‘I am just not made for average things,’ she will tell me frequently, glint in her eye with a big belly laugh. She can joke about herself, Cheshire set personified, at least.
And then there’s me, sitting somewhere in between in a Zara jumpsuit I used to wear to work, the red lipstick marks on my wine glass surprising me every time I spot them because I have forgotten that I have make-up on. It’s a rarity these days.
We make an odd crew.
I swig long from the large glass of house red and wish it were neat vodka. But I’m no longer a vodka person, I remind myself. Like I’m no longer a threesome person. Except I am, aren’t I, it turns out. Even if you were only a threesome person once over a decade ago, on the internet you’re always a threesome person. And the internet won’t be posting context or reason or the grief you were consumed by at the time, either. You’re just a threesome person, simple, done, gross, cancelled.
On a whim, I order three straight vodkas with my next round.
‘Don’t worry, Emma,’ I reassure her, as I pass them around. ‘There are virtually no calories in a shot of vodka.’
That’s enough to persuade her and she necks it. Cora has her head in her phone and nods distractedly.
‘Vodka shots,’ grins the waiter. ‘Impressive.’
‘You ordered shots?’ asks Cora, head snapping up from whatever message she was furiously typing. ‘God he’s a shit,’ she mutters, about her husband I presume, and then reaches out and necks the shot without looking at it.
‘See, I knew you needed a vodka,’ I tell her. My old pushy self coming out. Persuade other people to drink as much as you and you’ll never feel paranoid the next day. It’s all coming back to me now.
The barman looks at me for a second longer than he needs to. Holds my gaze.
Hot, I think, because old me has taken over my brain now. She’s single. She’s drunk. She notices beautiful men.
‘How have I not noticed how good-looking he is before?’ I ask them as he walks away.
‘Because you’re usually in here with Poppy picking up bits of cucumber off the floor or wiping shit off your hand and trying to neck your coffee before it’s ice cold,’ says Cora, deadpan, putting her phone away in her bag.
Fair point.
‘Oh and also, because you’re pissed.’
I laugh. Another good point.
Cora signals to the retreating barman to bring us another round of shots.
I glance at him. Early thirties, maybe. Comfortable in his own skin. I think about his hipster beard, hanging out here in the countryside. He doesn’t have the known quality of the locals either. I suspect that no one is friends with his sister; no one lives next door to his nan. Interesting.
But Cora brings the attention back to her, as Cora likes to do, giving us an update on Hunter and their fling.
Then she looks at me, and at the barman who is passing again, and who my eyes are following.
‘So,’ she says, downing the rest of her champagne and sitting back to stare at me. ‘If you are seriously thinking about propositioning that waiter, no judgement here.’
Is that why she told us the other day about her affair with Hunter? So that if I do anything with the waiter, I will tell her too?
‘Oh come on!’ she exclaims. ‘You two have been checking each other out all night.’
Emma’s eyes go wide. While Cora is looking for it in others now, Emma is utterly naive to flirting. If she noticed my eyes following the waiter across the room, she would have thought I was debating whether to ask him for some nachos but fighting my concerns that the melted cheese would make me feel guilty tomorrow.
Would I regret that tomorrow? I think.
I stare at him again then turn to Cora.
‘He is shaggable,’ I concede and I see her eyes widen because I don’t speak like this any more, not normally. I temper my language now. Mute myself often. Think about what I say before I say it. Try to be a little less Old Scarlett.
‘But no,’ I confirm. ‘I’m not in the market for an affair. Too much effort.’
She nods, sagely.
‘It’s true. I’m on the Brazilians again every four weeks since I started seeing Hunter. Leg hair no longer plaitable. It’s not easy. But worth it.’
I glance again at the barman.
‘Joseph,’ says Cora, following my eyes. ‘I can find out his surname for you if you want. Say, in case you fancied adding him on Insta.’
I down the latest vodka shot. I can’t remember who ordered it. Or if anybody did. Did Joseph bring it over? The tiny shot glass in front of my eyes is spinning.
Emma and Cora pick up their bags to leave and I realise everyone else in the bar has gone now too. I make a decision.
‘Head off without me,’ I say with a glance in Joseph’s direction, and my voice slurs. ‘I need to … nip to the loo.’
He’s the last person working.
Cora squeals and squeezes my hand and Emma opens her eyes, make-up free like the rest of her face as always, as wide as they will go.
‘Scarlett, are you … sure?’ Emma asks. ‘Ed is …’
I roll my own eyes. Ed is … what? Ignoring me? Ashamed of me? Showing no desire to sleep with me? Possibly sleeping with somebody else instead? Starting to feel, really, like a stranger?
‘About going to the toilet, Emma?’ I feign a serious face. She barely knows Ed. ‘Yes, I think I am. The last thing I need is a UTI.’
Cora squeals again and I feel even more warmth for her than usual. I hug her enthusiastically but she pulls out of it quickly.
‘Don’t let us keep you from … the loo,’ she says with a conspiratorial wink.
Then she drags Emma by the hand
