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“You know, there are times when I think I might not mind your brother.” Robyn sighs as she turns the black embossed invite over in her perfectly manicured hand.
Robyn is blonde and gorgeous, and for about six months six years ago, she and my brother were an item. It didn’t end well for Rob when Nick brought another girl to her birthday party as his less-than-subtle way of breaking it off. Though, now, of course, I know had he not done the shittiest thing imaginable, it still wouldn’t have worked out between them.
I say it didn’t end well for Rob, but it did, because after my brother broke her heart she met Daniel, and as far as I can see, they’re the most perfect couple on the planet. It’s almost sickening how perfect they are. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d hate them.
As she stands to fill our glasses with the freshly popped Veuve Clicquot, I stare longingly at her tanned, lithe legs. Where I’m pale and freckled in places, Robyn is the opposite. She goes golden-brown at the first hint of sunlight, while I need SPF 100 so I don’t go lobster-red.
We’ve been friends since our second day at Holly Lodge Primary School in Surrey, when she picked me up after a boy whose name escapes me now knocked me over into a puddle in the middle of the playground. She knows me inside out and with such accuracy it should freak me out. It doesn’t. I love her for it.
I give her a skeptical look. “Tell me when the moment passes.”
Robyn laughs and takes a sip of her champagne while I study the invite.
“I’m surprised Nick gave these to me though. Sounds totally like his kind of thing,” I muse as I sip the cool, fizzy goodness. Champagne is always my going-out drink because it makes me feel perky, sexy, and spoiled. I love the way it fizzes on my tongue and down the back of my throat in that almost ticklish way. It makes going out with the girls feel like a celebration—which I firmly believe it should be.
“Well, cheers to Nick the prick!” Robyn says, raising her glass to clink it with mine.
I bite back a smile.
“So, do you promise not to brush off every single man who looks at you tonight, or ...?” Robyn asks. Robyn who, in her wisdom, thinks everyone’s perfect soul mate is only a few awkward conversations away.
“You say that as though it’s possible to even strike up a serious conversation in a nightclub. All that loud music and small talk. Nightmare.”
“Um, I wasn’t talking about serious conversation, Al ...” Robyn widens her eyes. “You seriously need to get sha—”
“Don’t bloody say it!” I laugh.
“You do though!”
“I’m fine, thank you very much. Anyway ...” I say as I nudge the conversation in another direction. “The eligible Dr. Sam Wardley asked me out the other day, so you never know ...” I giggle.
Robyn halts mid-sip. “What! So, he finally asked you out? Ugh! I said he wanted you when I saw him swoon over you at his birthday drinks you took me along to. But of course, you were still with ‘the cunt’ then. Never thought it would take him so bloody long!”
It goes on like this for another hour, with Rob convincing me Sam, with his floppy hair, boyish face, and glasses, is exactly what I need right now, that he’s practically perfect for me, blah blah blah. All the things I’ve been telling myself all week. Except while she’s speaking, all I can think is that perhaps what I actually need right now is a pair of green-blue eyes, a muscular, tattooed body, and a night of wild, no-strings-attached sex in the back seat of a probable criminal’s car.
The taxi drops us off across the street from the club in the trendy part of Brick Lane.
The nameless club is a black stone building—a sort of neo-gothic affair with blacked-out windows. It looks as if it’s been involved in a fire, but as I get closer, I see it’s that the stone has been painted a dark charcoal color. It must have been here for years, yet I can’t remember ever seeing it before. Though, it’s not as if I frequent Brick Lane a lot these days. Or London for that matter. I try to avoid the city unless absolutely necessary. And for the past six months, I’ve had an ex and his new girlfriend I want to be at least fifty miles away from at all times.
Of course, the venue is ridiculously crowded. Normally, this sort of queue would put us off and we’d totter along to the next place, but these VIP passes get us to the left-hand side of the doorway, which has a much smaller line moving down at a faster pace. As we walk to stand in line, the heavy thump of the music from inside gets louder.
Rob’s hen group are waiting outside the gated entrance for us and wave excitedly as we approach before pulling us into fragrant hugs.I met some of them at the hen weekend a few weeks back—a weekend spa break to Barcelona, which was divine—and some I’ve known for a while through Rob. They’re all lovely, genuine girls. Becca is the first to thank me for the invites. She’s a gorgeous, petite brunette with an infectious laugh and a saucy wit who often makes me cry with laughter whenever I’m in her company.
“Oh, you’re welcome. They’d only be going to waste.”
“Is your brother single ...?” Lucy asks.
“He’s a priest,” Rob says with an eye roll.
“He is?” Tamsin asks, intrigued. She’s a solicitor from Bath and has the largest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“She’s joking.” I shake my head.
“Well, let’s hope it’s a good night. I’ve soooo needed this.” Saskia beams excitedly.
“We don’t even need to wait in the muggle queue. Another point to Nick the Prick ...” Robyn says, craning her neck down the line and back up with wide, impressed eyes. “Oh my god, is that Adam Smith?” She nudges me.
Adam is a stand-up comedian I vaguely remember seeing on one of those panel shows I hardly ever watch. As I glance ahead of us in the direction she indicates, I nod. It is. I think. He’s one of those new young comedians who looks like a student, so I guess it could be him, or it could just be a student. From looking around at the people queuing, it appears the clientele is mixed. Those in the “muggle queue” definitely look more like trendy student types, whereas ours seems to be for yuppie city boys who could also be footballers, their WAGs, and stand-up comedians.
