Giving Nat a discreet kick under the table, I sit back and let her do her bit, though it’s plain to see that she’s significantly less enthusiastic about it than me. Poor Micky, however, just watches as us girls do our girlie shit. “I might go meet the lads,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes.
“In other news.” Nat raises her glass, grinning wickedly, and I wonder for a fleeting moment if she’s perhaps decided to give John a break. Then I remember the chewing gum incident with his kid and dismiss the thought immediately. Her hair has a way to go before it’s back to its former long, luscious glory. “I’ve joined a dating agency.” There are a few funny looks tossed around the table before we all burst into fits of laughter. “What?” Nat asks, disgruntled. “At least I can make it clear what’s acceptable and what’s not.”
“Like kids?” Lizzy asks, dismayed.
“Just like kids,” Nat confirms. “Fathers need not apply.”
“Holy shit,” Micky breathes, exasperated. “Can we talk about football before my balls shrivel to nothing?”
I laugh and reach over to pinch his cheek. “You’ll fall in love one day.”
He scoffs, disgusted by the suggestion. “There’s a reason you and I are still friends, and it ain’t because you have photo evidence of me dressed up as He-Man brandishing a rolling pin as a sword.”
Right. Apparently we’re friends because we’re both allergic to relationships. He’s talking nonsense, obviously. We’re actually friends because we’ve known each other since day one, but that knowledge doesn’t stop me from wilting. I swallow hard and divert my attention away from him, suddenly remembering why I’m clinging to my wineglass like it’s a life jacket. Then I notice it’s empty. I grab the bottle from the middle of the table. Get plastered. Drown the memories in alcohol.
“He-Man?” Nat chimes in. “You dressed up as He-Man?” She jumps down from her stool and throws an imaginary sword in the air. “I have the power!” she roars, before folding in half in fits of laughter with Lizzy.
It’s a while before they look at me in question, like why am I not laughing? I shrug. I have nothing to give in the humor department, despite my life being a fucking joke.
“Twats. All of you.” Micky jumps down from his stool, looking to the door. “The lads are here. I’m off to find my She-Ra.” He lopes off on a grin, leaving the girls to be girls, which currently involves Nat and Lizzy laughing their tits off.
*
It could be an hour later, or it might be two. I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m tipsy and my mind is numbing more with each sip of wine I have. It’s respite. I turn on my stool and find Nat on her own on the dance floor, her wineglass in the air, her head dropped, swaying out of time to Hotchip’s “Boy from School.” I keep my eyes on her as I blindly reach for Lizzy to get her attention, the sight too amusing not to share. “Look at that.”
“Jesus, no man will entertain that, kid or no kid,” Lizzy quips, sliding off her stool. She strolls over to Nat and gently coaxes her from the dance floor, helping her walk as she staggers and trips her way back to us. Steadying her on the seat, Lizzy takes a stool beside her and moves in close enough to catch her if she slips in her drunken stupor. “I have to ask,” Nat slurs, looking up at Lizzy with one eye closed. “Why would you even dream of taking Jason back?”
I sag on an audible sigh. “Nat, it’s Lizzy’s decision. We should respect that.”
“I know, but we’re all thinking it.” She slaps a hand down but totally misses the table, forcing Lizzy to catch her before she topples from the stool. “What about the other woman?”
“That’s none of our business,” I pipe up, eager to halt the direction of the conversation dead in its tracks.
“It’s fine,” Lizzy appeases me. “We need to get this part out of the way.”
“Yeah,” Nat slurs, feeling around the table for her wineglass. Lizzy moves it away and pushes a glass of water toward her, and Nat grabs it, waving the highball at Lizzy. “What kind of woman sniffs around a taken man? Not even I would stoop to that level.”
My throat closes up on me, leaving me silent at the table while the topic I’ve dreaded for months steamrolls forward, threatening to make my night even worse.
“Men think with their dicks!” Nat rocks back on her stool. “Their brains are in their balls!”
I die on the inside. Part of me knows it’s wise to keep my trap shut, and part of me wants to give another angle for Nat to consider. Yet I don’t. I can’t. I have no other option but to sit back and listen while they slam into said other woman, calling her every name under the sun, surmising what a nasty piece of work she is and generally ripping her to shreds. Brutally. Harshly.
Justifiably.
I shrink further and further, my head starting to hurt, my heart starting to ache. I’m a fool if I think for a minute that anyone will understand me. The tiny scrap of hope I had of support from my friends just died. I can’t take this anymore. I grab my purse, jump down from my stool and rush to the ladies’, forgetting to declare my need for the loo in my desperation to escape the slaying session. I can feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes and I can’t let my friends see them.
I lock myself in a stall until my churning stomach eases off, my mind slowly settling. I wasn’t prepared for that. It’s easy for me to bully my conscience into a certain way of thinking, but I can’t control how other people think. For the first time since I embarked on this affair, I feel so alone. Where’s Jack? Where is he to hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay? Anger simmers in my gut, kick-starting the churning again. He’s with his wife, fucking in the toilet at the gallery. My phone chimes, and though I know it’ll send my anger into frightening realms, I still open his message.
Where did you go?
My lip curls in disdain as I delete his worthless words from my screen. It didn’t sound like he was missing me. I leave the toilet and head straight for the bar, ordering more alcohol. My phone rings this time, and I psych myself up to answer it. “Hello.”
“Where are you?” he asks in a whisper that I’m struggling to hear over the music. He’s found a quiet corner to call me, away from her. “Annie?”
“I’m busy.” I hang up, but before I collect our drinks, it rings again. “What?” I snap when I answer.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Get back to your wife, Jack,” I spit, cutting the call and ignoring his next three attempts to ring back as I get the wine and take it to the table. I wave for Nat and Lizzy’s attention on the dance floor, and both give me a thumbs-up when they spot the bottle in my grasp.
“Is that Annie Ryan?” A male’s voice asks from behind me, pulling my attention around. I find a strapping bloke with a cute smile on his face, leaning against a nearby table. And I see thighs. Thick, rugby player thighs.
“Tom,” I say, trying not to make it sound like a question. This is the last man I slept with before Jack. Jason’s friend of a friend.
“Well done,” he teases. “How have you been?”
“Good, thanks. You?”