Read Online Little White Lies by Gemma Townley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gemma Townley
Tags: Fiction
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flowers, no dinner date . . . if you think I’m ever sleeping with you again, you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree, mate.”
Her tone is angry, but her eyes are smiling, and Jason leans over to give her a kiss on the mouth. “Right you are, gorgeous,” he grins, and saunters back toward the bar.
“He seems nice,” I venture. “Are you going to give him your number?”
“Dunno,” says Julie. “But I definitely think I’m going to take him home tonight. Nice ass, don’t you think?”
Lucy arrives with the drinks. “Alistair and Michael are here,” she says, plonking the vodka and tonics in front of us. “They’re going on to Woody’s in a bit, so I said we might join them. Thought doubles might get us in the mood . . .”
“Alistair?” I say interestedly.
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Um, not really—if he’s the Alistair I’m thinking of. There’s an Alistair who lives upstairs from me, that’s all.”
“Dark hair, glasses, always wears the same bloody denim jacket?”
“Bingo,” I say, and grin. Ever since I told Chloe that I was going out with Alistair, it’s begun to strike me as rather a good idea. If you think about it, he’s perfect. He’s cool, very good-looking, and completely different from anyone else I’ve ever been out with. I would get a great deal of pleasure out of turning up in Bath with Alistair on my arm, seeing Pete’s reaction . . .
“Well, he’s coming over in a sec, so you can introduce yourself properly,” says Lucy. “Jules, did I just see Jason kiss you? Cheeky git.”
I excuse myself to go to the loo. If Alistair is coming over, this could be my big chance. I nip to the bar and ask Jason where the ladies’ is. He points to a door to the side, and I walk in, heading straight for the mirror.
My hair looks all wrong, so I try to fluff it up a bit, but it ends up looking ten times worse, so I have to desperately try to flatten it down again. I wish I could make up my mind what to do with my hair—I just can’t decide whether I want a short elfin cut or a long sleek ponytail. So I cut it short, then grow it, then cut it short again, and seem to be constantly in that in-between, growing-out phase that means it never looks any good. But right now it’ll just have to do.
“Okay, Natalie, you know what to do,” I mutter to myself. “Just relax. And laugh at his jokes.”
Sometimes I like talking to myself out loud—you know, to make sure that I really listen.
“He may be cool, but he’s actually just the boy next door, but that’s all,” I continue. “And anyway, you look fab!”
I don’t feel that fab. Suddenly my black T-shirt makes me look like an indie kid from the 1990s. Why didn’t I wear something more glamorous? Why didn’t I borrow something from Tina T’s when I had the chance?
I splash some cold water on the back of my neck and practice laughing into the mirror. Shit—I look like a horse when I laugh like that. Right, head down, hand in front of your mouth . . . yes, that’s much better.
But I’m not quite ready to go out yet. For some reason, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I guess I haven’t been single for a few years now, and it is a bit scary going out to flirt with a virtual stranger. I take a deep breath and I tell myself I’ll be fine. After all, people do this all the time. I bet Cressida wouldn’t hide in the loo all night trying to pluck up the courage to go back out. And what’s she got that I haven’t got—you know, apart from the money, the Soho House membership, and the millions of people who continually ring her up and write to her? Nothing, that’s what.
Michael Jackson starts playing out of the loud speakers, and I find myself shimmying around a bit, wiggling my hips to the music. If they’re playing “Can’t Stop (Till You Get Enough),” then this must be an okay place. I think it’s a good omen—tonight is going to be my night.
“Whoo, yeah,” I whoop to the music, and do a quick
Her tone is angry, but her eyes are smiling, and Jason leans over to give her a kiss on the mouth. “Right you are, gorgeous,” he grins, and saunters back toward the bar.
“He seems nice,” I venture. “Are you going to give him your number?”
“Dunno,” says Julie. “But I definitely think I’m going to take him home tonight. Nice ass, don’t you think?”
Lucy arrives with the drinks. “Alistair and Michael are here,” she says, plonking the vodka and tonics in front of us. “They’re going on to Woody’s in a bit, so I said we might join them. Thought doubles might get us in the mood . . .”
“Alistair?” I say interestedly.
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Um, not really—if he’s the Alistair I’m thinking of. There’s an Alistair who lives upstairs from me, that’s all.”
“Dark hair, glasses, always wears the same bloody denim jacket?”
“Bingo,” I say, and grin. Ever since I told Chloe that I was going out with Alistair, it’s begun to strike me as rather a good idea. If you think about it, he’s perfect. He’s cool, very good-looking, and completely different from anyone else I’ve ever been out with. I would get a great deal of pleasure out of turning up in Bath with Alistair on my arm, seeing Pete’s reaction . . .
“Well, he’s coming over in a sec, so you can introduce yourself properly,” says Lucy. “Jules, did I just see Jason kiss you? Cheeky git.”
I excuse myself to go to the loo. If Alistair is coming over, this could be my big chance. I nip to the bar and ask Jason where the ladies’ is. He points to a door to the side, and I walk in, heading straight for the mirror.
My hair looks all wrong, so I try to fluff it up a bit, but it ends up looking ten times worse, so I have to desperately try to flatten it down again. I wish I could make up my mind what to do with my hair—I just can’t decide whether I want a short elfin cut or a long sleek ponytail. So I cut it short, then grow it, then cut it short again, and seem to be constantly in that in-between, growing-out phase that means it never looks any good. But right now it’ll just have to do.
“Okay, Natalie, you know what to do,” I mutter to myself. “Just relax. And laugh at his jokes.”
Sometimes I like talking to myself out loud—you know, to make sure that I really listen.
“He may be cool, but he’s actually just the boy next door, but that’s all,” I continue. “And anyway, you look fab!”
I don’t feel that fab. Suddenly my black T-shirt makes me look like an indie kid from the 1990s. Why didn’t I wear something more glamorous? Why didn’t I borrow something from Tina T’s when I had the chance?
I splash some cold water on the back of my neck and practice laughing into the mirror. Shit—I look like a horse when I laugh like that. Right, head down, hand in front of your mouth . . . yes, that’s much better.
But I’m not quite ready to go out yet. For some reason, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I guess I haven’t been single for a few years now, and it is a bit scary going out to flirt with a virtual stranger. I take a deep breath and I tell myself I’ll be fine. After all, people do this all the time. I bet Cressida wouldn’t hide in the loo all night trying to pluck up the courage to go back out. And what’s she got that I haven’t got—you know, apart from the money, the Soho House membership, and the millions of people who continually ring her up and write to her? Nothing, that’s what.
Michael Jackson starts playing out of the loud speakers, and I find myself shimmying around a bit, wiggling my hips to the music. If they’re playing “Can’t Stop (Till You Get Enough),” then this must be an okay place. I think it’s a good omen—tonight is going to be my night.
“Whoo, yeah,” I whoop to the music, and do a quick
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