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‘I’m going to get another drink,’ Bea announced hurriedly, levering herself from the sofa, before the conversation turned any more digestive.
The birthday party was in full swing and it was becoming much harder to navigate around the compact living space, for all that Cleo was in to modern, Scandinavian minimalist design (aka, the Ikea catalogue). Bea body-swerved two strangers talking to a long-haired guy she was reasonably sure Nora (or maybe Cleo?) had dated whilst at university and slipped into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, she was at the engagement party,’ Cleo was saying, over by the sink. Her hot colleague Gray had arrived. Apparently he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a Tube station fancy dress theme – inexplicably, he was dressed as Elvis. He was listening attentively to Cleo as she babbled on, although Bea couldn’t quite read his expression thanks to the false sideburns and oversized aviator sunglasses. She took one look at Cleo’s flushed face and decided to change direction, picking her way through the crowd to where Sarah and Cole were in conversation by the front door.
Bea realised too late she was walking in on something private. Cole’s arms were rigid, like a cage around Sarah as he leaned against the wall behind her. His square jaw was even squarer than usual, her eyes more moist.
‘You know what they say,’ she was hissing. ‘Drink until it’s pink.’ As if to illustrate her point, she took a hearty swallow from her something-and-coke. ‘Besides, why should I be the one to make all the sacrifices? You’re telling me I can’t even have a bloody drink while you’re refusing to basically just have a wank. Yeah, that’s fair.’ Sarah took another too-deep drink.
‘I’m just saying that it wouldn’t hurt to look after yourself a little more,’ Cole snapped back, eyeing his wife’s almost-empty glass like he was minded to snatch it from her. ‘A bottle of wine can’t be good for your, you know, eggs. And things like the amount of salt you eat. And all that butter you put on your roast potatoes on Sunday? Things like that.’
Sarah physically drew herself back, and for a split second Bea was certain Cole was about to get decked. But, in her sudden movement, Sarah had spotted Bea in the shadows of the corridor. All at once she deflated; Cole turned to see himself what had stopped his wife’s rage in its tracks.
‘Bea, hey,’ he managed, after a moment, producing a reasonable impression of normality. ‘What’s up?’
‘Er, nothing.’ Bea groped after the same level of ordinariness. Sarah was finding the array of coats on hooks near the front door extremely fascinating, but her tell-tale fingers trembled against her glass. ‘I was just seeing if anyone needed a top up?’ Bea announced, thankful for the bolt of inspiration.
‘Me,’ Sarah announced, extricating herself from her husband without a second look. She linked arms with Bea and marched them both into the kitchen. Stopping at a just-opened bottle of red, she proceeded to neck what remained of her spirit and mixer and fill up her half-pint tumbler with the dark wine.
***
‘Cleo will wring your neck if you spill that,’ Barlow said gently, taking the over-full glass from Sarah’s still shaky hands. ‘Here, let’s pour a bit out into a glass for me,’ he advised, walking her over towards the sink to do just that.
Cleo had half-turned at the sound of her name, hopeful for distraction; she was tits-deep in a conversation she had not anticipated (the fact that it was entirely of her own making notwithstanding).
It wasn’t Gray’s fault. He probably didn’t even realise when he was flirting. Cleo felt sorry for him really – he was just too lovely (and too gorgeous), the barista he ordered his morning coffee from probably thought they were in a relationship; was it any wonder that Cleo had found herself a little muddled? It was a close proximity thing – like looking too directly at the sun. Thank god, thank god, thank god the metaphorical little solar spots of lust hadn’t blinded her too badly – but still, spooling through her head on repeat, an unwanted cinematic experience of how it so easily could have gone down at the engagement party: drunk Cleo, lurching at Gray, lips smacking obscenely, like a cartoon character; Gray – too much of a gentleman to let his disgust show too much – calmly holding her at arm’s length and apologising, explaining that she’d completely misread the situation.
Imagined embarrassment gnawed at Cleo’s stomach. She fed it some alcohol. Still, her insides cringed at the thought that Gray might guess at the run of her thoughts when she looked at him.
Hence: Claire.
Claire was a wonder – petite and cute, with skin as smooth and tanned as a Werther’s Original, set off perfectly by her Disney Princess blondeness. Standing next to Gray’s broadness and darkness just set her off all the better; these were the aesthetics that made sense.
‘History was my, like, third favourite subject at school,’ Claire was saying. ‘I mean, I didn’t take it for GCSE or anything, because I took Geography instead, but still, History’s great. We can learn so much from it, you know?’
‘Er, yeah. I guess I always thought so.’ Gray shot a quick sideways glance at Cleo, as if to double-check she was still present. ‘And I always say that it’s more like the study of the condition of being human. I always tell the kids that it’s the closest we’ll ever get to being able to guess at the future, when we know where we came from. We can’t escape the past,’ Gray continued, really warming to his theme. ‘And nor should we try, because I really hope that the amazing tales and truths of all the great men and women who have gone before us really inspire the kids to take that sort of action in their own lives. And remember: history is one giant story that leads straight to you.’
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