The Good Part(25)

‘I’m afraid I’m not going to stick around. Cardinals are playing tonight,’ says Michael.

‘Baseball,’ I say, taking an educated guess.

‘You know me, three things in life I care about: my wife, my work, and my baseball, though not necessarily in that order.’ He grins and leans over to squeeze my shoulder. ‘Well, adieu to all,’ he says, waving an arm to everyone in our little corner of the bar, then he taps his stomach. ‘Jane’s game night fritters wait for no man.’

Those within earshot say goodbye to Michael, while Trey turns to me and whispers, ‘Jane,’ in a dark, conspiratorial tone.

‘Jane,’ I repeat. My French teacher at school once said, ‘If you’re ever stuck in an oral exam, mirror the examiner.’ But this still feels like trying to solve a murder without knowing who’s been murdered and not being able to ask any questions.

‘Jane,’ Trey says again, with even more venom, this time punching a fist into his other hand. Before I’m forced to embark on a long game of ‘Jane’ tennis, I’m saved by Dominique who comes over with another round of cocktails and Trey excuses himself to use the bathroom.

‘I love your outfit, Lucy. It’s so gene you come to the office dressed like that,’ Dominique says, sitting down beside me. Gene? Are there new words I don’t even know?

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the drink she offers me. ‘I’ve never owned something this nice before, so I thought I might as well wear it.’

‘What do you mean? You have an amazing wardrobe,’ Dominique says, then pauses. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way’ – her pupils roll to the ceiling, and she flings a limp arm around my shoulder – ‘but I’m usually a little intimidated by you. You’re so great at what you do, and you’re always so, I don’t know, together.’ She turns to look at me, and sees I’m surprised by what she’s saying. ‘Sorry, I’m drunk.’ She shakes her head and laughs.

Something in her mannerisms reminds me of Zoya and I instantly want to be friends with her. She’s got a glitter tattoo on her shoulder, which is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Maybe I should get a glitter tattoo?

‘We don’t usually socialise together?’ I say, half question, half statement.

‘At wrap parties, sure, but you usually leave early.’

‘Sounds like I’m super lame,’ I say, then burst into a fit of giggles. I feel really drunk, which is strange, because I’ve only had three of these martinis and I can usually have at least four before I start to get silly.

‘Let’s dance!’ I say, suddenly feeling the urge to move. I grab Dominique’s hand and pull her up to the dance floor. Callum and Ravi are standing by the bar, and as we’re dancing, I ask Dominique, ‘Is it me, or is Callum quite hot?’ I have to shout to be heard over the music.

‘Callum?’ She shakes her head. ‘What for me?’

‘No, for me,’ I shout back. ‘I’m going to ask him to dance.’

He’s completely my type, all dark hair, long limbs and puppy dog eyes. He’s looking at me like he likes me too. At least I think he is, it’s hard to be sure when everything’s starting to blur. I stride across to the bar and lunge for Callum’s hand.

‘Dance with us?’ I say, grinning, pulling him to join us. He blushes, embarrassed, but follows anyway. I feel like I’m thirteen, at a school disco, as we dance side by side. Dominique has disappeared, so it’s just the two of us now, and I turn to dance with him face to face. Our eyes meet. He looks like he wants to kiss me. Maybe this is an excellent idea. A really gene idea. Just as I’m leaning a little closer, I feel Callum’s hands on my wrists, pushing me away. Then he’s leading me back to the booth, making me sit down. He looks mortified. Did I almost kiss an employee, on the dance floor, in front of everyone?

‘Aren’t you married?’ Callum whispers, his eyes wide in surprise and embarrassment.

Oh shit. I am married, I completely forgot. Here I am acting like I’m on some great night out with fun, hot new colleagues, but I’m not – I’m not me any more.

‘What time is it?’ I ask, swallowing a wave of martini-flavoured nausea.

‘Nine o’clock,’ says Callum. ‘Shall I get you some water?’

The twenty-year-old runner is trying to sober me up. This is bad. This is so bad. Maybe I was supposed to be back to look after those children hours ago? Shit. Maybe Future Me doesn’t have the same tolerance for alcohol that old me did.

‘Do you want me to put you in a cab, babe?’ Dominique asks, patting my arm sympathetically, and I manage to nod my head up and down.



In the cab, I finally check my phone again. I have a lot of messages and missed calls, mainly from Sam. As I’m looking at my phone, he calls again.

‘Where the hell are you?’ he asks, his voice sharp.

‘Um, I had a work thing. I lost track of time.’ I wince, wondering if I’m going to throw up all over my beautiful suit.

‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be out. I got a call from Maria saying you never showed up. I’ve been working from Reading today, no one could get hold of you. She had to stay until I could get home. She missed an appointment.’

‘Zorry,’ I slur.