completely included on our nights out, on the rare occasions we have them these days, we’re all a little more reserved with them because we know they probably won’t be around for long. And by the way? They all have husbands or boyfriends too.
So I am left the sad single girl, pretending to be happier than any of them, without ties, without commitments. They tease me about how jealous they are that I can come home and eat a bucket of hummus and eighteen Kit Kats for dinner if I want, and I pretend to love the freedom of choice I get, despite not having anyone to cuddle me when I’m feeling down, or help me out when there’s a leak in my flat, or just talk to me when I’m almost crying with loneliness.
Tonight, when they have all finished their glasses of wine, they will all be going home to cook dinner for their husbands, or, in some cases, eat delicious food cooked by their husbands, before curling up to watch some BBC drama on the telly.
And I will be going home to eat a bucket of hummus and two Kit Kats. But I will pretend otherwise, even if tonight I won’t be going on to the parties I tell them I’m going on to, if nothing else then to save face.
* * *
The wine bar is crowded, everyone from the features desk and showbiz, and a few from news, besides us. Jackie has secured a table in the corner, even though it takes me twenty minutes to get there. Jasper and Olly from the showbiz desk are chatting up the new intern on news, whose name no one seems to know, but whose enviable figure, in sky-high heels and tight short skirts, everyone seems to either envy or ogle.
Roy from the picture desk grabs me on the way in.
“My favorite women’s desker!” he says, his face ruddy with alcohol, his eyes gleaming. I’ve had a long-standing flirtation with him, which ensures I get the files before anyone else, but it would never, ever lead to anything more. Trust me. No matter how much I drink.
“Favorite picture editor!” I lie, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Let me buy you a drink!” he says, half turning toward the bar.
“No! I’m fine! Off the alcohol!” I attempt, seeing his face crease in confusion.
“Off the alcohol? What for?”
“Just needed a break,” I say, for I haven’t actually formulated a reason. “Doing a bit of a cleanse.”
“You don’t need a cleanse,” he leers, his eyes flicking up and down my body as I shuffle slightly, wanting to get away, grateful for my high-necked shirt today. “You’re perfect. Go on, love! Glass of chardonnay?”
“No, really. I’m fine.”
“I know that! I’m getting you one!” And before I know it, a glass of chardonnay is in my hand.
I don’t drink it. It takes just about every ounce of willpower that I have, but I take it to the table, and when everyone’s face falls, I slide it over to Jackie, and tell them Roy had insisted but I am not touching it.
“Good!” says Jackie. “Because that would have been a wasted Diet Coke.” She slides the glass over to me as I thank her and take a gulp, feeling absolutely nothing as it hits my stomach—no familiar buzz, no warmth, no indication that I’m about to start feeling a whole hell of a lot better. Nothing.
“Are those shoes what I think they are?” Sam, absurdly handsome in his skinny blazer, tortoiseshell glasses (which I am sure are fake), and Hermès tie, looks down at my feet, and I grin. We are all completely obsessed with shoes, and up until a couple of weeks ago, I had never even heard of Manolo Blahniks, and now they’re all everyone on the fashion desk is talking about, thanks to a big piece on him in one of the women’s glossies. Of course Sam, our style guru, knows exactly what they are.
My mum, it turns out, has two pairs she’s never worn, and these patent, strappy Mary Janes are about the hottest thing on the planet right now. I extend my legs and show off the shoes as everyone oohs and aahs.
“Darling! I’m impressed! I can’t believe your mother has these!” says Sam, practically salivating over the heels. “That tells me your mother is someone I have to meet. Gorge!”
“You would adore her,” I say. “And can you believe it? It was like striking gold. Most of her clothes are