I called Sam again. ‘Jesus, Sam, come and rescue me, please. You said you’d be here by now. Where the hell are you?’ This was the third voicemail I’d left. Either she couldn’t face it either and was playing truant, or she’d decided she would rather slowly pull out all of her eyelashes, one by one. I wouldn’t have been there either if you hadn’t insisted. Which was an odd one for me. I was beginning to learn, when drink was at the party, I might as well not be. You were always oblivious to my company. Then, there was the point when I realised I became grateful for this.
My ponderings were rudely interrupted again by my adjoining crowd. ‘How did you find it, Fred? Did your new spikes work out? Expensive, were they? Yes, thought as much. I wouldn’t buy cheap either.’ I found myself studying them with interest. Why did they insist on wearing such ghastly clothes at these clubs? If I had to look at one more pair of salmon-coloured trousers with coordinating shirt and—
‘Can I take this?’
A ruddy-faced, boorish man pointed at a tub chair to my side. His entire party were staring at me in silence. My gosh, would you believe it, there’s a woman, alone in our clubhouse. Who the devil let her in? Where is her man?
‘Sure.’ I nodded. But didn’t you miss out those humble words, excuse me, please, and thank you? I thought. Still, no need to be courteous when you had lashings of ego. Ego, I pondered – ego or insecurity. I wondered, had he always spoken as if he had dog poo parked under his nose? How awfully unpleasant for him. I really shouldn’t think so badly of the afflicted.
Jesus, where was Sam?
I resigned myself back into the headrest, deciding to listen to their conversations for research purposes. A possible paper on the battle of egos and the correlation of trousers, colours matching all the flavours of ice cream. Could I get a research grant for this? Probably, given the other ridiculous projects I’d heard of. The nation’s favourite way of removing tomato ketchup from a bottle. Did bereavement have an effect on mood? And the likelihood of developing mild situational depression shortly after experiencing loss.
‘I’ve just realised who that is at the bar,’ I heard Jonny say, alerting me further.
‘Who? You mean Gregg Austin?’
‘Yes. But who’s he with?’
They all craned their necks. ‘Well, there’s a story.’ Raised eyebrows everywhere. ‘No, seriously, you really don’t want to know. He’s...’ He began to explain, but his voice became smaller and smaller, then he was interrupted. Wait a minute, the balding man with the offended face hadn’t finished what he was about to say. I wanted to know who he was too. I leant in further to the group, but it was no use, they were speaking in reduced tones; typical. I managed to catch the odd word. Spain. Overseas. Buy-to-lets. Bank manager. But it was all too disjointed.
‘Just stay away. I’ve heard, on good authority, he’s bad news.’ He tapped his potted nose. ‘Seriously. Trust me on this one.’
With a mutual understanding of trepidation in the air, something I was beginning to feel akin to, they resumed their independent incoherent speeches. No interactive conversation to be had anywhere. No one listening; everyone talking. A wave of nausea washed over me. What did they know about you? Who was the man? And why for the first time in the evening did they feel the need to whisper? You didn’t need to be up to anything, your reputation was sailing, or so I’d thought. Why would you do anything to damage it? Perhaps it was just jealous speculation. Dangerous hearsay. Sometimes these men could be gossipier than the females. All of them desperate to get one over on the other.
I changed my mind: I hated people-watching. Sam had better have a good excuse. I slinked further down into the beige velvet-imitation chair; reached my mobile for the last time, praying for Sam to pick up.
‘You cannot use that in here,’ reverberated a voice from nowhere.
I jumped in my seat and looked up to see an apple-red shiny-faced woman staring at me. Addressing me in a tone a five-year-old would have found condescending. To add to the insult, she was dressed like a character from a low-budget town-hall pantomime. Noddy sprang to mind. I wished I could have consumed alcohol. She continued to glare at me, then began a strange dance, waving her arms in my face. Did she think I was deaf?
‘Are you talking to me?’ A rhetorical question; I couldn’t resist.
‘If you want to use that—’ pointing at my mobile ‘—then go outside. Phones are not permitted in the clubhouse. So, if you don’t mind.’ She jerked her eighties-permed head backwards towards the clubhouse door. Did she not have any friends to advise her? Though rich, coming from me.
Had I missed something? At what point did it become acceptable to be so blatantly rude, so completely obnoxious? Maybe there was a notice at the door informing no manners allowed in the clubhouse? I was the one being sensually abused from all imaginable directions. My ears and eyes subjected to an onslaught of invasively loud experiences from the ice-cream crowd, yet Noddy felt offended as I’d discreetly, minding my own business, pressed my mobile to my ear. If I’d been any more discreet, I’d have disappeared into the bland wallpaper.
Was it just English clubhouses or was this a worldwide golfing phenomenon?
I glared back at Noddy. I couldn’t be bothered. She’d also successfully managed to draw your drunken attention in my direction. You began to orchestrate people and furniture to reach me; you didn’t look happy. I ungracefully seized my belongings and left the sitting area as she observed, ensuring I did as I was told. I couldn’t be bothered to discuss the incident with you, being such a social conformist if it suited. I quickened my steps to the ladies’ toilet, somewhere you wouldn’t follow, childishly pretending I hadn’t noticed your advancement.
Why hadn’t Sam at least texted me?
We’d been best friends since school. Up until the time I introduced her to you, we’d never had any real disagreements. When we were younger we spent hours talking about how we’d make our fortunes. But our career choices divided, orientating us in diverse directions. Sometimes, I still wished we’d followed our dreams. But life’s tide swept us adrift. I followed the sciences, but Sam always had something I didn’t: the gift of the gab; she moved into sales. We remained firm friends. Our only bone of contention being you.
‘I don’t get it, Eve. He’s not right for you. I never thought you’d be with someone like Gregg. I don’t mean to be horrible. You’d tell me, if it was the other way round,’ she told me over a girl’s night in. Chopsticks chasing rice around the silver container.
How could she say such things? I didn’t understand either; I’d honestly believed she’d love you. You were probably more her type than mine, with all your showy charisma. You were at your most charming when the two of you first met. I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to wonder if perhaps Sam was a tad jealous.
I put down my squashy container, catapulting the chopsticks across the already-food-smeared table, drawing my legs in closer to me. ‘What? Why are you saying this? I don’t get it. I thought you’d approve. Really, Sam, how can you even say these things? I’m really surprised at you, to be honest,’ I retorted.
‘It’s just something about him. He’s a bit too…’
‘A bit too, what?’
‘A bit too full of himself.’
I did notice how the two of them eyed each other. Felt a little as if they were in competition for their place in my life. So many unsaid words between them. But I put it down to them both being dominant people. Behaving like animals, vying for pack leadership.
‘I find him a bit, kind of, creepy. Smarmy.’ She began to put her shoes on, avoiding eye contact. ‘Look, at the end of the day, if he makes you happy, then great. Maybe I’m wrong. Like I said, I can’t see him being the one for you…’