I Owe You One(63)

I remind myself that Bob is the most cautious man in the world and doesn’t know anything about DJs or marketing or parties. Even so, I can’t help feeling my own corresponding stab of anxiety. I suddenly want to confide in him. I want to wail, “Bob, I know exactly how you feel! We didn’t even need a DJ! And I don’t know what that party was for, anyway! It’s not like anything about the shop has changed, sales haven’t gone up, there aren’t any new customers … it was pointless!”

But family first.

“I think all these marketing things help,” I say at last. “You know. Profile and everything.”

“Ah,” says Bob. His mild brown eyes meet mine and I feel sure he understands everything but would never open his mouth because he’s too discreet and loyal and agreeable.

“Have all the invoices come in?” I ask. “Do we know what the total budget was?”

Mum okayed the party, I remind myself. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And, anyway, it’s not going to be a problem. It’s not going to bankrupt us. It was only a party.

“Not yet,” says Bob. “Not everything.”

“Well, keep me posted,” I say.

“Of course,” he replies with a nod.

He turns to leave and I watch him with a sigh. Now I need to go and get ready for Leila’s birthday drinks, even though the last thing I feel like is going to 6 Folds Place. The idea of dressing up feels exhausting. Let alone making conversation with Jake’s posh friends about sailing (not a clue) and makes of car (not a clue). But I promised Leila, and she’s such a sweetheart, I can’t let her down.

Anyway, there’ll be free drinks there, I remind myself as I reach for my makeup bag. Free champagne. Or cocktails, maybe. In the mood I’m in, I could do with one.

—

It’s cocktails. It’s strong, tangy, limy cocktails in martini glasses, and I seize one greedily. I have no idea what it is, only that I want to drink it. I close my eyes and glug it down and, oh my God, bliss. I haven’t had anything to eat all day and the alcohol hits my bloodstream like a drug.

Well, it is a drug, in fact. Ha.

I open my eyes and look around for someone to share this thought with, but there’s no one I really want to approach. Leila greeted me affectionately when I arrived but then went off to the ladies’ with two of her beautician friends. Jake is talking loudly to three guys in suits about his manufactured-diamonds deal. Apparently there’s been a holdup in Asia.

“I mean, this is international shipping for you,” he keeps saying in a show-offy way. “This is the reality of global trade, know what I mean?”

I have nothing to offer on the subject of global trade, so I take another cocktail. I could drink these all night, I think with each delicious gulp. In fact, I will drink them all night.

Our little party area is roped off, but there are plenty of other people around the place, sitting at tables and standing at the bar. They’re not in Leila’s party, just members of 6 Folds Place out for the evening. There’s a group of girls sitting at a table to my left, and I keep glancing at them, because that’s the table we had last time. That’s where I was sitting when Ryan brought me that bouquet of lilies and kissed me and I thought … I really thought …

A familiar stabbing pain hits me and I swivel away, grabbing yet another cocktail. Every icy swig numbs a bad feeling. The humiliation. The self-reproach. The worst thing is, everyone tried to tell me. Hannah, Mum, even Tim in his own way. They all sensed the truth about Ryan—although Hannah has told me several times during the past two miserable weeks that she had no idea he was that bad. Not that bad.

I don’t know if that’s supposed to cheer me up or not.

As I drain my glass, I suddenly see Nicole standing on the other side of Jake. I hadn’t noticed her before. She’s looking stunning in a short white fringed dress and tossing her carefully styled hair back as she talks to some tall guy. I can hear her saying, “Yeah, I’m actually suffering from separation anxiety, you know? I really have to self-care?”

I can’t face talking to her. I can’t face talking to Jake. What is wrong with me that I don’t want to talk to my own family? In slight despair I put down my empty glass. I pick up another full one, wondering if four cocktails is somehow against the law. And then I stiffen. Oh my God, oh my God. It can’t be.

But it is. It’s Seb. He’s sitting at a table some distance away, dressed in an elegant understated jacket. And he’s with a girl. A tall, confident-looking blond girl with a blunt chin-length haircut and a good manicure and a bright-green body-con dress. She looks like she could be a TV presenter. Is that his girlfriend? What’s her name again?

I rack my brains feverishly until it comes to me: Briony. Exactly. She sent him to the skiing workout guru. And there was some issue about a home gym. Is that her?

As Seb looks up to attract a waiter, I hastily hide behind a group of Jake’s friends. I don’t want him to see me. Why’s he here, anyway? I think, almost accusingly. He told Ryan this wasn’t his scene. He shouldn’t be such a hypocrite.

More to the point: What am I going to do now?

From my hiding place I peer at him again. He’s leaning forward now, his elbows on the table. He’s talking earnestly, as though he’s trying hard to get something across. And Briony is …