tanned, possibly from an Indian Ocean hideaway, or maybe from a bottle. Either way, it’s clear he’s a rich man in his prime; a man who knows he looks good.
‘Hello, George,’ I say.
‘Stella! It is you! I’m so glad you’re here!’ George leans in with a waft of cologne, and I close my eyes and tilt my cheekbone to touch his in the most impersonal of air kisses but, as his mouth comes into the proximity of my ear, he whispers, ‘I’d know that arse anywhere.’ His hand touches the small of my back and I feel the heat of his breath in my ear.
Now, there are many ways this reunion could have gone; many ways in which George could have behaved with me after an absence of fifteen years but, given the fact that he hasn’t seen me for a decade and a half – not to mention the terms on which we last parted – a comment about my backside is not what I’m expecting and, honest to God, it throws me.
‘Lovely to see you,’ I say. ‘But, if you’ll excuse me—’ I nod vaguely at the room ‘—I was just about to…’
I skirt past George and launch myself into the bar. It’s not a wise move: I end up face to face with Ness. At first glance, she looks like an even better, glossier version of her beautiful self – the best possible Ness there could be – but there’s something slightly out of kilter from how I remember her face looking and I realise in an instant that it’s Botox, and quite possibly some fillers, too, that’s changed her contours. Ness’s teeth gleam like a row of Japanese pearls and I clock, too, her perfect nails. Ness’s complexion is glowing but, up close, I see how much make-up she’s wearing and there’s a brittleness about her eyes. It’s not this, though, that everyone notices: it’s her hair. Ness’s magnificent hair has a life of its own and I see now that it’s even more impressive than it used to be. In another world, I’d ask her what her secret is.
She looks me up and down, this vision of perfection that is Ness Wolsey, then she speaks.
‘Stella! How lovely!’
She leans in for one of those girlie hugs around the neck and I get a whiff of some rose-based perfume as her cheek brushes mine. The scent is nauseatingly sweet.
‘It’s been – what? Fifteen years?’
I don’t grace this with a reply: it’s the fifteen-year reunion, after all, and the bar is full of banners and silver balloons proclaiming the fact. ‘So how’s life treating you?’ she continues. ‘You always were going to run the world. Did you succeed?’ Her voice is smooth, but I see a vein pulsing in her neck. She knows what happened – of course she knows.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m in catering.’
‘You always were baking cakes,’ she laughs. ‘Lucky you to do something you enjoy.’
‘Yes. I’m doing fine. No complaints.’ I don’t tell her the name of my company – a name she’ll definitely recognise. Neither do I mention that it’s the largest private catering company in London; that its annual turnover could wipe out the debt of a small country. ‘And, well – congratulations to you,’ I say. ‘You’ve… done well.’ I force a little laugh to detract from the fact that we both know the only thing she did well was to marry George.
Ness takes a swig from her wine glass and I notice two things: first, that it’s a small glass and, second, that she’s nearly halfway through it. She’s barely swallowed her mouthful when George swoops, grabs the glass out of her hand, and replaces it with a glass of sparkling water, making me think ‘alcohol problem? Interesting.’ George heads back to the bar without saying a word and Ness, unfazed, gives a little shrug.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ She smiles, and her pretty dimples blink at me, taking me straight back to those dark days in the sixth form. I smell medical disinfectant, see the shine of steel, feel the stiffness of a green gown against my skin. ‘It’s all good.’ She nods towards George, back at the bar, and gives a little sigh. ‘Been married fourteen years now. You know how it is.’ She pauses, glances at my left hand. ‘So, how about you? Got anyone special these days?’
I smile. ‘Not at the moment.’
Ness puts her hand on my arm as if she understands how desperate I must be. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We’ll find you someone. The right one’s out there somewhere. You just haven’t found him yet.’ She pauses. ‘Maybe there’s even someone here for you tonight.’ Ness rolls her eyes around the bar taking in what she presumably sees as a cast of men with whom I at least have some shared history.
‘Maybe,’ I say, seeing a room full of married thirty-three-year-olds in Friday-night casualwear, ‘but I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to find out. My taxi’s waiting. Have a lovely evening.’
I practically run out of the door.
‘Yes!’ says the woman Stell was talking to at the bar. ‘So he’s been picked for the rugby squad and now we’re hoping he’ll make the First XV!’
I’m standing with my back to the bar, leaning my elbows against the counter so I can scan the room for Stella while absorbing the chit-chat from this woman who clearly fancies me but is yet to realise that talking about her kids isn’t the way to get me to fuck her. My eyes roam the crowded room; I’m searching for that arse in those jeans, and the cling of cashmere on those incredible tits. Failing to see Stell, I turn my attention back to the woman at the bar.
‘There’s a lot to be said for playing sport at that age,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘Keeps them out of mischief. Not that I’d know!’
Where the hell is Stell?
‘But you don’t have any children of your own?’ The woman pauses, drops her voice a notch and I see her eyes gleaming, keen to absorb any confidences I might want to share. ‘I hope there isn’t a…’
‘A problem?’ I ask smoothly. I drop my gaze then look back at her. ‘I suppose there is…’
She leans in, all ears, and I look at the floor in an attempt to keep my face straight. She’s so close I can smell the scent of her skin; feel the warmth coming off her. It would be so easy – so easy – to lead her round to the car park out the back for a quickie. Not that I would, of course; not with Ness here. Just hypothetically. I look up and search for her hand. I take it in mine, look her in the eyes and blink, as if holding back tears. ‘I suppose there is a problem,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m here if you need to talk,’ she breathes, inching her face even closer to mine and squeezing my hand. Now I can smell the wine on her breath; see the little dots of mascara gathered beneath her lower lash line. I lean in even further and whisper into her ear, my lips touching her skin; teasing.
‘Well, it’s just that…’ I pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing it right.’ I step back and hold my other fist at hip height and thrust my pelvis suggestively a couple of times towards her. ‘Know what I mean?’ I give her a big wink.
I watch her expression change as she realises she’s been had, then I burst out laughing as she turns away, embarrassed.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, George!’
‘Come here!’ I say, pulling her in for a hug. ‘Just kidding. Just a bit of banter!’ I kiss her hair, enjoying the scent of it and the soft feel of her in my arms, then I let her go, clinking my glass to hers. ‘Cheers, darling! You have a great night!’
I saunter across the bar, slapping people on the back and shaking hands as I go, working my way over to Ness. She’s with a group of girls – women, I suppose now – she used to hang out with at school: the popular ones; the netball team; the pretty ones; the smart ones. This was her crowd. She looks good. She’s in her element;