Hair by Honey, face by Tess, dress by Self Portrait: the sort of label that would pass muster with Suzanne from Emily’s firm, anyway.
The twin constrictions of the dress and heels necessitated a Marilyn Monroe-ish totter out to the Toyota Avensis that was her Cinderella pumpkin chariot.
Her driver Jabal looked at her curiously in the rear-view mirror and said: ‘Are you going to awards?’
Laurie winced.
Yes, Mad Bint of the Year.
She could’ve badly done without her Shirley Basseyness pointed out and muttered: ‘Nope’ with a fierce enough intonation that he didn’t inquire further.
Jabal said nothing, obviously thinking: these award-attending divas.
Laurie’s stomach fizzed and rolled as she walked into the ground-floor brasserie and scanned for Jamie. Heads turned and Laurie felt she should be wearing a sandwich board saying I am not anyone from Corrie or with a footballer, go back to your Manhattans.
She thought of Emily saying: ‘a huge part of getting attention is signalling you’re up for attention’ and felt the truth of it. Her clothes and make-up commanded: look at me. Inside she howled: don’t.
She saw Jamie, treacle-dark head down, looking at his phone, sitting on a chair at the other side of the circular bar. It was a small island of glass and light, the staff working away within it, noisily rattling ice in shakers above their shoulders. Laurie realised the location might also have been chosen for its scene-setting potential.
Laurie picked her way carefully towards him, the prospect of going arse over tit too awful to contemplate. Jamie glanced up as she approached and did what seemed to be a genuine double-take, eyes widening, mouth open an inch, phone immediately abandoned.
Laurie was too uncomfortable to feel any compliment. It was hard to separate out making an effort for the caper, from simply making an effort for him, and the thought he’d suspect the latter was mortifying.
She reached Jamie and said: ‘Hello.’ There was a pause. ‘Well. Getting on that chair is going to be interesting.’
‘… He left you for who, again?’
Laurie rolled her heavily made-up eyes. ‘I was going to say “It’s not a competition” but if it isn’t, why am I here? Moral high ground was in short supply, huh.’
‘Well, seriously, morality aside, you look incredible.’
‘Haha. Thanks.’
He stood down from his seat so it was easier for Laurie to heave up into hers. Jamie was wearing a black shirt and slim-cut grey wool trousers, the angles and planes of his face set off wonderfully by the low lighting, and Laurie relaxed a notch, thinking, at least I look like I’m supposed to be here. It was a close-run thing, but feeling too scruffy for the company and clientele would’ve been worse. Inspecting the room, it was indeed the sort of place for beefy men, still glowing pink from their early evening power shower, their rail-thin wives in Kurt Geiger stilettos and everyone flashing American Express cards.
‘Right so, here’s your resolve stiffener,’ Jamie said, and motioned to the waitress who had appeared by them, holding a martini out for Laurie.
Laurie had never been ordered for in her life.
‘Sorry, you drink martinis? It’s vodka, dirty, olives,’ Jamie said, seeing her expression.
Who did he think he was, some ASDA Whoops! aisle James Bond?
‘Yes,’ Laurie said, wondering if she should’ve said no, show me the cocktail menu please, on principle. Who ordered drinks for people? Was she a gangster’s moll already?
Compromised, that’s what she was. She’d confided in one man that another man had damaged her.
Laurie sipped it gingerly, recoiling slightly at its salt and strength, as well as the feeling of being taken for granted. Her lips numbed.
‘It’ll be a little easier to play-act this picture if not stone-cold sober,’ Jamie said.
‘What have you got in mind? Is it going to be posed like Charles and Diana’s engagement photo?’ Laurie said as she sipped again.
‘Haha. Whatever love means,’ he quoted, ‘My kind of guy.’ Laurie was quite impressed at him knowing that given he was only thirty-one, though she didn’t say so.
Her phone vibrated with a message and she pulled it out of her bag. Jamie. Uh?
The bartender is a trainee and my drink took a lifetime to make! Shall I order for you? Is a martini OK? Tell you what, I’ll get you that and then if you don’t have it, I will. Jx
‘Oh. Just got your message!’ she said, glancing up from the screen, guiltily. ‘Bloody EE coverage.’
‘Hah. No worries.’
Assuming had made an ass of Laurie, he was being thoughtful. And it occurred to her that if he’d got her something full of passionfruit juice and Malibu, she’d have objected that, in fact, she was the kind of woman who liked proper navy strength drinks. 0/5 to the romantically scalded, grumpy Laurie Watkinson.
‘OK, so, time for a little game theory, as those Twitter analysts of American politics like to say,’ Jamie said, and Laurie smiled into her third sip. Dammit, it was so violent, and yet so drinkable.
‘The impression we want to give with this photo is not: “Here we are getting heavy, guys!” It’s far more of a “question mark” kind of thing than that, for our debut. It’s a “here’s an outtake from what was obviously a very good evening, draw your own conclusions.” Essentially, we want to spark a guessing game. Appeal to the part of the brain that lights up during an Agatha Christie.’
‘Yes … I suppose so?’ Laurie said, hesitantly. She was allowing herself to wonder, at last, exactly how febrile the guessing game might be over this, and she didn’t much like the answer. She was trying to bottle lightning, without much of a bottle.
‘What were you thinking?’ Jamie said, eyebrows drawing together. Typical lawyer. Turning the tables on her attitude: have you got any better ideas? Well then.
‘I had no idea. Go on.’
‘I’m also thinking we want to get our photo early so you can get away and have your real Saturday night.’
Hah, he meant his, but she appreciated the good manners.
‘I thought I could post the photo tomorrow morning, and tag you. Then you’ve perhaps not fully intended everyone you’re friends with to see it, but: “Oh no! Everyone sees it.” Including your ex. Are you set up to show tagged photos?’
‘I think so …?’
‘The way it works is you have to opt out. So if you haven’t, it’ll be there.’
Laurie nodded. He was so much younger than her. So much. This was campaign strategy.
‘You’re on Instagram?’ Jamie said.
‘Ah. No.’
‘DOH. We need you to be on Instagram. Let’s set up an account and we’ll do it linked to Facebook, so that you draw lots of contacts from there over to Instagram. If we leave it public then your ex only needs to know it’s there, and he’ll be likely to check it.’
Laurie thought: huh. She’d given up the ‘predicting Dan’ game.
‘Do you have something handy in your photos on your phone you can sling on as an Instagram profile picture?’ Jamie said.
‘Uh …’ Laurie chewed her lip and opened her iPhone.
‘Actually, do you know what,’ Jamie said, giving her an appraising look. ‘Let’s leave you off Instagram, for now. Launching one tonight looks suspicious. You can appear on mine.’