‘God, I’ve missed you, Starfish. Come inside and let me do sinful things to you.’
We only get to see each other every few weeks now I’m living back at Mum and Dad’s; it’s been ages since I was last here. Oscar pulls me over the threshold of his flat, taking my weekend bag from me and slinging it aside so he can haul me into his arms. Yes, we’ve become one of those loved-up couples who call each other ridiculous names like ickle-pickle and dinky-toes.
We. At last there is a ‘we’. And it’s amazing. I’ve never felt this wanted or cared for in my life. Oscar makes no secret of how into me he is. He has this intense way of looking at me that makes me feel the need to glance over my shoulder just to check if Jennifer Lawrence is lurking behind me.
‘Let me get my coat off!’ I laugh, and he unbuttons it for me and peels it down my arms.
‘I was rather hoping you were going to be naked underneath.’ He pauses to eye my practical jeans and warm sweater.
‘I thought about it. Didn’t want to shock the cabbie.’
‘This is London, remember?’ he grins. ‘You’re not in the sticks now, Laurie. You could have been naked with four legs and no one would turn a hair.’ His eyes glitter. ‘Except for me, of course. I’d notice if you were naked.’
‘I don’t live in the sticks,’ I bristle, because he always refers to my home back in Birmingham as if it’s some kind of straw-chewing backwater. It’s on the very edges of suburbia, a typical greenbelt village. I get it. He’s London through and through; the open spaces and lack of black cabs came as a shock to him when I took him home to meet my family over Christmas.
It wasn’t the smoothest of ‘meet the parents’ visits, to be honest. He was perfectly lovely and they were super-polite, but common ground was difficult to find. Dad tried with football, but Oscar’s more rugby, and Oscar tried with malt whisky where my dad’s more of an ale man. It’s early days, but I think we were all relieved when it was over.
‘So much green,’ he’d muttered, and it hadn’t sounded like a compliment.
I shake off the memory; this is our big reunion after six weeks apart, I don’t want to feel out of sorts with him for no reason.
‘Can I just use the loo?’ I ask, and he reaches behind me and pushes a door open.
‘Voilà.’
‘Wait right there. I’ll be back in a sec.’
Inside the magazine-perfect bathroom, I throw the lock, strip naked and then belt my coat back on again. The silky lining is slippery against my skin, making me feel suddenly sexy and ready for Oscar to do his worst.
‘Come on, Laurie,’ he wheedles, and I swing the door wide and look at him, my head on one side. Without a word I walk the length of the hall and step back outside the front door, then after pulling it closed I rap my knuckles lightly against it.
‘Who is it?’ His voice is low and amused, laced with bad intentions.
‘It’s me, Laurie,’ I say, attempting husky. ‘Open the door, I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.’
He takes his time, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed even though his eyes tell me he’s anything but nonchalant. I let my gaze sweep over him, assessing, taking in his dark jeans and expensive shirt, his bare feet somehow still tanned.
‘You’re overdressed,’ I say. ‘Can I come in?’
He doesn’t step aside, just reaches out and tugs my belt open. I don’t move to stop him when he unbuttons the coat with slow deliberation, his tongue snaking over his top lip, an unconscious tell.
‘Promise me you’ll always visit me like this?’
I smile. ‘We don’t make each other promises, remember?’
He tugs me inside by my lapels, then presses me against the back of the door as he slams it and slides his warm, searching hands inside my coat.
‘I remember,’ he whispers, half laughing, half groaning as he palms my breast. ‘Now stop talking and come to bed.’
‘Come on, Sar, we’re going to be late at this rate.’
Sarah always does this. She operates on an elastic timescale, imagining that time will stretch to accommodate however long she feels is necessary to get ready for a night out.
‘How do I look?’
When she appears in the lounge doorway I look up from the newspaper her flatmate must have left on the table and give her my full attention. Any man would; she looks incredible.
‘New dress?’
I get up and cross the room, running my hands over the soft oxblood leather. It tracks the flow of her body like a second skin, ending mid-thigh. My fingers linger there on her bare leg, slowly rucking her skirt until I skim the silk of her underwear.
A tiny, knowing smile plays over her mouth. ‘I’ll take that as your approval, shall I?’
I kiss her neck. ‘You do that.’ When I slide my hand behind her head and press my mouth into the dip between her collarbones, she sighs and takes a step back from me.
‘Don’t, Jack. We’re late enough already.’
I look into her smoky, perfectly made-up eyes. ‘I could be really fast.’
‘I know you could.’ There’s an edge to her voice.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
She pauses too, glancing down at her black skyscraper heels and then back at me again. ‘Just that – nothing.’ She sighs, shaking her head. ‘Let’s not fight. We’re both really busy. Let’s just go.’
She can say that again. My life is bloody full-on and Sarah’s the same, pulling us three ways at once and usually in the opposite direction. I’ve had to switch stuff around at work this weekend so we can finally catch up with Laurie and the much-talked-of-but-not-yet-met Oscar Farquhar-Percival-McDougall. Or something like that. And where are we meeting them? At his fucking private members’ club, naturally.
‘Are you going like that?’
I look down at my clothes as if I don’t know what she means. My jeans might look battered but that’s purposeful; I paid a lot of money to look this casual. Perhaps it’s my T-shirt with ‘Star Fucker’ emblazoned across the chest that’s got up her nose – my attempt at subtle irony. I’m finally gathering a bit of a rep as an up-and-coming radio DJ, and you have to dress the part, though there’s a fine line between hipster and wankster.
‘Yes, Sarah. I’m going like this.’ I reach for the battered vintage leather jacket she gave me last Christmas and shrug it on, just to reinforce the point that I’m not going to change.
She double-checks her immaculate lipstick in the hallway mirror, then picks up her handbag and coat with a shrug. ‘Okay.’
I follow her down the stairs and, as I watch her skip down confidently in heels no one should be able to look so comfortable in, I roll my shoulders to shake off my dark mood.
‘Hey.’ I catch her hand to slow her down as she reaches the pavement. ‘Let’s not fall out. I’ve missed you this week.’ I trail the back of my hand down the smoothness of her cheek, then hold her delicate jaw. I’d rub my thumb over her full mouth if it wouldn’t ruin her lipstick. ‘You really do look knockout in this dress. I’m already thinking about peeling you out of it later.’
She softens, as I knew she would. ‘Smooth talker.’
‘You know it.’
‘I do.’ She turns her face into my hand and nips my thumb. ‘Now flag us a taxi, fool-boy. I’m freezing.’
Does it sound crazy to say I’m nervous? It’s only Sarah and Jack, for God’s sake, my oldest and best friends. I just want them to love Oscar as much as I do, that’s all. It’s been too long since we saw each other; our pact to meet at New Year fell by the wayside with the advent of Oscar. This is the first date since New Year that we’ve all been able to make; life is pulling everyone in different directions, it seems. They haven’t arrived yet, and he’s deep in conversation across the other side of the room with the barman, because he wants to have the perfect first round of drinks ready for them when they come in. He shoots me a smile when he catches me looking his way. His eyes linger on me for longer than is polite, a look that telegraphs that he’s remembering our afternoon in bed.
I look away first, my eye drawn to the door by Sarah and Jack’s arrival. Joy blooms hot in my chest at the sight of Sarah’s familiar red hair, although she’s warmed the shade down from fire engine to rich mahogany and it’s been styled into lustrous, tumbling waves rather than the Princess Leah plaits of Delancey Street. I touch my own messy bun, self-conscious for a moment, but then her face cracks into a huge grin when she spots me and her gait goes from uncertain to almost skipping across the bar to get to me.
I’m glad, actually, that Oscar isn’t beside me right at this moment; it gives me a couple of seconds to just be myself, for it to be me and Sarah, like old times. Her grip is fierce when she hugs me.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say, at the same time as she says, ‘Bloody hell, Lu. It’s been too long.’
We stand back at arm’s length and check each other over. I take in her screamingly sexy leather dress and she takes in my standby black dress that she’s seen countless times before; I think she may even have worn it herself once or twice. I’ve jazzed it up with a skinny snakeskin belt and the small gold and diamond starfish pendant Oscar gave me at Christmas, and up to the point of Sarah’s entrance I felt pretty glam, in an understated way. She looks like herself after a TV makeover, which, I guess, is effectively what she’s had. Her job seems to have transformed her from my beloved potty-mouthed friend into someone who could easily have walked out of a magazine. Until she opens her mouth, and then, thank God, she’s still exactly as she always was.
‘Fuck,’ she says, wiping one fingertip under each eye so her mascara doesn’t run. ‘I don’t get this upset over my own sister. I bloody love you, Laurie James.’
I laugh, squeezing her hand. ‘Love you too. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Jack steps out from behind her then, and I brace myself for impact. I’ve no idea if I’ll be able to act casual around him. I’ve put off even thinking about seeing him again, a tactic which has worked right up to this very second where I now find myself wholly unprepared.
He looks right into my eyes, no shifty gazing off over my shoulder, and for a moment I’m knocked off-centre by that aching, familiar longing. Old habits die hard, it would seem.
‘Good to see you, Laurie,’ he says. For an awful moment it seems as if he’s going to shake my hand, but then he holds it and pulls me close into a hug. The scent of him fills my head, warm spices and lemon, probably something expensive Sarah has given him, underscored with that inimitable essence of him, a smell I can neither describe nor reimagine when he isn’t there. But he’s here now, and for a second I close my eyes and feel the heat of his body through his inappropriately worded T-shirt as he kisses my forehead. It’s a casual embrace, I tell myself. Of no significance to me now I’m with Oscar.
‘Happy New Year,’ he says into my hair. He sounds self-conscious, and I half laugh as I step away.
‘You’re three months late, you plonker.’
‘Where is he then?’ Sarah’s excited eyes scan the half-full bar, and Jack stands at her side, one hand resting on her waist. I’m struck by how much they’ve changed in a relatively short time, or perhaps how they seem to have grown up without me. It’s subtle: a gloss on Sarah, a layer of self-assurance on Jack. Oscar has it too, to an extent; he’s now firmly entrenched in his role at the bank alongside his brother, and although we speak most days I’ve become aware of something edging between us. It’s an inevitable consequence of living separate lives, I suppose. He’s here in London making new friends, eating at cool places, and I am back living with my parents in Birmingham. It’s possible that I’m imagining it because I’m anxious about my lack of job. Or maybe I’m just plain old jealous. Not everyone can make it, can they? Some do, and others settle for less. I think all of this in the split second between greeting Sarah and Jack and catching Oscar’s eye as he moves towards us across the bar bearing a tray of impressive-looking cocktails. I wink at him subtly as I step aside so he can deposit them on the table, and Sarah catches my eye and gives me a little thumbs-up behind his back. I don’t look at Jack as I catch hold of Oscar’s hand when he straightens and steps back. I love that Sarah doesn’t stand on ceremony; she lunges straight in and kisses him on the cheek, catching hold of his other hand.
‘You must be Sarah,’ Oscar says with a laugh, and for a moment they silently size each other up. I wonder if she is what he expected; whether he measures up to her idea of him. No one speaks for a second. I think Sarah, Jack and I are each trying to decide where Oscar fits into our trio. Will he be given equal billing? Or must he be assigned a temporary spot in the corner, holding space while he’s assessed for permanent residence?
‘And you must be Oscar,’ Sarah says, still holding on to his hand. ‘Come on then, let me get a good look at you.’
She pretends to scrutinize him, and he obligingly holds his breath and waits for her verdict, solemn-faced, like a schoolboy in front of the headmistress.
‘I approve.’ She grins, looking from me to him and back again. Belatedly, she turns to Jack and draws him into the circle.
‘This is Jack,’ she says, presenting them to each other, and now it’s my turn to catch my breath. I watch as Oscar is first to hold his hand out and note how Jack allows a deliberate beat to pass before reciprocating.
‘Look at you, all big-brother posturing.’ Sarah bumps shoulders with Jack to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Laurie has her actual brother to do all of that stuff for her so you can stand down, soldier.’
‘You’re not going to ask me about my intentions towards Laurie, are you?’ Oscar deadpans. ‘Because they’re all very, very bad indeed.’
‘Oh, I like you already,’ Sarah laughs, delighted, and Oscar rewards her with a champagne cocktail, and the same for me. Jack sniffs the tumbler of iced amber Oscar passes him, practically turning his nose up.
‘They call it Penicillin,’ Oscar says. ‘Whisky. Ginger. Honey.’ He grins at Jack. ‘Almost a health drink.’
Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m more of a beer bloke, to be honest, but I’ll give anything a go once.’
Oscar’s smile falters a fraction as he raises his glass. We all follow suit.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asks.
‘Old friends,’ Jack says.
‘And new ones,’ Sarah adds pointedly, her megawatt smile all for Oscar.
We clink glasses and I shoot Jack a micro-look that I hope sends a macro-message. Don’t you fucking dare, Jack O’Mara.
He appears to receive it, because he turns to Oscar and engages him in a question about Thailand, leaving me and Sarah free to catch up.
‘This is fancy,’ she whispers, her excited eyes flickering around the private members’ bar.
I grin, because I knew she’d get a kick out of it. ‘It is a bit, isn’t it? Oscar wanted to make a good impression.’
‘Any man who orders champagne cocktails and makes my best friend smile gets the thumbs-up from me.’