books about how to make cakes?’ says Drunk Man No. 2, thus proving his listening skills and aforementioned sobriety. (Honestly. What’s the point in having sambuca shots if you’re just going to pretend you haven’t been drinking all night?)
‘Yeah!’ Rachel says. ‘Or build shelves or make clothes or . . . or . . . what do you like to do?’
She is drunk enough to find Drunk Man No. 2 attractive, but I suspect she’s just trying to keep him busy to open the floor for me to jump Drunk Man No. 1. Of the two, Drunk Man No. 1 is clearly preferable – he is tall enough, for starters. This is the first challenge. I’m six foot, and though I have no problem with dating shorter men, it often seems to bother guys if I’m more than an inch or two taller than them. That’s fine by me – I’ve no interest in the ones who care about that sort of thing. It’s a useful filter.
‘What do I like to do?’ repeats Drunk Man No. 2. ‘I like to dance with beautiful women at bars with bad names and overpriced drinks.’ He flashes a sudden grin, which, though a little more sluggish and wonky than it’s probably intended to be, is actually quite attractive.
I can see Rachel is thinking the same. She shoots me a calculating look – not so drunk as all that, then – and I can see her evaluating the situation between me and Drunk Man No. 1.
I look at Drunk Man No. 1 too, and do some evaluating of my own. He’s tall, with nice broad shoulders and hair that’s greying at the temples in a way that’s actually quite sexy. He’s probably mid-thirties – he could be a little 1990s Clooney-ish if you squinted a bit or dimmed the lights.
Do I fancy him? If I do, I could sleep with him. You can do that when you’re single.
Weird.
I’ve not thought about sleeping with anyone since Justin. You get tons of time back when you’re single and not having sex – not just the actual time doing it, but the time shaving legs, buying nice underwear, wondering whether all other women get bikini waxes, etc. It’s a real plus. Of course, there’s the overwhelming absence of one of the greatest aspects of your adult life, but you do get much more admin done.
Obviously I know that we broke up three months ago. I know that in theory I can have sex with other people. But . . . I can’t help thinking about what Justin would say. How angry he’d be. I may be technically allowed, but I’m not . . . you know. Allowed allowed. Not in my head, not yet.
Rachel gets it. ‘Sorry, mate,’ she says, patting Drunk Man No. 2 on the arm. ‘I like to dance with my friend.’ She scribbles her number on a napkin – God knows where she got that pen from, the woman’s a magician – and then my hand is in hers and we’re winding our way into the centre of the dance floor where the music hits my skull from both sides, sending my eardrums shivering.
‘What kind of drunk are you?’ Rachel asks, as we grind inappropriately to classic Destiny’s Child.
‘I’m a bit . . . thoughtful,’ I shout at her. ‘Too analytical to sleep with that nice man.’
She reaches for a drink from the tray of one of those shot ladies who wanders around asking you to overpay for things, and hands the woman some cash.
‘“Not enough” sort of drunk, then,’ she says, giving me the drink. ‘You may be an editor, but no drunk girl trots out the word “analytical”.’
‘Assistant editor,’ I remind her, and knock back the drink. Jägerbomb. It’s strange how something so fundamentally disgusting, whose very aftertaste makes you want to vomit the next day, can taste delicious on a dance floor.
Rachel plies me with drink all night and flirts with every wingman in sight, chucking all attractive men in my direction. Whatever she says, I am plenty tipsy enough, so I don’t think much of it – she’s just being an excellent friend. The night spins by in a mass of dancers and brightly coloured drinks.
It is only when Mo and Gerty arrive that I start to wonder what this night out is all about.
Mo has the look of a man who was summoned on short notice. His beard is a little skewwhiff, like he slept on it funny,