“I’m getting a drink,” I say flatly. “The same as you, apparently. What’s with the cheap suit? You look like a wanker.”
He looks down at his crumpled three-piece. “‘S’not cheap,” he sneers. “Just got back from a campaign. I’m running for the London Assembly. I’m shooting for Mayor one day.”
I snort. “Don’t you need to know how to read to be a politician?”
His eyes spark. “Big words coming from you,” he says loudly. “You’ve been doing well for yourself, haven’t you, Layla? I’ve seen your pictures online.” His gaze drops pointedly to my chest. “Seems like you’re really using your assets.”
Before I can respond, the bartender steps forward and slides two glass jam jars towards me, full of pretty pink and red drinks.
Donny guffaws. “Mate. How come you’re serving her first? Is it ‘cause she’s got her rack out?”
The bartend sputters. I fight back the wave of cold that rolls over my body, plucking my paper umbrella out of my drink. “If you don’t shut up,” I say, “I’ll stab you in the face.”
Donny blinks. “What?”
“I’ll rip out your eyes and eat them like olives,” I inform him, twirling the umbrella between my fingers. Donny’s face darkens with a scowl. I don’t break eye contact, staring him down.
The bartender looks between us. “Um, is there a problem here?” He asks, sounding terrified.
Donny straightens. “Sorry, mate.” He grins again. “Were you interested?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t bother. If you want to see her topless, just look her up online.”
I grit my teeth, my shoulders tensing. “You can go now, Donald.”
Donny ignores me, leaning in and dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s a… what do you call ‘em? Glamour model. Girls who pose naked. Hang on.” He pulls out his phone and shows it to the boy. “Here, man. Check it. Nice, right?”
I peer over his shoulder. On his screen is a campaign photo I took a couple of years ago for a product launch. I’m wearing a lilac corset laced up with lavender ribbons. And, yes, my bum is out. But who cares? It’s social media, for God’s sake. The whole internet is like, pictures of food and bums.
“Do you have that saved in your phone?” I ask, disgusted. “God. You’re so rank. And I’m not a glamour model, I’m a fashion designer, you utter cretin.” I reach for the phone. “Put that away.”
Donny lifts it out of my reach. “Hey, why are you getting fussy now? If you didn’t want people to look at them, you wouldn’t put them up on the internet for everyone to see.” He leers at my chest. “You sure as Hell wouldn’t be wearing a shirt like that.”
As his eyes bore into the front of my top, something odd happens inside of me. A switch flips. Suddenly, all the anger coursing through me freezes, turning to cold, raw fear.
I swallow hard. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m good at being catcalled. I’m great at it, in fact. It’s happened so many times in my life, I have a whole Rolodex of snippy, sarcastic comebacks stored in the back of my mind.
But right now, I’m reaching desperately for something to say, and nothing is coming to mind. I stare at Donny, my throat tightening as he smirks back down at me. Memories from my time at high school flash in front of my eyes like a movie.
Girls whispering behind their hands about me as I walk down the hallway to class.
Boys grabbing me and trying to yank me onto their laps on the bus.
Teachers sharing knowing looks as I traipse into the headmistress’s office for the fifth time in a week.
I shudder, trying to take in a breath. I feel sick. I feel so, so sick. My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding.
Donny leans closer, eyes fixed on my chest. “Jesus Christ, you can see your nips through this. You know that, right?” He swipes at the front of my shirt. I bat his hand away, and he grins like a shark. “God, you’ve filled out since we were together, haven’t you? Did you get your boobs done?”
“We were never together,” I say.
“Yeah?” He rubs his chin. “‘Cuz I’m pretty sure I remember you dragging me into the changing rooms to whack me off—”
All of the blood drains out of my face. There’s a ringing in my ears. My body is paralysed, caught between the urge to run, and the urge to lash out and gouge his stupid eyeballs out with my fingernails. Donny’s grin widens as he leans in again, and I just close my eyes, freezing in place.