‘Want to go down together?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sure,’ I say, like you would when a fully platonic friend makes a sensible suggestion. Not at all like you would when the hottest boy you’ve ever met asks you out.Because he is not asking me out and never will.
* * *
I take a lot of care over preparing for the evening and I’m also careful to be done in good time (I’m pretty sure that Carole doesn’t suffer fools, or late people, gladly), so when Tom knocks on my door I’ve been ready for several minutes, and am playing a game on my phone to distract myself from thoughts of the evening ahead.
‘Sorry,’ I say, a few seconds later when I make it to the door. ‘I was deep in a Brawl Stars game and didn’t want to die.’
‘No sorries necessary; I’m there with you. I’d practically miss a plane rather than go back a level.’ He takes a step back and says, ‘You look… lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ Iampleased with my dress (dark green, satiny, halter neck, tight on the top half and flared out from the waist into a long skirt) and my hair is – currently – under control following a lot of effort with heated tongs. I take the legitimate opportunity to study him hard, and have to make a big effort not to allow my eyes to widen. ‘So do you.’
His black dinner suit, white shirt and matching turquoise cummerbund and bow tiereallysuit him. Like really,reallysuit him.
‘Ha. Thank you. Shall we?’ He sticks his arm out as though we’re inBridgerton, and I take it (hoping that I’m not doing tooBridgerton-esque a bosom-heave), and off we go.
I’m grateful for Tom’s arm on the stairs, because I actually do stumble slightly a few steps down, although chicken and egg – it happens a second after I look down at where our arms are locked together and think about how we’re kind of pressed up against each other and momentarily forget how to work my legs – and he effortlessly clamps me to his side until I’ve regained my balance.
‘Okay?’ he asks, sounding a little odd. Probably due to internal laughter about how I just cannot stay upright.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say breathlessly.
‘I can’t decide whether I think it’s incredibly likely or statistically incredibly unlikely that you’re going to be unable to walk properly by the end of the evening.’
‘Well.’ My inner maths nerd emerges. ‘Statistically you might say that it’s incredibly likely, because the only statistics you have are that every time you see me I get a foot-area injury. On a micro level. But then on a macro level statistically it’s incredibly unlikely because most people don’t most of the time. But then again on a micro level my feet and ankle might be weakened by past mishaps.’
Tom’s staring at me as though I’m slightly mad. ‘So if you were going to make odds on yourself what odds would you give me?’
‘Literally a billion to one. I will not be injuring myself in any way this evening,’ I say, very haughtily.
‘Not tempted to touch some of this inn’s fine wood now to prevent tempting fate?’
‘No need,’ I say airily, while with the hand that isn’t holding his arm I reach surreptitiously for the edge of the wooden banister.
‘Ha. Come on, let’s go and find the others.’
* * *
Bea and Ruth – dressed respectively in a very sophisticated fitted navy velvet trouser suit and killer navy patent heels and a long wine-red dress with a matching bolero jacket – greet us in the tap room, which has been turned into a cocktail bar for the evening.
‘You have to try this,’ Ruth splutters, pointing at her glass. ‘Catches you in the back of the throat, but it’s delicious.’
‘She’s already squiffy,’ Bea says, ‘but that’s ideal because I’ll be able to have my way with her later.’
‘Bea. Shhh.’ Ruth beams at her wife and Tom and I exchange anawwlook.
‘Waterloo Five!’ Carole’s hurtling towards us across the room, her arms outstretched. ‘Hello, hello. I’m so pleased to have you here.’ She hugs us all in turn and then says, ‘Tom and Nadia, you both need drinks. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m on the mocktails, because I’m determined to enjoy and remember every moment of this party, so I’m not going to allow myself to drink anything alcoholic before midnight, but let me encourage you to try any cocktail you like. I have it on the authority of everyone else – half of whom are, frankly, already fairly sloshed – that they’reallgood.’ She pauses for breath and waves at one of the servers behind the bar, who scoots straight over. ‘Lily here will sort you out with drinks. Thank you so much, Lily. I’m going to go and say hello to everyone else now, but just to warn you, you’ll be heavily mentioned in my little speech in a minute.’
I look at Ruth’s drink and then at some of the other already-unsteady-on-their-feet guests and decide that a mocktail would be a very good idea to start off with.
Tom asks for one too.
We chat to Bea and Ruth, and then we all find ourselves talking to different people and it’s all very nice, because everyone here is a friend or relative of Carole’s, and they’re all great in different ways, and everyone wants the best for Carole, which is lovely.
I’ve just got myself a second mocktail (despite some serious encouragement from the little group I’ve just been chatting to to try a fierce Blackberry Mule), when we all hear the clinking of cutlery against glass and turn to see Carole standing on a chair in the corner.
‘Don’t worry,’ she tells us all. ‘I’m still sober. And I’ve taken my shoes off so I’m not going to break an ankle.’ She directs a pantomime wink in my direction. ‘So. Time for a little speech from me.
