Page 16 of Mister Rival

There’s that ghost of a smile again as she pauses. There’s no way I’m going to stop calling her that, friend or no friend. It is her name, after all. I guess I kinda dig the way she told me off about it. “Good night, Lucas.”

I grin, knowing she’s probably not going to stop calling me by my surname either.

Chapter Eight

ALISON

I don’t know how, but Lexi convinced me to go to the reunion. I only agreed because I heard Gareth wouldn’t be there, and a friend of mine from back home wants some advice selling her property and I said I’d help out. Two birds, one stone.

The second I arrive, I question that decision. I mean, reunions are never a good idea. I of all people know this, but my daughter kind of insisted. She was so excited about going to my hometown for the weekend and sleeping over at my parents’ place. We see them all the time, but they usually come and see us in LA because I’m working, so it was nice for her to spend some time in my childhood home and enjoy hanging out with her grandparents for the weekend.

“Oh, my God!” Julie — according to her name tag — cries as I jerk out of my reverie. She’s staring at me with wide eyes, a big dopey grin on her face, and one palm pressed against her chest. “I don’t believe it. Is that you, Alison Archer?”

Oh, fuck. I have no idea who this chick is, and flicking through my memories won’t help because I’m shit at remembering anything important, especially from high school. Most of it I’ve purposefully blanked out.

“Uh, hey, Julie,” I say, knowing I have no fucking clue who she is.

“Well, haven’t the years been kind to you? Then again, you do live in LA, plastic city central. Ooops, not that I think you're plastic, Ali, far from it!” She giggles nervously. “What has it been, twenty years since we ran into each other?”

Okay. Now I know who she is.

Jellyfish Julie. My, my, some things never change.

I want to tell her I’ve looked after my skin through regular treatments, sunblock and good genetics, as well as sleep and a diet consisting of anti-inflammatory foods and vitamins, but I doubt she’ll care. Not all of us have been under the surgeon’s knife.

“Yep. It’s been a while.”

She lays a hand on my wrist. “I’m so sorry about that no-good husband of yours. We heard all about it, and I’ve gotta say, you’re better off without him. He always did have a wandering eye.”

She could’ve just shot me dead, but I plaster on my fake, very well-versed, realtor's smile and reach for the glass of bubbles on the tray as the waiter passes. I gulp the entire thing down as Julie stares at me. I don’t have time to contemplate what I say next; it just blurts out.

“That’s nice of you to bring it up, but trust me, single life is A-okay.” I give her the thumbs up. “I mean the men in LA? I’ve gotta tell you, whoever said blondes have more fun certainly haven’t dipped their toe into the varying pool of fine suits in Hollywood. Let’s just say, I was married to a shrimp, and now I’m eating prawns every chance I get.” I follow it with a high-pitched laugh that sounds more like a cackle. It’s the bubbles.

Okay, maybe I didn’t mean it to come out quite like that, but seeing Julie’s jaw drop practically to the floor gives me some sense of satisfaction.

I don’t care if she thinks I’m a floozy. She can eat it.

“Will you excuse me? I need to go powder my nose.” I give her a wink, and walk towards the party, swiping another glass of bubbles as I go.

I shake my head. Then I remember Tristan’s text message a few days ago and can’t help but smile to myself.

Tristan Lucas

Sure you won’t change your mind, Ali? If you do, I’ll be the guy wearing the tux.

Of course, it would be just like Tristan to look a million bucks in his Hugo Boss suit and Versace shoes with minimal effort on his part.

I’m half a second away from turning around to spend the rest of the night in my pjs with Mom, Dad and Clementine, but then I see something worse than Julie’s judgy eyes: my ex-husband. I squint to make sure I’m not seeing things or conjuring up some worst case scenario.

Fake smile. Check.

Cheap suit. Check. Check.

Twenty-four-year-old bimbo on his arm. Check. Check. Check.

He brought her?

That bastard. He told me he wasn't coming, but I should’ve known; any chance to flaunt pouty Alina-what’s-her-face to a room full of people who really don’t give a shit, he’s gonna take it.

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