Kerry asks for a glass of rosé, then grabs a table while I make my way to the bar. Everything is free and everyone is happy. There’s a table set out with snacks and sandwiches on the right, and the two women who handed us press packs are now hovering, ready to collect glasses. Gordon catches me at the bar and helps me with the drinks as we walk over to join Kerry.
‘I got you Staropramen. That all right?’
‘Yeah, cheers, Cat. I’m only staying for one. I need to get back.’
We sit down beside Kerry, who’s busy reading through my press information. She and Gordon have only met a handful of times but they always get along famously.
‘How are you, Kerry? Having fun?’ He leans over and hugs her. ‘Nice to see you. The place looks great, though live-music venues are more my thing. More sweaty, less pretentious . . . Interesting mix of people here, but a little too “art school” for me.’
She sips her wine and nods. ‘I bet they’re all talking about how creative they are. Creative types are generally up their own arse; sometimes I have to pull Kieran out before he gets lost up his own arty rectum forever.’
‘Hey!’ I snarl at her. ‘We’re writers. That counts as creative, right? Are we included in your hate campaign?’
‘Nah, you’re not that kind of writer. You’re not reaching into the depths of your soul to write some Twitter sonnet about a lamp post or a fig or something. Basically, until you utter the words “I’m self-publishing a fantasy novella” we can remain friends.’
I giggle and look around the bar, wondering which of the guests will make it on to Kerry’s hit list by the end of the evening. Gordon finishes his pint with impressive speed.
‘Right, I must be off, ladies.’ He smirks and pulls his man bag over his jacket. ‘Date night with the wife.’
Kerry laughs. ‘I might have known! The only thing to pull a man away from free beer is the promise of sex.’
‘Too fucking right. Have a good night, you two!’ I watch him push his way through the crowded bar and feel disheartened that the only thing I have waiting for me at home tonight is my lunatic cat.
One hour later, we’re sitting at the same table and we’re on to our third glass of wine. The bar is still lively and I count at least twenty people all battling their own personal fashion demons.
‘What do you think he does?’ I ask, surreptitiously pointing to a thin man wearing a cowl-neck top and leather trousers. ‘Artist? Dancer?’
She casually glances over. ‘He’s wearing sandals. I’d say professional hipster. Or wanker. Same thing really. Probably runs a coffee shop and shags his roommate, then wears her clothes to social gatherings.’
We do this a lot. Judgy little fuckers that we are.
I knock back the last of my wine. ‘At least he’s shagging someone. Right now, I’d gladly trade my fashion sense for a regular sex life.’
Kerry gasps. ‘You would not! That’s the booze talking.’
I look down at my fabulous dress. ‘Good point. Anyway, what about him?’ I continue, making side eyes towards a stylish man in the corner, clearly trying to hit on a girl who’s already looking bored. ‘I’d say he’s the manager of something really unimportant. Like shoes. He’s the regional manager of shoes.’
Kerry narrows her eyes. ‘Hmm, I’ve seen him before at a BBC event I went to with Kieran. Sean something—’
‘Sean Semple,’ interrupts a male voice. ‘He’s head of the graphics department at the BBC. Terribly nice man, but sadly no hope of getting off with that woman.’
I look over my right shoulder and spot a dark-haired man in his late thirties standing behind me. I quickly scan his face, Terminator-style, trying to size up this rude eavesdropper: jeans, blue shirt, wide brown eyes, a few freckles on his cheeks, heart-shaped mouth. He’s not classically good-looking like Tom, but still every single part of my body approves. Tom has some competition here.
He shouts Sean’s name and waves before bending down to whisper in my ear, ‘And I think you’ll find that shoes are very important. I’d rate them highly, alongside penicillin and water slides. And, for the record, your shoes are hot.’
He’s both flirting with me AND he talked to me first! I can’t think of anything to say in response, so I smile and sip my cava. I glance over at Kerry, who’s grinning like a fool, under the assumption that I’m three seconds away from announcing that I want to ruin him. I do want to ruin him. She steps in to help.
‘And who might you be?’ she asks. She loves forward men, especially the good-looking ones. Me, I usually just find them arrogant, but Jesus, he’s attractive. Kerry is still smiling widely and I know what she’s thinking because I’m thinking it too. Our filthy minds are in sync. Of course, she’s completely devoted to Kieran and she’d never play away, making her the perfect wingwoman.
He takes a sip of his Budweiser and smirks. ‘You tell me. Don’t I get the benefit of your psychic abilities?’
Oh great, now he’s flirting with Kerry too. My wingwoman is too alluring for her own good. I feel a bit miffed. It’s like the universe never wants me to get laid, ever again.
She looks him up and down and then thinks for a moment while I keep quiet. He’s still standing close to me and I’m almost eye level with his crotch. Oh God, I wish I could see straight through his clothes. I’m starting to forget what a real-life penis looks like.
‘Actor,’ she finally declares. ‘You have that air of self-importance.’
He laughs. ‘Wow, you’re really bad at this. Not even close. Self-importance? Ouch.’
