The House Swap(5)

Glancing down, I stroke it over my thighs, watching it shimmer, and for some reason I find myself giggling. It strikes me that I am already quite drunk. My head feels pleasantly fuzzy, anaesthetized. Across the table, Steven is raising his voice in some vague attempt at managerial authority, rambling out a toast. ‘We’ve all worked hard …’ I catch. ‘Time to celebrate and look forward to another year of …’

Whatever it is we have to look forward to is drowned in a general chorus of agreement and clinking glasses. It doesn’t much matter what it is in any case; in the world of media sales there’s only so good it’s going to get. I snatch up my own glass and join the toast, not caring that the liquid sloshes over my hand. I tip the rest down, wincing at the burn of alcohol. I don’t drink much these days. My head spins, and I decide to go to the bathroom. I nudge Julie next to me, indicating that I want to get out, and she shifts across the bench, half falling into the lap of one of the junior salesmen, who looks none too displeased. ‘No need to hurry back,’ she calls, winking at me. I roll my eyes good-naturedly, but I can’t help feeling a brief prick of something like envy.

I make my way across the bar. The music throbs loudly around me, but inside my head I can hear the click of my high-heeled shoes on the polished floor, neat and rhythmical, each click vibrating through my body. Spotlights glimmer above me, reflecting and blurring on to the glossy metallic bar. As I draw closer, I see that Carl is waiting there, jostling in the throng. He’s checking his phone, head bent, squinting at the lit-up screen.

‘You’ll never get served like that,’ I say as I pass, and he looks up and laughs, tucking the phone away into his pocket and glancing back towards the bar.

‘Yeah,’ he answers. ‘Got distracted. It’s taking fucking ages. I can’t even remember what anyone wants.’

‘Just get a few lemonades.’ I shrug, grinning.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘They’re all so pissed, they wouldn’t notice anyway.’

‘Not like you,’ I fire back.

‘Or you. We’re the sensible ones,’ he says.

‘You got it.’ It’s easy to fall into this kind of banter with Carl, as easy as breathing. Eighteen months of walking around on the same bit of carpet for five days a week has created a friendship between us that I have grown to value. He’s almost a decade younger than me, but we have the same attitude towards the job we’re in – the same mix of bored familiarity, frustration with our colleagues and occasional flashes of excitement and interest.

‘Having a good night?’ he asks, angling himself away from the bar and towards me, the attempt to attract the barman’s attention forgotten.

‘Yeah – it’s great,’ I say, leaning forward earnestly for emphasis, and as I do so the heel of my shoe twists under me and I trip slightly, lurching against him, the sleeve of his blazer brushing against my bare skin.

‘Steady on.’ He rights me, his dark eyes amused, flashing in the beams of light glittering across the bar.

‘Sorry,’ I say, laughing. ‘I didn’t, um, I didn’t mean to throw myself at you like that.’ It’s meant to be a joke, the kind of lightly flirtatious banter that we’re well used to making in the office, but somehow in this setting – the dark, perfume-scented air, the red-tinted spotlights and the crush of people around us – it sounds different. Loaded. Frozen by sudden embarrassment, I find myself staring into his eyes, and I have just a second or two to register that there is something strange in this mutual silence before he shrugs and smiles.

‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Must be all those lemonades.’ He twists away from me suddenly, motions towards the barman and reels off a long list of drinks, seemingly at random. I take a few deep breaths, composing myself. ‘So,’ he says when he has finished, ‘how are you doing?’

‘Er. I’m all right.’ The question is too vague to be worth replying to in any detail. ‘On the edge of mental collapse,’ I elaborate lightly. ‘That was a joke,’ I add a moment later, though it wasn’t really.

Carl leans back against the bar, his arms folded. ‘Things still bad at home?’ he asks.

I shrug. The implicit reference to Francis stabs me unpleasantly, and I realize I have barely thought of him all evening. The picture slides into my head – his body slumped apathetically on the sofa, lost in sleep or oblivion, the lamp burning in the corner of the cold, grey room – and out again. ‘Not great,’ I admit. I think about saying more, but I can’t quite find the words. Carl knows more than most about the way things are, and we’ve always been good at striking a balance between friendly intimacy and respectful distance, but tonight I can’t trust that I can find that balance. I have the vague, worrying sense that if I started talking, I might not stop.

He’s watching me closely, but when he speaks his tone is light. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if you need a shoulder to cry on, you know I’m around.’

I nod. I know I should say something, but my mind is suddenly blank. ‘Better get to the bathroom,’ I say, and turn abruptly away, realizing that my legs are shaking.

In the bathroom I splash cold water on to my face and watch my reflection in the mirror as the drops trickle down my skin. My eyes look wide and intense, sparkling in the glowing red light. I turn my head slightly, monitoring my profile, evaluating myself from this angle and that. The room lurches around me and I blink hard, trying to drag myself back down to earth. One more drink, and then I’ll go home.