How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(5)

After the cocktails, another round of cocktails appears, then a bottle or two of Veuve, which I think Maisie buys, more cocktails and someone – possibly me – suggests we all have Blow Jobs because alcohol brings out my inner basic bitch.

Things get a bit blurry after that. We take a lot of photos with our drinks. Then we move on. Our next stop is another bar where we have even more cocktails and seem to pick up three extra people – a trio of random men who, actually now I think about it, may have paid for the Blow Jobs. So obviously they think they’ve earned the real deal later. I whisper something to Tor about shaking them off but she just laughs.

‘Why, Kits? They’re funny!’

She must be drunk. I turn to Maisie but she’s draped over one of them and is laughing as he talks, all teeth and big hand gestures. I’m confused. I’d been stuck next to him at the bar and he’d bored my ears off talking about his job ‘in property’. He referred to himself as an ‘entrepreneur’.

Which everyone knows is shorthand for twat.

Bored, I look around for Hen but she’s nowhere. I’m stuck with the rowdiest and pushiest of the threesome. He’s leering over me, complaining about his girlfriend, and has been plying me with drinks, which I’ve been plying into the pot plant next to me. I hope alcohol doesn’t hurt plants. I don’t usually drink very much alcohol on nights out, to be honest. I like to stay in control. Drunk lips sink ships etc, and I don’t want anything ruining the life I’ve built. There are some secrets even my very best friends don’t know. So, when I do get drunk, it’s because I want oblivion.

And I do it alone.

Anyway, back to now and the pig sweating away next to me. He’s had his hand on my thigh since we sat down and every time I slide away from him, he slides closer. So I’m now backed into the corner of the booth we’re in, both his arms blocking any chance of escape. Unease prods at my stomach and my headache is back. All this horrible stuff with the stalker must be bothering me more than I realised. I quickly stamp the feelings down and head to the loos to get a grip.

And check my make-up.

Hen’s already at the mirror when I get there, reapplying highlighter to her already perfect face.

‘Looks like you’ve pulled,’ she says. ‘He’s quite hot.’

‘He’s also got an extreme case of Friendly Hand Syndrome. And a girlfriend,’ I say as she admires her reflection.

‘Urgh! What’s wrong with them?’ She gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before making her way back out to the bar. I splash water over my face and try to focus on my breathing, fighting the banging in my brain and the anxiety everywhere else.

At around 12.30am I’ve had enough. Everyone is talking about moving on to a club but just the thought makes me feel queasy. Too many bodies and not enough antiperspirant. Anyway, I need some head space to think about what to do re the stalker situation.

I see Tor sitting alone at another table. She seems to be the only one of my friends sober enough to talk to.

‘Hey, I’m heading home,’ I say, perching opposite her.

She sticks her bottom lip out, pretending to sulk. ‘Oh, come to a club with us, Kits? It’ll be super fun, I promise.’

I shake my head. ‘I just want my bed and a cup of green tea. But thanks for forcing me out tonight. I got some good photos for Insta.’ I slide my phone to her and she scrolls through the pics I’ve posted – posing with a tray of shots, a cocktail served in half a watermelon, pulling standard Instagram poses to show off our incredibly expensive outfits.

Jesus, it’s all so desperate.

‘Great job. You look amazing. Slip off now and I’ll let the others know you’ve gone. You don’t want a drunken Maisie trying to force you to stay out. You know how relentless she can be.’

I laugh. Drunk Maisie thinks ‘no’ means ‘convince me’.

‘Will you be okay?’ Tor asks. ‘Text me when you’re home okay? So I know you’re safe.’

‘I will,’ I promise and give her a hug before I grab my bag and head for the door, blowing her a kiss on the way out.

My apartment is within walking distance of most of our favourite spots, but I usually get a car back anyway. Especially when – somewhere out there – someone wants to use my blood as a K-Y Jelly sub.

But tonight, I need the fresh air – well, thick, humid air but air nonetheless – to clear my head of thoughts about The Creep and the general stress of spending a night being cornered and groped by someone I had made it quite clear I wasn’t interested in. This is exactly why I don’t enjoy going out.

It’s not long before I regret my decision to walk though. My feet hurt in my heels, and I wonder if they were designed by men specifically to make women easier to catch.

The streets are dark and imaginary would-be assailants are lurking everywhere. I hear at least two wolf-whistles and cross my arms over my chest, trying to hide myself, to make myself small. I pick up my pace, which really isn’t easy in these heels. I try to relax my breathing, holding my keys between my fingers as a makeshift knuckle-duster. I fumble in my bag for my phone but can’t find its reassuring weight.

Fuck.

I didn’t pick it up from the table before I left. Should I go back for it?

I’m nearer home now than the bar so I’ll deal with it in the morning.