It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ she said and glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s head to Apt.’

      A three-tiered bar in Mansion House, Apt was where all the office workers within a half-mile radius ended up for ‘one more drink’. After which, the original plan was generally abandoned in favour of an alternative, which most likely involved sambuca shots, a few grams of cocaine, terrible dancing and inappropriate liaisons with colleagues.

      ‘But we’ll have to go right now though,’ Cordelia said, ‘before they’re too wasted to bother with.’

      We flagged a cab. Although we were within easy walking distance, Cordelia insisted Dior heels were not made for walking, especially in the city, where she was convinced cobbles and cobblers were in a conspiratorial partnership.

      When we arrived at Apt, there was a queue around the block and a one-in-one-out entrance restriction. Having decided that it was imperative, in the name of love, that I find a way to push in, I made a beeline for a group of men who were swaying precariously at the front of the queue. Thrusting my shoulders back, I adopted my most convincing smile and paired it with a less clumsily executed Cordelia hair flick.

      ‘Like your style,’ said the most sober one, after I’d explained how, by allowing two girls to push in, he was actually increasing his chances of entry. Rugged and stocky, and with a thick Irish accent, he seemed decent enough, although obviously unaware that the door policy was in no way as discerning as I had implied.

      ‘These girls with you?’ the towering doorman asked him.

      He slid his arm around my waist.

      ‘She’s my fiancée,’ he said, his hand inching down as we walked in, clearly aiming for a bottom grope. When I blocked its path and placed it back on my waist, he turned to me and frowned.

      ‘A fair exchange, do you think?’ he said. ‘You get the front entrance, and I get the back entrance!’

      The entire group erupted in a simultaneous belly laugh. I glared at him, opened my mouth to say something and then immediately closed it again after thinking better of it. His point was valid. Accepting diamonds for sex was much further along the spectrum, but hair-flicking for door entry was most definitely in the same category.

      Leaving them still sniggering and inwardly apologising to my better self, I followed Cordelia through to the main bar area, down the staircase and into the darkness of the basement.

      Two hours later, as shirts were being shed and coked-up city workers danced their interpretation of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’, Cordelia and I retreated up the stairs and out of the bar.

      ‘That’s the hard part over with,’ she said, handing me a stack of business cards.

      The beat of the music faded into the distance and the faces of all the people we’d met that night flashed through my mind. I gripped the cards tighter, wondering if, when it came to it, they would trust me enough to put their hearts in my hands.

      I was hoping Matthew would still be up when I arrived home, but the flat was silent apart from gentle ‘beer’ snores coming from his room. He only ever snored after he’d been drinking beer, never wine or spirits. I’d always thought that was odd. I flopped down onto the sofa in the lounge, realising that it was the small intimacies in a relationship that gave it meaning.

      Just as I was drifting off to the hypnotic rhythm of Matthew’s snores, something on the coffee table caught my eye. It was the property magazine that thudded through our letter box every month. Usually I binned them straight away, but, for some reason, I felt inclined to pick it up. There was something familiar about the house on the cover.

      Right away, I sat up. My stomach churned as I stared at the wisteria-cloaked walls and beautiful bay windows. The gravel driveway. The willow tree in the front garden. I flicked through the pages to find a photo of a slick-haired estate agent wearing an oversized tie and a capital growth smile. I had never met the man, but I knew I hated him. According to the quote above his portrait, he was delighted to present to the market … my house. Or rather, the house Robert and I were once planning to buy. I sank back down into the sofa and let the publication fall onto my chest. Suddenly, as though the street lights were on a dimmer switch, the room darkened. I felt a heavy weight bearing down on me. I knocked the magazine onto the floor. It made a loud bang and Matthew’s snores momentarily paused. I closed my eyes tightly, willing him to wake up, but he didn’t. When his snores resumed, I sank my head into my hands and let out a deep sigh. It was the first time since I’d packed up my car and wheel-spun out of Robert’s life that I’d felt truly alone.

      Until now, I thought I’d been riding the wave of resilience. As it turns out, drinking every night and suppressing three years of memories hadn’t been an ingenious way to avoid the pain. Instead it had only delayed it. I ran into my room and pulled out a box from my wardrobe. Until now, I’d been too scared to open it. I tipped it up and the photos spilled onto my bedroom carpet. I’d heard people say that when you face the enemy, the fear is gone. I never would have believed them until I stared at my old life. The life I’d always wanted, the life I’d almost lived, scattered around me: Robert and I snorkelling on the Barrier Reef, wine tasting in South Africa, skiing in Verbier, laughing and drinking as though our happiness would never end. A tear trickled down my cheek, then another and then, finally, the grief came, like a tsunami crashing through a flood barrier. This time I knew I couldn’t fight it. I threw myself onto the bed, burrowed my face into a pillow and sobbed. My chest heaved as my mind flashed through the scenes that led to our break-up. The feigned look of innocence when I’d uncovered his online indiscretions. The seemingly limitless adult chat sites he’d registered with. Trawling through his messages to other girls. The photos on his phone. He’d told me he would love me for ever. Did he even know what love was?

      When there were no tears left, I looked up, expectantly. But nothing had changed. There had been no apocalypse. The world was still turning, Matthew was still snoring. I wiped the remaining tears from my cheeks and then picked up a photo: one a waiter had taken of us tucking in to a candlelit dinner on a beach in Mexico. I looked closer. I would have said this was one of the happiest moments of my life. But looking at it now, through puffy, yet sharper eyes, my smile seemed false, as though instead of sharing a precious moment with the man I loved, I were auditioning for a low budget toothpaste ad. And Robert’s expression looked creepy, as though he were biding his time before he could nip off for a webcam chat with a naked Ukrainian.

      At the time I’d felt beautiful, like a goddess. And Robert had been my god. Now, my dimpled cellulite and giant nose seemed to jump out at me and Robert looked like a cross between a Tory MP and a frog. I stared at the image some more, wondering if love could ever be real, or if instead it were something we craved so deeply that somehow we found a way to construct it in our minds.

      Although I knew I was a long way from finding answers, that night, after I’d packed away the photos, I slept more soundly than I had done in months.

       Chapter 3

      BARRISTERS, ADVOCATES, SOLICITORS, heads of PR, heads of HR, heads of marketing, marketing consultants, business consultants, business analysts, risk analysts, CTOs, CEOs, CFOs, PAs, EAs. Despite the grown-up titles, the business cards I’d laid out on my coffee table seemed to stare up at me with the expectancy of a classroom of school children.

      I picked up my phone and panic-called Cordelia.

      ‘How СКАЧАТЬ