As I say the words, I have a sudden image of Luke heading to the airport in his overcoat and briefcase, compared to Craig on an Instagram post, lounging in a tour bus, caption: #hungover. I have to admit, they’re not that similar. But I won’t go into that now.
We pause at a crossing and I tug at my amazing new skull-printed tights. I got them from the same website as the killer boots and they’re a bit too small, but they look so edgy. In fact, my whole outfit is edgy. Under my coat, I’m in a gray T-shirt (torn at the edges) and a black leather miniskirt. I’ve put on my new silver and black skull earrings, too, and I’m wearing full electric-blue eye shadow. Plus I’ve tied my hair up with a leather thong.
I glance at Luke, who’s still in his work suit, and feel a tiny wave of dissatisfaction. We’re going out for tequila with a rock musician, but he looks as though he’s about to give a presentation to HSBC.
“Why don’t you unbutton your shirt?” I suggest. “Loosen up, Luke! Get into the spirit of it!”
I ruffle his hair and unbutton his top button. I’m hoping he might relax, but he just gives me a look.
“Would you rather I went home and put on a slashed leather jacket?”
“No!” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly!” I hesitate, then add, “Have you got a slashed leather jacket?”
He gives me another look and I bite my lip. Right. Duh.
We walk on, and still Luke says nothing. Am I imagining it or is the tension growing? I keep glancing at Luke, but his jaw is even more rigid. And as we approach the door of the pub, I feel as if I might have made a huge, fat mistake.
Am I in denial? Is there sexual tension between Craig and me?
I mean OK, yes. Hand on heart, I did try to look edgier today. Because of what Craig said. But I don’t fancy him.
Do I?
Well, maybe I do fancy him a bit, simply because he is objectively good-looking and anyone would fancy him. (Look at Suze.) But I don’t want him.
Do I?
Oh God. Do I want him without realizing it? Does my subconscious want to have an affair with Craig?
I walk along silently, feeling breathless, as I probe the innermost corners of my mind. But the trouble with asking your subconscious what it wants is, it just laughs at you and says, “Work it out for yourself, moron.”
What about Luke? He looks calm enough—but is he silently bubbling with jealousy and hatred? As we reach the entrance to the pub, I feel a lump of worry in my throat. Should I quickly cancel and say, “Let’s go home”? But if I cancel, won’t that make things look worse?
What if Luke and Craig get into an argument? Or a duel? I have no idea where this thought has come from, but I suddenly see Luke in his Armani suit and Craig in his leather jacket, hacking at each other with swords, leaping up onto the bar of the pub and round the seats, while I cry desperately, “Please! Don’t fight over me! Your lives are too precious!”
“Becky?” Luke gives me an odd look. “Are we going in?”
“Right.” I come to and blink a few times. “Yes. Let’s do this.”
* * *
—
It’s warm and cozy inside with a crackling fire. Over the sound system, Chris Rea is singing about driving home for Christmas, and there’s the smell of mulled wine in the air. As I take off my coat, I’m aware of the girl behind the bar eyeing up my outfit curiously.
“Going to a costume party?” she asks.
Honestly. They wouldn’t ask that in Shoreditch.
“No. Just an evening out,” I reply coolly. “With friends.”
To my own ears, the word “friends” sounds quite cryptic and mysterious. I’ve never felt like a femme fatale before—but I feel as though I’m in a love triangle in some film noir and this is the pivotal scene.
“Luke, you do know I love you, don’t you?” I say, my voice low and throbbing.
“Yes,” says Luke, looking at me as though I’m an idiot.
“What can I get you, Becky?” says the bartender, Dave, in a cheery voice. But before I can answer, the pub door swings open behind me and I hear Craig’s voice, accompanied by violins in my head: “Becky.”
It’s practically exactly like that bit in Casablanca. (Except in a pub. And not black and white. And not in Casablanca.)
“Craig,” I say breathlessly, wheeling round. Then I blink in slight surprise. He’s not wearing leather. He’s wearing a coat. And has he shaved?
He greets me with a kiss on each cheek—then I turn self-consciously to Luke.
“Luke…this is Craig,” I say momentously.
I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting. An instant confrontation? But of course there’s nothing like that. They shake hands and Luke says, “Welcome to Letherby,” whereupon Craig says, “Thanks, mate. Cold out there. What are you drinking?”
The whole film noir vibe has sort of ebbed away. They just sound like two blokes in a pub.
“What can I get you, Becky?” says Dave again. “Your usual? Baileys on ice?”
I feel a flash of embarrassment. Baileys on ice is not my usual. I’ve only had it a few times.
“Tequila, thanks,” I say in my coolest voice, glancing at Craig. “We’re doing tequila shots, right?”
“Tequila shots?” says Luke, looking astonished, but I pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Not for me,” says Craig, lifting a hand, and I stare at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t serious about tequila,” he says with a rueful smile. “Can’t do that anymore, not after wrecking my stomach lining. I’ll be on wine. But don’t let me stop you guys,” he adds, turning to Luke.
“I’ll be on wine too,” says Luke firmly. “There’s a nice Malbec here—”
“The Malbec.” Craig nods enthusiastically. “That’s a good wine. I had it the other night.”
Malbec? Since when do rock gods drink Malbec?
I watch, discomfited, as Dave pours out two glasses of wine and a tequila shot. I feel stupid now. I don’t want to do shots on my own.
“Cheers,” says Craig, clinking glasses with Luke and me. The two men sip their wine and I drain my tequila.
Ooh. That was quite strong. The air’s gone a bit blurry.
“You want another one?” says Dave, watching me curiously.
“Er…maybe in a minute,” I say, getting out a tissue to mop my eyes.
“So, are you into wine?” Craig is saying to Luke.
“A little,” says Luke. “You?”
“Got into it recently,” says Craig in his raspy, laid-back way. “My mate Mark—lead singer in Blink Rage—just bought a case of 1916 Château Lafite at Sotheby’s.”
“I read about that,” says Luke, his face lighting up. “The bidding got quite frantic, apparently?”
“It was intense,” says Craig. “I was with Mark. He was bidding by phone, freaking out….Hey, you want to sit by the fire?” he adds, as a group of people get up from their seats.
“Sure.” Luke nods. “Good idea.”
As the two of them head over to the fire, I watch them, feeling affronted. When I said I wanted Luke and Craig to hit it off, I didn’t mean I wanted them to start talking about wine and ignore me.
“Becky, are you coming?” asks Luke, looking round. “And do you want another tequila shot?” he adds quizzically.
Is he making fun of me?
“I’ll get myself a glass of wine,” I say with dignity.
I wait for Dave to pour me my wine, and order some packets of crisps too. I’m about to join Luke and Craig by the fire, when the door opens and a girl comes in. She’s about my age, wearing a coat and a very tight gray business suit, revealing quite an incredible cleavage. She has long straight hair, a biscuity fake tan, and very manicured eyebrows. And she’s definitely had her lips done with filler. (Probably twice. The first time I’m guessing she said, “Keep it natural,” and the second time, “I love it! Go for it! More!”)
She eyes my skull tights with surprise, looks at my skull earrings, and bites her cushiony lip in amusement—then scans the pub.
“Craig!” she exclaims in a nasal voice.
“Love!” Craig’s whole face lights up and he gets to his feet. “Love, over here! Luke, Becky, let me introduce you to Nadine, my girlfriend.”
His—
What?
* * *
—
Why shouldn’t Craig have a girlfriend? Of course he has a girlfriend. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before that he would have a girlfriend. It isn’t a surprise, really.
Although what is a surprise is…
Well. Her.
If you’d said “Craig’s girlfriend” to me, I’d have pictured someone cool. Rock chick. With electric-blue eye shadow and grungy tights, like the girls in his Instagram posts. But Nadine is nothing like that.
She’s got herself a drink and come to join us, and I can’t stop staring at her in disbelief. She can’t be with Craig, surely? But somehow she is. She’s very polished, and apparently she drives a Fiat and hates Craig’s music. He keeps telling us that as though it’s a good thing.
“She won’t come to hear me,” he says, laughing. “She won’t come on tour. Will you, babe? Just refuses.”
“Blink Rage!” says Nadine in return, and takes a swig of prosecco. “What kind of name is that? And have you heard the noise they make?” She runs her eyes disparagingly over my skull tights again. “But maybe you’re into all that, Becky?”
“I’m eclectic,” I say with a casual shrug. “I used to hang out with Craig’s band at Bristol. That’s how we got together, back in the day. Good times,” I add reminiscently.
I’m expecting Nadine to ask more, but she says, “Mmm,” with a supreme lack of interest, then turns to Luke.