‘You remember Brian Wilson?’ Harriet asks Matt as he slips off his coat.
He frowns. ‘From The Beach Boys?’
She laughs. ‘No, he used to live in the flat above us in Brixton. Skinny guy. Had that cat with the funny ear. You’ll remember him, Nick.’
I nod. ‘Wasn’t his cat called Phil Wilson?’
‘Yes! So, I was telling Greta, I met him in Costa last week! He was back visiting relatives. He lives in France now. Four kids. Makes his own wine or something. He’s done so well!’
France, eh? Maybe I should move to France?I think to myself, knocking back my third glass of champagne.Surely my reputation hasn’t reached across the Channel.I’d need to learn French though.
‘Are you driving?’ Matt asks Harriet, motioning to the bottle of sparkling water in front of her. It’s a reasonable question considering Harriet is notorious for being the first one smashed, but the last one standing. Harriet nods before pushing back her chair to reveal the reason why.
‘Twelve weeks,’ she proclaims in her loud Welsh accent, rubbing her non-existent bump. ‘We’ve only just started telling people. No booze, no fags, no sushi, no mayo. I’m also sick as a dog. It’s all very inconvenient.’
Noel sits there and beams proudly. ‘But it’s come at a good time. I’ve just been promoted, so we can actually afford to move somewhere bigger.’
‘Head of digital marketing,’ Harriet boasts on Noel’s behalf. ‘It’s been a hectic few weeks all round.’
As we congratulate them, I do my best to ignore the little voice in my head, but it’s determined to scold me.
SEE! This is what grown-ups do, arsehole. Get your life in order.
Forty minutes and a shot of tequila later, I watch Greta and Dr Better-Than-Me make a short thank-you speech to the crowded room. I see a few familiar faces, but a lot seem to be ‘couple’ friends who will have to pick a side after the divorce. One thing I’m certain of is that no one here has ever stepped foot in an Aldi, whereas I’m on a first-name basis with Greg the cashier.
‘We’re so happy you came!’ Greta enthuses. ‘It means so much to us.’
Will nods and slips his arm around Greta’s waist. ‘Four years ago, this beautiful woman agreed to have dinner with me and four weeks ago she agreed to be my wife. I’m the luckiest man alive. She is magical.’
Jesus, even women in the bar downstairs are awwing.I mean, Greta’s great and all, but magical? Does she go all Penn & Teller on his ass when they’re alone?
‘Anyway, the wedding will be mid-March, you’ll all receive your invites shortly. Now, please eat, drink and be as happy as we are! Cheers!’
As we all raise our glasses and wish them well, I try very hard to be positive, but being surrounded by impressive people celebrating engagements, babies, promotions and wine-making neighbours from Brixton past is giving me anxiety. I’m trying very hard not to take everyone’s success as a personal affront, but it turns out I’m fairly self-obsessed. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up pissing beside a fucking Nobel Prize winner.
Thankfully, I’m alone, apart from one cubicle which seems to be occupied by someone with a suspicious sniffing disorder. As I wash my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror, hoping that little voice in my head will provide a rallying pep talk. . . perhaps affirm my worth in the world. Tell me I’m destined for great things!
Your hair looks crap.
Bollocks. Defeated, I retreat back out into the hallway, ready to get unnecessarily drunk, but I’m stopped by Greta and an older woman, who’s dressed like she’s running for office.
‘Nick! Just the man I was looking for! This is Alice, I thought you two should meet!’
Why, is she a complete prick too?
‘Terrific,’ I respond, shaking Alice’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Excellent party, Greta, I’m having the best time.’
Greta grins at me excitedly, while Alice doesn’t say a word. Who is this woman? Christ, is Greta trying to set me up? I know Angela isn’t here, but I still have a girlfriend. Besides Alice is clearly not my type because Alice is hitting sixty. I’m not adverse to older women, but twice my age is pushing it just a bit.
‘So how do you know each other?’ I ask.
‘Alice is my neighbour,butalso manages Southview Shopping Centre, you know, the mall near your flat?’
‘Um, sure – funnily enough, I just bought this shirt there. John Lewis do a decent sale,’ I reply, pointing to my shirt-covered torso and wondering why the hell I just said that when a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed. Now Alice is looking at my torso and I want to leave.
‘Oh wonderful,’ Greta continues, ‘because Alice was literally just telling me about a position she has available. It’s fate!’
Job talk! Thank God. I unclench. Alice is free to look wherever she likes.
