She’s snapping at him, I realize. She looks quite vicious. God, I wish I could lip-read. What’s she saying?
Now he’s replying … She’s interrupting … They’re having a row, I realize in astonishment. They’re actually having a row! Somehow I thought Seb wasn’t the type to have rows. Especially not in the middle of a club.
As I watch in fascination, Briony’s face twists. She spits out a whole series of words at Seb and pushes her chair back. She flings a pashmina around her shoulder and grabs her bag. She looks kind of magnificent, I can’t help thinking, in a scary-monster sort of way. She’s so glossy. She’s so self-possessed. She fires some final comment at Seb and strides out, and I exhale. That was intense. And I wasn’t even in it.
My brain is swirling with alcohol. The lights are starting to blur and I’m swaying a little. Maybe I drank those cocktails a bit too quickly. Even so, as Seb gets up from his chair, I feel suddenly alert. Hang on. Where’s he going? Which way is he walking?
Shit. He’s coming in this direction, toward the bar. Shit.
OK, quick, I need to face away from him. Away. This is crucial. Away. I look around for a solution and spy Nicole, who is on her own, talking on the phone.
“Drew, I have to go,” I hear her say. She rings off and takes a sip of her drink, staring ahead. Her jaw is tight and her eyes are narrowed and she looks quite stressed.
Yowser, I think hazily. Did she and Drew have a row?
“Hi, Nicole!” I say, stumbling over to her. “We never talk. Let’s talk. Is everything OK?”
At once she turns a defensive gaze on me. “Of course it is,” she says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Typical. I wish just once Nicole would engage and we could have an actual conversation.
I glance over my shoulder. Seb is at the bar. He’s ordering a drink. Whiskey, looks like.
“You know, Drew adores you,” I say to Nicole. “I’m sure he does. Like, this much.” I extend my arms wide, tottering on my heels. “This much.”
“You look drunk, Fixie.” She eyes me suspiciously.
“I’m not,” I assure her. “Not at all. Not drunk,” I add for emphasis.
“You are drunk!” She stares at me. “How many drinks have you had?”
“Ten,” I say defiantly, taking a swig of cocktail. Surreptitiously I turn to check out Seb again, thinking I must be safe. But to my horror he’s turned away from the bar and his eyes meet mine. His face jerks in surprise and I quickly whip my head back round, my heart thudding.
He didn’t recognize me, I tell myself. Of course he didn’t. He couldn’t have, not in that fleeting moment. Even so, I decide to move behind Nicole so that I’m concealed. Then, in sudden inspiration, I crouch down. OK, this is good. She’s completely blocking me. Also, it’s quite comfortable, down here on my heels. The room is whirling less. It’s relaxing. Parties should have more crouching.
“What the hell are you doing?” demands Nicole.
“Shhh!” I say. “Don’t move!”
I can’t see Seb. I can’t see anything but the shifting light on Nicole’s white fringed dress in front of my eyes. It’s kind of mesmerizing, especially given that my brain seems to be doing a 360 rotation every thirty seconds.
“Look, there’s sushi,” Nicole announces suddenly. “I’m getting some.” And to my dismay, she moves away, leaving me totally exposed.
“Wait!” I cry. “Nicole! Come back!”
I try to get to my feet, but I’m stuck. What is wrong with my knees? Why won’t they work? Stupid knees. Stupid cocktails.
“Fixie?” As I hear Seb’s incredulous voice, my stomach drops. I force myself to raise my head. And there he is, standing in front of me, holding his glass and looking astonished.
He doesn’t have to look so surprised. It’s a free country.
“Oh,” I say with dignity. “Yes. Hello. I was just crouching here.”
“So I see.”
There’s silence, and I attempt to rise gracefully to my feet like a swan, but it really isn’t happening.
“May I?” He extends a hand and reluctantly I take it.
“Thank you,” I say politely as he helps me up.
“My pleasure.”
There’s silence between us, suddenly filled by music thumping from the tiny dance floor. The DJ must have started his set. Seb looks strained, I decide as I survey him. But that’s not surprising, given the ear-bashing he’s just had from Briony. If that’s who she is.
I should probably make small talk, but I’ve never been any good at that. So instead I blurt out, more forcefully than I intended, “What are you doing here? You said you never come here. You said it wasn’t your scene.”
I know I sound antagonistic, but I have good reason. If people say they don’t go to places, they shouldn’t go to them. And the truth is, seeing Seb is making me all hot and prickly. I’ve been trying so hard to put on a brave face these last two weeks. I’ve been making jokes and laughing lightly, spinning the story that Ryan and I were always a temporary fling and I’m not hurt at all. I’ve even put on the bravest face I can to Hannah.
But Seb knows. He knows. He saw me at my most vulnerable, face stricken, world crashing around me. Which is why I would rather not bump into him at clubs.
“I don’t usually,” says Seb. “And it isn’t. This is an exception. What are you doing here?”
“Drinking,” I say.
“Ah.”
“Drowning my sorrows. We have cocktails,” I add, brandishing my glass at him. “You can have one if you like. Only you have to be in our party. D’you want to come to it as my guest? I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s full of estate agents.”
Distantly, I’m aware that I’m not speaking appropriately. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Sense has taken a back seat for now. Alcohol is in charge of talking. And Alcohol says, “Woo! Anything goes!”
“Estate agents, huh?” says Seb, his mouth twitching.
“And manufactured-diamond importers,” I say, enunciating carefully. “Actually only one of those. He’s my brother. Who was that you were with?” I add. “Was it your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” he says after a pause. “Her name’s—”
“I know her name,” I interrupt triumphantly. “I overheard it in the coffee shop. It’s … Wait …” I pause, closing my eyes for a few seconds, letting the music thump through me. “Whiny.”
OK, that came out wrong.
“Not Whiny,” I say after a moment’s thought. “It’s something else.”
“Briony,” corrects Seb, his mouth twitching again.
“Briony.” I nod about fifteen times. “Yes. Sorry. Briony.” I think for a moment, then add, “You could call her Shouty.”
“What?” Seb stares at me.
“I saw her having a go at you earlier.” I wrinkle my nose. “She looked like …” Suddenly it comes to me. “Yes! She looked like a mean newsreader.” I put on an exaggerated TV voice. “ ‘Hello. This is the Mean News. You’re all rubbish and I despise you.’ ” I come to a finish and blink at him. “Sorry,” I add, as Seb opens his mouth. “I’m very sorry. That’s awful. I take it back. I shouldn’t be rude about your girlfriend. She’s probably really nice.”
“No,” says Seb evenly. “You shouldn’t be rude about my girlfriend.”
I swig my drink thoughtfully, then beckon him to lean closer and whisper confidingly in his ear, “She’s not nice, though, is she?”
“Are we really going to start assessing each other’s love choices?” says Seb tightly. “Is that a game you really want to play?”
“Why not?” I shoot back.
“Fine!” Seb’s voice rises with heat. “At least I didn’t harness my heart to a bloody con man. At least I’m not a gullible mug, making excuses for a total dickhead because I had a crush on him at school.”
“What?” I gasp so forcefully, I nearly totter over. “How did you know that?”
“You said you’ve known him since you were ten,” says Seb, shrugging. “Lucky guess.”
I feel a spike of resentment. I should never have given away even a morsel of information to this guy. I take a sip of cocktail, swill it round my mouth, and swallow it. Then I glare at him with all the venom I can muster.
“I thought you were polite,” I say in icy tones. “I was clearly misinformed.”
“I can be polite.” Now he looks amused. “When I want to be.”
“And by the way, I’m not gullible, I’m trusting.” I wave my glass vigorously at him for emphasis, spilling a few drops. “Trusting.”
“D’you want to dance?” His words take me by surprise, and I stare at him blankly, wondering if I heard right.
“Dance?” I echo at last. “You mean … dance?”
“I like dancing. D’you want to dance?”
“With you?” I peer at him.
“Yes,” he says, with elaborate patience. “With me.”
“Oh.” I take another sip, thinking about it. “No. I don’t.”
That’ll teach him.
Although, actually, I like dancing too. And this relentless thumping beat is kind of infectious.
“You don’t,” says Seb after a pause.
“No,” I say, a little defiantly. “I don’t.”
He’s taller than me and as I gaze up at him, the lights seem to halo round his head. His hair is shiny and his cheekbones are gleaming and his eyes are locked on mine in a way that’s kind of disconcerting.
I tell myself to look away, but the truth is, I don’t want to look away. I want to be drawn into his gaze.