Before I Do(20)

“You stay here, pussycat, I can’t deal with this line, I’m gonna have a slash in the flower bed.”

As he walked away, Audrey felt her head spin. She’d drunk too much, eaten too little, and feared the cat makeup on her face had been smeared by kissing. It had been a strange day. On her way home from the gallery, she’d walked past a bookshop and seen a title in the window that drew her eye, The Insomniac’s Almanac. She’d run into the shop, dropping her bags of Halloween decorations; picked up the book; and gone straight to the dedication.

“To Cathy—who always slept soundly beside me.”

The crush of disappointment was so intense she hadn’t been able to move for several minutes. Some optimistic instinct had told her that this was going to be the way she found Fred again, in a bookshop window, and it would start the next chapter of their story. But, glancing at the cover, she saw the book was not written by him, and so of course the dedication was not for her. As she took another swig of her eyeball stew to quiet the day’s disappointments, a voice behind her in the line called her name.

“Hey, Audrey.”

Turning around, she recognized one of Paul’s friends, but his name escaped her. The only information she had logged was “bad jeans” and “boring job.”

“Hey . . . ,” she said tentatively. “James?”

“Close. It’s Josh,” he said, correcting her.

“I knew that,” she said, raising a wobbly hand to his shoulder, finding it surprisingly firm as she staggered into him. “What have you come dressed as, Josh?” she said, enunciating his name. “Boring City guy?” He was wearing a suit, with a token-effort pumpkin mask pushed back on his head. He looked suitably embarrassed, and she laughed. “I’m joking!”

“I had to come straight from work.”

“You did well. You’re in the most terrifying outfit here.” Audrey made a scared face. “The horror of the sixty-hour week.”

He seemed to relax, and she remembered his nice smile. He was attractive, in a traditional, rugby-boy, wholesome sort of way, with his thick brown hair and his honey-colored eyes. But Audrey was drunk, and her thoughts were on Basil or Thyme or whatever his name was, the man who’d gone to urinate in the flower bed. He was a bass guitarist who wore a leather jacket that smelled of motorbike oil, late nights, and bad decisions.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Josh asked.

“Who, that guy?” Audrey pointed a thumb in the direction of the garden. Josh nodded. “No.” She shook her head.

“Good, then you won’t mind me saying I think he’s a bit of a dick.”

Audrey leaned back against the wall, tilting her head toward him, surprised that mild-mannered Bad Jeans Josh was showing any kind of strong opinion about someone.

“Why’s that then?” she asked, amused.

“Because I saw him”—Josh paused, looking for the right word—“relieve himself in one of the wine bottles earlier, then put it back on the table.”

“Oh, gross!” Audrey grimaced. They shared a smile, and in her punch-addled mind she noticed how much better he looked in a well-made suit than he had in bad jeans.

“How about you? Got your sights on anyone?” She swung around to look down the corridor at the heaving living room beyond. “What about Hot Witch over there?”

Josh brushed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I’m not good at chatting people up at parties. People tend to assume I’m the boring City guy.”

“Well, it might help dispel that assumption if you didn’t wear a suit to parties.”

Josh gave a wry nod of acknowledgment.

“So, humor me, if you were any good at chatting people up, what would you go for? Blonde, brunette? I bet you’re a boobs guy—rugby guys are always boobs guys.”

He stifled a smile, amused and embarrassed by her question. “I haven’t played rugby since Cambridge, and I don’t have a type, not based on looks anyway.”

“Let me guess, girls with a ‘good personality’?” She started making air quotes, but then wobbled on her feet and had to reach for the wall instead.

“I usually go for sarcastic girls who can’t stand up straight, but you are making me think I should review my search criteria.” This made her smile. “Do you want me to get you some water?” he asked, and she nodded, feeling suddenly dizzy. When he returned, she thanked him and took a swig from the paper cup he handed her as he muttered, “Ganymede at your service.”

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head.

“You said Ganymede, water bearer to the gods. I’m flattered.”

Audrey only knew the reference because it was one of the star stories her father had told her. Ganymede was Zeus’s cupbearer and, so the story goes, Zeus had honored him for his service by placing the constellation of Aquarius among the stars. Though Audrey had never ended up studying astronomy in a formal way, it didn’t mean she’d given up her interest in the stars.

“You know your Greek mythology?” Josh said with raised eyebrows.

“I know my constellations.”

Some inner, sober part of Audrey wanted to quiz him further, to ask him what other Greek mythology he knew, but she was unnerved by Josh’s sober gaze, his unflinching eye contact. “Why are you looking at me like that, Ganymede?”