Bad Friends. Claire Seeber

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ at where he lounged against the bar. ‘I’ll be straight back,’ she promised me.

      ‘There’s no rush,’ I muttered as she floated off, ‘really.’

      ‘Old friend?’ asked Naz cheerfully, offering me a cigarette. ‘You don’t look too pleased to see her, I must say.’

      ‘Don’t I?’ I took a drag so deep the acrid smoke made me cough.

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘I just don’t quite understand why she keeps turning up everywhere.’

      In the middle of the dance floor, Bel and Johnno were kissing, oblivious to their pogo-ing neighbours, oblivious to everyone around them. I wasn’t envious. I really wasn’t. Taking a slug of my cocktail, I was surprised to find my glass was empty. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid.’

      ‘Why? Who is she?’

      ‘She was on the coach when it crashed, and now – well, she just keeps turning up all over the place.’

      ‘Like a bad penny.’

      ‘Something like that, yes.’

      ‘I know what’ll cheer you up.’ Naz grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the Ladies. ‘Come on.’

      ‘I’m fine, Naz, honestly.’

      She was determined. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.’

      ‘I’m not. I’d rather have a drink, that’s all. You go. I’ll be at the bar.’

      Fay sidled up to me as I waited to get served. My foot was throbbing painfully from bashing it outside Charlie’s office door.

      ‘I’m off now, Maggie. I was only booked for the first two hours. Got a party of my own to go to now.’

      I felt inordinately relieved.

      ‘My new agency – their party.’ Fay said the first words with great pride.

      ‘Oh right. Well, have a good time.’ I resisted the temptation to slide my finger through the middle of her perfect ringlet.

      ‘I always do.’ Fay took both my hands in hers and squeezed them rather like a vicar might. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

      ‘Champagne, darling?’ Charlie’s hot breath caressed my naked back and I shuddered, watching Fay skip towards the stairs.

      There followed an hour of polite-if-rather-dazed listening to Naz’s friends from one of the big channels. They were all wired, admiring themselves in the mirrored walls with the complete assurance that they had never looked better, slimmer or taller than right now. Frantically they jostled for air-time, each absolutely convinced that what they had to say was far more fascinating than the next person’s offering. I stifled a yawn. The only thing more boring than taking coke was listening to people bang on about it.

      ‘Let me talk,’ one heavy girl with a thick black fringe kept insisting, scowling if anyone interrupted her. I felt like the needle in the middle of a badly tuned radio, voices vying for attention. ‘No, no, listen,’ the girl was saying now. I realised hazily that she was talking to me. ‘Naz told me you’re doing the Renee Owens show. I don’t know how you can work on that rubbish, I really don’t. It’s so bloody rigged.’

      ‘Rigged?’ I really couldn’t be bothered to defend myself. ‘And what do you do?’

      ‘I’m series producing this year’s X Factor,’ she announced proudly. ‘It’s a corker – beating Strictly hands down.’

      ‘What, and X Factor’s all about the talent?’ Naz scoffed. ‘Come on, Nat! Pull the other one.’

      ‘It is based on talent!’ Natalie was outraged. ‘Absolutely. And, God, Simon’s such a scream to work with.’

      ‘Whose talent?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sharon Osbourne’s? You’re shoving the walking wounded straight into the cannon’s mouth.’

      ‘We only –’

      I zoned out. The couple next to me couldn’t keep their hands off one another; the bloke kept thrusting his hand down the back of her jeans. Mournfully I thought of Alex and looked away.

      ‘You do look fab, Maggie – just like a Christmas present,’ Naz said kindly. ‘Someone’s bound to tear you open soon!’ Only her streaming nose rather ruined the sentiment. As her boyfriend snaked a lascivious arm around her, I fled to join Bel on the dance floor.

      She was extremely drunk. After some rather terrifying disco-squats she ricocheted round the dancers surrounding her, finally cannoning into me so that I fell against a group standing on the edge of the dance floor. An arm shot out to steady me.

      ‘Sorry.’ I staggered in the heels I wasn’t used to, my bad foot sore again where I’d awkwardly righted myself. ‘Ouch.’

      ‘Do you want to sit down for a second?’ The dark-haired man who’d just caught me led me to a seat tucked in the corner, where I plonked myself down inelegantly and slid my shoe off. ‘Oh God, that hurts.’ I rubbed my toes. ‘Thanks for saving me.’

      ‘No problem.’ He offered me a hand. ‘Sebastian Rae. Seb.’

      ‘Maggie. Maggie Warren.’ And then I looked up at him directly as I took the proffered hand, and for the first time since Alex, the first time in such a very long time, I felt a surge of something, something like life, and it almost winded me. I looked up at this man again, and afterwards I had the horrible feeling I might have been mouthing stupidly, sort of fish-like, saying nothing.

      He was studying me intently, his dark eyes inscrutable. So intently. I looked away again very quickly and prayed I hadn’t just blushed like a schoolgirl.

      ‘You all right now, then, Maggie Warren?’

      ‘Oh yes, I’m fine.’ He was going to walk away. Please don’t walk away. But he moved off – and then he turned and looked at me again.

      ‘Can I get you a drink?’

      Oh God, absolutely. ‘Oh, thanks – if you’re sure,’ I mumbled.

      I liked his suit. It would have looked rather odd and out of place on anyone else amid this mayhem, but something about his leanness, about his stance, meant he pulled it off. I’d quite like to pull it off, I decided. I looked at my feet, and back up again. He was still waiting.

      ‘What’ll it be then?’

      ‘Oh, sorry! I’ll have a – a glass of red wine please.’

      By the time Seb had battled to the bar and back I’d had time to come to my senses. I definitely wasn’t ready for this again. And he – well, he wasn’t Alex. He sat beside me, his dark hair tousled, his shirt very white, and I stared at the razor-sharp creases in his grey trousers and tried desperately to think of something interesting to say.

      ‘What do you do?’ I’d failed. The flashing lights СКАЧАТЬ