At a strangled noise, I glance behind me to find Fin slunk low in his seat, his hand covering his eyes.
“You’re on your own,” he mutters.
“She’s a motha-fuckin’ queen!” yells the redhead, turning suddenly street. And American. “If she was here, I’d buy her a drink. Hell, we all would.”
If she were here, I’d probably drag her back upstairs, and not just to protect her from being gossip fodder.
“You should get your sister to interview her for her blog,” says the woman who’d been playing the video. “It’s all over the socials. It’s only a matter of time before the news gets ahold of it.”
“By all means, humiliate her further,” I mutter as I turn back.
“Holy patriarchy, Batman! You just don’t get it, do you?”
“What has feminism got to do with it?” My words drip with derision as I whip around again.
Fin makes a noise as though he’s in pain.
“How could you possibly understand?” one of the women demands.
But I comprehend better than anyone because I felt her tremble. Heard how she disparaged herself. I’ll be damned if I sit here allowing others to make her the topic of the day.
“Ah, man. TheCity Chroniclealready posted about it. Listen to this!”
I tell myself I’m not as bad as them as I pull out my phone and search for the newspaper’s online article. No, not an article of news. A fucking gossip column.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
about a scandalous scene at a Shoreditch Town Hall wedding yesterday when a bride read out her cheating fiancé’s salacious text messages in the place of her vows. Guests (and the—allegedly—unfaithful groom) were left speechless as the bride extracted her savage revenge at the altar before taking off.
Did you see the viral video? A Little Bird suggests you check out the link below, because there’s five hundred big ones waiting for the first person to tell us the names of the (un)happy couple.
“Of all the vindictive, vengeful ...”
“He got off lightly.” The woman directly behind me pokes me angrily in my shoulder, completely misinterpreting my meaning.
I turn to their glares, but before I can respond, Fin is on his feet, rounding the table.
“Ladies, please forgive my friend. The truth is, he feels deeply.” His hands are clasped, and his gaze touches each of them, his expression the mask he wears when he’s tasked with giving our clients bad news. He’s bloody good at winning over hearts and minds, so I let him get on with it. “And, well, he won’t want me to say this, but he was recently hurt in love.” I snort and shake my head. “What you’ve just seen was a human reaction in defense of another’s pain. I’m sure we can all understand that. Which of us hasn’t been hurt in love?” And then he comes in with the perfect close when he orders the women another round of mimosas.
“You were recently hurt in love, right?” he says, sliding back into his seat. “Weren’t you handcuffed to a bed and the metal chafed your wrist? Left you with a graze?”
“That sounds more like you.”
“Nah. If it wasn’t you, it was probably Matt. Where is he, anyway?” Matt is the third partner of our private equity company, Maven Inc., which largely deals in real estate investments.
“He’s in Dublin this weekend. Was that really necessary?” I say, indicating the guzzling coven behind me.
“I guess I could’ve just watched. Waited until you were wearing one of their drinks. We all know how you feel about your clothing.”
“By all means, arm them with more liquid bullets.”
“Just keep your mouth shut and eyes this way, and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not allowed an opinion?”
“How can I put this ...” Steepling his fingers, he peers at me pensively. “It’s not your opinion that’s the issue. Those women have the wrong impression, thanks to your goddamn miserable face.”
“That seemed to require a lot of contemplation.”
