‘Darlings, you made it,’ he gushes. ‘Guests of honour. The new owner and his lady love. Lucy, get these people a drink. On my tab. Get them pissed.’
‘No,’ I hold up a hand. ‘Orange juice.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Little Steve gasps, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘What’s going on here?’ He puts an arm around my back. ‘You’re not preggers, are you?’ He winks at Gordon.
‘No,’ I laugh, far too quickly for my own liking. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just not in the mood.’
‘But orange juice?’ Lucy demands. ‘Not wine?’
‘Not wine,’ I insist, levelling her with an ‘I absolutely mean this’ kind of a look. ‘Orange juice. And don’t lace it with anything.’
‘And I’ll take a pint of your lovely warm beer,’ Gordon adds, leaning over to whisper in my ear. ‘Actually, I’d love a piña colada.’
‘Then have one,’ I whisper back.
He shakes his head.
‘And give myself away? Tonight, I’m as macho as they come.’
And so, the evening begins …
Playing the part of the dutiful girlfriend, I spend an age circulating at Gordon’s side, making endless small talk with Slaters’ clients, past, present and possibly future. Soon enough, I’m worn out and feeling distinctly sick, but it’s still too soon to make an exit. After managing to extricate myself from the public relations exercise with the excuse that my feet are killing me, I’m heading back to my stool when music blasts into life. The Weather Girls. ‘It’s Raining Men’.
Before it even happens, I know what’s coming.
‘Dance!’ Lucy barks, grabbing me by the arm.
‘No, not now!’
‘Yes! Now!’
Ignoring my pleas, she drags me onto the dance floor and begins to gyrate, swiping her hands through the air and singing along like a woman possessed. Within seconds, we’re surrounded by others, and I have no option but to join in. Feeling distinctly awkward, I begin to move, doing my best to seem like I’m having a ball, but it’s nothing short of torture. When the song finally draws to an end, I decide I’ve had enough. As Gloria Gaynor launches into ‘I Will Survive’ and Lucy twizzles round on the spot, I take my chance and make a hasty escape. I head back to the bar, dead set on returning to my stool, more than slightly triumphant when I reach my target.
I’m quickly joined by Gordon.
‘Well, this is painful. A gay man, at a gay party, pretending to be straight.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘It’s worse than bad,’ he grimaces. ‘I’m like a child in a sweetshop, only I’ve been told I can’t have any sweets because I’m off to the dentist.’
I laugh.
‘Well, I’m at a gay party, pretending to be attracted to a gay man.’
‘Then I’d say we’re both in a pickle.’ A glass of wine is thrust at him by an unknown admirer. He grabs it and slugs it back in one go. ‘We’d better dance … together.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what couples do.’
Utterly fed up, I follow him back onto the dance floor and do my duty. After three songs with Gordon, I’m temporarily back with Lucy before being passed from one Steve to the other. Before long, I’m exhausted, on the verge of throwing up over everyone, and maybe passing out.
‘I need a wee,’ I shout at no one in particular, making a second escape and slumping back onto the stool. Relieved to be left alone, at least for now, I close my eyes and steady my breathing. All I want is to go home and dive into bed, to brood over the whole pregnancy thing, and then sleep away my last night without Dan. When I open my eyes again, the crowd seems to have parted, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing: Gordon, right in the middle of the dance floor, getting into the groove with the Steves, singing along to Queen’s ‘I Want to Break Free’.
‘Anybody would think he’s gay,’ Lucy grumbles, leaning against the bar next to me.
‘Having fun?’ I ask.
‘Hardly.’
Which is obvious, seeing as she’s on the verge of tears.
‘I miss Clive.’
I slip my arm around her and draw her in tight. What on Earth do I say? Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. And he’s missing you just as much as you’re missing him. Just go and dance with a few gay men to pass the time, and that includes Gordon, by the way. I say nothing, of course. As it turns out, there’s no need. She’s distracted by something at the far end of the room.
‘Oh, no.’ She points at the stage. ‘This isn’t good. He’s had at least eight margaritas.’
I follow the direction of her finger. Little Steve’s tottering at the centre of the stage, a microphone clutched in his hands.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he begins as the music dies down. ‘Silence, please. I need to speak.’
‘Oh God,’ Lucy groans. ‘I’d better sort this shit out.’
She’s not quick enough. Before she can make it to the stage, Little Steve’s already slurring through a clearly heartfelt but largely unintelligible speech. Finally, I begin to make some sense of it.
‘So, as you know, me and my darling have been wanting to sell up for a while, and now we’ve got a camper van. Or should that be a camp van. Ooh er, missus!’ He titters. ‘Anyway, we’re here tonight to celebrate the end of twenty … oh, I don’t know, quite a few years in the business, selling paintings and all that …’
Lucy climbs onto the stage, almost loses her balance and manages to grab the microphone. Little Steve glares at her, and grabs it back.
‘Our new owner is here,’ he ploughs on. ‘Where is he? Gordon? Gordon? Cooeee!’ Shielding his eyes with his free hand, he finally spots Gordon waving from the crowd. ‘There he
