Page 42 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Peckham’s next; everyone wants to live there.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

There’s a small queue of people wearing expensive clothes outside a tall brick building – some exclusive members’ club they keep hidden from the general public. A doorperson wearing black lipstick, a bullring nose piercing and dyed pink braids ticks off names on a clipboard.

Aoife looks down at her ASOS dress. ‘Everyone’s so cool around here. I’m so basic.’

‘You’re like a beautiful bag of ready salted crisps that when you open the bag, the flavour is actually something surprisingly twisted like Squirrel and Paprika,’ I joke.

‘Thanks.’ Aoife nods like that’s given her confidence.

We head inside. Polished concrete and rich-smelling candles. We take the lift to the fifth floor, checking our make-up in the mirrored panels.

It’s open-plan: trendy media people chit-chatting, a DJ playing cool music I’ve never heard before. The nerves kick in. I feel the need to be switched on, in work mode. A waiter offers us cocktails in crystal-cut glasses. ‘Picante?’

I haven’t had a picante in ages. They’re so good. And they look incredible. Really well made. I bet the tequila is posh. I’m sure expensive means a hangover is less likely. And they are free.

And just like that, willpower gone, I’m chinking glasses with Aoife.

She downs hers before slamming the glass back on the tray, none the wiser of my internal failure. We feel the gorgeous effects immediately as the tequila swims down to our knees.

‘God, I needed that,’ Aoife says, reaching for another.

‘Bianca said she’d be here by eight.’ I check my phone, pushing my hair behind my ear. I’m wearing cream silk pyjamas but with outdoor shoes instead of slippers. The pyjamas are covered in hand-drawn faces: happy, apprehensive, anxious. I thought it would look effortlessly cool and ‘arty’, but I just feel underdressed and frumpy. ‘Kooky’ and ‘bubbly’ – not in a good way.

I look about for Jackson. He’s so tall I can usually spot him anywhere. He’s standing by the bar, chatting to some stylish, sophisticated grown-up woman with a pixie cut. Jackson’s glass isn’t full of picante like ours. It looks like he’s nursing a bloody Diet Coke. He waves when he sees us, signals that he’ll be over in a minute. I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

‘He’s so good,’ Aoife admires, ‘working the room.’

Why did I have to go and drink? I already regret it.

Behind glass doors is an outdoor roof-top pool. Steam evaporates off the water. The pool lights reflect a ripple effect, painting dragonfly wings into the night. Behind, the view is startling: skyscrapers lit up in red, silver and gold, like a futuristic Matrix scene. It all feels very movie star-ish.

‘So should we be talking to people?’ Aoife asks, like, please don’t make me talk to people.

‘I suppose I should be networking,’ I reply.

‘Do you know anyone here?’

‘A couple but’ – I smile at the few faces I roughly recognize from the office – ‘not gonna lie, I’d much rather chat to you all night.’

Aoife puts her arm around me and we head to the bar to get our next drink and pretend we’re looking for someone to talk to. Jackson will be over soon, I’m sure; he’ll introduce us to people.

‘OIOI!’ It’s Bianca, hoofing across the room, looking for (and like) trouble, in a red mini boob-tube dress that looks as though it’s been bought out the back of a lorry, Dalmatian-spot coat and shiny long snake-skin boots – none of these clothes I have ever seen before.

‘God help us,’ Aoife says.

‘Is she smashed?’ I ask, looking over at Jackson to see if he’s seen her swoop in like a mad bat. This wasn’t really the purpose of the night; a few drinks is fine but I don’t think we’re meant to get drunk. ‘Please no.’

Bianca kisses us, brightly, cheek-to-cheek with an exaggerated MWAH! She stinks of cigarettes and vodka.

‘Sorry I’m late. I went for some drinks with the team.’ She rolls her eyes at ‘team’. She loves having colleagues at the PR company she’s just started at. It’s good to see her happy. ‘I’ve passed my probation; they’re keeping me on! I’ve got a real job!’

‘Bianca!’ We hug her and scream; people look over at us and we apologize. ‘Bianca, that’s amazing!’ Seeing her so genuinely excited just makes us even prouder.

‘So,’ she says, ‘are we getting pissed then or what?’

‘Yes, we need to celebrate!’ Aoife claps her hands.

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