He shrugs. ‘Well, she did make her feelings on that shirt known to everyone in the bar that night. . .’
It’s not yellow, Nick, it’s mustard. Vomit-coloured mustard and it’s not your colour. It’s not anyone’s colour! What were you thinking?
I shake my head, unwilling to believe that she would just throw away a Paul Smith shirt, but deep down, I’m less than certain. She once binned a full-size bottle of Jo Malone perfume that I bought for her birthday because she didn’t like the limited-edition bottle as much as the normal bottle.
‘Ask her,’ Matt suggests. ‘I’m pretty certain she’ll admit it if she did. She’s ballsy like that.’
Matt doesn’t like Angela. He’s never said it outright, but I can tell by the way he tenses up every time she’s around. He’s wary of her and I’ve never understood why, considering some of the women he’s brought round to the flat. Jesus, he once briefly dated an American woman who called himDaddyin a baby voice, regardless of who was in earshot. Angela might be a tad shallow sometimes, but she has a good heart.
‘I’m not going to ask my girlfriend if she threw away my shirt,’ I insist. ‘I’ll look like a psycho.’
He laughs. ‘True, and if she admits it, you’ll have to deal with the fact you’re dating apsycho. Which is worse?’
‘I’ll buy a new bloody shirt,’ I mumble, as I begin picking up clothes from my bedroom floor. ‘I’m pretty sure I have store credit from John Lewis.’
‘You could buy a bottle of champagne for Greta and Will while you’re at it,’ Matt suggests as he walks into the living room. ‘I’m not doing a joint present, like we’re a couple, mate. That’s just creepy.’
‘No problem,Daddy.’
‘Fuck off, Billy-No-Shirt.’
I grab the rest of my clothes and fling them back into my wardrobe, vowing to sort them out later. Right now, I have to figure out how to buy a shirt and a decent bottle of champagne with fifty pounds.
Chapter Three
‘Boys! So glad you could make it!’
At least I think that’s what Greta says as we walk into Bar Black, but the place is so noisy, it’s hard to be sure. She hugs me – wrinkling my new blue shirt, which might be a little on the tight side since one of the buttons pinged off on the way here, but was seventy per cent off – before thanking me for the gift I’m carrying. I really hope she likes 2018 sparkling rosé. Matt hands her a box containing two Swarovski crystal-embellished champagne flutes and I hate him.
‘We’re all in the VIP area,’ she yells, gesturing towards the stairs at the back of the pub. ‘Will is up there, go grab a drink! I won’t be long.’
We push through the crowds and head up the stairs to the function ‘room’, a cordoned-off area which overlooks the main bar. Until now, I’ve never noticed how pretentious it’s become. When we first started coming here, Bar Black was called Libertines and was far less polished and sterile. Then again, so were we. Part of me misses the comfy patchwork couches and retro jukebox, which have now been replaced with shitty club anthems and slippery bar stools. There are plenty of other bars in London, but this one just feels like ours, even with a strangely designed bar perch lodged up my arse.
It’s busy for a Tuesday, with most of the clientele arranged in after-work drink cliques, all smelling like a mixture of stress and Tom Ford. It’s the same faces week in and week out. These are my eighty-hour working week, ladder-climbing, self-starting, content-creating, upwardly mobile contemporaries and right now, I’m struggling to feel like I belong. I’m starting to see my world very differently.
‘This must be a bit strange for you,’ Matt says, dragging my gaze away from a woman who’s trying to furtively vape into her handbag. He gestures towards Greta’s fiancé Will, who’s chatting with our mutual friend Harriet. ‘I mean, you used to date Greta and now she’s marrying this guy.’
Thisguyis Dr William Howard, the forty-three-year-old, Ferrari-driving surgeon that Greta began dating after me. I’ve met him at least ten times, yet I’m not even sure he knows my name.
‘Why would it be weird?’ I reply. ‘I mean, yes, we dated, but I’m very happy she found someone. I’m not secretly pining for Greta, mate.’
‘No, I know. I just mean because, well. . .’
‘What? Because he owns a house in Notting Hill, has a private clinic on Harley Street, a hairline which refuses to recede and I’m just a jobless prick with a girlfriend who might possibly be kidnapping my clothes?’
‘Pretty much.’ Matt nudges me, playfully. ‘You’ll be alright, bud. Just try and have a good night.’
‘Oh, I will,’ I reply, taking a glass of champagne from the table. ‘I’m delighted for Greta, you know that. She deserves to be happy.’
‘To be honest, I’d marry him for a shot at his car,’ Matt states, waving to Will. ‘No offence, mate, but you have to admit, our Greta did well here.’
Matt’s right, of course, but I didn’t need reminding what a fucking loser I am in comparison. I’m very aware. Besides, Matt was the one who introduced me to Greta, so really, this is all his fault. I down my glass of champagne and grab another, while Will makes his way over to us.
‘Alright, guys, nice to see you!’ Will exclaims, shaking our hands vigorously. ‘Just popping to the little boy’s room, back in a sec.’
Little boy’s room?Who says that? I start to feel three per cent better about myself.
We sit down in a small booth beside Harriet, a pale, delicate woman who was in halls with Matt and Greta. She studied English Lit and now writes bestselling crime novels. I ventured into their little circle second term of my law undergrad and never left. She’s here with her husband Noel, a man who looks like he keeps ancient secrets in his tremendous beard. They’re good people.
