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He had his glasses on, in that geeky way that I love so much, and his hair was still a mass of eccentric curls, but he was so smart, in a jet black suit with a black tie, and a crisp white shirt… I’d never seen him like this. I’d never seen him so polished and magnificent.
“Hot, isn’t he?” Lizzie giggled.
I couldn’t even speak.
He looked at me, turning his head in slow motion, and I felt the moment his eyes met mine. The world stopped, just like that. Everything stopped. And he swallowed. And my cheeks burned. And the whole world seemed to lurch and wobble.
And then he looked away. He looked away as if it was nothing.
As if I was nothing.
I don’t know why it hurt so badly, I don’t know why him turning his attention back to what Miss Monkton was saying caused me so much pain, but it felt like someone had ripped me in half and tossed my stomach on the dancefloor. I could feel it there beneath the clumsy feet. Feel them trampling all over me.
I stumbled my way to the bar and Lizzie was there before me. She forced her way through and I shouted for a double, a double anything, I didn’t even care.
“I’d have got that for you,” Harry announced as we cleared the throng, and it was all I could do to smile.
He led me about the place like a prized show pony and I hated it. His hand felt clammy and icky and his fingers didn’t fit mine, and I hated it. I didn’t want to be there with him at all, and I hated it. But seeing Mr Roberts laughing with Miss Monkton was what I hated most of all.
She was touching him, her fingers wrapped around his elbow, and she was too close, pressed into his side as she laughed. And it was horrible. I wanted to know how he smelled, how his suit felt, how his voice sounded over the dance tracks. I wanted to know how it felt to stand at his side in public, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Harry fetched me a fresh drink, and another after that, and Lizzie handed me her little hip flask filled with vodka while she followed Scottie around the dancefloor.
I went to the toilet to drink some down, and died inside as I walked into Sarah Jennings’ bitch brigade. They flashed me looks full of scorn and they laughed.
“Ooh, get Helen Palmer in her fancy gown.”
“Shame about the tits, Helen.”
“See how horny Harry finds a training bra.”
I burned up and dashed into a cubicle.
“You still got your crush, Helen?”
“Still a little stalker freak, Helen?”
“Look on the bright side, Helen, you know what they say about Roberts… maybe you could pretend to be a boy for him.”
“Yeah, you could be a little boy!”
“Helen with her baby breasts, he’ll love that.”
I wasn’t going to cry for those bitches. I counted down the seconds until they laughed and disappeared, and downed the rest of the vodka in one.
There was more than I expected, and it burned my throat, but I was way past caring.
Outside the toilets, Scottie Davis was hanging out with Rachel Panter. His hand was on her ass and his lips were on her neck and I felt so sick at the sight that I stumbled backwards into the wall.
I dashed around the place, trying to find Lizzie, and eventually located her under the patio heater. She was smoking. Not the calm, chilled, give-me-a-cigarette type smoking. This was angry smoking. Stressed smoking. I-can’t-find-my-boyfriend type smoking.
I could hardly bring myself to tell her.
“It’s Scottie… I don’t know what to say… he’s, um… he’s…”
“Fucking Rachel Panter, I know. It’s been going on ages.”
My jaw fell open. “You knew?”
“Yeah. We’re just… unconventional… I’m cool with it…”
She nearly convinced me. Nearly. But there was a tremble in her lip as she handed me her cigarette, and it gave the game away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were solid.”
“Yeah, well.” That was the only explanation she gave me.
I sucked in smoke and pressed myself against the wall, into the shadows where nobody could see me, and as Mr Roberts and Miss Monkton stepped outside, Lizzie joined me in the darkness. We stood silently as they made their way from the main patio, over towards the gardens and away from the straggling revellers. My eyes followed them, and I hitched a breath at the realisation they were stopping just a few metres away.
“Kids,” Miss Monkton tutted. “This makes me feel so old.”
“Quite,” Mr Roberts said, and lit her a cigarette.
The simple act of sharing set off fireworks of jealousy in my guts.
“Oh to be young again,” she laughed. “Can you even imagine?”
“I’m a bit past that,” he said.
“Oh, Mark, you’re really not that old…”
