Page 94 of Darling
I try the lie anyway.
“You needed somewhere quiet, too, huh?” I lift my coat and give him a friendly smile. “Place is all yours, man.”
“Please tell me you’re at least fucking legal?”
I let out a weird, nervous laugh, which I’m sure fools absolutely no one. “Depends, babe, what do you have in mind?”
He takes a step back, staggering a little. He’s drunk and angry. “Are you off your fucking head? You think I’m interested in my dad’s sloppy seconds?”
“What the hell’s your dad got to do with this?” I laugh, playing dumb some more. I throw a glance at the door, desperate for Christian to appear and save us both—his son and me, that is, from this fucking train wreck.
“He definitely has a type, it looks like,” he says as he turns and goes toward what looks like a bar cart. Lifting a bottle of something, he uncorks it, takes a slug, and walks back across the room toward me.
“Look, bro, maybe you think I’m someone else?” I feign innocent confusion. “I should get going, have a good night.”
“He thinks because he doesn’t see me, I don’t see him. But he’s fucking wrong.” His voice is low and angry, but there’s hurt in it, too. It’s what makes me stop moving toward the door. I turn around. “He barely has time to tell me good morning, but finds the time to fuck about with men half his age? He’s a joke. A fucking embarrassment.” I want to say something, defend him, but I’m too shocked to respond. “He won’t love you. He won’t even love me.” His eyes turn watery then. I’m kind of dazed bythe turn of emotions he appears to be going through, and it’s that which keeps me standing here. “He did love my mum, more than anyone, but she’s gone and I know he wishes it was me instead of her.”
“That’s not true.” Shit.
“How the fuck would you know?” he spits. “You’re just one of his little arrangements. You’re not important. You don’t mean anything to him. Just like the ballet dancer. I’m not as fucking stupid as he thinks I am. He cares about nothing except his job and his name, and his reputation. He’s not gonna fucking marry you.” He laughs, meanly, and takes another drink.You’re not important. You don’t mean anything to him. He’s not going to fucking marry you.
It hurts because he’s right. I’ve been living in a bubble the last couple months, Christian has, too.
He’s not going to fucking marry me.
I pull my coat on and give Leo a final look. He looks pleased with himself, but it’s only superficial. Mainly, he seems really fucking sad, and if I didn’t feel so fucking sad myself, I might feel pity for him.
“Nice meeting you. Tell your dad I had to go.”
Out of the office, I take a left instead of a right, into a still bustling, very loud kitchen. I snake my way past the waitstaff and dish cleaners, as well as the woman with the Britney headset who’s still shouting instructions, and head for the back door. Outside, I lean against a catering van and shoot off a text to Amata:
Me:
I gotta go, long story. You ready to go or still having fun with Gael?
It’s almost ten minutes before I hear back:
Bestie:
what happened???? I can come now if you need me???
Me:
I don’t need you! I’m fine. Stay and have fun. You still coming back to my place later?
Bestie:
Yes, definitely. (Fuck Ash, he’s a dream)
I smile, my own misery disappearing for a second.
Me:
Love that for you! I’ll leave the door unlocked. Love you xxxxxx
It’s about two miles before I hit a bar. Not the sort of bar I tend to frequent, but it sells vodka and has empty seats, so it’s fine for the purpose of getting wasted. A woman in her fifties with tired eyes and tired hair comes to take my order. After confirming I’m legal, she pours me a large vodka soda. Christian doesn’t call or text, though he must have gone to his office to find me not there, and Leo drunk and angry instead. I don’t envy the conversation he’s going to have to have with his son, I really don’t, but it only confirms what I know. I’m not important. Not really. I’ve done him a favour because now he doesn’t have to break it off with me himself. I somehow manage to get home bymyself—no sign yet of Amata—and strip off my clothes to cry in the shower. This is something I used to do in HHM, because it was the only place a person could have a fucking minute’s peace. I don’t cry a lot these days, but old habits die hard. I pass out on top of my bed, stupidly drunk and cursing myself for the hangover I’m going to be suffering tomorrow.
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