Chapter 16

16

DES

I 'm all sleeked up by the time I arrive at Ho's: tight gray jeans, glitter on my cheekbones, and a skin-colored vest that shows off my arms and chest. Servers with no shirts and spray-on leather pants weave through the closely packed crowd, empties and exotic cocktails piled high on trays. Despite the thumping music, a shriek assaults my ears and suddenly George is in front of me, pulling me into a hug and kissing my lips, his hand reaching around to squeeze my ass. Unease slithers down my spine, and I draw back and open my mouth, but George grabs my hand and turns, dragging me farther into the bar.

Fighting our way through the crowds, we arrive at a table and Alan and Shaun look up from their phones and my heart sinks. Ugh. An evening of salacious gossip. Two unfamiliar guys sitting next to them are buffed up and glowing, and wave hello at me. The guy nearest me tracks up my body, lingering on my chest. Usually I like this kind of attention, but God, I'm an idiot. I'm already spoken for, and Alex isn't here, so why did I dress up like this?

In fact, I know why. George has invited me to show me off rather than for my company. He always insisted I look good when we went out. Was that the only reason he was with me? This is a million miles away from my quiet nights in with Alex, and my stomach bottoms out. I'm not looking for a hookup. I'd rather have a meal on my lap and be watching a thriller with Alex.

George pulls up a seat for me next to him and pats it. "I have so much to tell you!" he chirps. "My sister Aneline is pregnant and I'm going to be the godfather! Just me!" He makes jazz hands over his head. "Mom had this huge falling out with Dad about it, and, Dessy, by huge I mean …" He shakes his head like a dog with a flea in its ear, pursing his lips. "You of all people understand how weird Dad is about me and the gay thing …"

And on and on George goes, scarcely stopping to draw breath, and I lean in, nodding and smiling in what I hope are all the right places. After a while, he squeezes my knee.

"You've zoned out," he says with a soft pout.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs, but his eyes narrow and his face pinches. Fuck. The claws are about to come out.

"I'm used to it," he says. "No one's interested in my life. Everyone is just so obsessed with themselves …"

I almost laugh. If he ever asked any questions about other people's lives, they'd think he was the best conversationalist alive.

"… and their social media. Oh my God! I forgot to tell you, Michaela—that bitch—stole the most perfect picture of us all clubbing and got hundreds of likes. I was so mad …"

And he's off again. If he asked me to, I could write him a software script that would automatically generate loads of engagement and shares on social media.

By the time we've drunk our cocktails and headed down to Crush, I've sunk right into myself. En route, Alan and Shaun gripe about Ho's and the people and anything else they can think of, and the two unfamiliar guys join in. Walking a few steps behind with George, I lean into him and say how bad they are, but he shushes me as he studies them, smiling.

"They're cute though—don't you think?"

And ah, okay. He wanted some admirers along.

"We're quite the glamorous little crowd," he adds.

This is his criterion for his evenings out? Perhaps that's why he's friends with Alan and Shaun, and why did all this never occur to me?

How different was this with Alex? His initial wide-eyed embarrassment that morphed into delight. He hung on my arm at 2 a.m. wondering how he was going to survive at work and said he was wrong to resist going and how much he'd loved it. Then I told him that 3 a.m. would make no difference and dragged him for a hot chocolate.

We stop at the end of the line. Not too big a wait tonight .

George leans in and places his mouth against mine, trying to deepen the kiss.

Drawing back, I shake my head at him, and he laughs, taking my face in his hands. "It's okay, we're at Crush."

"I met somebody," I say. And he drops his hands as his whole face changes, the warm flush of alcohol giving way to the pinched expression I saw earlier, tightness creeping around his eyes.

"Why didn't you say something? God, how embarrassing." Shaking his head, he stares down the street, a red tinge building on his neck.

I pat his arm. "It's okay."

"It's okay ? My boyfriend tells me he's found someone else and then says it's okay?" His head turns toward me, eyes theatrically huge, and the red gathering on his throat has reached his cheeks now.

"I just meant it's okay that you kissed me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you," I say as quietly and calmly as I can. Please don't do an epic George meltdown in the line for Crush.

"Too right! You sat in Ho's nodding and letting me babble away. You should have told me this little detail first. Why didn't you say anything before you came out?"

His pink face is so close to mine that I look away. "I'm sorry. I ought to have done that."

He blinks at me, and his eyes fill with tears as he turns away, pressing his fingers in the corner of his eyes.

I put my hand on his arm again. "George, we haven't been boyfriends for a while now."

Spinning round, his mouth pinches. "We had sex a few weeks back, a threesome if I recall. You didn't say I wasn't your boyfriend then," he hisses. He waves his hand in a dramatic arc. "Felix said we were really good together if you remember ." He tosses the last word into my face.

It was a hookup. We broke up a long time ago. Doesn't he understand what an actual relationship looks like? Maybe he doesn't . That slithery feeling is back. Have I ever taken the time with George to ask the questions that might get to the bottom of how he sees things, his view of the world? He just gossips … all the time. He doesn't know me, but perhaps I'm guilty here, too: I don't know him either.

"George, we agreed …"

" You decided , Dessy …" And oh God, here we go. "You said I wasn't good enough for you, that I couldn't keep it in my pants and you wanted more. Well, let me tell you"—he jabs my chest—"no guy keeps it in his pants."

I could laugh. I could cry. Our views on what makes a relationship are a million miles apart. He doesn't see being faithful like I do. Being close to someone, being open and honest about who you are and trusting , he has no idea what that looks like. Sucking in a deep breath, I look off up the street. I love George dearly, and now he's upset. God . Here we are outside Crush, and I've wrecked his night. This conversation could have happened over a quiet coffee. I snort to myself: When have George and I ever had a quiet drink anywhere?

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"Sorry?" he says, tipping his head back and staring up at the night sky visible between the two buildings towering over us on either side of the street.

"I've ruined tonight." I run a hand over my soft curls.

"You've ruined a lot more than tonight." His lips twist. "Oh, don't worry about it, Dessy, you're gorgeous—of course you were always going to find someone better than little ol' me."

He presses his hand against his chest, and I fold my arms over my body as his theatrics kick in. Can I not for once have a straight conversation with him? All this second-guessing, working around an explosion or drunkenness or a desire to party, party, party, never stopping to examine anything too closely. I want to be his friend, but all he wants is to create drama.

Alan and Shaun and the two other guys are standing apart from us now, trying to appear like they're not eavesdropping.

"Do you want me to go?" I say, lowering my voice.

"No, no. You can come in and watch me hook up with someone else, and see how that feels," he snarls.

Shaking my head at him, I stare down the line, shivering in my thin top. I don't want to spend a whole evening with a tantrumming George, and I'm not finding a guy tonight either. Being here is completely pointless. I want to go home and call Alex and talk about nonsense for hours. Chat about books we've read. Maybe get an interesting picture from him. Perhaps I could send one in return. In comparison to this, it's all so simple and easy. I thought I liked all the fun and drama of this, but I'm not sure I do. I like the intimacy of what Alex and I have more and more.

What feels like decades later, I stagger out of the club into the damp Manhattan night, cursing myself, cursing George. He dragged me onto the dance floor and then put on an exhibition of suggestive dancing with other guys. Weariness rolls through me like a wave, and I groan and rub my hand over my hair. The doorman chats to me for a bit, but in minutes the Uber appears like a genie and soon I'm back at the apartment taking Mitzi out for a quick wee and then zipping through a hot shower.

If I don't have friends like George, who do I have in my life? Sipping a hot tea, I look out of the window at the deserted cobbled street below. What makes someone a friend? If nobody cares, does any of this even matter? Walking through to my bedroom, I put my cup down on the nightstand. Mitzi scrabbles at the side of the mattress and I can't be bothered to make her go back to her bed tonight, so I pick her up and lie down, curling around her warm furry body, wondering whether I'm actually building a career and a life here in New York or just killing time until some unknown future calamity.