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2143 Words
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Charlie
“Thanks for being my date, Cat.” We stare in the mirror, examining our handiwork.
I’m wearing a black top with a killer low back that shows I’m wearing no bra. I matched it with tight black jeans that hugged my ass. I’ve painted myself with smoky eyes and red lips, and my dark brown hair is in layers down my back.
I look good, and I know it.
It’s the most effort I’ve put in since Ben and I started dating, and he’s not even here to see it.
I couldn’t ask him after the milkmaid saga. We needed some time to cool off.
“LIke a femme fatale.” Stevie gives a slow dirty wolf whistle from behind us. “You polish up real good, Finnegan.”
“Thanks,” I begrudgingly responded. Stevie wasn’t one for compliments, so I’ll take it.
“I feel sorry for the poor bugger that’ll chat you up tonight, though,” he continues, “once he finds out you give terrible hand jobs.”
There he is.
I whip my head round to glare at him. “I do not give bad hand jobs!”
“And will you stop talking to Ben? You’re not even friends! You’re supposed to be my friend, not his.”
“Stevie!” Cat gasps. “Don’t be hard on Charlie. Ben should guide her better rather than go mouthing to you. How will she improve otherwise?”
“Can we stop!” I hissed. “That is not the reason we are having problems.”
They nod at me, smiling.
“My hand jobs are so good I could be a professional prostitute!” I yell in their faces. How dare they.
I rummage in my bag for my phone. Tristan had texted the address of the place where the party is at. No doubt It’ll be one of London’s most pretentious bars.
It is Saturday night and my big brother Tristan’s 40th birthday. Sometimes I speculated that he was swapped at birth, snatched from his real parents who are out there being politicians, royalty or Nobel Prize winners and given to the Finnegan clan.
That would explain how he became one of London’s most prominent and powerful barristers and senior partner at a prestigious firm in the city. By the time he hit my age, he was absolutely loaded. High-profile international cases had elevated him to minor celebrity status and pin-up guy.
He had his own pad in Holland Park, holiday homes in four other countries, and if the rumours were true, a new woman every night of the week. Apparently, representing clients in the International Criminal Court was quite the turn-on.
A fact I didn’t need to know.
Tristan turning 40 wasn’t the reason I had put so much effort in tonight. Or why my stomach was doing somersaults.
No, that was because of Tristan’s best friend.
Danny Walker, financial tech tycoon, self-made multimillionaire, and my arch nemesis.
Tristan’s right-hand man. They met in uni, both penniless but hungry for success, and had carved their fortunes out together.
Both were from new wealth, which is one of the reasons why they had so much in common. It made them all the more exciting to women. They had the roughness of men from the council estates done well. Julie said they both looked like dirty s*x.
The Nexus Group, the fastest growing IT company in the UK with dominant presence in Asia and the States.
Enterprise resource planning, accounting, sales, supply chain, content management- it wasn’t the sexiest of software, but with Danny Walker owning the majority shares, it made him a very rich, powerful man and that was sexy.
His aggression in business won him consistent headlines and cringe-worthy nicknames like ‘Dirty Danny’ and ‘Danny the Destroyer’. My favourite circling social media is ‘Wanker Walker’.
Social gatherings with Danny Walker fill me with dread. It stems back to when I was 20, and drunk out of my head at one of Tristan’s house parties. Tristan had naively allowed Cat and me to attend, so we started drinking cider on the train there to get us in the mood.
That night I made a critical judgment in error. I misread Danny Walker’s attempt at conversation as flirting.
As he was chatting to me about my plans after uni, my natural next step was to climb onto his knee, wrap my legs around his waist and attempt to dry hump the hell out of him.
My recollection of the events of that night is sketchy, but I do remember that he outright rejected me. That part has been imprinted in my brain ever since.
The next morning I woke up, hanging off the sofa in Tristan’s apartment with Tristan yelling at me. Danny was nowhere in sight.
Why I ever thought that Danny Walker would be interested in me was the most naive mistake I’ve ever made.
I can’t even keep up with what he is saying; as he discusses IPOs and other acronyms and jargon with Tristan, I have to pretend I’m not looking it up online. It means Initial Public Offering for reference.
My contribution to the conversation is nodding repeatedly like a pigeon.
I remember him snapping at me to get off him like he thought I was a stupid, irrelevant college student. He wasn’t far off the mark.
I can only blame the booze and it was my first time tasting oysters. I was ramming those suckers into me, not realising they were making me as horny as a bonobo in the jungle.
It’s Tristan’s fault, really, for providing oysters.
The guy has barely mustered a smile at me since, which is fine because 8 years later, I still can’t look at him without going scarlet.
“So, where is it?” Cat peers over my shoulder. “Kensington? This is definitely a free bar, right?”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “Tristan always puts his hands in his pockets.”
“Let’s have one for the road. So I have the guts to mingle with all these city suits.”
“OK, just one,” I warn. “You know you are a lightweight. I’m not propping you up all night.”
One wine each, transitions into finishing the bottle.
I become more sophisticated after a bottle of wine, slimmer too, I think as I pass the mirror on the way out.
Ten minutes later, we are in the taxi, and I realise that polishing a bottle of wine off was a big mistake. Big. Huge.
Cat was a bad passenger sober, never mind after guzzling a litre of cheap corner shop wine.
The taxi driver had met people like Cat before. An intimidating ‘spew and I’ll sue’ sign glares at us from the back of his seat.
In a matter of minutes, she turns to me, her eyes bulging. I see quick swallow movements in her throat. Then a silent spray of vomit splatters on my feet.
I stare dismayed between my feet and the sign. She had already got some over the seat, so we couldn’t ask for the driver to stop now, or he would see it and potentially sue us. I would be guilty by association. Luckily he hadn’t noticed yet.
“Do it quietly,” I whisper.
To her credit, she was a quiet vomiter despite the violent heaving of the shoulders. A pool of yellow liquid builds up on the floor around our shoes, and I pray the driver doesn’t turn around.
I babble on, having a monologue with myself that won’t require answers from Cat to distract him from the retching sounds.
As we drive around Hyde Park, the vomiting thankfully subsides.
We come to a halt outside a very lavish bar. I spot some of Tristan’s friends mingling outside.
“Are you done?” I grit out, facing her.
Her lips wriggle, but she doesn’t respond. She swings the taxi door open aggressively, narrowly missing a passing car.
“f**k’s sake, Cat!” I hiss, clambering out of the taxi.
She runs round to meet me on the pavement, then opens her mouth and expels the dirtiest, loudest, most offensive burp I’ve ever heard.
I put my hands to my mouth in shock. Tristan’s friends abruptly stop talking and whip their heads around.
“Jesus, Cat,” I snarl at her. “Talk about making an entrance”.
“I’m sorry,” she wails, eyes wide. “It wouldn’t stay in.”
“Are you done now?” I bark.
She nods her head meekly. “That was the last of it”.
“Never again,” I mutter, regretting my date selection.
She looks up at the bar, ignoring Tristan’s friends still eyeballing us, and lets out a slow whistle. “Champagne it is then.”
The bar is as prestigious as they come. Two beautiful hostesses stand at the door with clipboards, their sole purpose in life to make me feel inadequate and unworthy of entry.
They are surrounded by four burly bouncers who are eyeing us suspiciously.
It looked like one of Tristan’s private member clubs. He must have rented out the entire bar for the evening.
The largest bouncer puts his hand out to block us as we ascend the steps.
“Sorry, we have a certain type of clientele here. Ones that do not belch at the door.”
“This is my brother’s party,” I retort, trying to look dignified. “My name’s Charlie, and my brother has paid a small fortune for this venue, so let us in.”
One of the clipboard chicks flicks through the list then looks up at us in disappointment.
“Fine,” she snaps, “but keep her under control.”
She wiggles a finger in disgust at Cat.
Cat pouts. “I’m actually a teacher in a very prestigious school in Highgate.”
“Lady, I don’t care if you're a teacher in Buckingham Palace.” The bouncer shakes his head. “I’ve met builders that have better manners than you.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Just come on.” I hoist her up the last step, and clipboard chick #2 reluctantly leads us through the velvet curtains into the haven of London’s richest and finest.
***
Tristan’s parties are s*x immortalized.
This one is no exception. A menagerie of beautiful people drinking decadent cocktails dripping in designer labels, discussing how rich and successful they are.
It’s true what they say, money attracts beauty. It was difficult to tell who was naturally pretty and who had plastic. I mean, what are the chances that out of 100 women, every single one has big breasts and big full lips?
The men are equally lavish creatures with their tailored suits, all trying to prove they had the biggest d**k through their accessories - watches, cufflinks, anything that they could hang of themselves which would inform their fellow party-goers what their net worth was.
It's bottomless free drinks on tap. We are handed a bellini at the door. I see every table stocked with bottles of Moet champagne and Belvedere Vodka. I better keep an eye on Cat.
These parties would have been so fun except for two invitees - one, Danny Walker, and two, my Irish mother. Being the model son, Tristan invited my mother to every birthday party even if a 60-year-old Irish woman looked utterly out of place amongst London’s elite.
It was equally sweet and cringeworthy. He didn’t want her to feel left out.
It's been a hang-up of his ever since Dad disgraced us to go running back to the Republic of Ireland into the arms of another woman, leaving us with a load of debt. For the first time in Mum’s life, she had to work out how to pay mortgage bills. She was a woman scorned; still, to this day, we cannot talk about the adulterer in front of her.
We had sporadic contact with him, the occasional birthday card or drunken Christmas call or, in Tristan’s case, a plea for a loan of cash that would never be returned.
I look over to the corner of the bar and see a perfect storm for humiliation. Tristan, Danny, their friend Jack Mathews and a waif-like blond bombshell are talking to Mum.
Mum is dressed like she’s at a 90’s wedding, big hair, big shoulder pads, and is talking at a hundred miles an hour.
Danny is listening, oblivious to all the women circling, falling over themselves to be noticed.
Asshole.
Hot as hell, drop your pants gorgeous asshole but still an asshole.
At 6’4, he’s taller and broader than anyone else in the room, even Tristan, who is a close second.
- Writer
