‘We both know it isn’t just one night a week,’ he interrupted. ‘Or have you forgotten that time I had to send an Uber to pick you up from Canary Wharf because you went home with that tall asshole with the moustache from The Glory?’ He put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Dating is vile, sweetie,’ I sighed. ‘I should probably stop trying to find myself a rich man that can maintain the lifestyle of all my very privileged friends,’ I smirked.
‘Your favourite co-worker will always give you a hand.’ He reached out to my neck.
‘I know you will. And it’s not just about the money. When did my garbage humans that I call friends start being decent enough to get married to other people? For love, even.’
‘Ha!’ he crossed his arms. ‘You were the first one.’
‘And look at how it ended. Are all my friends going to start nesting now?’ I wondered out loud.
‘I doubt it, but hey, I am here if you want to satisfy your “husband” fantasies.’ He winked.
‘I already had a husband. Heck, I am currently technically still married. I can assure you there aren’t any husband fantasies that don’t involve some sort of murder-suicide. Thanks for the offer, though.’
‘Anytime, my dear. Anytime,’ he said while grabbing two cans of Marks & Spencer gin and tonic from his backpack. ‘Just knock a few of these down until you’re happy for your friend.’ He winked while pouring the cans into a paper coffee cup.
I was happy. Sara was my everything. My ultimate life companion. Was I maybe being jealous of having to share her with the whitest of guys in London? Was I jealous of her being happy? Did I have a weird fetish where I enjoyed seeing my friends being as miserable as me?
Nah, that couldn’t be it. I was just overwhelmed by the information. I was happy for her. I was happy to be there for her.
This is growth, Leo.
Then I proceeded to sip my cocktail-in-a-can bang in the middle of my work shift.
I dropped my keys on the floor while trying to open my front door.
Clumsy bitch.
I wasn’t too sure whether Andrew would be home, but I wasn’t particularly keen on having flatmate bonding time.
Andrew was a truly pretty guy. There was nothing rugged about him. He had big, poofy, dark blond hair usually styled in a quiff. Hard enough to get a small bird trapped in there.
He was very slim and would wear Polo Ralph Lauren jumpers, beige chinos and brogues most of the time. He was the kind of person you’d say “good boy” to and pet his head dearly. If you were into that.
He was the responsible adult. He managed to buy his first flat at thirty-two. I was a few months away from my thirtieth and I was so far away from the property ladder, I may as well have been a five-year-old homeless kid. Andrew had a spare bedroom and, honestly, was feeling pretty lonely. He focused so much on renovating the flat that he barely had the chance to realise he was now living alone in Streatham.
Streatham.
He very kindly sublet his second bedroom and allowed me and buckets of dog hair which, after a year, he was still finding around the house.
How I missed my Squall.
‘Hey doodle,’ I announced while entering the flat.
Music was playing. Like weird, royalty-free elevator music.
Something was up. I entered the living room and…horror.
‘Hi!’ he said, awkwardly.
He had company. There were at least ten people in the flat. Andrew was having dinner, and I had completely fucking forgot.
‘Hello everyone,’ I mumbled.
All I could see were white people dressed in pastels having a jolly good prosecco and probably talking about the best resorts in Marrakech that wouldn’t serve spicy vegetables.
‘You have made it!’ he gushed. Genuinely happy to see me.
Was he pretending? Was I invited? Did I forget? Was I a bit too drunk from the work cans? Damn, I looked bad.
‘Leo, you know most of the people here, I think?’
I looked around and recognised a few faces. I guess my speech wasn’t the only slurred phenomenon happening in my body.
‘Yes, of course. How are you guys?’
Literally no idea.
Most of them continued their conversation. Not a fun one to remark, but most of them did nod at my presence.
‘Sit down for a drink,’ said good little Andrew while pouring.
Alcoholic me was saying yes, but antisocial me wanted to slap everyone and then hide in his room. Under the duvet.
But, alas, I consented. I loved me some free booze. And all my friends kept providing me with it that day. You can’t be ungrateful when you’re so damn close to the poverty line.
‘How was work?’ Andrew asked while handing me the glass.
Ugh.
Dreadful question. At least in public, because it would normally prompt people to ask shit such as:
‘Oh, what do you do?’ enquired a curly-haired, hooked nosed and incredibly bright toothy little homosexual sitting on the chair across from me.
Name? I wanted to say Craig or Tom, but I had never been sober when we were introduced the first few times. Not to mention, each time Andrew talked about his friends, they all kind of sounded the same. Now that I was sitting with so many of them, they kind of looked the same too.
‘I work in retail,’ I unenthusiastically said with a sour expression.
‘He’s a manager,’ Andrew quickly interrupted.
Like that sounded any better. He was so very attentive at trying to pick me up any chance he could. He was a good guy.
‘Yes. I manage a group of horny, incapable kids to attempt to sell expensive clothes to the rich Arabs that come to Knightsbridge, so we can hopefully not succumb to the inevitable doom that is glooming over most of the British high street,’ I said, smiling nervously.
Tom/Craig seemed a little grossed out.
I was wearing a tracksuit and a t-shirt with Crash Bandicoot on it, to be fair.
‘Yes, isn’t it terrible what’s happening to all our stores?’ They all somewhat agreed in a weird collective murmur.
I was so gutted to be stuck in that conversation with such boring people.
I had this whole grand idea to just warm up some spaghetti in the microwave, have a shot of something and go on Grindr for some sex validation from other gross men.
I was planning not to brush my teeth and have a glorious wank.
Now I had to entertain for the absolute bare minimum that wouldn’t be considered rude, which I had calculated would be at least fifteen minutes. Ten if I faked a migraine.
‘They’re a terrible bunch there anyway,’ said Andrew, coming to the rescue. ‘They are extremely disorganised and are in desperate need of good press. They still haven’t banned fur or exotic skins. It’s pretty gross in this day and age,’ he blurted in his polished Oxford accent.
‘Oh, I do love a bit of fur. Is that bad?’ Tom/Craig spewed through his big, stupidly whitened teeth. My face, no longer friendly, managed to crack half of an angry smile.
I chugged the entire glass of prosecco in one alcoholic gulp.
‘Sorry guys, I actually have a really early morning tomorrow,’ I said, blatantly lying through my far less white teeth. ‘I think I am actually going to head to bed. I am knackered.’
Andrew understood I wasn’t a fan of that little shit sitting in front of me.