Page 45 of Stella is Starting Over

The applause dies down and everyone throngs to the bar to get drinks. I get up embarrassingly quickly so I’m at the front of the queue. I turn back and search the crowd for Florrie.

‘What do you want?’ I half yell at her.

‘Tequila lime soda,’ she says. ‘And a Neck Oil for Bash.’

Bash is, I assume, the man standing next to her. He looks like a young Johnny Depp, sort of sallow but painfully attractive and standing really very close to Florrie, who is, as far as I understand it, my girlfriend. I get a round, navigate through the hapless poets trying to queue for a drink, and hand over two of the glasses.

‘Thank you,’ says Florrie.

‘You’re welcome.’

I look at Bash, sort of expecting he’s going to say ‘thank you’ too. Not that it’s a big deal, I’ve just bought him a drink that cost seven quid, not offered to be an organ donor.

‘Hi,’ I say, after an uncomfortable pause. ‘I’m Dom.’

‘Bash,’ he says, establishing that I didn’t mishear his name and he really is going about the world using a noise as a moniker.

‘Unusual name,’ I say. ‘Is it short for something?’

‘Sebastian,’ Florrie says, putting her hand on his forearm. ‘After Sebastian Flyte, from Brideshead Revisited.’

‘Ah,’ I say, taking a sip of Guinness. ‘The gay alcoholic?’

No one laughs.

‘So, I was thinking dinner?’ I say eventually. ‘There’s a nice-looking Indian place round the corner with good vegan options.’

Florrie’s eyebrows pinch together. ‘Oh, that sounds so lovely, but Bash and I are going to some drinks thing with a friend of his.’

‘Oh,’ I say, high-pitched, trying to sound really absolutely fine and not at all surprised, also trying to shake off the searing embarrassment of getting turned down for a date by a woman I’m already romantically involved with, in front of Bash who I already hate. ‘Okay, great. Cool.’ I draw out the ‘o’ sound in cool which is, ironically, the least cool thing I could do.

Florrie catches up with me outside the pub as I’m leaving. I said polite goodbyes but obviously I didn’t do a great job of acting like I was really fine with this.

‘Hey,’ she says, holding my forearms with her smooth, cool hands. ‘Are we good?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I just misread the vibe for tonight.’

‘Okay,’ she says, seemingly relieved. ‘I’m really glad that you came.’

‘Me too,’ I lie.

‘And honestly, I would love to go to dinner with you, but Bash is feeling really raw about having me read that poem about him, and I owe him some aftercare.’

The poem was about Bash.

I nod. ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Aftercare. A warm down. A warranty, a purchase guarantee. . .’ I’m just saying words now. I pull myself together and kiss her on the cheek. ‘Let’s do something later this week,’ I say. Then I stride off, with no idea whether I’m getting any closer to the station or not, putting as many paces between me and them as possible.

I get to the Overground and my phone pings. It’s a voice note, from Stella. I don’t have headphones, I type my reply, so I can’t listen to this right now, but if there’s any chance it’s an invitation to come to your house and complain about my terrible night, then I’d bite your arm off.

She’s typing. I have – confusingly – got butterflies.

See you in twenty? she replies.

‘You seem very sober for a woman who had a romantic dinner with her new boyfriend,’ I say, as Stella pours me a glass of wine and fills me in on her evening, which I have to admit is flummoxing me. I’m starting to wonder if this bloke she’s seeing is signed up to some kind of internet-bloke online dating scam where they teach you to not shag women because it’s a power trip, or something like that.

‘I know,’ she says miserably. ‘It’s the wine he buys. It’s all so expensive and delicious, and he decants it and puts it in lovely glasses, and then you have to sip it and enjoy it.’

‘What a monster.’