“Oh my God. You can’t even bail on a party impolitely.”
“Eight,” said Oliver. “You bail on parties better than me too.”
Ideally, I would not have given our congratulations to Miles and JoJo. Except no. Fuck it. I’d made the choice to come here, and I was—if I said so myself—fucking nailing it. Okay, maybe not nailing it. Perhaps pinning it? Or putting it up with some of those little adhesive Velcro things? Either way, I was being mature and evolved and above it all, and if I was now hurtling towards a space in which tradition demanded that I kiss Miles on his smug, beardy cheeks and tell him that he and JoJo looked amazing and had thrown an amazing party, I could do it. I could do it with a smile on my face.
Because none of this mattered anymore.
“Miles,” I said as we entered handshaking, cheek-kissing range, “JoJo. Congratulations. ”
“I’m so glad you could make it.” Miles gave me an awkward half embrace.
JoJo nodded. “Yeah, it meant a lot to the both of us.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” I lied. “This is my boyfriend, Oliver Blackwood.”
Oliver shook both their hands with the disarming formality of a man who was professionally formal and disarming. “Delighted.”
“I’m really glad you found somebody,” Miles told me. “I know things got pretty rough for you after we broke up.”
They had, indeed, got pretty rough after we broke up. Or to put it more accurately they’d got fucking hellish after he’d completely betrayed me. But no: calm, centred, rising above. If you looked in the dictionary under over it, you’d have found a picture of me. “Yeah, got to admit I was in a bad place for a few years.”
“But,” Miles went on cheerfully, “it’s great to know we can be friends now.”
Wait. What?
The party was loud, but it felt like everything had come to a crashing halt.
I blinked. Then, when opening my eyes failed to reveal that the last three minutes had just been a dream about unmitigated gall, I blinked again. Since the world was resolutely failing to dissolve into fairy dust and sugar clouds, I figured I was stuck with it.
Reaching out, I patted Miles companionably on the shoulder.
“Let’s be clear,” I told him, trying to match his air of casual mateyness. “I’m glad you’re happy. You and JoJo seem like you’ll be great together. But we are never going to be friends because you will always be the guy who sold me out for the price of a Toyota Supra.”
Then I leaned in, kissed him on his beardy cheek, turned around, and left the wedding.
AS MATURE AND GROWN-UP AND （mostly） over it as I’d been at Miles’s wedding, the drive home was by far the best part of the evening. Now that I was no longer feeling the pressure to be supportive of my dickhead ex and his child bride, I could join in with Oliver in mocking their vows （we get it, you like each other）， their choice of venue （we get it, you’re unconventional）， and the guest list （we get it, you know a lot of artsy people and rich bastards）。
Although that did make me feel a bit bad in retrospect when, two days later, JoJo showed up at my office.
“Chap to see you,” explained Alex. “I mean, I say ‘chap,’ but he is wearing rather a lot of makeup and, well, one’s supposed to be sensitive about these things, isn’t one?”
The list of people it could have been was very short, not that I had any idea what JoJo Ryan was doing at CRAPP. “If it is who I think it is, Alex, then you’re good. He’s a chap.”
“Pleased to hear it. Wouldn’t want to call a chap a chap when a chap was actually a chapess. Fearfully bad form to go around mis-chapping chaps, isn’t it?”
“Oh, fearfully,” I told him and went through to see what the hell was going on.
Unfortunately, Rhys Jones Bowen had got there first.
“Hello,” he was saying, directing his phone at himself and JoJo, “don’t be alarmed, I’m just making some content for our social media. Perhaps you’d like to tell the Rhystocrats who you are and why you’re visiting Cee-Arr-Ay-Pee-Pee today.”
JoJo looked a little perplexed but more patient than I think I would have been under the circumstances. “I’m JoJo Ryan.” He gave a camera-ready smile. “And I’ve come to speak to somebody who works here.”
“I work here,” offered Rhys. “How about speaking to me?”
“No, I mean a specific somebody.”
“Ah, how about me?” asked Alex. “I’m pretty specific.”