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‘How’s Mark?’ I ask again, undoing my bulging purse to retrieve my lipstick. The unfastening of the zip relieves the pressure from inside, sending all of the contents spilling out onto the bar.
‘A bigger bag, perhaps?’ Lucy teases, waving her oversized clutch under my nose.
‘Here.’ I slide my phone, keys, and purse across to her. ‘Put these in that suitcase. My zip’s going to break.’ She laughs and takes them, tucking them neatly in her huge clutch bag. ‘So, how is he?’
She shrugs nonchalantly, taking a quick peek around the bar. ‘He’s good.’
The barman slides two of the most elaborate-looking blackcurrant mojitos I’ve ever seen across the bar, and Lucy dives on hers, wrapping her lips around the straw and slurping loudly. ‘Hmm, yum.’ She ignores the bewildered look that has crawled its way onto my face, keeping herself hunched over her drink, working her way through it like it’s a life saver. Or a distraction.
Reaching forward, I claim my mojito, all the while keeping suspicious eyes on my friend. ‘Just good?’ I ask coolly.
She’s still refusing to look at me. ‘Yeah, good.’
I settle back on my stool, analysing my shifty mate. I can’t usually shut her up once Mark is the topic of conversation, whether she’s gushing about how he’s the one, or she’s moaning about printer-room girl. Her eyes start to flick from corner to corner of the bar. She’s scoping the joint. Closely. Nervously.
I’m getting more and more worried the longer I study her. It’s not long before two more mojitos are sliding across the bar, and I look down to see I’ve worked my way through the glass mindlessly while I’ve been sitting here pondering what’s got into my friend.
‘Thanks.’ I smile at the barman, swapping my glass with the fresh one. My lips haven’t even made it to the straw before Lucy has supped her way through the strawberry mojito. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re looking for someone?’ I throw it out there and watch as she looks at me out the corner of her eye.
‘Not at all,’ she mumbles before quickly holding her empty glass up to the barman.
She’s lying. What’s going on? Then I suddenly recall something she told me on one of our phone calls. ‘Oh my God,’ I breathe, taking her glass and putting it down before forcing her stool around so she has to face me. ‘Tonight’s the work party you’re not invited to, isn’t it? They’re coming here.’
She hangs her head in shame. ‘Might be.’
It makes sense. The playsuit, pulling out all the stops. ‘What are you thinking, Lucy?’ I ask, exasperated.
‘I’m thinking that if I’m not here, Miss Nimble Legs will have those pins wrapped around Mark’s waist quicker than you’ve fallen in love with Becker.’ She scowls at me, and I recoil, a little offended. ‘I’m not particularly happy about stooping to such levels, but she hasn’t given me much choice. Have you seen it?’ she asks, nodding her head like a demented puppet. ‘Her fucking legs stretch to Jupiter.’
I see in my mind’s eye the gorgeous woman sashaying from Lucy’s office building, and Lucy’s sour face as she watched those long legs strut. My friend feels inferior. She’s short, and the tall leggy blonde from floor eighteen is clearly giving her an inferiority complex. ‘Mark screwed her. That’s all.’ I’m a fucking hypocrite. I was hardly cool when we bumped into Alexa the other day.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, maybe that’s all she’s good for. Long legs to wrap around a man’s waist.’ I wince at my stupid comment, remembering another pair of long legs that, apparently, Becker likes wrapped around him. I literally jerk my head to the side and toss the stray thought out on a wrinkled nose. He only has thighs for me.
‘Eleanor!’ Lucy shrieks.
‘But you’re a keeper, Lucy,’ I rush to finish, kicking myself for using one of printer-room girl’s best assets, and kicking myself harder because I put that asset around Lucy’s boyfriend’s waist. ‘He wants you.’ I sag on my stool. I thought my own silly little insecurities were unreasonable, but at least I’m not stalking Becker around London. ‘Oh, Lucy,’ I say in despair, dropping my head into my hands. ‘How do you know he’s going to be here?’
‘I might have stumbled across a group email at work detailing the plans.’ She doesn’t sound in the least bit embarrassed by her confession. ‘Eleanor.’ She comes closer. ‘Trust me, since Miss Nimble Legs found out Mark and I are dating, she’s seriously raised the stakes. The flirting, the dresses at work, the coy smiles. She’s like a fly around shit.’
‘But he’s with you,’ I point out, for the hundredth time. ‘Does he know how you feel?’
‘God, no. I don’t want him to think I’m needy.’
I give her a sardonic look, one that suggests she’s deluded. Not that she notices, because she’s looking over my shoulder, her eyes rooted on the door. I don’t bother looking. Her round eyes clue me in on who’s just walked in. And I know the moment Mark spots her, because she virtually dives into her mojito before turning the most over-the-top smile onto me and laughing loudly. At nothing. Oh, this is great.
