Page 16 of The Love Hack

‘You okay, Lucy?’ Nush appeared next to me, concern in her face. ‘I was dancing and I saw you’d gone. I was going to ask if you wanted to join us – the DJ’s awesome.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m okay. I don’t dance. But I think I need some fresh air – I’m feeling a bit…’

‘Come on.’ Nush assessed the situation in a heartbeat. ‘Some of the others are out vaping. Let’s get you outside.’

She took my elbow and guided me back out, past our table and through the labyrinth of others, towards a neon Exit sign. As we passed the bar and the dance floor, I looked for Ross but didn’t see him.

The cool night air hit me like a cold flannel to the face, and I realised with relief that I wasn’t going to be sick – not now, anyway. Nush guided me to the group where Amelie was, surrounded by one of the dark-haired twins and Eve and Rosa. My sister was wreathed in smiles, and when she saw me she flung her arms round me and whispered, ‘Thank you so much for coming. I know it’s not your thing but I hope you’re having an okay time. I love you, you know.’

‘Love you more,’ I whispered, feeling tears prick my eyes.

‘Bryony’s living her best life,’ remarked the twin. ‘Pulled some hottie on the dance floor and now look.’

All our eyes followed the discreet point of her finger. Separate from the crowd around the entrance, a few yards away, I could see the back of Bryony’s neon pink satin dress. Or some of it, at least. The rest was concealed by a man’s arms, wrapped tightly around her slender body. Her head was tilted upwards and his downwards, and they were kissing like they were exchanging life force.

I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. The glimpse I’d had of him at the bar had imprinted on my mind the exact shade of his jeans, the precise fall of his white shirt.

It was Ross.

Almost as if it didn’t belong to me, I heard a keening sound come from my throat, and without further warning I started to cry.

‘I think we need to get Lucy home,’ I heard someone say, then everything vanished and there was only the cold, damp pavement under my hands and knees.

SEVEN

I can’t remember how I got home. Someone – Amelie, most likely, or maybe Nush – must have put me in an Uber then, after a whispered conversation, decided I couldn’t be left on my own, come back to the flat with me, fed Astro and put me to bed.

Which was just as well, really, because when my cat finally coaxed me awake on Sunday morning by purring thunderously and licking my earlobe with a scratchy tongue, as soon as I opened a pouch of food to put into his bowl I had to run to the bathroom and be sick.

It was only after that the full force of my hangover hit me. Doubly unfair, if you think about it, because a good spew is meant to make you feel better, not worse. I crouched on the mercifully cool bathroom tiles, hugging the toilet bowl and wanting to die, for a good twenty minutes before thirst forced me to my feet. Whoever had escorted me home had taken off my shoes and my glasses but not my make-up or the silver dress. Glancing in the mirror, I froze with horror.

I looked like I’d been to a Halloween party, not a hen night. My face was chalky white with smears of dull, greyish foundation clinging to my skin. My eyes were bloodshot and ringed with black mascara. My hair was a greasy tangle. The silver dress was rucked up around my hips and there was dirt on my knees and hands.

Seeing that brought back the last few moments of the evening. I remembered standing up and navigating to the loo in the club, and Nush escorting me out. I remembered the smell of Eve’s grape soda vape. And I remembered Ross – Ross and Bryony, snogging the life out of each other.

I wondered if they’d gone home together.

I could see no reason why they wouldn’t have – it would have been a totally normal thing to do, a mutually desired and enjoyable hook-up after a night out. Ross was single – the brief moments of connection I’d felt might have meant something to me, but why would it have to him? He had no feelings for me. He could snog whoever he wanted – more than snog, if he wanted that too.

We were colleagues, that was all – and there was no way I could allow myself to develop feelings for him, even if there was a chance they’d be reciprocated.

It had been a long time – months, maybe even a year – since I’d opened the white envelope I still kept in my bedside drawer. It had been there for four years; when I’d moved into my current flat I’d considered throwing it away, but decided against it. I needed it there – needed to remember the mistake I’d made, and remind myself not to make it again.

I didn’t open it now. I just looked at it, and looking was enough to bring the memories of four-years-ago me rushing back.

I was twenty-five and I’d just got my first job that had ‘editor’ in the title and moved out of a flatshare and into a place of my own. I suppose it was inevitable that, alongside those firsts, I’d fall for a man for the first time, too.

The job offer had felt like my big break – Junior Lifestyle Editor on a national newspaper (although the way it felt they might as well have put Head of the Known Universe on my business cards). I could see my career path ahead of me as clearly as if it was illuminated by spotlights – the indefatigable thoroughness, the awards, the promotion, and the rest would be history.

Oh, and at some point along the way I’d meet a man. An intelligent, thoughtful, serious man, possibly with deep emotional scars that only I could heal. He’d be worth waiting for, because God only knew I’d waited long enough. Throughout my teenage and university years and beyond, I’d watched in disappointed bewilderment as the guys I liked took one look at me and put me firmly in the friend zone, before asking for one of my mates’ numbers or (worse) whether my sister was single.

It was with hope and confidence in my heart that I arrived for my first day at the Sentinel. Even the fact that the first thing that happened was I was shown where the coffee machine was, and the second was a lesson in how to work the printer, didn’t dampen my enthusiasm.

And then I saw Kieren.

I didn’t know his name at that stage – he worked on the news desk, way over on the other side of the office. But it so happened that he was in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea at the same time as I was making a round of coffees, and I literally stopped in my tracks and stared at him, mesmerised.

He was thin and not very tall – maybe five foot eight or nine, and a few years older than me. He had dark hair, almost black as far as I could see, but it was shorn too close to his head to tell. He had a spade-shaped dark beard and piercing blue eyes and cheekbones you could open a letter with. He was wearing jeans and an olive-green sweatshirt and he smelled like he’d just finished a cigarette.

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