Now

White walls, white rugs, white cat, a North London flat, pre-drinks and over-privileged twats. It wasn’t exactly how he envisioned spending a Saturday night, but She insisted that those inside were their friends. How She thought he could ever trust people so untested by adversity to call them friends, he didn’t know. But they made Her happy, and he supposed that was enough.

Clare answered the door. White pumps, white blouse, white teeth, a vocal fry, fake tits, and Botox lips. “Hiiiii,” Clare said as the door opened to reveal her.

Bouncing a little on her heels, She beamed beside him. “Heya!” She responded, Her countrified accent far more genuine than Clare’s manufactured one. He smiled insincerely and nodded.

“Come on in,” Clare said, ushering them through the threshold with a come-hither hand gesture. She went in first, and he followed. “How are you guys?” Clare asked as she closed the door, trapping the trio together in a corridor that reminded him of a dentist’s office.

“Yeah, we’re good, we’re good,” She said, looking from Clare and up at him, seeking affirmation.

“Mhm, yeah,” he agreed, nodding again and forcing his smile wider to seem convincing. There was a pause as both women waited to see if he had anything more to say. He didn’t.

“This is for you,” She said, extending Her arms to present the cheap bottle of chardonnay they had picked up from a Tesco Express on the way. Clare took the bottle, holding it delicately between two fingers by the neck, letting it hang like a soiled nappy. The disdainful expression on her face was perhaps the most honest he had ever seen from her, but she soon caught herself, plastering on a broad grin even more fake than his own.

“Thank you,” Clare said, her voice dripping with insincerity. “You really shouldn’t have.” You actually mean that, he thought.

“Oh, that’s alright,” She replied, chuckling a bit too forcefully. “It’s just a cheap and cheerful one.”

“Ah, yeah,” Clare responded, drawing out the word as if to say, I can see that. The silence returned, thick and uncomfortable. “Well then, come on through,” Clare instructed, leading them both down the hallway and into an expansive open-plan kitchen, dining, and living room.

The space was the epitome of luxury. A large rectangular room, partially divided by a pristine pearl-coloured feature wall, banded by a short length of rich mahogany wainscoting. The wall supported a floating staircase of dark metals leading up to the apartment’s second floor. To the right, a cosy sitting area was defined by a mix of sofas and chairs, each different yet complementary in style. To the left was the large kitchen, boasting all the high-end surfaces and appliances one would expect. It included a breakfast bar that could seat ten, a double-stacked built-in wine cooler with glass doors, and two more ovens than his own kitchen could accommodate.

At the far end of the room, where the feature wall ended, was the expansive dining area, dominated by two pieces: a long twelve-seater table on the left and a shiny black grand piano on the right. The entire back wall was glass, with two sets of double doors leading to a terrace as large as the room itself, overlooking the Heath. The space was meticulously assembled, like an abstract piece of art, sharp-edged simple shapes overlapping one another, blending Renaissance Italian influences with understated British elegance.

He could fit his own apartment twice over in this room alone, yet only about a third of the floor space of his host’s home was visible. He knew that beyond what he could see were half a dozen bedrooms, a small gym, a bar and games room, and a second rooftop terrace. The sheer scale of it all made him feel small, somehow unsuccessful, despite the many obstacles he had overcome. It was as if this place had the power to make every achievement he had earned feel instantly unimportant.

He hated every square inch of it.

“Look who’s here!” Clare announced as they entered the room, prompting a chorus of cheers and raised glasses. White Wine, White Rum, White Russians, a smattering of Kettle crisps, and a series of personality disorders. Five couples and two singles awaited them, but when Clare joined John, the five became six, and the two became one. The group offered him and Her a series of polite platitudes to make them feel welcome, before quickly returning to their previous conversations.

He was relieved to find the usual peace offering waiting for him at the edge of the breakfast bar: a squat crystal glass, a small bucket of ice, and a bottle of scotch—always Glenfiddich or Macallan; tonight, it was the former. He didn’t have the most exotic taste, so the 12-year-old bland amber liquid would suffice to keep him occupied for the night. Taking a seat on a stool, he poured what he knew would be the first of many drinks and settled in for another tedious evening. Meanwhile, She rushed to exchange hugs with all the girls, all except Clare, whom even She couldn’t stand.

For the first part of the night, the party naturally split into two groups: girls and boys. She immersed herself in the vibrant exchange of gossip and exaggerated recounting of typical workdays, while he was subjected to the men's turn-by-turn pontifications. What joy.

George spent ten minutes boasting about the success of a new start-up he had invested in, while Jack droned on about the importance of correctly pairing your watch with your shoes. Oliver raved about a new restaurant he and his partner Megan had discovered, while Mark debated the pros and cons of holidaying in the French Alps versus Austria. Austria had always been his go-to since he owned a villa there; however, he was starting to grow bored of the slopes and scenery and felt the Alps might offer a fresh perspective.

“Where are you planning on skiing this year, Paul?” Mark asked him. Go fuck yourself, Mark, Paul thought, struggling to maintain a neutral expression.

“Please be nice tonight,” Paul recalled Her pleading during the lift ride to the apartment.

“When aren’t I nice?” he questioned. She turned and faced him, her mouth taught and pointed and her unimpressed eyes unblinking. He sighed.

“I’ll be nice,” he promised.

“Thank you,” She said, turning back around and taking a deep breath.

“I prefer warmer climates,” Paul replied, forcing a smile. Mark nodded, his interest quickly shifting back to the others in the group.

Paul listened to the conversations, only half-interested, and made a game in his head of counting the number of “Yaahs,” “I knoowws,” and “guuys” he heard. He could have turned it into a drinking game, but he would need two more bottles if he did.

As the evening wore on, the groups began to mingle, and the two sexes mixed. Paul’s attention was finally caught when Josh asked, “So, Paul, how are things at work? Lucy says you're up for a big promotion.” White tie, white jacket, white loafers—a private education, too much money, and didn’t he fucking know it.

“Not quite,” Paul answered, trying to keep his tone neutral. “But I have been asking for a pay rise. Mind you, it’s been two months, and they haven’t gotten back to me, so I’m thinking they’re not going to.” And there it was—a series of disinterested faces, unimpressed hums, and a sinking feeling in his chest. His cheeks warmed, and he wished he were anywhere else.

“Ah,” was all Josh managed in response.

“You know,” Clare interjected, “I bet if you applied yourself, made a little more effort, and showed your value, you’d be a shoo-in for a pay rise. That's what I’ve always said anyway.” Says the stay-at-home mom with no children, Paul thought bitterly. His eyes drifted to the dining table where Clare's fluffy white cat lay, watching the gathering with a look of dissatisfied curiosity—her “baby.” What a cunt.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Please be nice tonight,” Paul recalled Her pleading during the lift ride to the apartment.

“Thanks, Clare,” Paul said, forcing a polite smile, though his disgust for the woman simmered beneath the surface, “I’ll give that a go.” Clare responded with a strange gesture—a shoulder shimmy paired with a head bobble—that Paul found utterly ridiculous.

“What’s their problem?” he heard one of the other girls, Georgie, say to Her on the other side of the breakfast bar.

“I know, right,” She replied, her voice tinged with frustration. “I just don’t get it. They’ve praised him for months, loved him even, but the moment he asks for a pay raise, suddenly he’s the worst employee they’ve ever had. I just don’t get it.” Georgie scoffed and shook her head as if in disbelief.

“You know what they said to him the other day? ‘Caretakers come and go,’” She added. On-site Maintenance Technician, Paul thought, correcting Her on his job title. Not that it made any difference.

“No,” Georgie gasped, genuinely shocked. Great, now my career is going to be the topic of the whole night.

“Yeah, can you believe it? With all the overtime he puts in, and that’s how they talk to him,” She said, her tone reflecting a mix of anger and disappointment.

“But how are you guys doing?” Jess, the redhead, chimed in. “I mean, money-wise. I know you said it's been a struggle lately.”

She sighed. “It’s a challenge at times,” She admitted.

Paul took a deep breath, his frustration mounting. He hated it when people talked as if he wasn’t even in the room, and that seemed to be all that ever happened when they were around these… people. He would have continued to eavesdrop on their conversation had someone else not caught his attention.

Black dress, black heels, black hair, a half-smile, and those unmistakable come-fuck-me eyes—Serena, the single. She looked him up and down, her gaze appraising. Not much to see, he thought, but he appreciated the flattery, nonetheless.

Serena was notorious for her promiscuity. She might have been the only single person in the room, but she had slept with the husbands or boyfriends of nearly every woman present—except for Her, of course. And the women knew it, too. Well, they all knew about Serena and every other woman’s man at the table, but they all seemed to convince themselves that their own man was immune to Serena’s charms. Idiots. Paul, however, had always remained loyal to Her, as had She, and he suspected that this irked Serena. He could tell she was determined to prove she could have any man she wanted, including him, but that wasn’t ever going to happen.

He would never give in to her advances, but he didn’t mind them either. Of all the people present, Serena was his favourite, apart from Her, of course. She wasn’t as stuck up as the rest, nor as clueless about her character. She knew she was privileged but also knew how to be grateful for it and had a sense of humour. As far as he was concerned, her flirtations just added a little spice to their interactions—harmless, never going anywhere.

Serena leaned on the breakfast bar, her tight black dress accentuating her curves as she dropped a hip and leaned forward on one elbow. “And how are things with you?” she asked, making her the first person to genuinely ask about him all evening.

“Shittier by the day, my dear,” Paul answered, but he shot Serena a broad grin, sadistically proud of the amount of crap he was capable of enduring. She smiled back, but before he could return the question, Mark appeared.

“Serena, darling,” Mark began, “where have you been all day? It’s been so dull with the office all to myself.”

“I had court, Mark, and you know it,” she curtly replied. Like many others in the room, Serena worked at Stanley Silver, the law firm owned by Josh, where She also worked. That was how Paul and She had met this bunch of... Be nice, Paul reminded himself.

“Anything good?” Paul asked.

“Just some possession proceedings down in Brackenford,” Serena replied with a nod and raised brows.

“Brackenford, Brackenford,” Mark mused, “why does that sound familiar?” Serena smirked knowingly at Paul. She knew exactly what he was thinking. Go fuck yourself, Mark. Serena giggled, and Mark looked at them both, bemused. Paul decided to put him out of his misery.

“It’s because that’s where I’m from, Mark,” Paul explained.

“Oh, of course,” Mark exclaimed. “I remember now. What’s it like up there? Lovely and green?”

“No,” Paul answered without hesitation, “a shithole, actually.”

Rather than doing the decent thing of nodding one's head and moving on, Mark followed up with, “Oh yeah? Why is that?”

Well, Mark, that’s because our increasingly London-centric nation never bothers to act on any of the promised investments in the hundreds of small former industrial towns in the North, leading to their continued dilapidation, resulting in decreasing wages, higher costs of living, poorer access to quality education, and dying high streets, ultimately culminating in an increasingly benefit-dependent populace and, as a result, an overall poorer society. Or is basic cause and effect beyond the comprehension of your private school education? Paul didn’t say any of this, of course, though he hoped Mark could read between the lines of his actual answer: “Just is.”

Before Mark could drag the conversation down further, Paul quickly turned to Serena and said, “You know, I have a funny story about those courts.”

“Go on,” Serena encouraged him with a pip of theatrical enthusiasm, which effectively signalled Mark and the others to keep quiet for a couple of minutes.

“Well, back in the day, before I moved to London, a friend of mine got nabbed for a bit of drunk and disorderly conduct, or whatever you call it, and was hauled up before the mags down there.” As Paul began his story, he noticed the rapt attention he had from his little audience, and knowing how well this story had gone over in the past, his voice rose a little with the giddy anticipation of the punchline. “He comes to his plea and trial preparation hearing, or whatever it’s called, and naturally, he turns up a bit pissed, as he does. Anyway, he’s up in the stand, or whatever, and it’s time for him to make his plea. The judge directs the question to my buddy, but he’s too out of it to follow the conversation.”

As the story’s climax approached, Paul noticed Serena’s eyes drifting from his to something behind him, but he carried on regardless. “So, the judge asks him once, twice, three times for his plea and gets no answer. Finally, the judge shouts at him, ‘Mr. Jackson, not guilty?’ Not realising it was a question, my buddy just goes, ‘Oh, thank you very much, judge,’ and tries to leave.”

Paul paused, waiting for the laughter—just a slight chorus of chuckles would do—but all there was, was silence. He felt his cheeks flush and his throat tighten as embarrassment began to claw its way into his chest. He shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge his confusion, and pulled a face. He was about to ask why no one was laughing when he noticed that all eyes had followed Serena’s and were fixed behind him.

He turned to see what they were all looking at. “Oh right,” he said in a monotone, dispassionate voice as he set eyes on the spectacle.

It was Her. She was sitting with the other half of their group, crying. Again. Just once, he would have liked to get through a night without any tears. Just one time. He understood She was under stress, the same as he was, and that She had a harder time processing it than he did, but did She really need to let it infect everything they did? Could they not have a break from their worries for just one night?

“I just don’t know what we are going to do,” She sobbed to those around her. Serena abandoned his group and hurried over to Her, grabbing some sheets of kitchen roll as she went and handing them to Her so She could dry Her eyes before hugging Her.

“Hey, now,” Serena spoke softly to Her, “there’s no need to cry. It’ll all be alright.”

“Yeah, Luce,” Mark added as he wandered over to join the gathering group of sympathisers, “London’s hard, everything’s so damned expensive.” How would you know? Paul thought as he listened to Mark’s feigned compassion. “Everyone struggles at first, but you’ll see it through.”

Money, Paul thought. It always came down to money. Every worry, every fear, every dream, every hope. They all boiled down to money, and they didn’t have nearly enough of it. Still, there were times for dwelling on it and times to forget, and Paul didn’t get to forget nearly as often as he’d like. He considered going over and offering Her his comfort, but half a dozen of their “friends” seemed to have it covered, so he decided it was better to leave them to it on this occasion. She would need comforting again soon enough, and he could use the time to recharge his batteries. Speaking of recharging, he thought as he turned his attention back to his glass of whisky, downing its contents.

More time passed as the group took turns complaining about the cost of groceries, rent, and utilities in the capital. Eventually, Her eyes dried, and the conversation moved on to other things. Paul, however, had sunk into the background of the evening, unable to shake the feeling that he was being judged by his companions. Then, finally, Mark exclaimed, “Oh, look at the time! They must have just gotten to the restaurant. Won’t be long now, guys.”

Paul felt his heart lurch as he pulled out his phone and checked the time: 7 pm. Fuck, he thought, jumping up from his stool. “Luce, we’ve got to go,” he declared, interrupting Her mid-sentence as she talked with Georgie.

She turned and looked at him with a face like thunder, replying sharply, “I’m talking.” What’s that got to do with anything? he wondered to himself.

“Yeah, but it’s 7; we gotta go,” he repeated.

“I said I was talking,” She also repeated, now in a much harsher tone. The room went quiet as all attention shifted to them. He rolled his eyes in response and headed for the exit. It’s not like She wasn’t going to follow. He heard Her make her apologies to the group before getting up and chasing after him.

As they left that ostentatious North London flat, he couldn’t quite place the speakers, but the last thing he heard was, “Why is she even with him?”

“Why are either of them even with the other?”

What a bunch of cunts.

Now, you might think this Paul sounds like a right arsehole, and you’d be right. You might even be wondering, just like our flat dwellers, why poor sweet Lucy is with him. But trust me when I tell you, you know nothing about Paul, nothing about Lucy, and far less about what the two of them have been through.

But don’t worry. I’m going to tell you all about it.