Blood RED. Paul Kane

shifted uncomfortably in the seat and the leather creaked beneath her. She was nursing a vodka and coke like it was the last drink on Earth; barely a sip had passed her lips in the last quarter of an hour.

      “Your heart’s not really in this, is it?” said the girl in the electric blue blouse beside her. Stephanie’s make-up looked like a chimp had applied it, so thick you could scrape it off with a palette knife and paint a canvas with it. And the fact that she kept getting out her bag and mirror to apply more wasn’t helping. It was the ’80s retro look, she informed Rachael when they met up—all the rage in certain city clubs. Unfortunately, they weren’t in one of those right now. They were in the lounge of The Forrester’s Arms, one of the smattering of pubs that crawlers used on their way to more exciting venues.

      There had been no need to ring Steph when she got back to her flat because her friend had beaten her to it. The phone went as soon as she stepped through the door. “I really don’t understand this problem you have about switching your mobile on—it’d be so much easier to get hold of you,” she’d said.

      What if I don’t want to be gotten hold of? thought Rachael. In fact, the only time she kept it about her person and switched it on was if she gave out the number for an audition. Right now, it was languishing in the bottom of her underwear drawer.

      “It’s simple, really Steph—if the phone’s off, it’s not costing me money to ring someone back or text them.”

      “What, a few measly pence?”

      “It might only be that to you, but I’m not exactly raking it in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

      “Only be a matter of time before you land that big part in something. You’ll see.” Steph’s cheery optimism about Rachael’s ‘career’, while endearing at first, had—over time—worn thinner than Hugh Hefner’s welcome mat. Rachael knew from the lack of work that she was nothing special.

      “Thanks,” she said wearily.

      “Know what I think?”

      “What?”

      “I think you’re leaving it off on purpose. In case ... ‘you know who’ tries to get in touch.”

      “You can say his name, you know.” But Rachael was glad when Steph didn’t.

      “You can’t hide yourself away from him.”

      “I’m not hiding.”

      “Yes you are. It’s not worth it.”

      “Not worth what?”

      “Getting like this about it. Plenty—”

      “If you start talking about fish in the sea or pebbles on a beach,” said Rachael, “I’m going to kill you. Slowly.”

      “I was going to say, plenty of time to meet someone.”

      “You were?”

      “No,” Steph admitted. “I was going to talk about fish in the sea.”

      Rachael couldn’t help chuckling at her honesty.

      “But one thing’s for sure, you’re not going to hook any of them while you’re still on dry land.”

      “I could look around for a pebble instead,” suggested Rachael, trying to be facetious—but it was lost on Steph.

      “That’s the spirit. So, you’re coming out tonight then?”

      “Actually, I was thinking of staying in—”

      “And doing what? Watching soaps on TV, comfort eating?”

      Rachael looked at the paper bag sticking out of the top of her shopping. Inside were not one, but two chocolate éclairs. “No,” she lied. “I was going to ...” But she couldn’t think of a decent excuse in time.

      “It’s Friday night. You’re coming out, like we arranged.”

      Rachael sighed. She hated arguments and this one just wasn’t worth getting into. Besides, Steph had done a lot for her when she first moved here: showed her around; helped her settle in; introduced her to ... Okay, let’s leave that one right there, forget that he’s a friend of Steph’s sister Elaine, before I change my mind again ... Rachael knew she was only looking out for her, trying to cheer her up. So, knowing she was going to regret it, she said, “Okay, I give in. What time?”

      But if it had been Steph’s intention to cheer her up, she was failing miserably. All she’d done for the past hour was talk about her own doomed love life before and after she’d met Rachael—which, as far as she could see, mainly involved picking up men in loud clubs without even knowing their names, without even knowing if they had anything in common, then wondering why the relationship had collapsed a few days later. At least Rachael’s thing with Mike hadn’t been like that. They’d been friends first, part of the same crowd, and then it developed into something else. Something Rachael thought would last, until the night she’d shown up to surprise him at work while he was doing one of his DJ-ing shifts.

      She’d watched from the doorway as he flirted with a handful of women giving him requests; all part of the job, he’d probably argue. But the last straw came after he kissed one of them—not just a peck on the cheek, either—right in front of a room full of people. When she confronted him, he maintained there was nothing to it, that she was an old friend, someone he’d known before. They’d had a blazing row that had continued outside the venue, and that had been the last they’d spoken to each other in over a week.

      “Bunch of cheating shits, the lot of them,” ranted Steph. “Oooh, now how about that one? He looks a bit of all right.” Steph’s distinctly schizophrenic notions about men never failed to amaze Rachael, but she was noticing it much more tonight—probably because Steph had spent the other half of the time pointing out potential replacements for Mike. “It’ll take your mind off things, I guarantee it,” she told Rachael.

      “If you start talking about horses and getting back on them ...” Rachael warned.

      Steph grinned. “I’m sure we can find you a nice, strong stallion if we try.”

      “Look, I just don’t think I’m ready for—”

      “It’s only a bit of fun. Humour me.”

      Oh, I am—trust me.

      “Go on,” said her friend, “what do you think?” She was nudging Rachael and nodding in the direction of two men standing at the bar. One looked like he’d just lumbered out of a cave and the other, a stocky man in a vest, sported more tattoos than a brace of bikers. “That one, the one on the left.”

      “What, unibrow? I don’t think so.”

      “All right, the other one then.”

      “Steph, he’s got more pictures on him than the Tate has on its walls. Besides, he’s gross.”

      “You know your problem, don’t you?”

      Rachael cocked her head. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

      “You’re too picky.” Steph knocked back her Bacardi, the fourth of the evening so far. “Must be the actress side of you.”

      “Picky?” said Rachael. “Just because I don’t fancy a primate?”

      Ignoring her, Steph scanned the pub again, expert eyes landing on every face, every bottom. “All right, what about him? He’s nice.”

      She followed Steph’s gaze to a man sitting at a table in the corner sipping a Guinness. A large man, muscular rather than bulky like the tattoo guy, Rachael couldn’t deny he had some things going for him. Those blue eyes for one.

      “So, does he float your boat?”

      “You’re a walking cliché, you know that? He’s ... he’s quite good-looking.” said Rachael.

      “Quite?”