‘I couldn’t even wrap my hand around it,’ said Flouff, puffing furiously on one of the Marlboro Touch cigarettes she had just ordered to the house via Deliveroo, tapping the ash into an empty wine glass to her left – Luna also let people smoke inside her house, another draw.
‘It wasn’t erect at all?’ enquired Luna, eyes wide in dismay.
‘Nope,’ Flouff replied, inhaling deeply. ‘Barely the size of my little finger and it dangled slightly to the left like it was looking for somewhere to hide. Honestly it’s a good thing because had we actually managed to have sex, it would’ve been dreadfully embarrassing trying to pretend I could feel a thing.’
The whole table erupted into laughter.
‘Poor guy,’ muttered Ben, who Rose was pleased to find had been placed next to her in the seating plan.
‘I know. He’s probably pretty insecure about it.’
‘Oh, God, not that. I mean, poor guy for having to try and pretend you’re getting turned on by that,’ he replied, nodding towards Flouff, who was now holding the cigarette in her mouth and gesticulating with both hands about another sexual encounter she’d had.
Rose laughed.
‘How come I’ve never seen you at one of Luna’s lovely soirées before, then?’ Ben asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork and setting it back down on his plate. It was meant to be some sort of pomodoro dish but Luna had clearly failed to fully drain the pasta after it had cooked. The dish in front of them was more of a red, watery soup with bits of pasta in it. Rose took one bite and didn’t bother with the rest, strategically moving it around enough on her plate so it looked like she’d made several attempts before giving up.
‘I haven’t been to one for a while actually. I usually have work events in the evenings.’
‘Oh yeah? What do you do?’
‘I do PR for a publishing company that makes magazines,’ Rose replied, knowing what would come next.
‘That sounds very glamorous. Which magazines? Not Firehouse?’
‘Yes. Firehouse.’
‘Very cool. My godfather went to school with the man who runs the place. Jasper something, right?’
‘Yes. And of course he did.’
‘Ha. I like you, Rose.’
‘Why?’
‘Tell me more about yourself.’
‘That feels like something you’d ask in a job interview.’
‘What do you like to do in your free time?’
‘Now you’re making it sound like a Spanish oral exam.’
‘It’s a bit early to mention oral but I’ll let that slide. Go on, tell me.’
Rose could feel herself starting to sweat.
‘I don’t really know how to answer that,’ she replied.
‘Well, do you read? Play golf? Watch birds?’
‘Yes, no, and absolutely not.’
‘Pleased we established that.’
‘What do you do with your free time?’
‘Oh, I don’t have any free time,’ he replied, winking before gathering his and Rose’s plates and taking them into the kitchen.
With Ben gone, Rose looked around the table for a conversation to join. To her left, Paul and May were having a heated debate about Brexit. It wasn’t completely clear but from what she heard it sounded as if Paul had made a xenophobic remark and May had been chastising him for it. But Paul, who was rolling his eyes – and a cigarette – didn’t seem too bothered and was now listing all of the political predictions made in The Simpsons.
To her right, Flouff was telling Marco about the non-surgical treatments each of the Kardashians had had done, how much they cost, and where you could get them in London.
Rose decided now would be a good time to use the bathroom. Washing her hands, she looked at her reflection and hated how tired she looked. Her eyes were sunken in a manner reminiscent of celebrity mugshots. It was hard to remember the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep. Just below her left eye, she noticed an eyelash. She dabbed it onto her finger and held it out in front of her. Closing her eyes, she thought about what to wish for. All she saw was Milo. Whenever she pictured him now, his face would appear and then morph into someone completely unrecognisable with outsized features. This time, what she saw barely looked like a face at all. It had become something entirely alien, almost like it had been painted, except the brushstrokes had blurred so the colours were muddied and indistinguishable from one another. The cheeks bulged outwards alongside what used to be an eye so that the face became a kaleidoscope of spherical objects arranged in a way that was comparable only to a Francis Bacon portrait: horrifying, violent, mutilated. She opened her eyes; the eyelash had gone.
Luce had called Rose three times that evening. She sighed and called her back.
‘Hey, you okay?’
‘You told me to ring you back,’ Luce tutted. ‘You’re impossible to get hold of.’
This was ironic seeing as Luce was usually the one who was impossible to get hold of.
‘Sorry, I’m just at Luna’s for one of her ridiculous dinner parties.’
‘Okay, I just wanted to talk details for our girls’ night. I was looking at a list for places to meet men in London and there’s this rooftop bar that’s supposed to be great but we need to book and—’
‘Sounds great, book it.’
