An hour later, all guests are present and correct, including Sarah who has been carefully briefed on the whole Santa situation, much to her amusement.
‘Why do you give a fuck what anyone thinks?’ she asks. ‘I thought these people were your friends?’
I pass her a wine and look around. She has a good point. Apart from Greta and Harriet, my so-called friends haven’t exactly been blowing up my phone to see how I’m doing.
‘I’m telling everyone I’m working privately for a Dubai-based investor. Confidentiality means I don’t have to go into detail.’
She playfully kicks me with her foot. ‘I think your real job sounds far more fun.’
The leg attached to that foot is perfect. So is the other one. I have a flashback to her standing in the kitchen in Matt’s T-shirt.Whoa, Jesus, Nick, what the hell is wrong with you?I set down my beer and reach for a can of Coke.
Sarahis looking incredible. I’m not the only one who has noticed either. I keep making awkward eye contact with Matt’s friend Kevin, who blushes furiously every time I catch him looking at Sarah’s arse.
‘Well, um—’
‘Sarah, have you met Gabby?’ Matt shouts from the kitchen, gesturing for her to join him. ‘Gabby, this is Sarah. . . my. . . eh, my girlfriend.’
Wow.That’s the first time I’ve heard him use the G-word with her. And I was thinking about her arse until he interrupted. I need to get it together and sober the fuck up.
Sarah smiles, but I don’t like the way it makes me feel. As she leaves to join them, I force myself to chat with everyone else in the vain hope that it might stop me thinking about how hot she looks. I’m obviously having some sort of early mid-life crisis.
I spy Noel sitting at the kitchen table and scurry across. A married man with a baby on the way is exactly what I need to get rid of this burgeoning horn.
‘How are you?’ I ask. ‘Shame Harriet couldn’t make it, is she holding up alright?’
He nods. ‘She still has the old morning sickness. They said it should only last about ten weeks, yet she’s still gagging into her handbag, all hours of the day. I’m not staying long, I just wanted to see the birthday boy and grab a beer.’
‘Where the hell is Harry?!’
I turn to see Matt behind me, obviously three sheets to the wind and with no intention of stopping anytime soon.
‘She’s sick, mate,’ Noel informs him. ‘But she sends her love. Are you having a nice birthday?’
‘I am!’ he replies, reaching into the ice bucket for his next beer. ‘I think it’s time to crank up the music though. It’s my birthday, not a fucking wake!’
We laugh as he staggers back to his other well-wishers. Thankfully, I’ve managed to bullshit almost everyone to the point where they’ve stopped asking me about my life, except for Kara, my bitchy old colleague who takes great pleasure in showing me an Instagram photo of Angela and some footballer with his hand on her arse. I guess things didn’t work out with Pete fromLove Island.
‘These types go where the money is,’ she slurs. ‘You were a bit out of your league there, Nick. She’d never have settled for you.’
Settled for me? I take a long swig of my beer. ‘Thanks for that, Kara. Say hi to your investment banker for me. . . and his wife. . .’
As I walk back into the living room, I hear her exclaim, ‘HE’S LEAVING HER AFTER CHRISTMAS,’ but she’s soon drowned out by the music. I’m so done with this party, but, given that it’s my flat, I can’t leave. I could hide though.
Looking around to see whether I could slip into my room unnoticed, I spot Matt in the kitchen with Greta and Phillip something-or-other who joined the firm two days before I was sacked. Greta beckons me over and hands me an envelope.
‘Thought I’d drop in your wedding invitation while I was here. March 21st. No excuses!’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Same goes for Matt. I want you both there, and his girlfriend if she hasn’t dumped him by then.’
I laugh and look for Sarah, who’s chatting to two women I met briefly earlier. Sarah looks like she’s holding her own, but I can spot her fake smile a mile off. I excuse myself and make my way over.
‘Sarah,’ I say, rudely interrupting them. ‘You promised me a dance.’
She excuses herself immediately and allows me to lead her to the living room floor, where ninety per cent of the party are currently losing their shit to David Guetta.
‘Thanks,’ Sarah says, ‘I was drowning there. Some of the people here. . . well. . .’
