Boyfriend in a Dress. Louise Kean

did we decide?’ I ask.

      ‘Yep, drinks and dinner, Café Bohème,’ Jules says.

      ‘Cool, I’ll see you later.’

      ‘Can I bring some guys from my office?’ Nim asks.

      ‘Who?’ Jules asks suspiciously, knowing full well that she doesn’t want to run into at least two of them.

      ‘Neither of them,’ Nim pre-empts her.

      ‘They’re nice,’ as some sort of explanation.

      ‘And they work at your office?’ I ask, incredulous. I know some of the guys who work with Nim; they know Charlie.

      ‘Yes, some of them are nice.’

      ‘None that I’ve met,’ I say.

      ‘They’ve just started.’

      ‘Oh, okay, cool.’

      ‘See you later then, I’ve got to go,’ I say, as I see Phil smack the monkey at six hundred miles an hour.

      ‘Cool, byeeeee,’ we all squeal off the phone, trying to go higher than each other.

      ‘Give me that.’ I grab the mouse off Phil, who is looking smug. I smack it a couple more times, but can’t beat his score. He strolls around to the front of my desk, wipes the sweat off his forehead, and throws himself into a chair.

      ‘Are you going out with them tonight?’ he asks, the picture of innocence.

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘What time?’

      ‘Seven.’ I start going over the photos again, trying to see past the crowned teeth and sunbed tans.

      ‘Can I come for a couple? I’m meeting the boys at eight.’

      ‘Yep,’ I say, and then, ‘these are shit.’ I throw the photos across my desk, lean back in my chair, and sigh. ‘What time is it?’

      Phil checks his watch.

      ‘Ten to six.’

      ‘Have you got any more games?’ I ask wearily.

      ‘Of course, but aren’t we supposed to set up that shoot or something?’

      ‘Shit, SHIT, yes! Well done! Call Tony, get him on the case. I’ll make some calls.’

      I grab my numbers.

      ‘What exactly am I supposed to ask him?’ Phil hasn’t moved from the chair.

      I look at him and feel bad at the prospect of making him work hard for the next hour. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call him.’ I plug the number into my phone, as Phil closes his eyes in front of me, deciding it’s time for a well-earned nap.

      ‘Out,’ I shout at him and point at the door.

      ‘Alright, darlin’.’ I hear Tony’s Scouse greeting on the hands free and pick up the receiver. ‘I was just about to leave – whattdaya need?’

      ‘Tone, I need a massive favour, hon. A shoot tomorrow. I need mist. For Evil Ghost 2.’

      ‘Not a problem, you tell me how much.’

      ‘And an old lady.’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘I need an old woman, but I’d rather not pay for her, I haven’t got the cash. Is there anybody that you know – how old is your mother?’

      ‘Not old enough, I’m from Liverpool, remember.’

      ‘Of course, she’s probably younger than me.’

      ‘Pack it in.’

      ‘Okay, but you have to find me some old dear, preferably one without her own teeth, who’ll work for a hundred quid tops tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Not a problem, darlin’.’

      ‘You are a star.’

      I go over the details with Tony for the next twenty minutes, try my best to discuss last night’s Liverpool game with him without sounding bored, make some more calls, and then head for the toilets to sort my make-up out. I catch Phil chatting to the boys at the end of the corridor, playing imaginary cricket shots and laughing. I don’t bother telling him to do what he should be doing: actual work. I’m done for the day.

      At seven Phil and I wander up the road into Soho, dodging tourists and drinkers, completely oblivious to the pace at which everything moves around us, or the gulps of steaming pollution-filled air we are inhaling. It is still hot, but becoming bearable. The restaurant is cool inside, and Nim is already at the bar. I kiss her hello, and Phil looks like he wants to do the same, but she turns back to the barman.

      ‘What are you having?’ she asks over her shoulder, while gesturing with a twenty-pound note at the young French guy behind the bar with a mole on his cheek that looks like eyeliner. These are vain days. Everybody’s caking it on, and moisturizing themselves into a slippery mess that enables us to slide past each other down the street. I can’t remember the last time I saw a real spot on anybody I actually know. Strangers have them, but they don’t count. Hell, even Phil hides his blemishes now. I had to buy him blackhead strips from the chemist because he was too embarrassed to buy them himself. It used to be condoms. The world is spinning differently these days.

      ‘Dry Martini,’ I say.

      ‘Phil?’ she asks, as he shifts uncomfortably, about to reach for his wallet.

      ‘Oh, I’ll have a pint of Stella, thanks.’

      ‘Did you go to the gym?’ I ask, over her shoulder at the bar.

      ‘No, played some monkey-slapping game and then came over here.’

      We sip our drinks, and I catch Phil staring as Nim takes her jacket off.

      ‘I don’t know how you work in a suit in this weather,’ I say as a distraction.

      ‘It’s not so bad, the blokes aren’t even allowed to take off their ties,’ she says, and sips her gin and tonic.

      Phil is chatting to the guys from Nim’s office about last night’s Liverpool game. I could join in, but I’ve done my football talk already today. The boys wear make-up and the girls know the offside rule. Mostly due to the fact that the footballers seem to have got better looking, and the boys need to look like them to get a girlfriend. The icecaps are melting – the sea is the only thing today that is growing less shallow.

      ‘How’s work?’ Nim asks.

      ‘Shit – you?’

      ‘Boring,’ she says, and we move onto more interesting topics.

      ‘How’s Charlie?’ she asks eventually.

      I turn my nose up, but say ‘fine.’ We move on again to more interesting topics.

      Jules turns up late, and we are seated at our table.

      Two hours later, we are lashed on some new cocktail one of the guys from Nim’s work has introduced us to. But it’s the tequila that really pushes us all over the edge – the implication that we got drunk by mistake on some new and peculiar concoction is a lie. We wanted to get drunk, so we drank tequila. There are no real mistakes any more, not where losing yourself is concerned. In every other facet of your life maybe, but the pursuit of oblivion is a knowledgeable one. Nobody is snorting that coke for you. Phil has completely forgotten about his mates, and is falling asleep at one end of the table, while Nim shrugs his head off her shoulder. The whole place is giggling in the end of the day heat, and I start to think about going home. We kiss our goodbyes outside, making the responsible decision not to go dancing on a school night, and Nim’s mates help me put Phil in a cab back to his grandfather’s house in some leafy south-west London road where car insurance is still affordable. I walk to the tube with one of them, Craig, who is a few years younger than