at home,’ says Kate, looking over to the house as if it was unexpectedly fascinating. ‘He’s…working. Do you have a cigarette, Sass?’
I glance over to exchange a quick look with Bloomie, but she’s still gazing at Eugene. Kate’s staring into space. I wonder what Jake is doing, and involuntarily look at the kitchen window. I only see Ant emptying a bottle of Diet Coke and a bottle of rum into the blender and pressing blend. Dickhead. I get out three cigarettes and light all of them, in my mouth, at once, then hand one each to Kate and Bloomie. An old trick from university. It’s so not cool that it’s almost cool.
‘Wow, you guys…you’re like the Pink Ladies,’ says Eugene.
Oh, for God’s sake. ‘Wrong thing to say, darling…’ says Bloomie, laughing. He looks perplexed. ‘I’ll explain later…’ she adds, and they smile at each other happily. I wait for them to talk more, but they seem to be communicating through the medium of loving gazes.
‘Young love, huh, Katie?’ I say, turning away from the happy couple.
‘Mmmm,’ Kate says absently.
Gosh, what a bunch of funsters.
Bloomie’s BlackBerry rings, and the expression on her face changes from happy to stern so fast it’s like she’s swapping those comic/tragic drama masks. She hands Eugene her drink without speaking, answers it and barks ‘Susan Bloomingdale…’ as she walks away.
‘It’s 11 pm on a Friday!’ says Eugene, half to himself.
‘It’s probably the States,’ I say. ‘She works with the San Fran office a lot, right? Don’t you do the same sort of job, anyway?’
He shrugs in his nonchalant Gallic way, and looks quizzically at us. Well, at me. Kate seems to have checked out for the time being, and is here in body only. ‘I’m an analyst,’ he says. ‘And I’m not obsessed with it.’
‘Neither is Bloomie,’ I say loyally, and slightly untruthfully. ‘She kind of gives everything 100%, that’s all.’
Eugene nods.‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the kitchen to get a drink. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m all good,’ I say, glancing over at Kate, who’s still mute. ‘She’s all good, too.’
I stand in silence for about 30 seconds, waiting for Kate to speak.
‘Kate,’ I say, taking a drag on my cigarette. She doesn’t respond. ‘Kate, I’m pregnant.’
She’s in a trance. I sigh and look around the back garden. Everyone else is talking loudly or drinking messily. The noise levels of the party seem to have doubled. The Killers are playing very loudly and I hear a whoop from the living room that probably means Mitch is doing The Worm across the carpet. The first houseparty of my Dating Sabbatical is suddenly