Promised
Page 61

‘Shhhh,’ Gregory hisses. ‘He’s waiting for the right time.’
I’m stunned. Gregory has been upfront and honest about his sexuality ever since he came out in high school, and he’s ridiculed those who haven’t been true to themselves. ‘These dates: you didn’t go out at all, did you?’
Gregory refuses to meet my eyes, his fidgeting becoming less mild. He looks downright uncomfortable. ‘No,’ he replies quietly.
My heart squeezes a little for my best friend. This is no different from a woman seeing a married man, who constantly assures her that he’ll leave his wife for her. And my role tonight is suddenly too clear. What a shitbag! ‘How old is he?’ I ask.
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘How long has he known himself?’ I press, not liking what I’m hearing.
‘He says he’s always known.’
Gregory’s answer only cements it for me. If he’s always known and he still hasn’t revealed his true sexual status, then what makes Gregory think that he will now? I don’t say that, though, because judging by the look on my friend’s face, he’s already asked himself that question. Gregory doesn’t act camp or feel the need to display his sexual preference for all to see, but he’s not ashamed of it, either. After spending just a minute with Ben, I can tell it’s not the case for him, and when I look across the bar and see him making an over-the-top display of greeting a woman, my thoughts are only confirmed.
I glance back to Gregory and see that his line of sight is pointed that way too, and in an attempt to distract him, I ask for another drink by waving my empty glass under his nose.
‘More?’
‘It’s going down very well.’ I go to hand my glass over, but quickly notice the strawberry. ‘Oh, wait.’ I tilt and catch the fruit, then give up my glass.
While Gregory fetches more drinks, I wander over to the glass-panelled gallery and lean over, observing the masses of well-groomed men and chicly dressed women below. This place is an exclusive, high-end club and reserved only for London’s elite. This should make me feel even more uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. I’m just glad I came, because with Ben avoiding Gregory in public places, he would’ve been floating around on his own like a plum.
‘Here.’ A flute appears over my shoulder. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘All of these rich people.’ I turn around and rest my bum against the glass. ‘Is it a private club?’
Gregory laughs. ‘What do you think?’
I hum my acknowledgement. ‘And Ben organised the opening?’
‘Yes, he’s renowned in his field.’ He leans his elbows on a tall glass table close by. ‘Don’t you notice it?’ he asks.
I look around. ‘Notice what?’
‘The looks.’ He nods to a group of men close by, all staring over at us, not bothering to hide their interest, even though I have male company. Gregory could be my boyfriend for all they know.
I turn my back on them and find Gregory still looking over at the group, but for a whole different reason. ‘Stop gawking,’ I say, taking another sip of champagne.
‘Sorry.’ His eyes land on me. ‘Shall we go and explore?’
‘Yes, let’s.’
‘Come on, then.’ He straightens and places his palm in the small of my back to lead me.
On our way up a flight of glass stairs, I look down to the bottom floor and notice Ben has gone, and I wonder whether that’s why we’re on the move.
‘There’s a garden bar,’ Gregory tells me.
‘Then why are we going up?’
‘It’s on the roof.’ He directs me to the left and up some more stairs, where a wall of glass comes into view, and beyond, London by night in all of its glory.
‘Oh wow!’ I breathe. ‘Look at that!’
‘Impressive, eh?’
It’s more than impressive. ‘Would you de-friend me if I took pictures?’ I ask, ready to hand him my drink so I can riffle through my bag for my phone.
‘Yes, I would. Let’s just do what everyone else is doing – drink and enjoy the view.’
I feel cheated, wanting to snap away just in case my memory doesn’t store an accurate image of what I’m looking at. I’m used to London, its architecture and its grandeur, but I’ve never seen it looking quite like this. ‘So how did you meet Ben?’ I ask, tearing my eyes away from the stunning view. Gregory gestures around us with a how’d-ya-think look all over his handsome face, and for the first time, I take in the garden where we’ve landed. I gasp a little. ‘You did this?’
‘I did.’ His chest swells proudly. ‘Designed it, created it, and finished it. It’s my best project to date.’
‘It’s incredible,’ I muse, starting to absorb all of the little but significant details – the small touches that really bring it to life. The side walls are nothing more than compacted box plants, the tiny leaves lush and green, with ice-blue twinkle lights embedded in the shrubbery. And the topiary trees are all trimmed into neat circles with lights woven through the foliage. ‘Is the grass real?’ I ask, padding my feet and noticing my heels aren’t sinking in.
‘No, it’s imitation, but so authentic you’d never know.’
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘I love the furniture.’
‘Hmmm. The theme was ice, as you’ve probably gathered. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to create a lush, functional outside space on that brief, but I’m pretty pleased.’
‘You should be.’ I reach up and kiss his cheek. ‘It’s fabulous, just like you.’
‘Stop it,’ he laughs. ‘You’re making me blush.’
I giggle with him, and then cast my eyes over to take another hit of the outlook, but my eyes don’t make it to the open air and view beyond because they find Ben first. And they find him stuck to a woman’s mouth. I wince and quickly try to work out my best move, but I can think of nothing except downing my fresh drink and shoving it in Gregory’s face.
‘Another?’ he asks incredulously. ‘Calm down, Livy.’
‘I’m fine,’ I assure him, taking his elbow, but he doesn’t shift, and as I glance up, I see that he’s found what I’m trying to get him away from. ‘Greg?’ His eyes slowly fall to mine, and I see too much misery to take the softly-softly approach, so I tug at him until he’s forced to move. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ He grinds the words out, shifting his arms from my grip and taking my hand.
I’m led with purpose back down the two flights of stairs and to the bar where Gregory orders two champagnes. In the short time that we’ve been away, the atmosphere has cranked up a few notches and people are starting to move to the round dance floor, drinks in hand. The music seems louder, too, and there’s definitely a shift in the reserved environment as the champagne flows freely – and for free – and Daft Punk, featuring Pharrell Williams, pumps through the speakers.
‘Drink up.’ Gregory doesn’t pass me just a flute this time. It’s a shot, and my eyes dart to his. ‘Come on,’ he pleads.
My reluctance is clear. I’ve had a few glasses of champagne and I feel okay, but that shouldn’t be a green light to start throwing shots down my neck. ‘Greg . . .’