Bad Friends. Claire Seeber

tousled, his shirt very white, and I stared at the razor-sharp creases in his grey trousers and tried desperately to think of something interesting to say.

      ‘What do you do?’ I’d failed. The flashing lights and the banging music were beginning to confuse me; I breathed deep and tried not to succumb to his crooked smile. Trust in myself and any ability I had to choose a man well – a good man – was long gone. My heart was still lumpen in my chest, still jagged and torn. I couldn’t imagine a time when it would be whole again.

      ‘I’m an actor, actually.’ He raised his glass to me. I had the uncomfortable feeling he was sizing me up.

      ‘How exciting.’ Did I sound star-struck? I’d met so many celebrities in my job, but he seemed a little different; somehow aloof from it all. ‘I thought you looked a bit familiar.’

      He had a very small scar running vertically above his upper lip, the skin there paler than the rest. I sat firmly on my hands, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch it. ‘Have you been in anything I’d have seen?’

      ‘Oh, you know. EastEnders, The Bill. The usual crap.’ He smiled, and I smiled back. I liked the way the corner of his mouth twisted as he grinned. I liked the fact he had a sense of humour about himself, which most actors I’d met lacked, and most of all I liked his dark eyes, eyes that were almost black in this dim light. Like melting tar on summer roads. I looked away.

      ‘I’m about to do some Shakespeare actually.’

      ‘Oh really? Personally I never really got to grips with the great Bard. Too much flouncy language, not enough sex.’ Where had that come from? I winced at myself. Quit while you’re ahead, Maggie, a little voice muttered.

      ‘No, well, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea. But, actually, there’s quite a lot of sex, I’d say. A lot of people ruined by broken hearts and jealous lovers.’

      Me too, I nearly said. I am utterly ruined by my last love. My lost love. I caught myself: drunk and maudlin, a fatal combination. I tried to focus; to place his accent. Very faint. A burr, maybe Midlands, West Country perhaps. I felt a pang for Pendarlin again.

      ‘Which play are you doing?’

      ‘Twelfth Night.’

      I vaguely remembered it from A-level English. I could just see him as the handsome angry prince who bangs on about music being the food of love, fighting desperately for the girl he wants. How romantic. I found I’d drained my wine.

      Seb grinned. ‘Actually, if you want a bit of sex, there’s even some cross-dressing going on in Twelfth Night.’

      ‘It’s not sexy, cross-dressing, though, is it?’ I frowned, concentrating hard. ‘I thought it was about disguise and hiding. You’re not playing the one who burps, are you?’

      ‘Sir Toby Belch? No, not this time, sadly. He’s very funny, though.’

      ‘Or the one that wears yellow socks?’ I hiccuped gently and contemplated him. ‘I see you more as Hamlet, you know.’

      Seb smiled inscrutably. ‘I guess most of us “thesps” like to think we’ve got him in us.’

      I was steeling myself to ask whether Seb would like another drink when he stood up. ‘I’ve got an early start.’ He smiled at me as I bit down the disappointment, squinting up at him. ‘So, Maggie Warren.’ He was very gorgeous, and I was a bit drunk. I might be ruined by Alex, but I was still capable of rebounding heavily. It was definitely better that Seb left immediately. There was no telling what I might do when I was in my cups. My C cups. I started to smile.

      Taking my hand, he held it for a minute. Or perhaps it was my imagination; perhaps it was a mere second. His skin was very cool against mine, which was burning hot. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

      I stood up too. ‘Oh, yes. Likewise.’

      He stared at me for a second, and then he grinned. ‘And watch out for that dance floor. It’s got a mind of its own.’

      This time I did blush. ‘Oh yes, I will. I mean, it was Bel. You know Bel when she gets going. She knocked me over.’

      But he’d already been swallowed up by the heaving throng, which was getting wilder by the minute. I gazed after him – and then suddenly Bel and Johnno were standing before me – or, rather, Johnno was standing, holding a slumped Bel upright. ‘Bit tired and emotional, you know. I think I’d better take her home.’

      ‘Who was that?’ she slurred.

      ‘Seb. Sebastian Rae. The actor.’ His name sounded unwieldy on my lips.

      ‘Oh yes,’ she nodded, then turned a gentle green. ‘You know, I actually really don’t feel too good. At all, actually.’

      After Johnno had removed Bel in some haste, I realised I had little inclination to join the hysterical shrieking fracas that was the last hour or two of a good party. There was really no one left who I even wanted to talk to. For one insane moment I contemplated calling Alex. Because of that, I knew I must go home to bed. Grappling with my coat and bag at the cloakroom, Charlie wafted up beside me and scooped up the confetti packets I’d just knocked off the side. ‘Oh.’ I gazed at one sadly before plopping them back in the bowl. ‘We forgot to throw the confetti.’

      ‘What a shame,’ Charlie said insincerely. ‘Need a lift, darling?’

      ‘It’s the wrong way, isn’t it?’ I concentrated on not slurring. ‘A cab’ll be fine, thanks, Charlie. There’ll be loads around I expect.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’

      It was freezing outside, the frenetic hubbub of nearby Piccadilly not lessened by the late hour. On the edge of the kerb I shrugged my coat round my shoulders and looked hopefully for a taxi, for the usual hustlers hoping for a fare. Of course, tonight there were none to be found. The cold air made me realise just how tired and hazy I really was, and I was suddenly desperate to be home now; for the quietness and serenity of my own room and the sanctuary of my father’s house.

      A car snapped on its headlights, catching me in the blazing beam. I put a hand up to flag it, and in response he snapped his lights again to full-beam. The glare was so strong it blinded me. I threw my arm up to shield my eyes against the light, relieved to have found a cab, stepping towards the edge of the kerb to wait for him to pull up alongside me.

      There was a huge roar as the car over-revved. ‘Easy, tiger,’ I was about to mutter, but through the glare I could make out that the vehicle was moving – fast now, too fast – driving directly towards me.

      Confused, I took a step back. Disoriented by the headlights, I staggered in my spindly heels. I could smell the diesel now as I smacked into the lamppost behind me, and somehow I lost my balance and suddenly found myself falling, falling forward toward the acrid stench of fumes. I shouted something in desperation, I don’t know what – but I knew I was about to go under the wheels, wheels that moved relentlessly toward me –

      ‘I’ve got you.’

      An arm grabbed mine and pulled me back. Charlie – Charlie was holding me up now, and I clutched him as the car roared past. With a screech of tyres it took off round the corner. I stared after it, Charlie’s signet ring biting into my naked arm. When he took his hand away, his fingerprints had stained my pale skin.

      ‘Bloody boy-racers,’ he swore. For once, his slicked-back grey hair was dishevelled, falling across his face. He pushed it back irritably as, dazed, I let him lead me to his silver Alfa. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

      ‘I think – that car, it was driving straight at me.’

      ‘Don’t be so silly.’ He manoeuvred me down into the low seat. ‘You’re pissed. It was just some kid showing off.’

      The lights of London slid by outside. Buckingham Palace was an oversized dolls’ house, the road around it a great red skating-rink, Big Ben as