Page 7 of The Fall-Out

‘Actually’ – Rowan smiled sideways from her position on the other side of the umbrella – ‘it was a freebie. I do a bit of modelling and I was wearing it for a shoot and butterfingers here spilled nail polish on the cuff. Oops. So they let me keep it.’

‘Strong work,’ Zara said. ‘I’m a fashion editor and you won’t believe the stuff that gets minor damage during shoots. People are ever so careless.’

They both laughed, complicit in their experience of a world I’d never be part of.

Then we arrived at the pub and the warmth and dry, the smell of beer and stale cigarette smoke and the familiar babble of voices made me feel better, more at home.

‘There’s a table over there,’ Abbie said. ‘Why don’t you three nab it, and a few extra chairs, while Kate and I get a round in?’

‘Merlot do everyone?’ Kate asked. ‘It feels like a red wine kind of evening, doesn’t it?’

‘You read my mind,’ said Rowan. ‘And how about some crisps as well? Or better still, pork scratchings.’

My stomach rumbled at the prospect of food – maybe we could order burgers and chips later, or soup with crusty bread.

Then Zara said, ‘Anything that comes in a packet’s safe enough, I guess. Anything from the kitchen in a place like this…’ And she drew a finger across her throat and rolled her eyes theatrically.

Rowan hurried ahead of us, swooping down on a table for twelve with practised ease, turning a megawatt smile on the group of guys who were vacating it. As they moved towards the exit, I saw at least two of them looking longingly back at her, like dogs being taken for a walk just as you’re getting the roast beef out of the oven.

‘So what do you do for work, Naomi?’ Zara asked, slipping into the chair next to mine. As she shrugged off her coat, I got a waft of her perfume, heady with vanilla and neroli.

Here we go, I thought. Now comes the bit where I bore you to death. ‘I’m a legal secretary, but I’m hoping to do a law conversion course in a year or two and qualify as a solicitor.’

‘Blimey.’ Zara fixed me with eyes as wide and green as a cat’s. ‘So you’re bright and motivated. That’s a new one on me. The clever people I know are all lazy fuckers and the ones who work hard are thick as mince. And you must tell me about your hair. Is the colour natural?’

Automatically, I tugged a strand over my shoulder and looked at it, like I’d forgotten what colour it was – as if twelve years of being called ginger minger and copper crotch at school could be forgotten. ‘Yeah, unfortunately for me.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s glorious. And so on trend right now, like Julianne Moore. Don’t ever change it. I’m a closet blonde and the upkeep is hideous – I even have to wax off all my pubes. It’s totally not worth it.’

Then why do it? I wondered, but I could feel myself thawing, not just from the warmth of the pub, but from the glow of Zara’s friendly attention – oh, and the massive glass of red wine I’d almost finished.

‘Look,’ Rowan said. ‘Here come the boys. They don’t look too happy – I can hardly see Paul for mud.’

In they trooped, and the next few minutes were taken up with post-match recriminations, a pretence that they’d been sure we’d dumped them en masse because they’d been so hopeless, and another round of drinks orders.

Off the football pitch, I found it even harder to sort out which of the mud-splattered, heavy-footed men was which. Stu, of course, I knew, although I found myself thinking how much I’d prefer spending the rest of the evening with my new female friends than with him. The two tall men must be brothers, and therefore belong to Abbie and Kate. The earnest-looking one with the beard had kissed Rowan and sat down next to her, apparently all set to monopolise her for the evening.

So Zara’s boyfriend must be… Oh. The one who’d just come back from the bar, a tray of drinks balanced on one hand, a rueful grin revealing teeth that were just shy of perfectly straight, a lock of dark hair flopping down over eyes the colour of strong coffee, and a body that would make a Greek god cancel his gym membership because it was too depressing using the same changing room.

The tray still held aloft, bicep flexing impressively, he unloaded drinks on to the table.

‘Pint of Guinness for you, sir. Stella for you, mate. Two Peronis, one IPA and a bottle of merlot. Oh, and all the crisps. Phew.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of Zara’s glossy head and sat down, resting a hand casually on her thigh. ‘How’s it going, Zee?’

‘I could ask you the same thing, David Beckham,’ she said, giving him a sideways stare under her eyelashes. ‘Made a right arse of yourself back there, didn’t you?’

‘Oh God.’ He pressed a hand dramatically to his face. ‘I’m shit, right, but not normally that shit. Must’ve been stage fright because we had an audience.’

‘Don’t worry’ – Zara grinned – ‘we won’t come again. We’ve already discussed it and we’re in agreement. This is Naomi.’

The man smiled at me, and for a second I felt like I was the only person in the world – and, disloyally, as if poor Stu had never even existed. His gaze was level, direct and warm. He extended a hand across the table and I took it, expecting three hundred volts to shoot through me, but it just felt like a hand – albeit an exceptionally warm, strong, callused one.

‘Patrick,’ he said. ‘But everyone calls me Patch. Good to meet you.’

‘And you,’ I said.

I wasn’t lying. I was elated to meet him, filled with a thrilling sense of new possibilities opening up with this group of new potential friends.

‘Anyway,’ Zara was saying to him, ‘now that I’ve endured this, you’ve got no excuse whatsoever not to come and visit me in Paris next weekend. None.’

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