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I got 100% hot. Instant gratification.
“And forcing us to croon Robert Palmer!”
Along with Nate, who could be considered one of the girls, I have two best girlfriends, which makes me, by far, the luckiest girl in the world. Courtney Ryan is one of them. She is also Nate’s ex-girlfriend. Oh, and she’s gay (which was the reason she and Nate actually broke up, because other than that he has a penis, they are a perfect match).
Courtney grimaces before continuing. “You know how much I hate Robert Palmer.”
“We all know your aversion to debonair English men.” That’s Nate again. Sometimes I wonder whether he still holds a little resentment to Courtney outing herself.
“Guilty.” Courtney put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, so what’s happening? Bad date? Did he stand you up? Or did he refuse to reciprocate after you sucked his dick?”
If I could sum up Courtney with one word it would be “sassy,” although I’ve heard people also call her, “a foul-mouthed slag.” Let’s just say, you either love her or you hate her. She gets her olive complexion, jet-black hair and ballsy attitude from her Spanish father, but she has her mother’s Gaelic eyes, so blue they are nearly violet. And despite her “take no prisoners” attitude, Courtney has a soft and gooey centre, like a Jam Roly-Poly. She is also blessed by the god’s with, as Ginger would say, “a totally rocking body.” I adore Courtney.
Ginger Knox is my other best friend. She’s a fair dinkum Sheila from Down Under (translation: Australian girl). We met two years ago when she was working in London, and we immediately clicked. Her visa expired last March, so she packed up her life and abandoned us to move to Turkey to live with her fiancé, Aydin. Downside? I miss her every day. Upside? I took over the lease on her disgusting, depressing bedsit in Pimlico and, after practically blackmailing the pervo landlord, I got myself a massive cut on the rent and cart blanche to renovate. With a little TLC I turned her once-tatty apartment into my deceptively spacious (Ginny is still in shock over the amount of storage I now have) home, thanks to my love of wall units that reach the ceiling, thick rugs, mirrors, and soft colours. Despite talking practically every day, I still miss her terribly… plus if she were here, I am certain that she would give me the exact amount of sympathy that I covet right now.
“His name was Charles Rupert Stanton.” I take another sip of the scotch, realise I’ve taken another sip of scotch, and make a strangled sound. “Bleugh! He actually introduced himself like that, in a very plummy accent I might add, but then he gave me a ten-minute breakdown of his lineage before announcing I should call him Stanton.”
Brynn Hayes bends forward and theatrically air-kisses either side of my face, while waving her fist in the air menacingly. “Who calls themselves by their surname, for fuck’s sake?”
Brynn joined our circle when I went to work at Brazen, one of the biggest PR firms in London. Brynn is 40, looks 30 and has the up and at ‘em attitude of a 20-year-old on coke (the drug, not the cola). Slightly famous (or maybe that should more accurately be said as slightly infamous), Brynn is a total powerhouse in the world of PR. Everyone knows her, and everyone wants to work with her. She’s been married more times than even she can remember and has apparently slept with at least one member of Oasis.
Brynn’s also ultra-kooky but in a sophisticated way. She can turn a boring black dress into a masterpiece with a tweak here and a snip there. She is a sequin zealot, a slave to ruffles (yes, I know) and a lover of tattoos. It might sound like a fashion fiasco but on her it’s a work of art. Her smooth, dark skin, short, tight curls, wide, generous mouth and cheekbones that can cut glass just totally makes it all work.
I fluked my way into my dream job with her, thanks to @megmartinissingle and its two million followers (well, that, and our mutual love of vodka).
You’re curious about @megmartinissingle, aren’t you?
It all started with a rubbish date and a selfie that quickly became an Insta-blog about just how god-awful the single scene in London is. It’s all about what I wear, where we meet, what I drink, and finally, whether or not he gets the thumbs up; all documented originally to amuse my friends, but after a monumentally bad date with a Russian musician went viral, thanks to his desperate need to play with his balalaika in the taxi (and, no, I don’t mean the musical instrument), my following exploded. Restaurants and bars wanted to collaborate with me, shops wanted me to wear their clothes (I even got free Johnny’s from a condom company once) and suddenly I’m an actual “social influencer.” Anyway, Brynn came across my Instagram feed late one night, laughed her ass off and begged me to take a meeting with her. The meeting wasn’t even needed because she offered me a job on the spot. She said she just couldn’t wait to meet me. And now, I’m working with massive names in the music industry as their social media strategist working exclusively in cancel culture management. I help turn a negative into a positive before any fallout destroys their reputation. This is the job that I was born to do.
“He then spent the next hour boasting about his business, his travels, and his apartment before he mansplained to me that I didn’t have an actual job.”
Brynn puts her arm around me and pulls me in tight, her steel eyes burning at his insult. “I’ll kill him!”
Nate slams his glass down on the table. “Suffering from total fuckwittery, I’d say.”
“And then to top it all off, he said that I wasnot attractive enough to take it any further!”
“What a wanker!”
“Oh, and as he was leaving, he tells me I was the one with the problem because I wouldn’t shag him.”
“You should have called me, Meggsy, I would have given him a proper beating.”
I moan and slump back into my chair. “I’m thinking that I’ve struck out with pretty much every guy on the whole internet.”
“It certainly seems like you have dated every loser in London.”
“You just haven’t met the right one.”
I glare across the table at Courtney. She means well but she somehow always gets me riled up. “You’re some kind of genius, aren’t you?”
“I hear your sarcasm, thank you very much.”
“I’d hope so.”
“He’s not wrong though—”
Oh no!
