My Uncle's Best Friend

4

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.