6
Express Yourself
It had been an hour since I’d left the piano shop and I still wasn’t feeling any better. I’d gone back to the office to kill time before going out. Rob, our art editor, had left some layouts on my desk, but I was too worked up to give them any attention. Instead, I was torturing myself on the internet, scrolling through job adverts on LinkedIn. Maybe it was time to smarten up myCV. There was a junior reporter’s job going atShoe and Leather News...
I closed my browser in disgust. Jesus, what was I doing thinking about jumping ship? IfRe:Soundwent under, what would happen to Lucy and Gav and everyone else who worked here? How would they pay the rent every month?
Failure was not an option. Not if I wanted to sleep at night. Too many people –friends– were relying on me.
There had to be another way to get the Marcie interview, and save the magazine.
I just hadn’t thought of it yet.
*
My plans for that evening weren’t exactly setting me ablaze with anticipation. I was having drinks with Alice, my brother’s fiancée.
It’s not that she was boring, it was just that I didn’t have much in common with her. She didn’t eat fast food, she drank rooibos instead of normal tea, and her Facebook page was full of inspirational quotes against backdrops of sunsets.
But she meant well. In a fit of either devotion or madness, Alice had agreed to a traditional Greek wedding. She didn’t have any Greek friends, and so she’d asked me to be herproti koumera– which roughly translates as ‘first best lady’. And because I was officially only a ‘best lady’, she could still have a maid of honour and bridesmaids. This placated her English friends, a couple of whom were put out at not getting the lead gig.
She’d planned a bonding evening so we could all meet. It was a pre-hen night, and although L-plates and plastic penises weren’t Alice’s style, I couldn’t rule out her friends bringing them. I was allergic to the female brand of shrieky fun that involved talking about sex and pretending to be Manhattanites à laSex and the City, rather than denizens of Southall and Penge. They were having dinner at Pizza Express beforehand, but I’d arranged to join them afterwards as I knew something would come up to keep me in the office late.
If I was honest, the other reason I wasn’t looking forward to it was because I hated being reminded that people my age were happily pairing off. Pete was three years older than me, so it didn’t matter he was getting married. But Alice was two yearsyoungerthan me – barely out of her twenties. What was she doing waltzing up the aisle? I loved my brother, but had she seen the state of his toenails? Or heard his chainsaw snore? Was she really happy to tie herself to him for ever?
It took all my willpower not to weasel out of going, and at 9.05 p.m. I was outside The Anchor just off Great Portland Street. It was one of those old-fashioned pubs, stuck in a time warp where hipsters and houmous didn’t exist. Gold lettering on the windows announced a saloon bar and taproom, for God’s sake. But Alice had probably chosen it because it was quiet and we could actually talk to each other. She was practical like that.
As soon as I was inside, however, I realised my mistake. Blaring out was the Proclaimers’ ‘500 Miles’. But not the original – something much worse: a sea of smiley faces strumming ukuleles.
Hipsters had taken over here, too.
We couldn’t stay here. Alice must not have realised when she arranged this get-together. I pulled out my phone. If they were still in Pizza Express, I’d tell them to meet me somewhere else – somewhere quieter.
‘Zoë!’ came a cry from my right. Alice was beaming at me from the bar, a glass of wine in each hand. She wobbled over and hugged me, careful not to spill the drinks. ‘Yay! I’m so glad you’re here.’
Alice was a Pilates instructor and the fittest person I knew. Her lack of body fat meant she could get pissed on a glass of prosecco, and judging by her pinkness she’d passed that milestone ages ago.
‘Are we staying? Don’t you want to go somewhere a bit more...’ I swept my arm across the vista. ‘... Ukulele-free?’
‘Annette organised this,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
She led me to a table towards the back, where it was quieter, and slung her arm around a girl with long blonde hair. She couldn’t have looked more different to Alice, who had a dark pixie cut.
‘Zoë, this is my best friend, Annette.’
‘The Double-As,’ chirruped Annette. ‘We came up with that when we were ten, when all it referred to was batteries. Now it sounds like a bra size.’ She laughed. ‘Nothing double-A about these puppies.’ She paused to indicate her ample bosom. ‘But it makes a good story.’
I nodded politely. The speeches would be deathly dull if that counted as a good story in Annette’s book.
Alice turned to a younger woman sitting beside her. ‘And this is Helen, my baby sister.’
Baby was right – Helen looked like she was born this century.
‘Zoë is my sister-to-be,’ said Alice proudly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve all finally met. You’re the most important people in the world to me.’
Alice wore her heart on her sleeve, but displays of affection made me uncomfortable.
‘I think I’ll go and get that drink now,’ I said.
