If I Never Met You

by Mhairi McFarlane

  Laurie winced.

  Yes, Mad Bint of the Year.

  She could’ve badly done without her Shirley Basseyness pointed out and muttered, “Nope” with a fierce enough intonation that he didn’t inquire further.

  Jabal said nothing, obviously thinking: These award-attending divas.

  Laurie’s stomach fizzed and rolled as she walked into the ground floor brasserie and scanned for Jamie. Heads turned and Laurie felt she should be wearing a sandwich board saying I am not a soap opera star or with a footballer—go back to your Manhattans.

  She thought of Emily saying: “A huge part of getting attention is signaling you’re up for attention,” and felt the truth of it. Her clothes and makeup commanded: Look at me. Inside, she howled: Don’t.

  She saw Jamie, treacle-dark head down, looking at his phone, sitting on a chair at the other side of the circular bar. It was a small island of glass and light, the staff working away within it, noisily rattling ice in shakers above their shoulders. Laurie realized the location might also have been chosen for its scene-setting potential.

  Laurie picked her way carefully toward him, the prospect of going arse over tit too awful to contemplate. Jamie glanced up as she approached and did what seemed to be a genuine double take, eyes widening, mouth open an inch, phone immediately abandoned.

  Laurie was too uncomfortable to feel any compliment. It was hard to separate out making an effort for the caper from simply making an effort for him, and the thought he’d suspect the latter was mortifying.

  She reached Jamie and said: “Hello.” There was a pause. “Well. Getting on that chair is going to be interesting.”

  “. . . He left you for who, again?”

  Laurie rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “I was going to say ‘It’s not a competition’ but if it isn’t, why am I here? Moral high ground was in short supply, huh.”

  “Well, seriously, morality aside, you look incredible.”

  “Haha. Thanks.”

  He stood down from his seat so it would be easier for Laurie to heave up into hers. Jamie was wearing a black shirt and slim cut gray wool trousers, the angles and planes of his face set off wonderfully by the low lighting; and Laurie relaxed a notch, thinking, At least I look like I’m supposed to be here. It was a close-run thing, but feeling too scruffy for the company and clientele would’ve been worse. Inspecting the room, it was indeed the sort of place for beefy men, still glowing pink from their early evening power shower, their rail-thin wives in Kurt Geiger stilettos, and everyone flashing American Express cards.

  “Right, so here’s your resolve stiffener,” Jamie said, and motioned to the waitress who had appeared by them, holding a martini out for Laurie.

  Laurie had never been ordered for in her life.

  “Sorry—you drink martinis? It’s vodka, dirty, olives,” Jamie said, seeing her expression.

  Who did he think he was, some discount James Bond?

  “Yes,” Laurie said, wondering if she should’ve said No, show me the cocktail menu please, on principle. Who ordered drinks for people? Was she a gangster’s moll already?

  Compromised, that’s what she was. She’d confided in one man that another man had damaged her.

  Laurie sipped it gingerly, recoiling slightly at its salt and strength, as well as the feeling of being taken for granted. Her lips numbed.

  “It’ll be a little easier to playact this picture if not stone-cold sober,” Jamie said.

  “What have you got in mind? Is it going to be posed like the Charles and Diana’s engagement photo?” Laurie said as she sipped again.

  “Haha. ‘Whatever love means,’” he quoted, “My kind of guy.” Laurie was quite impressed at him knowing that, given he was only thirty-one, though she didn’t say so.

  Her phone vibrated with a message and she pulled it out of her bag. Jamie. Uh?

  The bartender is a trainee and my drink took a lifetime to make! Shall I order for you? Is a martini OK? Tell you what, I’ll get you that and then, if you don’t have it, I will. Jx

  “Oh. Just got your message!” she said, glancing up from the screen, guiltily. “Bloody EE coverage.”

  “Hah. No worries.”

  Assuming had made an ass of Laurie; he was being thoughtful. And it occurred to her that if he’d gotten her something full of passionfruit juice and Malibu, she’d have objected that, in fact, she was the kind of woman who liked proper navy-strength drinks. 0–5 to the romantically scalded, grumpy Laurie Watkinson.

  “OK, so, time for a little game theory, as those Twitter analysts of American politics like to say,” Jamie said, and Laurie smiled into her third sip. Dammit, it was so violent, and yet so drinkable.

  “The impression we want to give with this photo is not: ‘Here we are getting heavy, guys!’ It’s far more of a ‘question mark’ kind of thing than that, for our debut. It’s a ‘Here’s an outtake from what was obviously a very good evening—draw your own conclusions.’ Essentially, we want to spark a guessing game. Appeal to the part of the brain that lights up during an Agatha Christie.”

  “Yes . . . I suppose so?” Laurie said hesitantly. She was allowing herself to wonder, at last, exactly how febrile the guessing game might be over this, and she didn’t much like the answer. She was trying to bottle lightning, without much of a bottle.

  “What were you thinking?” Jamie said, eyebrows drawing together. Typical lawyer. Turning the tables on her attitude: Have you got any better ideas? Well then.

  “I had no idea. Go on.”

  “I’m also thinking we want to get our photo early so you can get away and have your real Saturday night.”

  Hah, he meant his, but she appreciated the good manners.

  “I thought I could post the photo tomorrow morning, and tag you. Then you’ve perhaps not fully intended everyone you’re friends with to see it, but: ‘Oh no! Everyone sees it.’ Including your ex. Are you set up to show tagged photos?”

  “I think so . . . ?”

  “The way it works is you have to opt out. So if you haven’t, it’ll be there.”

  Laurie nodded. He was so much younger than her. So much. This was campaign strategy.

  “You’re on Instagram?” Jamie said.

  “Ah. No.”

  “DOH. We need you to be on Instagram. Let’s set up an account and we’ll do it linked to Facebook, so that you draw lots of contacts from there over to Instagram. If we leave it public, then your ex only needs to know it’s there, and he’ll be likely to check it.”

  Laurie thought: Huh. She’d given up the “predicting Dan” game.

  “Do you have something handy in your photos on your phone you can sling on as an Instagram profile picture?” Jamie said.

  “Uh . . .” Laurie chewed her lip and opened her iPhone.

  “Actually, do you know what,” Jamie said, giving her an appraising look. “Let’s leave you off Instagram for now. Launching one tonight looks suspicious. You can appear on mine.”

  “OK. What’s your Instagram like?”

  Jamie tapped at his phone and handed it over.

  Laurie peered at the black-and-white profile photo, Jamie laughing at some unseen person, half in profile, looking predictably devastating. She read his bio aloud—“‘Call me when you realize none of this matters’”—and burst out laughing.

  She glanced up at Jamie and to her surprise, he blushed. He’d seemed unembarrassable, and her opinion shouldn’t matter. Although that might still be true, the two things weren’t that closely linked.

  “All right, it’s only humor, you snipe.”

  He screwed his face up in a mock sulk which could’ve been nauseating, but his boyish charm carried it clear out of nausea and right into almost cute. Laurie could see why lesser women than herself succumbed so easily.

  “It’s a bit . . . I’m no good for you, baby. I’m married to the sea,” Laurie said. She feared she might be pushing her luck, but she liked the more lighthearted, larky side of her nature he seemed to unlock. Lad
Banter Laurie, as Dan used to call it, not approvingly. It chased some of the ghosts away, albeit temporarily.

  “Hahahaha, ‘married to the sea,’” Jamie said. “Right, hang on. I’m changing my bio to that now, it’s excellent.”

  He fiddled with his iPhone and Laurie said, “You’re not really, are you? I was taking the piss.”

  “I know. And it was funny. There . . .” He flashed the screen up at her. He had, as well.

  “Is there anything you won’t ironize? Do you ever have genuine feelings toward women?”

  “Yes, of course I do! They’re very genuine for the two or three hours I feel them.”

  Laurie groaned.

  “You’re an actual womanizer, snaring the unwary by doing a comic parody of a womanizer. Modern men.”

  Jamie curled his lip at the word “womanizer.” Laurie recognized it as the same expression as when defendants who dealt drugs heard themselves described as drug dealers.

  “. . . I think calling them ‘unwary’ is a bit much. As is ‘snaring.’ I’m not the Hooded Claw.”

  “Plenty of them, even if they accept it’s casual, must think you only need to meet the right ‘them,’ though.”

  Jamie clinked ice in his glass.

  “I think you underrate how many women out there are perfectly fine with casual. You see it as my interests versus women’s, and it isn’t like that. Sex comes under the category heading of General Interest. I’m not exploiting anyone.”

  This hurt, more than she bet it was meant to. Following Dan’s departure, Laurie was sensitive to accusations of being vanilla.

  “Works in theory. But Eve wasn’t hoping for more than career advice tips, for example? She didn’t think maybe you might bed and boyfriend her?” Backhand low volley.

  “Nope,” Jamie said, though he looked discomfited. “Not at all. Despite her uncle’s prejudices about the dangers of consorting with unattached members of the opposite sex, sharing dinners with them. God who is he, Mike Pence?”

  The temperature between them had cooled considerably.

  As much as lotharios were anathema to Laurie, it was hardly fair of her to object tonight. If you wanted plumbing done, you hired a plumber. If you wanted your roof fixed, you hired a roofer.

  If you wanted everyone to erroneously believe you were at it like knives, you recruited Jamie Carter.

  When discomfort meets strong liquor, at first the spirits seems wondrous panacea for it, Laurie observed, then they start extracting a heavy price. Like a payday loan deposit.

  She ordered a second martini, despite an unguarded wooziness setting in, and despite remembering the adage that they were like breasts: One wasn’t enough, three too many.

  “I’m glad you’re having another, when I saw your face when it arrived I worried I’d messed up,” Jamie said pleasantly, clearly happy to move the conversation away from his love life.

  “Oh no, really my thing, thanks.”

  She winced inside: she’d been snippy with him to an unwarranted degree. She had a low opinion of this man for no real reason other than the boys at work hated him and women pashed on him. “Boys” being the operative word. She’d accepted a secondhand version of Jamie, one largely shaped by spite, and ought to make up her own mind.

  “Shall we transfer to a table? I have constant premonitions of falling off these things, while balancing on terrified clenched cheeks.” Jamie sucked the cheeks on his face in.

  “Oh my God, same!” Laurie laughed with the overemphasis of the getting-drunk-fast person.

  Installed at a table, the drinks arrived on paper doily coasters and Jamie slid onto the banquette beside her, close enough that she felt the warmth of him through her lace sleeves, and chided herself for the goose bumps which rippled down her arm.

  “Now,” he said. “To business.”

  He turned his phone on its side as Laurie lifted the glass to her lips and he leaned his head into the frame, tapping rapidly at the circle at the bottom of the screen. He took reams of photos, which, Emily had informed Laurie, was the insider’s secret to getting a great one.

  “Hmm,” he said, unconvinced, swiping through his camera roll.

  Laurie peered at them. “Snuggling up with my alcoholic wife. Hashtag blissville.”

  “I am very happy to hand you the controls,” Jamie said.

  “No! It’s fine. It’s just, you know. Seeing how the sausage is made.”

  “Hey, you still have no idea how my sausage is made, baby.”

  Laurie hooted with laughter and Jamie quickly pulled her toward him and into the crook of his arm, holding his phone aloft, clicking away. He smelled expensively citrus and masculine, and Laurie thought how much more presentation work singlehood involved. Dan was perfumed only by double underarm swipes of Sure for Men.

  “What’s your . . . scent?”

  “Acqua di Parma and success.”

  Jamie examined his work.

  “Yes! There,” he said. “That’s it, that’s the one. Oh, record time, Carter. The master at work, etc. The iPhone da Vinci.”

  He turned the screen toward Laurie. The picture showed Jamie smiling up conspiratorially straight into the camera, all strong jawline and brow and a few dark curls on his forehead. Laurie was in profile, eyes tight shut in mirth, resting against his chest in a coquettish way. She could see he’d found a flattering angle where she looked . . . foxy? The cocktail hour dress was visible, Jamie’s shirt unbuttoned the right amount. It was the kind of poseur nonsense that vain people sent out on wedding invites.

  The scene looked intimate and genuine, depicting the sort of pleasure in each other’s company you can’t fake. Except, you clearly could.

  “That’s like some Harry and Meghan official-photos-level lenswork,” Jamie said, satisfied, flipping expertly through the filter options. “Monochrome feels a little too studied. Let’s go with a nice Mayfair.”

  “Is Meghan your one handy mixed-race-girl reference?” Laurie said, taking the cocktail stick out of her fat olives and putting it in the corner of her mouth, grinning.

  “You’re a waspish character at times, aren’t you?” Jamie said, but reasonably warmly. “Should I . . . is mixed race the right term nowadays?”

  “Doesn’t bother me if it’s not meant badly. Dual heritage is the official one for government forms, but no one really uses that. The one I hated as a kid was half caste.”

  “Ugh. Yes. All noted.”

  The sort of sharpness that works in courtrooms but not in a marriage. Laurie cringed. Though that was typical Claire, suggesting being good at her job made her a bad partner.

  “I was kidding, sorry!” Laurie amended. “The name Megan comes with a trigger warning for me.”

  “Ah, God, sorry, yeah.”

  The killer portrait achieved, it let the air out of the balloon somewhat. Chat now felt stilted, while Laurie tried to second-guess how much Jamie wanted to be gone and, she suspected, Jamie labored to conceal he wanted to be gone.

  Laurie felt considerable relief when a shimmering vision of Emily in salmon satin squealed: “Laurie! What are you doing here?!” and swooped in for a media-person double air-kiss.

  “Oh, Emily, this is Jamie, from work. Jamie, Emily,” Laurie said. “We’re out for a drink.”

  “Right,” Emily said, hand on slinky hip, looking from one to the other and, Laurie thought, doing a good job of appearing to take this in, in real time.

  “I’m with Suzanne from work and a few others—you know Suzanne?” and Laurie said “yep” and made a covert UGH face. Emily laughed and so did Jamie.

  After a few minutes of Getting to Know Yous, Emily’s diminutive, shinily clad behind perching on the end of their banquette, she excused herself to her companions and said, “Really nice to meet you,” extending a hand to Jamie.

  If Laurie had thought about it prior, she’d have predicted that Jamie and Emily meeting would be fireworks and chemistry and delightedly trading the kind of rom-com barbs that end with them in the sack. They
had a lot of similarities in disposition, and were both knockouts. If Jamie Carter had ever said “Set me up with a friend of yours,” Laurie would’ve without a second thought provided Emily’s number and said Thank me later.

  She didn’t sense much static crackle, but perhaps that was heavy expectation in a ten-minute encounter when Jamie was notionally on a date with her best friend. In fact, she felt Jamie was uncharacteristically subdued.

  “Let’s go,” Laurie said, under her breath to Jamie, after Emily departed, “I’m not having the Suzanne experience twice.”

  Laurie waved across the room to Emily, and Emily, leaning in to check Jamie wasn’t looking, made a forefinger to thumb circle. Suzanne boggled. Hah, have that.

  As much as she’d enjoyed moonlighting as Pennines Beyoncé she couldn’t wait to take the bra, Spanx, and the heels off. Glamour was agony.

  Outside, Jamie handed her into her Uber, reiterating his intentions regards their photo. “Essentially a did they or didn’t they tease. And an are they or aren’t they. No smut, obviously.”

  As he leaned down to close the door, he said, “Can’t believe you did a girl-buddy ‘safety check-in’ setup on me, by the way.”

  Ouch.

  “I didn’t! Pure coincidence,” Laurie said, but she knew she looked guilty.

  “Hah. Don’t bullshit the bullshitter, Watkinson,” he said, and slammed the door before she could protest further.

  Laurie was uncomfortable, as nightscape Manchester flew past the car window, and now in more than one way. If that setup had been so obvious to Jamie, what else might she misjudge?

  She feared Emily’s prediction, that lying had unforeseen complications, was already coming true.

  19

  You Were Tagged in a Photo by Jamie Carter.

  Through her blurred senses, Laurie squinted at her handset. They’d gone live, hence the confetti of notifications. She opened Facebook and saw Jamie had captioned it:

  Great night @Laurie. Though not sure if I should be thanking you or hating you for this hangover ☺

  With morning bedhead, in an old T-shirt, and with a light cranial throbbing from the martinis, Laurie appreciated the staged glamour of the picture all the more. They did look like a pair of celebrities, of their own invention. Jamie’s postproduction tinkering had given it a sheen, an Oscars after-party atmosphere. Laurie didn’t really look like that creature who was standing in for her, she wasn’t living that life. But what mattered was everyone else thought she was. One big game of bluff.