It was one of those questions that was impossible to answer. I’d either come off looking like a total dick or a complete and total dick. I had to reframe the question. “The first thing we notice is a woman’s physical appearance. That’s just a fact. But that’s not the only thing we care about. And you can’t tell me it’s not the same for a woman.” I switched off the engine. “I like attention from women. I don’t mind if they see me and like what they’re looking at. It’s human nature to be attracted to the physical.”
We got out of the car and headed to the exit. Yes, we would be early, but there was no point in going up to my flat. I wasn’t sure I was ready for Stella to be in my space.
“So you’re saying I should prepare myself to be objectified by your friends.”
“No more than any other woman walking into the bar. At least they won’t be focused on your shirt.” I held my hand out as the lift opened at the lobby.
All six of us had women in our lives at various points, some more seriously than others, but only one of us was married. It wasn’t that women were banned from our weekly trips to the pub, it was just that none had ever showed up, so I wasn’t quite sure how bringing Stella along would go down.
Joshua and Dexter knew that Stella was taking me to the wedding so I could speak to Henry. But I’d have to fill the others in so no one got the wrong end of the stick and thought things were so serious I couldn’t be away from her for an evening. It would be so out of character they’d think I’d caught some kind of weird disease. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that close to a woman. The perfect relationship for me was a woman I saw twice a week for dinner and a sleepover. The idea of sharing a bed every night was enough to make my skin itch and my palms sweat.
“And I don’t have to drink beer, right? Because if fitting in means drinking beer then I’m happy to stick out. I hate it.”
“You don’t have to but if you want to fit in . . .” I said in mock warning. “I’m drinking lemonade, remember.”
I opened the door to the exit of the building, and she stopped in her tracks. “We’re not going up to your flat?”
“No reason to. We can go straight there. It’s just on the corner.”
She eyed me suspiciously but walked through the plate glass doors. “Summer in London is the best,” she said.
“When it’s sunny,” I said, heading right out of my building. The six of us took it in turns to nominate the pub we had our drinks in but over the years we’d settled on three. Tonight, it was my turn, which meant we’d spend the evening around the corner from my flat.
“And not too humid,” she said.
“And you don’t have to sit in traffic.”
“And you don’t have to work,” she replied. “Let me rephrase. Sunny, not humid, workless, traffic-less, summer evenings in London are the best.”
I nodded. I couldn’t argue with that. “And kicking back with friends is the best way to spend those evenings.”
“Agreed. Oh, the Punchbowl?” she asked, tipping her head back to look at the sign as the softening sunlight caught the strands of her hair. “This is the one Guy Richie owns?”
“He sold it,” I said, peeling my eyes from her and opening the door, indicating for her to go before me. “Years ago. Trust me, it’s nice.” It was my favorite pub in London. It was like an old-fashioned place that had been polished up and made to look nice. And that kind of suited me.
“It’s Mayfair. Of course it’s going to be nice,” she said. We headed inside, and she looked around. “Gosh, it’s a lot bigger on the inside.”
It had plenty of choice when it came to the beer, which the boys enjoyed, and the dark wood and red leather chairs gave it an authentic feel.
“This okay?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Sure. But I bet you can’t get Dom Perignon here,” she said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Grab that table and I’ll go and order. You want champagne?”
“I really don’t. Wine, please.”
“What kind of wine?”
“The house white is fine.”
I’d ordered Danielle house wine once. Jesus, she’d been pissed off at me. Apparently, no one drank house wine, and on top of that I was supposed to have remembered the kind of wine she preferred. Apparently, I’d found the only person in London who drank house wine.
It was tradition that whoever got to the pub first ordered drinks for everyone, even if it meant beers went flat. It wasn’t a complicated order, but I took the barmaid through it three times just to make sure she had it, then returned to our large, round table with a tray of seven drinks. It looked like Stella and I were in for a big night but the boys would be here soon enough.
“So did you guys work together? Grow up together? How do you know each other?”
“Duke of Edinburgh,” I replied. “Gangs had just started to build up on our estate when I was a teenager and my mum thought that weekends working toward something positive like the Duke of Edinburgh award—spending time outdoors, climbing mountains, and volunteering—would keep me out of prison. And it did.” A number of the kids I’d gone to school with had ended up doing time.