LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

I was just looking at him.’ She grins. ‘Did you see his body?’

      ‘Becka, he’s like twenty-two years old.’

      She shrugs. Rebecca has no qualms about letching over younger men. I don’t do it for fear of looking like a cougar, but Rebecca’s not yet old enough to be branded a cougar. Besides, the barman couldn’t keep his eyes off her either.

      ‘Let’s do Piña Coladas every Tuesday,’ I say, taking another swig of my drink. ‘This is almost like being on holiday!’

      ‘This place is great,’ she says, taking in the dark wood panelled walls and old-fashioned table lamps.

      ‘Isn’t it? We’re two minutes from all that tourist crap in Covent Garden but we could be in a New York speakeasy. Where’s my burger, how long since I ordered?’

      ‘Never mind the burger, I think we’ve got company,’ she says, smiling her perfect Juicy Tubed smile at someone behind me.

      Bingo. It never takes more than a couple of drinks in any social setting before Rebecca has attracted male attention. She’s the perfect wing-man. (Wing-woman sounds weird, like a low-budget super hero; Wing-Woman! She has wings and she’s learning to fly!) ‘Pulling partner’ isn’t right either technically, as Rebecca invariably pulls and I don’t. But that’s because she always gets the hot guy and leaves me with the sidekick. Fair enough, I guess I’m the sidekick too. Still, even the leftovers don’t want other leftovers.

      And here we go again.

      ‘Can we buy you beautiful ladies a drink?’ says the better-looking one to Rebecca.

      ‘Have a seat,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne, my friend Ella Umbrella over there will have another Piña Colada.’

      ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. I’m tipsy already – two strong cocktails on an empty stomach have done me in.

      ‘And a couple of Jäger Bombs too,’ says Rebecca, giving me the look. The look that says ‘Don’t complain your life is boring if you refuse to join me in Living It Up and Getting Pissed On A School Night. Booze! Boys! What more could you want?’

      ‘Rebecca! You know they don’t agree with me …’

      Sixty minutes, two Jäger Bombs and another Piña Colada later, I’m trying to work out where to stick my new green umbrella.

      In Danny, the handsome guy, for droning on about the transfer window?

      In Rebecca, for faking interest so brilliantly, thus leaving me stuck with The Douche Bag?

      Or straight into The Douche Bag? I mean, come on: we both know the deal. We’re meant to politely chat and let the other two get on with flirting. But no.

      I now know Jason is forty, a Virgo, but on the cusp and actually way more Libran.

      He works in equities at a small Swiss firm near London Wall. He’s not being arrogant or anything but he’s bloody good at his job – it’s just a fact.

      He lives in Putney, drives a BM, doesn’t much like films or books unless they’re about real life crime.

      He listens to XFM, thinks Katy Perry’s got nice tits but Adele should lay off the doughnuts.

      He goes down the gym – David Lloyd, Fulham – three to four times a week and does forty minutes on the treadmill at fourteen kilometres an hour ’cos he likes to look good. It’s where he met his last girlfriend, Megan, twenty-five, who was super hot, beautiful blow job lips, ri-di-culous body (the greatest arse in London), but after two years she was pressuring him to commit and he just wasn’t sure she was enough for him and he doesn’t miss her ’cos London’s full of fit birds. Mind you, you don’t want to be dating a woman who’s over thirty. There’s a reason why they’re single.

      I am yet to find Jason’s redeeming features.

      He thinks my name is Ella, and I haven’t bothered to correct him. Partly because he’s done nothing other than talk about himself for an hour. And partly because I’m now severely drunk. My burger hasn’t turned up and all I can think about is how hungover my Wednesday morning is going to be. I’m a little dizzy and I really should have a glass of water but Jason is now desperately chatting up the tattooed, red-lipsticked waitress and I don’t want to interrupt. She’s humouring him, playing along, because the cocktails here aren’t cheap, and if Jason orders a few more then her tip might reach double digits.

      ‘Oy, Danny,’ he says, pulling at his friend’s sleeve as the waitress heads back to the bar. ‘Did you clock that waitress’s mouth?’

      ‘Saw her tramp stamp,’ says Danny. ‘You dirty dog, Jase.’

      ‘I think she’s up for it,’ says Jason.

      ‘I think she’s a good waitress,’ I say, thinking that I couldn’t flirt with this tosser just for the sake of a bigger tip.

      ‘Those bright red lips! I bet she’s filthy …’ he says, nudging Danny.

      ‘For God’s sake, just because a woman wears red lipstick doesn’t mean she’s filthy,’ I say. ‘Where’s my burger?’

      Jason takes a swig of his drink. ‘Yeah well in my experience red lipstick’s a good indication that a girl knows what she’s doing down there.’ He grins. ‘The more lipstick, the dirtier!’ He winks at Rebecca.

      Good grief. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Are you actually suggesting that red lipstick indicates a girl is good in bed?’ Rebecca gives me a warning look: you’re drunk.

      He shrugs and looks at his mate with a raised eyebrow, as if he’s said the most intelligent thing short of E = mc².

      ‘Because, Ja-son, if that’s true, then why don’t you run off and join the circus?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Go join the circus, Jason. Date a clown. They wear loads of red lipstick – it’s all over their face. By your logic that makes them at least twice as filthy as that poor waitress. Yeah, Jase, go and date a nice dirty clown with a squeezy plastic flower and those funny stripy trousers.’

      There is an embarrassed silence, filled eventually by Rebecca. ‘Sorry guys, maybe those Jäger Bombs weren’t such a good idea …’ she says. Jason is staring at me like I’ve said something … I don’t know, what is that word now … weird?

      ‘You know what, Jase?’ I say. ‘Maybe you don’t have to wait until the circus comes to town. You might get lucky. Maybe there are some clowns hanging out down the David Lloyd, running on the treadmill with their long slutty clown shoes.’

      I see Rebecca shaking her head more violently in my direction.

      ‘Gosh, clown shoes must make running a real challenge. Bet they can’t do “fourteen kilometres an hour” like you can … Oh! And step class must be a nightmare! So embarrassing, always tripping over their own feet. Poor, sexy, slightly scary clut-slowns.’

      ‘Clut-slowns?’ he says.

      ‘Clut-slowns. Clut-slowns, slut-clowns, you know what I mean!’

      ‘Are you a lezza or what?’ he says.

      ‘What?!’ I haven’t been accused of being a lesbian since I refused to snog Elliot Johnson at the school Christ-mas disco when I was fourteen. ‘Jason … You know Maggie?’

      ‘Maggie who?’

      ‘Hello? Your ex-girlfriend Maggie? Wow, fickle! Two years together and you can’t even remember her name!’

      ‘That’s because her name’s Megan.’

      ‘Oh. Was it? I thought you said Maggie? No?’

      He shakes his head.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Pretty

Скачать книгу