**** Friday afternoon
"Urgh, really?"
I'll grant you, the pandemic was an abject nightmare, but one small silver lining was the shift to working from home.
I was sat in my home office, staring out of the window at the just-going-over trees in the garden and fields beyond, the vista a blaze of reddy greens and bright yellows. It hands down beat the view from my actual office - a few workmen and some scaffolding.
"No, no, of course, if it's important, I'll come along. But darling, you know I'm not keen. These work drinks are not my thing.... Hmm. OK, I'll see you around 8."
Claire often had work dos; it's part and parcel of her client-facing role. I tried to dodge them when I could, - much easier to get out of when you're not actually in an office - but she really wanted me along for this one. Fine - I could suck up the boring work chat for just one evening.
****
**** Friday night
I hopped out of the cab, glad to be free of the driver's incessant Daily Mail chat; "it's them immigrants, ain't it?" It did, the consensus was, always seem to be those immigrants.
I pulled my coat tighter around me as the bigot drove off, shielding myself from the rain, the puddles on the narrow street reflecting the sodium yellow street lamps.
The pub was one of those big conversion jobs you get in the city, what clearly used to be a bank or some such, now given over to more hedonistic pursuits. The place was busy, but not yet too heaving, groups of drinkers standing around the grandiose room, some looking up at a large screen TV showing some obscure NBL game, most simply gathered around small tables. There was the reassuring hum of people letting their hair down, the white noise occasionally punctured by someone's overly loud laugh.
I swerved my way to the centre of the room where the large bar was, a 360 degree wraparound, looking for Claire and her work party. I couldn't see her immediately so pushed my way to the marble-topped counter to get a drink.
"I'll have..."
"Hi, can I..."
The service, as I had come to expect from these sorts of places, sucked. There were plenty of staff, but the young male servers seemed to avoid all eye contact with anything with an Adam's apple, whilst the women seemed to simply stare through me. What's a man gotta do to get a drink?!
"I'll have a Guinness, and one for this chap too!"
I felt a large hand on my shoulder, turning to look, then realising the owner was on my other side. I looked up to see Deejay standing there, smiling down at me. Great.
"Hi Neil! You drink Guinness, right?" he smiled, as two young girls behind the bar infuriatingly rushed to be the one to get the order.
"Thanks Deejay."
I'm not a big fan of the meal-in-a-pint, but decided against quibbling; I had a drink, at last!
The concoctions were poured by the smiling winner, a pretty young thing with a nose stud. She'd previously been the worst offender in the seemingly popular game of ignore-the-man-who-wants-a-drink.
"How have you been?" he asked. To be honest, I could live without the small talk.
"Oh, good, good. Have you seen Claire?"
"Oh, sure. We're just the other side of the counter. Come on, let's go say hello to your wife."
We walked round the side of the bar - maddeningly, everyone else seemed to be getting served fine - and there she was, my wife, holding court.
She was leaning up against the counter, her head back, laughing at something one of the four besuited gents gathered around her had said. She was obviously the centre of attention, the four young men all focused in on her. I couldn't blame them.
She was wearing something I'd not seen her in before, a cocktail dress, black, one side cut high so a bare leg was visible, up to the hip almost. I could see one of the suits' eyes gazing down longingly at the bare white flesh; subtle he was not.
"Darling!" she shouted as she saw me approach.
I tried to squeeze my way through to her, but the suits blocked me. I had to settle for standing just outside the little semi-circle as the men all shuffled along a bit to let Deejay in.
"Let me introduce you," she said. "Everyone, this is my husband, Neil. Neil, this is everyone!" - the group all laughed; don't ask me.
Claire must have spotted my drink.
"Are you drinking Guinness?" I could hear the incredulity in her voice, "You hate Guinness!"
"Oh, sorry Neil," said Deejay, the man wearing the sort of smug grin that just makes you want to punch someone, "You should have said!"
"No, it's fine," I lied, "I was hungry anyway." Silence. I do not like these work dos.
"Now, you!" said Claire, her face mock serious, looking at Deejay, "You owe us all a round of shots for that stunt you pulled today!"
A roar went up from the group, Deejay motioning with a hand, a pretty young barmaid somehow understanding exactly what the vague gesture meant, reaching down to bring a bottle of tequila up to the bar. Well, at least I could ditch the Guinness...
****
"I can't believe you did that to him!"
Claire was laughing, her face twisted up at the bitter salt she'd just licked off the back of her hand. It was just the three of us left, the other suits having decided to head off to a nightclub they knew. The bar had emptied out quite considerably, not that this helped the level of service.
"Well," said Deejay, holding his hand out in front of him, palm down, as he sprinkled some more salt on, "he was annoying me."
I must have missed something. "What did he do to whom?"
It didn't help that I felt like I was interjecting. Claire and Deejay were facing each other, Deejay propping himself up on the bar with an elbow, Claire sat on a high stool. I stood to the side of them, facing into the pair. My wife was not even turning to look at me when she talked.
"Deejay here actually pinned one of the accountants up against the wall! He picked him up off of his feet!"
She squeaked the last word then hiccuped. She *does* like her tequila, but it tends to get her pretty wasted, pretty quick. Besides, she'd clearly been on the wine before I'd even got there.
I could imagine the HR clusterfuck if anyone tried what Deejay had done at my work. How the hell had he gotten away with it?
"Can't you get into serious trouble for that sort of thing?"
"Nah," he shrugged, shaking some salt onto the back of Claire's proffered hand, "I actually know his wife quite well."
He looked amazingly happy with himself.
I stuck my hand out, palm down, for him to sprinkle some salt on. The bastard just smiled and put the shaker back down on the bar.
Chivalrous only to my wife, it seemed, Claire leaned in to take the slice of lime he offered her.
"You're so bad!" she whispered.
I could see her eyes glazing over a bit. I made a mental note to make her a proper hangover cure in the morning as I reached across to pick up the shaker.
She deigned to acknowledge her husband - "He's right though," she nodded sideways at me, "you can't be doing that sort of thing. What if he makes a complaint?"
"Trust me," said Deejay, straightening up as he picked up his glass, Claire leaning across herself to get hers, "that pussy won't be doing anything about it."
Oh-oh. I saw Claire take a sharp intake of breath.
Worse - we all downed our shots, but Claire and Deejay just kept their eyes on each other the whole time. Especially when licking the salt. But God damn it, she was so fucking hot flirting with the bastard!
I figured it was a good idea to get us out of there - she was pretty shot already. Besides, as much as I was enjoying the show, my wife, hungover, can be a real bear. Yep, time to skedaddle, I thought.
I pointed up at the grand railway station-esque clock mounted above the bar, "We should get going honey. It's gone 11 - they're going to kick us out soon."
Deejay, true to form, impolitely ignored me, lifting the tequila bottle straight out of the barmaid's hand, filling his and my wife's glasses.
"Say," he said, smiling his smarmy grin at Claire, then nodding in my direction, "did Neil here ever tell you what my costume was about?"
I'm sure I gulped. I know my trousers got a little tighter.
