Sympathy for the Devil (2 page)

       I called Cari for her opinion on what to wear to impress “the boi”. I needed help and help would always be forthcoming from my best mate. Even though technically I’d already met Pierce, West wanted to do a proper introduction of sorts. It seemed odd when West had already changed his Facebook status to “In a Relationship.” We’d been seeing each other for several weeks. Fumbled around a lot but hadn’t put the coin in the slot, shall we say. I didn’t mind. Why would I mind? It meant West was wholeheartedly committed to the future of our relationship. But social media and I stopped being friends a long time ago. Past history and all that. Who wanted to scan through all the crappy, miserable events of their lives in high definition? Wrong.

       “What’s he like?” she asked, as I sat perched on my bed and she flicked through the portion of my wardrobe my dad allowed me to pack into his van when he’d delivered me into the jaws of higher education.

       “Pierce? Model.”

       Cari turned and arched a brow. “Model hot or model citizen?”

       “Hot,” I clarified. “And crazy. He lit up in the middle of the bar and just boldly told the bouncer to do one. Never seen anything like it.”

       “I’d be very careful if I were you,” Cari warned, rattling hangers. “Boys like him expect you to do what you’re told when you’re told. Be careful around him. And make sure West is sober when you are as well.”

       Something in her tone made me take her completely seriously. She’d been my best friend since our first day at secondary school. Sitting opposite me in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform, when I’d been in a creased shirt and a tie that had been badly done, Cari had sent me a wave and the biggest smile. I’d burst into tears, feeling overwhelmed by the big class and all the strange faces around me. Cari made everyone move out of the way, as tiny as she was, and declared, “Allow her. She hasn’t had breakfast.”

       And because Cari decreed it, everyone did in fact “allow” me. Bless her and her short arse. We, as in everyone we knew, called her Smurfette. Short as anything and constantly surrounded by blokes. I didn’t start the nickname- her brothers did!

       “What else?” Smurfette commanded.

       “He’s studying law, too.” I recalled what West had thrown out at me organising the meet-up. “Ridiculously rich family. Doesn’t deign to live in halls. He’s got his own pad in Old Street.”

       “Swish.”

       “He’s got a pretty horrific reputation with girls. The guys think he’s aiming to sleep with every blonde on campus.”

       “Clinical. Man has issues.”

       “You can’t say that,” I defended immediately. I had to. My darling boyfriend couldn’t hear a word against his precious Pierce, regardless of the fact he behaved barely better than a sewer rat.

       “He must,” Cari said. “Here.” She threw over my favourite high-waisted, button-up skirt and a floral printed crop top. “Classy and flirty.” She bent down to collect my polka dot peep-toe heels. “With liquid eyeliner, victory rolls, and go full-on vintage glory. It’s irresistible.”

       “I’m not going there to flirt with him.” I frowned, disturbed by Cari’s train of thought. “I’m not even his type. I just want him to like me.”

       Cari clasped her hands together and gazed at me through fluttering eyelashes. “Like you forever and ever and carry your bridal trail to meet your prince.”

       “Oh, shut up.” I picked up a stuffed toy and threw it at her in disgust.

       “Cute.” Cari scooped up her bag and coat. “Right, enjoy your date with the Devil.”

       I reluctantly accepted her kiss and said my bye-byes. It didn’t occur to me for a moment that all the time I spent with hairspray and curling tongs could have been better used actually getting myself to South West London where West and Pierce were waiting. I didn’t dare answer my phone, which lit up like a bloody Christmas tree. West had booked a classy gastro pub in Fulham for the meet-up. Why he hadn’t chosen somewhere North for all of us, I’d never understand. My boyfriend had his ideas.

       Because I had to negotiate the entirety of the District Line to get anywhere near the pub, I arrived an hour and a half after I should have. I nudged past people to find where West had booked the magical table. I found him at a prime position of a table—in view of the bar and therefore of any passing wait staff. The table West was slumped over, decorated with several pint glasses, graced Pierce Callun’s presence as well. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Pierce looked bored, lifting West from the table to an upright position.

       “Afternoon!” I beamed. As a joke, obviously. I leaned over and pecked West on the lips. He tasted like a lager factory. “Hi, Pierce,” I ventured.

       He looked me up and down with an unmistakable sneer on his face. “Well, as long as you look nice, that’s all that matters, right?” Truthfully? Yes. “Can you make yourself useful and order him a pint of water with a slice of lemon in it, no ice, and grab a food menu?”

       I glanced around. At this time of the night, I guessed no one could order food. “I think it’s too late for a bite to eat.”

       “Tell them it’s table seventeen. They’ll give you a menu.”

       I stared at him for a moment. The way he said it… as if he never heard anyone tell him the word “no” or say the phrase “that’s not possible.” His life, his existence, knew only people doing what he wanted. No questions asked.

       “Okay. Do you want anything?” I added, piling the glasses to take to the bar. I couldn’t bear to see a dirty table in a pub. Wasn’t right.

       “A wine list, too.”

       “You’re welcome,” I retorted. I always did whenever someone failed to say please.

       “Appreciated,” he said instead, ignoring my tone and leaning back in his chair. The pub seemed pretty busy, and I understood the neglected tables. Barely. As a girl who’d grown up as the daughter of a publican, it really was bad form.

       After a few minutes wait, I squeezed my way past other patrons to the bar. I handed over the glasses and ordered West’s water. “Thanks.” I grinned as the waiter handed it over.

       “Sorry about that,” he called out over the din of the music and chatter. “What table are you at?”

       “Seventeen, one in the corner with Sir Drinks-A-Lot and Lord Wine-List.”

       He paled slightly. “Oh, God.” I read the words of distress on his lips rather than heard them. “Look, I’m sorry. Someone will be over in five minutes, get the table cleared down.”

       “Um, okay. Can I get a gin and tonic and a food menu please? And the blasted wine list, before I get into any more trouble.”

       He swiftly provided everything I asked for, waved away my ten-pound note and sent me back to the table.

       “There’s my beautiful girlfriend!” West slurred as soon as he saw me.
No support tonight then
, I thought.
Well out the window
.

       “Drink that,” I begged, pushing the glass of water to him, “for the love of all that is good in the world.”

       He picked up the glass and dribbled into it. Bless. Given the volume of the noise in the pub and West’s incoherence, I chose the seat closest to Pierce and sent him a smile.

       “Is this something I should get used to?” I asked, waving my fingers in West’s general direction.

       “A relic of being on a rugby team. Most of your sense gets pummelled out of you.” End of conversation, his tone indicated. A girl cleaned our table until it gleamed.

       “Thank you,” Pierce murmured, and if I heard the sarcasm in his tone, the waitress did as well.

       Blushing furiously red, she asked, “Can I get you something to eat? If you’ve decided on your food?”

       God in heaven, I still held the menus. As if they’d shield me from the wrath of the Callun.

       “Erm,” I suggested, “could you come back in a few minutes? We haven’t looked.”

       The girl scampered, I handed over the food menu and the wine list. “Good show,” he praised, flicking through the menu. “Not only are you an hour and a half late, you further deprive me of food and drink. Cheers.”

       Not quite how I wanted things to go…“Apart from waiting for me, were you here long?”

       “I was here on time. I’m normally on time because, despite what I believe you know, I respect other people’s time.”

       “What do you think I’ve heard?” I deflected his critique of my time abuse.

       “What you haven’t heard would probably be a shorter list.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a box of cigarettes. “Yes, I am going to smoke here. Go on. What have you not heard about me?”

       “I haven’t heard much,” I lied.

       “You’re a better liar than that,” he prompted. “Go on.”

       “I may have heard you being called Uni Casanova. Adam Levine, if he’d been brought up by Prince Charles. Jack Nicholson in his youth. Gene Simmons in his youth. Tongue thing included… Tommy Lee in his…”

       “I get it. But I’m a little more selective. Unlike my friend here…” He nodded to West.            
Ouch
! “Club lighting flatters me.”

       “So I see.” He called over the waitress and put in an order for two bottles of wine, three steaks with salad and chips. “Suppose it will do.”

       I held up a hand. “If one of those is for me, can I have mine medium please?”

       “Of course!” the waitress said, beaming, until she caught Pierce’s eye. Then her smile turned to dust. Fair enough. Me versus Callun. All by myself. She brought over the wine and three glasses, allowing Pierce to approve it before he waved her away.

      
My lord. Whatever expectations he has, I will never meet a single one. This is not my bag.

      
“I suppose I should ask you what you’re studying,” he stated, pouring more wine into his glass. I’d barely touched my G and T. Alcohol held no truths for me.

       “Art history,” I answered, wary of saying anything further but desperate to fill the silence. I soldiered on. “I’m all about the Renaissance. Half-naked men. Marble. That stuff. Good stuff. History. Arty stuff.”

       “What a fruitless course. You know curator and museum jobs are all inherited these days? So your boss literally has to die before you can progress? Or get a job at all?”

       “I was think of going into teaching but you know… Thank you?”

       “Good luck with that.” He took his phone out and started a text message war with someone, and I sat there. Mute. Like a faithful puppy waiting for master to pay attention. The steaks were brought over, but West snored away, head tilted back in his chair. Even the scent of grilled meat failed to stir him from his drunken slumber. Great. Good. Perfect.

       Pierce put his phone away and before I dug into my steak, he swapped ours over. “This is the medium. That’s the rare.”

       “Good catch.” Whatever appetite I’d had before I turned up tonight had probably taken the long tube back to halls.

       “What about family?”

       “My family?”

       “Yes, Antonia, your family.”

       Don’t get me wrong. I love my name. I really do. I appreciate that when people shorten my name, in my head I’ve turned into a Cockney plumber who has three sugars in his tea, has four kids, and always brings home kippers for the missus. But Pierce full-naming me? Not good. It felt like an insult.

       “It’s just me and my dad. Only child. Dad’s still a publican. He runs about three pubs in the East End. He spoils me.”