As I say the words, I have a sudden image of Luke heading to the airport in his overcoat and briefcase, compared to Craig on an Instagram post, lounging in a tour bus, caption: #hungover. I have to admit, they’re not that similar. But I won’t go into that now.
We pause at a crossing and I tug at my amazing new skull-printed tights. I got them from the same website as the killer boots and they’re a bit too small, but they look so edgy. In fact, my whole outfit is edgy. Under my coat, I’m in a gray T-shirt (torn at the edges) and a black leather miniskirt. I’ve put on my new silver and black skull earrings, too, and I’m wearing full electric-blue eye shadow. Plus I’ve tied my hair up with a leather thong.
I glance at Luke, who’s still in his work suit, and feel a tiny wave of dissatisfaction. We’re going out for tequila with a rock musician, but he looks as though he’s about to give a presentation to HSBC.
“Why don’t you unbutton your shirt?” I suggest. “Loosen up, Luke! Get into the spirit of it!”
I ruffle his hair and unbutton his top button. I’m hoping he might relax, but he just gives me a look.
“Would you rather I went home and put on a slashed leather jacket?”
“No!” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly!” I hesitate, then add, “Have you got a slashed leather jacket?”
He gives me another look and I bite my lip. Right. Duh.
We walk on, and still Luke says nothing. Am I imagining it or is the tension growing? I keep glancing at Luke, but his jaw is even more rigid. And as we approach the door of the pub, I feel as if I might have made a huge, fat mistake.
Am I in denial? Is there sexual tension between Craig and me?
I mean OK, yes. Hand on heart, I did try to look edgier today. Because of what Craig said. But I don’t fancy him.
Do I?
Well, maybe I do fancy him a bit, simply because he is objectively good-looking and anyone would fancy him. (Look at Suze.) But I don’t want him.
Do I?
Oh God. Do I want him without realizing it? Does my subconscious want to have an affair with Craig?
I walk along silently, feeling breathless, as I probe the innermost corners of my mind. But the trouble with asking your subconscious what it wants is, it just laughs at you and says, “Work it out for yourself, moron.”
What about Luke? He looks calm enough—but is he silently bubbling with jealousy and hatred? As we reach the entrance to the pub, I feel a lump of worry in my throat. Should I quickly cancel and say, “Let’s go home”? But if I cancel, won’t that make things look worse?
What if Luke and Craig get into an argument? Or a duel? I have no idea where this thought has come from, but I suddenly see Luke in his Armani suit and Craig in his leather jacket, hacking at each other with swords, leaping up onto the bar of the pub and round the seats, while I cry desperately, “Please! Don’t fight over me! Your lives are too precious!”
“Becky?” Luke gives me an odd look. “Are we going in?”
“Right.” I come to and blink a few times. “Yes. Let’s do this.”
* * *
—
It’s warm and cozy inside with a crackling fire. Over the sound system, Chris Rea is singing about driving home for Christmas, and there’s the smell of mulled wine in the air. As I take off my coat, I’m aware of the girl behind the bar eyeing up my outfit curiously.
“Going to a costume party?” she asks.
Honestly. They wouldn’t ask that in Shoreditch.
“No. Just an evening out,” I reply coolly. “With friends.”
To my own ears, the word “friends” sounds quite cryptic and mysterious. I’ve never felt like a femme fatale before—but I feel as though I’m in a love triangle in some film noir and this is the pivotal scene.
“Luke, you do know I love you, don’t you?” I say, my voice low and throbbing.
“Yes,” says Luke, looking at me as though I’m an idiot.
“What can I get you, Becky?” says the bartender, Dave, in a cheery voice. But before I can answer, the pub door swings open behind me and I hear Craig’s voice, accompanied by violins in my head: “Becky.”
It’s practically exactly like that bit in Casablanca. (Except in a pub. And not black