Page 5 of Wish You Were Here
‘Oh, right,’ says a confused Aaron, but he doesn’t ask the question we all want to know the answer to: Then why the fuck are you wearing a kilt?
After a few minutes of polite chit-chat, we wander off to get drinks, and then I kick off my shoes and head towards the dance floor with Jess. The real wedding is about to get underway. As we’re dancing, Jess tells me again not to sleep with Brad because he’s bad news, and it took Caroline ages to get over him. Jess says I can do whatever I want with anyone else at the wedding, just not with Brad because it would break Caroline’s heart. I look around and, apart from a few men, who are clearly in relationships, the number of hot single men is looking a little thin on the ground. This will just have to be one of those weddings when I don’t hook up, and wake up the following morning wondering whose room we’re in, and if the hotel offers a free breakfast. I will be sensible, not drink too much and go tobed alone, but with the knowledge I am growing and maturing as a woman.
I wake up, and I can barely open my eyes. I was clearly very drunk last night, but at least I am in my bed. I can see my nightstand with my phone, which is probably dead, a book – which I didn’t read a single page of the entire weekend, and a shoe. But not my shoe. In fact, it’s a man’s shoe. A smart black shoe. Fuck! I have no memory of what happened last night. Alcohol seems to have miraculously wiped most of the previous night from my mind, like something from a sci-fi movie. I slowly begin turning around to face the other person. I take my time because my head is killing me, and honestly, I don’t want to know who is lying next to me in bed. I eventually get all the way around, and he’s already awake, looking at me, and then he smiles a radiant smile full of ridiculously white teeth.
‘Morning, Sas,’ says Brad.
‘Fuck, it’s you, and please don’t call me that. Only friends call me Sas.’
‘So men, who do things to you that can only be described as downright filthy, can’t call you Sas?’ says Brad, and I hate myself. I look down, and the duvet is barely covering his penis, but his entire top half is out, and it is glorious. I have never seen abs like that. Completely hairless, perfectly tanned abs and a chest you could have a picnic on.
‘I think you should leave,’ I say, adjusting my eyes so that they’re staring at his face and not his body, before I pull the duvet up to cover myself because I am only wearing a pair of knickers.
‘You don’t want a morning round? It was pretty awesome last night.’
‘Brad, please just go. And make sure no-one sees you on the way out.’
‘Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, or have heard from Caroline, but I’m not a bad guy,’ he says, standing up, and I get the full Brad. Completely naked, gorgeous Brad, and it takes all of my willpower not to say, fuck it, get back in bed and do whatever you did to me last night again, but I have to say no. For Jess. For Caroline. For myself.
‘It doesn’t matter what I’ve heard, Brad, we can’t do this.’
‘Fair enough, but for the record, I had fun last night,’ says Brad with a gorgeous, ‘if you give me another chance, baby, I’ll rock your whole damn world!’ smile.
Brad finds his clothes, which are strewn around the room, gets dressed and then he walks across to me. He somehow still smells heavenly, and his breath isn’t bad either – did he wake up before me and brush his teeth? He leans down, and he kisses me one last time.
‘My number’s in your phone. Call me,’ he says, and then he leaves and I lie back on the bed, disgusted with myself because why, for once, couldn’t I make a good decision? Then my mobile rings. At least it isn’t dead. I reach across, grab it and then look at the caller. It’s Jess.
‘Morning, Mrs Blair!’ I say, attempting bright and cheerful.
‘You fucked Brad last night, didn’t you?’
3
Ben
I am at work, desperate to leave because I am meeting everyone at an Italian restaurant on Rathbone Place for Will’s birthday, but I have to email a new client in Australia. I’m an asset manager, primarily working in the real estate market, although I have moved around within the company since I joined on a graduate scheme straight from university. I did my degree in economics and statistics, and that’s how my brain works. I have to work everything through in a very conscientious, pragmatic way, analysing all the available data before making the best possible decision. If only my love life were that simple.
My office is near Liverpool Street, and for the most part I enjoy my work and the life it provides me. The hours can be long, sometimes the commute from Clapham can feel like a bit of a grind, but it’s all a trade-off because it gives me a certain amount of financial freedom – I say certain because I haven’t yet bought a house, got married and had children – the trifecta of the most expensive things I will ever do. It’s nearly seven o’clock, and we are meeting at the restaurant at seven-fifteen. If I am quick and find a cab, I might just about make it on time. I quickly type out the email, press send, before I grab my bag, slip it over my shoulder and then leave the office in a hurry.
Fortunately, at this time of night there are a number of black cabs in the area, and it doesn’t take me long to get one. I tell him where I’m going, then before I know it, we’re whizzing through the marginally quieter back streets of London towards Fitzrovia. It’s a gloomy night, but at least the earlier rain has eased up. Although as I step out of the cab, I am forced to dodge a particularly large puddle before I walk into the restaurant to meet my friends.
Will is the first of my mates to turn thirty. It’s a shocking realisation that our twenties are almost up, and it feels like thirty is the age when you should start really getting your shit together. Being young and single in your early-to-mid-twenties, getting drunk every Friday night, trying to meet girls, and maybe you do or maybe you don’t, and the weekends are fine for playing video games or going to the pub, but in your late-twenties it starts to feel different. For a start, you begin losing people. In your early twenties, the weekend group is strong, and there are at least fifteen of you, all desperate to go out and have fun, but gradually one by one they begin falling away. Harry from work was always up for a pint, but is off travelling. Laura used to love the pub quiz, and she organised the team WhatsApp, but she moved to Brighton with her boyfriend. Sam Butler, that friend of a friend, who somehow joined the group and stayed, is now engaged and too busy for drinks. George and Katie, the couple everyone aspired to be because despite being together since the first week of university, still loved going out, can’t anymore because she’s pregnant. Like a well-worn combat platoon in a World War Two epic, characters that started out together so full of hope and optimism gradually get killed off, and it’s only a matter of time before there’s hardly any of the old gang left.
‘Happy birthday!’ we say loudly as Will comes strolling into the restaurant. He does a quick bow, and then we all get up, give him hugs, kisses from the girls, before he sits down and we orderdrinks. It’s Friday night, and it has the potential to be a big one. At least it does until Will says quite matter-of-factly.
‘I can’t stay out late. I’m off to the Cairngorms in the morning.’
‘Excuse me?’ I reply. ‘It’s your birthday, Will. Your thirtieth birthday! We have to stay out until at least two or three in the morning.’
‘No can do, mate. I have four days of hiking in Scotland.’
‘But …’ I whimper.
While I am in a dark grey suit with a white shirt and smart black shoes, Will is wearing a pair of slightly battered green chinos, a pair of dark brown leather boots and a denim shirt under a navy gilet. He has a week of stubble on his face, a couple of colourful friendship bracelets on his right wrist and an expensive adventure watch on his left.
‘I’m staying out!’ says Abigail.
‘Good for you,’ says Poppy. ‘Although Hugh and I need to get back after dinner. We’re off to Hugh’s parents in the morning.’
