This is my friend Adam. Adam, this is Brad.’
If I was hoping to be saved by this introduction, I’m wrong. Instead Brad grunts and shakes hands before immediately turning back to me. ‘So, how’s Nathaniel?’
I cannot believe this.
‘Oh . . . um, I think he’s OK.’
‘He’s an awesome guy. You make a really great couple.’
This is a bad dream. Any minute now I’m going to wake up.
‘Well, actually—’ I begin, but he cuts me off by turning to Adam.
‘Seriously, they are so cute together.’
Oh my God. Make it stop. Please. For the love of God. Please make it stop.
‘I’m just going to get a top-up,’ says Adam, and moves away before I can stop him.
Fuck.
I think about draining my drink and following him, but I’m not quick enough, I realise, with dismay. Reluctantly I turn back to Brad, who’s now droning on about himself. I try to look interested – ‘Uh-huh . . . really? . . . Uh-huh . . .’ – but ten minutes later and I’m still caught in this stranglehold of a conversation. I keep smiling and nodding, but on the inside I’m crying with frustration. This is all Nate’s fault. He completely sabotaged it for me. One minute I thought Adam was going to ask me out on a date, and the next up popped Brad and ruined it.
Talk about bad timing. I glance desperately over Brad’s shoulder to see if I can see Adam. He’s been gone ages. Where is he?
Then I spot him. Over by the entrance to the gallery. He’s smoking a roll-up and talking to a girl. My heart thuds. A very pretty brunette. Heads bent low, they’re deep in conversation, and I see her lightly touching his arm. My stomach lurches. Who is she? Jealousy stabs, followed by a crushing sense of disappointment as I watch them break into raucous laughter. They look intimate, comfortable, together.
‘I’m sorry, will you excuse me?’ Abruptly I cut Brad off mid-sentence.
‘Oh . . . yeah, sure.’ He nods, slightly taken aback.
I turn away before Adam sees me looking, and quickly slipping away through the crowd, I hurry into the night.
‘You’re home early.’
I arrive back at the apartment to find Robyn sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, surrounded by piles of magazines.
‘Yeah.’ I nod glumly, plopping myself on to the sofa.
‘How’s your ankle?’
‘Painful.’ I wince, slipping off my sandal and rubbing my ankle. It’s gone all puffy and a large purple bruise is starting to form.
‘I’ve got some arnica gel for that.’ Scrabbling around on the coffee table, on which more magazines are strewn, she unearths a tube. ‘Rub it on three times a day and you’ll be as good as new,’ she instructs, passing it to me.
‘Thanks.’ I smile gratefully, then watch as she grabs a pair of scissors and starts attacking a magazine. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask curiously.
‘Making a vision board.’ She holds up a large piece of foam board on which she’s pasted various magazine cuttings. There’s a chocolate-box country cottage with roses around the door, some rosy-cheeked children, a couple of rescue dogs that look similar to Simon and Jenny. Across the top she’s cut out letters that spell the words ‘Harold’ and ‘soulmate’.
‘I thought you’d done one of those already.’
‘It didn’t work, so I’m doing another one,’ she says matter-of-factly.
I pause. I’m sure there’s logic in there somewhere.
‘This is the house I want to live in. These are all the children I’m going to have.’ She starts pointing to the various pictures. ‘These are my dogs.’
‘And where’s Harold?’ I ask, playing along.
‘Well, that’s the thing – I can’t quite decide. What do you think about this one?’ She holds up a magazine, which is turned to an advertisement for aftershave, featuring a tall, dark-haired man in a suit.
‘Er, yeah, he looks fine.’ I nod, trying not to think about what we’re actually discussing here.
‘Oh good. I think so too.’ She grabs the scissors and energetically cuts him out. Reaching for her Pritt Stick, she glues him slap bang in the middle of the board.
‘You’ve cut out his face,’ I point out, looking at the stranger, who now has a blank space where his face should be.
‘Of course.’ She nods, as if that’s absolutely normal and not verging on serial-killer behaviour. ‘We don’t know what Harold looks like yet, do we?’ Wielding her scissors, she continues flicking through the magazine. ‘So I’ll leave it empty until I do.’ She glances up at me, bits of paper