Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover... (14 page)

Laughing hysterically at the strange, ginger man with a Mohawk, trying desperately to talk Lianna into going home with him, I grab my bag and run to the bar. Over the past few hours, we have guzzled our way through two bottles of red and moved from Velvet to Noir Bar. The music is so loud. I can feel it pulsating throughout my entire body. The copious amounts of alcohol swimming around inside me make it easy to let go on the dance floor. I must have consumed a week’s worth of calories in wine alone, not including the three course meal I had earlier. Too drunk to care, I strategically pull down the neckline on my dress to attract the attention of the busy barman. I order another bottle and laugh at how effective an inch of cleavage can be.

‘This is definitely the last one.’ I crash the bottle down on the table and twist off the screw top.

Mr Ginger Mohawk has taken the hint and finally given up on Lianna. I spot him gyrating on the dance floor next to a mortified, petite, blonde woman who bats him away with her handbag. What a catch.

Tonight has been really good. Lianna had definitely succeeded in her plan to cheer me up. Don’t get me wrong, I have continued to check my phone every thirty minutes, but the disappointment in realising Oliver hasn’t called has eased massively. Sipping my drink, I glance down at my watch. It is just after midnight and the club is filling up rapidly. From our booth, I have been watching the swarms of people buzzing through the door. One in one out, like a conveyor belt of hungry ants.

Lianna has been chewing my ear off about her nightmare neighbour and I am still pretending to listen when a tiny arm waves manically at us from the dance floor. I squint through the clouds of smoke and realise that the teeny arm belongs to Rebecca. Can I pretend I haven’t seen her? She begins walking in our direction, dragging a tall, dark haired man along with her.

‘Lianna?’ I interrupt her mid flow and she shoots me daggers.

‘How many times! It’s rude to butt in!’

‘Sorry. It’s just that I have just spotted Rebecca on the dance floor and by the looks of it, she is coming our way.’

Lianna rolls her eyes and frowns with disdain. I have never understood Li’s problem with Rebecca. Yes, she can be ditsy and a tad annoying but she doesn’t mean any harm. I refill her glass and hope the extra grape juice will release some happy endorphins.

‘Hi guys!’ Rebecca plants a massive red kiss on both of my cheeks and leans in to hug Lianna who frostily pats her on the back. Totally unaware of the ice maiden reception, she plonks herself down between us.

‘Have you been in here all night?’ I ask, sipping my drink.

‘We actually just got here. The queue was so long to get in!’ She sighs dramatically and I get a strong whiff of Jack Daniels. Who would have put Rebecca as a bourbon drinker?

‘Who are you here with?’ Lianna chirps in, peeling the label off the wine bottle.

‘I’m actually on a date! He just went to get more drinks!’ She squeals excitedly and looks over to the bar.

‘Don’t you think you should go and give him a hand? It looks pretty busy over there?’ Lianna smiles at her sweetly, but I know this is just a way of getting rid of her.

‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ Rebecca slips under the table and straightens out her dress. ‘Do you guys want anything?’

‘We’re both fine, thanks.’ I gesture to the practically full wine bottle.

‘OK. I’ll go and help with the drinks. We will be right back!’ She runs her fingers through her massive hair and skips over to the bar.

I wave her off and bite my lip, not daring to look at Lianna.

‘Do we have to sit with her?’ Lianna folds her arms and leans back in her seat like an overtired toddler.

‘Come on, don’t be mean. Just give it ten minutes and then we can escape.’

She pulls a petulant face and picks up her glass moodily.

‘Don’t be a bitch.’ Accidentally on purpose, I kick her under the table and hold up my hands in apology.

‘I need to pee anyway.’ She drains her glass and swings her bag over her shoulder before waltzing off across the dance floor.

Shaking my head, I look over to the bar for Rebecca. This place is so dark that all I can see are silhouettes of different shapes and sizes lining the shiny counter top. The music suddenly gets louder, making it hard to hear myself think. Not that there’s much to think about when you have Calvin Harris piercing your eardrums and a barrel load of wine inside you. I tap my fingernails on the glass in time to the music and giggle as I watch a paralytic girl try and fail to take a seductive selfie. 

I am still laughing when I see Lianna squeezing her way through a group of cackling middle aged women, just as Rebecca arrives back at the table.

‘I know you said not to get you anything, but G got us all some sambucca shots!’

G? I feel my blood freeze. The odds on him being Oliver’s friend were near impossible, let alone Rebecca’s date too! No, it is not possible. A tanned, masculine hand places a shot glass in front of me and my eyes trace up his arm in disbelief. As our eye’s lock, I feel sick. And then I feel mad, really, really mad. Snatching the sambucca out of his hand, I down the sticky, aniseed liquid and wince at the burn. I never did like Sambucca.

‘G, this is my colleague, Clara Andrews.’ Rebecca slips her arm through George’s and smiles blissfully.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Clara.’ He holds out his hand and I stare at it horrified. Is he really going to pretend that he doesn’t know me? This just gets weirder. It’s like I have slipped into a parallel universe.

‘The queue was insane! Why does it take some women so long to pee?’ Lianna slides into the booth beside me and immediately picks up a sambucca shot.

I glare at George, my angry eyes burning through his skin. How can he have flipped like this? What happened to the funny, kind man that I met only a few weeks ago?

‘Where do I know his face from?’ Li leans back and whispers in my ear.

‘It’s George.’ I manage to spit the words out between gritted teeth.

‘Oh my god! What the hell is he doing here?’ She is trying to whisper but her voice is rising above the music.

‘He’s here with Rebecca. I have to talk to him.’ Standing up, I drain the remnants of my wine and hop out of the booth.

‘I need to talk to you.’ I stand an inch from his nose and squeeze my hands into little fists.

Sensing that all hell is about to break loose, Lianna drags Rebecca over to the dance floor out of harm’s way.

‘Well?’ I demand, resisting the urge to punch him right on the nose. 

‘What do you want to talk about?’ He laughs and shrugs his shoulders, sipping his Corona cockily.

‘Outside. Now.’ I push past him and stomp across the dance floor towards the exit.

Standing outside, I duck into a bakery doorway to escape the cold and wait for George to speak.

‘I said why!’ I shout, not caring who hears me.

‘I did not tell Oliver we slept together. I said you slept over. He just assumed that we slept together.’

‘And you didn’t think to correct him? I don’t understand why you would do that?’ My voice is thunderous and we are starting to attract a small audience.

‘Really? You don’t understand? How about, you were sleeping with my friend? You’re the one in the wrong here, Clara. I don’t think you are in any position to be pissed off.’ His voice is airy and light, making me seem like an irrational bunny boiler.

‘Oh come on! We were never serious! We only went on two dates!’

George shakes his head and walks back out onto the busy street. Not willing to give up so easily, I run after him.

‘Hey, I’m not finished talking to you!’ Trying to stay steady on my five inch heels, I make a grab for his jacket and spin him around. He actually looks really sad.

‘I’m sorry. OK? I’m really, really sorry.’ I stare at him, hoping my apology comes across as sincere and not pathetic.

He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket and sits down on the kerb. Narrowly avoiding a bird poop disaster, I slump down next to an empty Big Mac box and kick away an empty Pepsi can. What makes people turn into such pigs when they have had a drink?

‘I really didn’t mean to hurt you, George. I honestly didn’t. As soon as I realised I had feelings for Oliver, I planned to end things with you. I should have done it sooner, but I wanted to do it face to face.’ I look at him and wait for his response. After a few minutes of prickly silence, it suddenly dawns on me just how wrong I have been. Why couldn’t I see it before? Leading George into thinking we could be going somewhere, when all along I was wrapped up in Oliver. In Oliver’s bed. Feeling rather guilty and ashamed of myself, I drop my head down into my lap.

‘I don’t know what else to say. I’m just really sorry.’ Pushing myself up, I wait for a second for him to say something.

Giving up, I make my way back to Noir Bar and squeeze through the packed club. It takes me a while to locate Lianna and Rebecca, busily twerking away to Nicki Minaj by the DJ box. Even the sight of Rebecca’s baboon like dance moves aren’t enough to make me raise a smile. Catching Lianna’s eye, I wave her over and pull on my poncho over my head.

‘Well? How did it go?’ She asks, panting for breath.

‘I don’t really know. I just want to go home, but you stay. It’s still early, I really don’t mind.’

‘Actually, Dan has text so I think I will head over to his. Are you sure you are OK?’ Grabbing her phone, she reaches across the booth for her coat and scarf.

As I wait for her to get wrapped up, I spot George ushering Rebecca towards the bar. Not wanting another confrontation, I take hold of Lianna’s hand and run to the door.

Once we are safely outside and out of earshot of George, I feel my eyes start to fill with tears. Flagging down a taxi, I offer it to Lianna, but she insists on waiting for the next one. Promising to call her tomorrow, I jump in the back and ride the entire way home in sad silence. What a mess.

Curling up in a ball on the sofa, I pull my poncho up over my shoulders and allow myself to cry. Once I start, I can’t stop. I not even sure why I am crying. Losing Oliver? Knowing that I hurt George? The fact that I just stubbed my little toe? I don’t know. What I do know, is that I don’t have a clue how to put it right.

I am ashamed to admit, that on Sunday, I only moved out of bed to pee and answer the door to the take out guy. By 8.30, I am tucked under my duvet picking seaweed out of my greasy hair. I have spent all day watching Sex and the City reruns. Carrie Bradshaw, I am most certainly not. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I collect the empty food cartons and traipse outside to the dustbin. What a waste of a Sunday. All day I have thought about Oliver. I am dreading going into work in the morning. We still have another three weeks of his contract left. How on earth are we going to be able to work together when he won’t even acknowledge my existence?

Discovering some egg fried rice in my bra, I decide a shower wouldn’t be that bad of an idea. Rummaging around for a clean towel, I hear my phone beep and make a dash to the bedroom. Seeing a scan picture flash up on the screen makes me instantly well up again. Marc is having a baby, a bloody baby and here I am crying over another failed relationship. What has my life become?

‘Clara, did you hear me’ Rebecca’s voice rings in my ears and I don’t quite know how to respond. He’s gone? What does that even mean?

‘Clara?’

Finding my voice, I manage a squeak that resembles yes and end the call. I feel completely shattered. Not knowing what to do, I open the window to get some air. He’s gone. Oliver has gone back to America. He has ended his contract and flown back to America. I have a wave of nausea and stick my head out of the window. This is not happening.

Running across the studio, I grab my phone and dial his number. It doesn’t even give me one sympathy ring before diverting to voicemail.

Hearing Oliver’s voice makes my heart shatter into a million pieces. Is this it? Will I never see him again? Ending the call, I go to my recent calls and select Marc’s number. He has to know more than Rebecca.

‘Marc Stroker.’

‘Marc? It’s me. What the hell is going on?’ Holding back my tears, I try to keep my voice steady.

‘I’m sorry, Clara. I only just heard around an hour ago. I don’t mean to be harsh, but regardless of what was going on between the two of you, this line needs to be finished. We have got three weeks? Do you think you can manage that on your own?’

‘I think so.’  I feel like I have been punched in the ovary.

‘I’ve got to go. Oliver leaving like this has totally screwed us over. I’ll call you later.’ The line goes dead and I stare at the receiver.

He has really gone. Even though I have been informed of this, twice in the last five minutes, by two different people, I still don’t believe it.

Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I take a seat at the work bench and get up Oliver’s designs on the laptop. Stroking the pretty, printed canvas on the screen, I try to pull myself together. It took us hours to choose this design. Hours sat laughing, devouring Krispy Kreme doughnuts and reminiscing of cocktails at The Valentina. Reminding myself that the show must go on, I look around in the desk drawers for the fabric samples. Taking the book and dropping it on the table, I flip past the lace and pretty printed canvas’s until I land on the distressed, tired leather. Somehow, it felt more fitting.

I didn’t even take a lunch hour, choosing instead to work straight through. If you didn’t count peeing or a trip to the vending machine, I hadn’t left the office all day. Not even Lianna’s offer of a trip to the bistro could entice me out of the office. The thing is, I knew that if I stopped working I would crumble into a pathetic ball and not get back up again. Counting down the hours until I can go home and cry into a tub of ice cream, I make it to 5.30 and lock up the studio.

All the way down to the car, I convince myself that I have forgotten something. Have I left the window open? Left the phone off the hook? It takes me a while to realise that what is missing, is Oliver.

Slamming the car door, I can’t quite believe how dark it is. Only a week ago I was envisaging marshmallows around the bonfire and an American themed Christmas, sipping eggnog. Right now, the future doesn’t look quite so promising. With no one to take me for nice meals at posh, French restaurants, I make a quick detour to the supermarket and fill my basket with useless microwave ready meals and one too many bottles of wine.

Driving home in the pouring down rain, I flick between radio stations to find something that doesn’t make me want to slit my wrists. How has my American Dream become Nightmare on Elm Street? Giving up on the radio and turning it off, I pull over to the side of the road and decide to give it one last try. Taking a few deep breaths, I dial Oliver’s number and feel my heart sink at the strange ring tone. So, he has definitely left the country then. I let the line ring out for what seems like an eternity before giving up and tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. Well, I guess that’s it then. I rest my head on the steering wheel for a moment, fighting back the tears.

Just as I am about to pull back into the road, my phone starts to ring. Not daring to look at the screen, I flick my indicator off and slowly put the handset to my ear.

‘Clara?’

It’s him.