Just My Luck(82)

I drop a kiss on Logan’s head. His scalp is sweaty and familiar. He looks about him, checking none of his friends have seen me; it’s just a truth universally acknowledged that parent affection is uncool. I have no idea why being loved is deemed embarrassing. In my experience, loving is the thing most likely to lead to humiliation. I look around for Emily but don’t see her. ‘Where’s Emily?’ I ask Jake.

‘What?’ he yells back.

‘Have you caught up with Emily yet?’ I yell again, louder this time. A flicker of annoyance skitters up my spine when Jake just turns to me with a broad, obviously drunken smile. ‘Not for ages.’

‘You should be keeping an eye on her,’ I snap.

‘Why?’

‘She was drinking earlier.’

‘All the kids are drinking.’ Jake makes a big, benevolent gesture with his arm, which takes in the entire room. He’s right, no one is sober. Me included. The beer he is holding slops over the glass rim and splashes on the floor.

‘Yeah, but it’s her first time. She won’t know when to say when.’

‘Anyway, where have you been?’ he asks.

‘What?’ I am playing for time; I can’t tell him the truth. He would never understand why I had to say goodbye to Toma. I hardly understand myself. The memory of the man stroking my forehead with his thumb scalds. I can still feel his fingers tapping on the back on my hand. I rub over the spot he touched, as though trying to wipe away words off a blackboard. Jake doesn’t even know Toma’s name. I really need to tell him about the three million pounds. I’ll do that tomorrow, after we’ve cleared up from the party.

‘I saw you take off, a few hours ago. I’ve been looking for you all night. Where have you been?’ Jake is showing an interest in me that has been lacking of late. However, it doesn’t feel as though it’s coming from a place of concern.

‘Oh, we ran out of limes. I thought I could go and get some.’ I stop. It’s nonsense. If we had run out of limes (which is unlikely as Sara thought of everything), then why would I be the one to go for them? It’s not that sort of party where the hosts pop out to the corner shop to get more crisps and alcohol, something that did happen fairly regularly at our old parties. We have staff now.

Jake is incredulous too. ‘Limes.’

‘For the margaritas.’ I’m bluffing. I’m not even sure they are serving margaritas. I’m not just bluffing. I’m lying. I’m a liar. ‘Where is Emily, do you think? I need to speak to her.’

Jake shrugs. ‘Have you called her?’

‘Straight to voicemail. And I have texted now, three times throughout the evening. Nothing back.’ I pause. ‘Will you call her?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’ve just said you’ve tried,’ he points out. I glare at him. For all his incredulity, I know he understands perfectly. I think she might be blocking me. Ignoring me specifically because I am the parent most likely to call time on drunken exploits. I’m the one who will want to know if she’s cold, and if she is, then I’ll be the one to make her change into something warmer. Her outfit is ridiculously skimpy and whilst I’m not an idiot, I realise most of the girls’ outfits are equally tiny and I get the importance of making an entrance; I also think being comfortable enough to have fun is important too. I insisted she pack a pair of leggings and trainers to put on as the night wore on. I just think heels, a skimpy, plunging leotard, alcohol and fair rides are a combination that amount to an accident waiting to happen. The leggings and trainers are purple and sparkly, they go with her costume but still she wasn’t keen. They remain in a bag behind the bar, I know, I’ve checked. The fact is Emily is more likely to take Jake’s call than mine; she might think he’s calling her about some party-planning issue. He smiles obligingly and presses her number. We both listen as it rings and rings.

I look around me onto the crowded dancefloor and spot the three girls who got ready at ours tonight: Scarlett, Liv, Nella. They are dancing with a bunch of boys, writhing around like eels in a bucket. I think the boys must be from the new school because I don’t recognise them. They are all tall, handsome. They have floppy hair, loud laughs and ooze confidence as though their raison d’être is to fulfil the stereotype of what it means to be a private schoolboy. I realise that if I go and talk to them, I’ll be killing their mood but I do need to know where Emily is. It’s after midnight and I’m not sure when anyone last saw her. Apprehension skitters up my spine.

I squeeze my way onto the dancefloor and although it is rammed, somehow a space opens up for me. The girls are all shiny and sticky, their make-up has run and smudged but they still look gorgeous because they are young and they are clearly having a lot of fun. That combo makes for gorgeous. I’m glad for them. ‘Have you seen Emily?’ I yell above the music. They exchange a look that clearly tells me they have but they are weighing up whether to tell me. My first thought is relief.

‘She’s not in trouble, I just haven’t seen her for a while,’ I say to encourage them.

‘I think she went off with—’ Liv doesn’t get to finish her sentence because Scarlett nudges her in the ribs. It’s a forceful shove, effective but indiscreet.

‘With whom?’ I ask, firmly.