me, and no more lying to my sister. We blare out music as we get ready, swilling back cheap Cava from trusty old Costcutter. I’ve missed her this week, reduced to watching the semi-final of ‘America’s Next Top Model’ solo. I’ve been so absent this last couple of months, it’s no wonder she’s got her social life running like a well-oiled machine. I pull out outfits from her wardrobe, making suggestions.
‘Thank God we haven’t got Emily’s bag of neon monstrosities to contend with,’ I say, giggling.
‘No, she’s meeting us there,’ says Alice blithely.
‘What do you mean, she’s meeting us there?’
‘She texted me and said you’d invited her out with us. So I just told her to meet us at Los Nachos.’
Why is Emily so desperate to colonize us? After our wardrobe conflab she sent a twisted version of our conversation to Alice – who’s still distinctly star-struck – and managed to score an invite.
‘She’s sweet, Lulu, and she really likes you,’ justifies Alice.
I sound like the world’s biggest meanie, but Alice doesn’t have to endure Emily’s monologues about her myriad talents on an almost daily basis. I warn her how much hassle we’re going to get from strangers, but I can tell she’s oddly titillated by the idea of being out with a bona fide celebrity, however low rent. When we get to the bar she scours it, looking positively crestfallen that there’s no sign of her. Instead there are a couple of her teacher mates and Rufus and Dinah, who’s primly sipping a glass of white wine.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ I ask her.
‘Thank you, Lulu, but it only comes by the bottle. Couldn’t quite face the house. Feel free to have some,’ she says, waving a dainty hand at Rufus to retrieve it from the ice bucket. He pours me some, muttering proudly, ‘It’s our ten-week anniversary: double figures!’
‘Well done,’ I whisper back, endeared by the thought that he’s only ever managed a ten-week relationship with an Xbox game prior to this. Then I remember that I’ve got no room to patronize anyone, the state my love life’s in.
Jenna’s next through the door, looking ridiculously glammed up for an Islington Tex Mex joint.
‘I haven’t seen you for weeks!’ she says, effusively hugging me. This is Jenna’s curse: she’s fundamentally a good egg, but is blighted by her bottomless neediness. She never has a problem getting a date, but keeping them on the hook once they’ve spotted her Achilles heel is another story. I can see she’s on a mission, as she insists on a round of tequilas, brooking no argument when I tell her that they make me want to projectile vomit.
‘I thought you were on a detox?’ I ask her.
‘No!’
‘But, Alice…’
‘Lulu, just slam your drink,’ she demands, and I soon find myself hanging on to the bar for support, hazy and queasy in equal measure. Can that really be Ali coming through the door or is it simply a tequila sunrise? Nope, it’s him all right. He strides over confidently, way more dressed down than I’ve ever seen him. His jeans are rough and worn-in, and a tight black T-shirt emphasizes defined muscles. It’s no wonder that Jenna’s visibly preening.
‘Hello, handsome!’ she says shamelessly.
‘Hi,’ he says, extending a hand, before turning to me and casting me a look. ‘I answer C.’
‘Erm, C?’
‘To your question.’
‘Question?’ I ask, totally flummoxed.
‘A – Do you want to never see me again because you think I’m a witch? B – Do you never want to see me again cos you’ve fallen in love with a crim? Or C – Do you want to see me one more time to give me a final chance to prove I’m worthy?’
I’m staring at him, my eyes flicking round the room murderously for my treacherous, interfering sister. ‘Oh, my email,’ I say slowly, playing for time. She must’ve hacked my hotmail: Pablo was way too easy a password. It obviously wasn’t Emily she was scouting the bar for, and now, job done, you can’t see her for dust. Ali unexpectedly leans in, pushing my hair back from my ear.
‘Actually, I choose D.’
‘D?’ I squeak, thrown by the unexpected physical contact. ‘What was D?’
‘D’s my invention. I want to see you again so I can find out what colour knickers you’re wearing.’
I pull back. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’
‘Who says?’ he counters.
‘I say.’
‘I think we’ve already established that anything you say is not to be trusted. What are you drinking? White wine or something stronger?’
‘Margarita,