You see, nothing about this place is good enough for Scarlett.
Not our bars. Not our drinks.
Seems our men are fine, though.
I watch Scarlett leave the bar that night.
In an upstairs room, unused as there is no private function, I climb over a rope and look at her from a window as she waits for her taxi. She paces, infuriated at having to wait, calling the taxi company – I presume that’s who she is calling – over and over. Scarlett doesn’t like to wait for things. Some of us have more patience; have become accustomed to biding our time.
When it finally comes, she steps in wearing her biker boots, looking less drunk than she claimed to be, only minutes ago.
I wish I could see the moment that she reads the messages I posted earlier as I hid in the toilet cubicle, from my multiple fake accounts. But that must happen in the taxi.
I wish I could watch Scarlett’s face as her worlds – so far kept neat and separate as though they were in an office storage system – start to become muddled.
The taxi pulls away. I check, and the messages are already gone. I add some more, flicking between accounts, then I head back downstairs, pick up my drink and make a toast.
‘To Scarlett!’ I say. ‘So drunk she had to go home. That’s got to be a sign that she’s had a good night, right? Even if she did seem to kind of hate the bar.’
We laugh. Because of course Scarlett would hate the bar.
‘To good friends,’ one of the other girls says.
‘To such good friends,’ I echo.