Page 1 of Not in a Million Years

One

Then

2007

We’d been in the pub for over an hour when the boys finally arrived, and to be honest by that point we didn’t particularly care whether they showed up at all. There’d been no official arrangement after all – just a group of five of us, who’d dutifully turned up on a blustery autumn night to watch our other halves play football, and realised before half-time that standing on the sidelines in the rain watching them take an absolute pasting was about as much fun as a root canal.

Decamping to the nearest pub was my suggestion, but the others had agreed without hesitation, and in just a few minutes, we found ourselves in the warm, sitting round a small wooden table getting acquainted (and increasingly sloshed on cheap red wine). At the time, they were just four random women of about my own age: Abbie, Naomi, Rowan and Zara. The most I’d hoped for was that, if my boyfriend Ryan ever persuaded me to come along to a game with him again, these girls would be there and the experience would be made a bit less tedious. Although in the back of my mind, I was aware that Ryan and I were on borrowed time, which was sad in a way, of course, but likely meant no more Wednesday evenings pretending to be interested in five-a-side football – proof, if it were needed, that every cloud has a silver lining.

I didn’t know – I couldn’t have known – the significance that night would have in my life. I’d realised pretty quickly that these women – Abbie, with her laser-sharp sense of humour; Rowan, whose beautiful smile made you feel like you were the only person in the world; Naomi, radiating kindness as warm as her brilliant red hair; and Zara, who had a way of delivering cuttingly bitchy observations in a way you couldn’t help dissolving in laughter at – would all become my friends.

But I hadn’t guessed that, fifteen years later, they’d have become my best friends in all the world. Not Zara, of course. Which was no great loss, really, Zara being the absolute piece of work that she was.

Anyway, there we were, two bottles of Shiraz down and a substantial dent made in the third, our table littered with empty crisp packets, mobile phones, Zara’s fags and lighter, and some make-up samples Rowan had picked up at a product launch earlier that day, which she’d kindly shared out with the group, when our menfolk arrived at the pub.

‘Well, fancy finding you lot here!’ Ryan laughed.

‘How did the game go?’ I asked, not particularly interested but wanting to show willing.

‘Not great.’ He pulled over a chair and sat down, wincing performatively. ‘I got subbed off in the second half. I think I’ve pulled something in my groin…’

Which would mean even less bedroom action for me than there’d been in the past few weeks, I thought uncharitably. Ryan and I had only been dating for a few months and, nice as he was, I was becoming more certain every time I saw him that this relationship was nearing its sell-by date. It was just a question of which of us was going to call time on it, and I suspected it was going to have to be me – a prospect I didn’t particularly relish, given that he was a lovely guy. Just not the lovely guy for me.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked him, my guilty thoughts spurring me to be kind, which would probably be unhelpful in the long term.

He brightened. ‘Thanks, Kate. Pint of Stella, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure.’ I collected orders from the other guys – pints all round for Matt, who was Ryan’s brother and Abbie’s boyfriend; Paul, Rowan’s other half; Naomi’s bloke, whose name I didn’t catch and never learned, as they split up soon after; and impossibly ripped Patch, who apparently belonged to Zara.

I went to the bar, placed our order and waited while the pints were poured, another bottle of wine opened and packets of crisps piled on the counter in front of me.

‘Need a hand with those?’ a voice at my elbow asked. I turned and saw a man – possibly the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my life. His hair was shining blonde in the lights over the bar. His eyes were clear denim-blue. He wasn’t wearing a hastily pulled-on tracksuit over football kit like the other guys but a long plum overcoat that looked like cashmere. His smile was movie-star magnetic.

And I knew straight away that, while gazing at him would afford hours of pleasure, gazing was all I’d ever do, because he couldn’t have been more obviously gay if he’d been wrapped in a rainbow Pride flag instead of that expensive coat.

‘Thanks.’ I smiled. ‘What can I get for you, since I’m ordering?’

‘Double vodka and tonic, please, nurse. Grey Goose if they have it, which they won’t.’

I scanned the row of bottles, knowing he was right. We’d picked the pub on the basis of its proximity to the football pitch, not the quality of its food and beverage offerings.

‘You’d be lucky,’ I said. ‘Looks like it’s Smirnoff or nothing.’

‘I’ll take the Smirnoff then, obviously. But better make it a triple – if I can’t have quality, I’ll go for quantity.’ He flipped a credit card onto the bar. ‘And I’ll get this. You don’t want to get in the habit of subbing that bunch of freeloaders.’

I laughed. ‘It was just one round, but thanks. I’m Kate.’

‘Andy. And which of these reprobates are you here with?’

‘Ryan.’ Already, my mind was adding, But not for long.

It was like Andy had read my thoughts. ‘Seriously? Fond as I am of Little Ryan – I’ve known him for donkey’s years; Tall Matt and I were at school together – I wouldn’t have thought he was your type.’

‘Really? What is my type then?’

He looked at me, his bright eyes narrowed. ‘I can see you with a banker. One of those flash fuckers who drives a Porsche and wears Gucci slippers of an evening. He’d take you out to Michelin-starred restaurants and support you in the style to which you want to become accustomed.’

‘Actually, I’m kind of hoping to support myself in the style to which I want to become accustomed.’

---