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My head is spinning as I step out of the bathroom and head to the bar. Even after five minutes under the hand-drier, my damp top still clings to my chest as I slip into a barstool and order two more drinks.
I don’t mind. I feel hot and flushed and flustered. I could use something to cool me down. As I wait for my drinks, I glance back at our dark booth in the corner of the room. Luke has pulled a paperback out from somewhere and is reading it, completely ignoring the chaos around him. My stomach flips.
I almost kissed him.
I don’t know what came over me. We were sitting so close, shouting over the noise of the bar, and it felt like there were magnets in my skin, dragging me into him. I remember the way his dark eyes fixed on my mouth as I talked. The light graze of his fingertips against my cheek.
For a second, I thought maybe he wanted to kiss me, too.
I shake my head at myself. I’m being stupid.I need to get over this ridiculous crush.
The teenage bartend comes back with my drinks, and I pull my card out of my wallet. As I hold it against the reader, I vaguely recognise the sound of the bathroom door getting slammed open behind me. The reader bleeps, and I take back my card just as a deep voice booms through the pub.
“TWO-POUND THOMPSON! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
I freeze, all of the blood draining out of my face as my ex-boyfriend, Donny Pritchard, swaggers up to the bar.
Okay, so I lied when I told the guys that I’ve never had a boyfriend. I have had one. But the fact that I ever dated Donny — even though it was just for a week in high school — is so incredibly embarrassing that I refuse to own up to it.
He looks no different than he did ten years ago. He’s still tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. He still has the same cleft chin and pretty green eyes, although right now they’re bloodshot from drinking. He smirks at me, slumping down in the barstool next to me.
“Layla. Babe,” he booms. I try to edge away from him as his hot, yeasty breath fans over my face. “What the Hell are you doing here? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.” He waves down the bartend. “Gimme a beer, man. Best stuff you got on tap.” He slaps his card down onto the bar, then grins at me, leaning back in his stool and crossing his arms behind his head.
“I’m getting a drink,” I say flatly. “The same as you, apparently. What’s with the cheap suit? You look like a wanker.”
He looks down at his crumpled three-piece. “‘S’not cheap,” he sneers. “Just got back from a campaign. I’m running for the London Assembly. I’m shooting for Mayor one day.”
I snort. “Don’t you need to know how to read to be a politician?”
His eyes spark. “Big words coming from you,” he says loudly. “You’ve been doing well for yourself, haven’t you, Layla? I’ve seen your pictures online.” His gaze drops pointedly to my chest. “Seems like you’re really using your assets.”
Before I can respond, the bartender steps forward and slides two glass jam jars towards me, full of pretty pink and red drinks.
Donny guffaws. “Mate. How come you’re serving her first? Is it ‘cause she’s got her rack out?”
The bartend sputters. I fight back the wave of cold that rolls over my body, plucking my paper umbrella out of my drink. “If you don’t shut up,” I say, “I’ll stab you in the face.”
Donny blinks. “What?”
“I’ll rip out your eyes and eat them like olives,” I inform him, twirling the umbrella between my fingers. Donny’s face darkens with a scowl. I don’t break eye contact, staring him down.
The bartender looks between us. “Um, is there a problem here?” He asks, sounding terrified.
Donny straightens. “Sorry, mate.” He grins again. “Were you interested?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t bother. If you want to see her topless, just look her up online.”
I grit my teeth, my shoulders tensing. “You can go now, Donald.”
Donny ignores me, leaning in and dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s a… what do you call ‘em? Glamour model. Girls who pose naked. Hang on.” He pulls out his phone and shows it to the boy. “Here, man. Check it. Nice, right?”
I peer over his shoulder. On his screen is a campaign photo I took a couple of years ago for a product launch. I’m wearing a lilac corset laced up with lavender ribbons. And, yes, my bum is out. But who cares? It’s social media, for God’s sake. The whole internet is like, pictures of food and bums.
“Do you have that saved in your phone?” I ask, disgusted. “God. You’re so rank. And I’m not a glamour model, I’m a fashion designer, you utter cretin.” I reach for the phone. “Put that away.”
Donny lifts it out of my reach. “Hey, why are you getting fussy now? If you didn’t want people to look at them, you wouldn’t put them up on the internet for everyone to see.” He leers at my chest. “You sure as Hell wouldn’t be wearing a shirt like that.”
As his eyes bore into the front of my top, something odd happens inside of me. A switch flips. Suddenly, all the anger coursing through me freezes, turning to cold, raw fear.
I swallow hard. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m good at being catcalled. I’m great at it, in fact. It’s happened so many times in my life, I have a whole Rolodex of snippy, sarcastic comebacks stored in the back of my mind.
