I wandered back to the booth to see Sarah, blindfolded with her bridal sash, waving a crudely constructed cardboard phallus in the air. The hens were trying in vain to direct her to the correct location on a drawing of a ludicrously muscular man, whose head had been replaced by a photo of Richard’s face.
I sat back down and, safe in the knowledge Sarah couldn’t see me, flicked through the rest of Parker’s Connector photos. He’d ticked off all the classics, like posing next to two (not quite as good-looking) mates, clutching a cheap-looking trophy at a work do, a moody black-and-white shot, and one dressed as a zombie for Halloween, but in a way that made sure you could still tell he was very attractive.
Now, I’ll admit, it’s not like my own profile was a groundbreaking Proto-Renaissance work of art. Yes, I’d spent an entire afternoon I’d never get back attempting to craft a sexy, hilarious, unswipe-left-able dating profile, but in the end I’d given up and plucked a few old photos from the depths of my camera roll. I’d settled on five that ranged from “cute-and-I-know-it” to “casually-sexy-without-even-realizing-it,” and suddenly there I was: “Gwen, 29, Barista, Eastbourne,” officially on the market. And despite how revolting being “on the market” sounded, so far, it had been fun. Well, I say “fun”; actually, most of the men I’d matched with were either a) complete weirdos, or b) absolute grade-A fuckboys. So probably a more accurate description of my love life would be “interesting.”
“Am I close?” Sarah shouted, almost knocking a tray of fresh Bellinis onto my lap.
“Close to soaking me,” I yelled. “When’s Richard getting here?”
“Um, I dunno, I’m kind of busy right now, Gwen,” Sarah said, turning toward the sound of my voice. “Any minute now, I guess.”
“Right,” I said, and Sarah suddenly swung back round to her right, this time connecting with the drinks on the table.
The hens shrieked in unison as they dodged splashes of prosecco. Sarah pulled her blindfold down and surveyed the debris, then shook her head at me disapprovingly.
The hilarious bespoke Love Heart sweets I’d ordered—bearing such witticisms as “U CAN DIE 1ST,” “OK 4 UR AGE,” and “2NITE U PICK NETFLIX”—were scattered over the table, slowly disintegrating as they soaked up the spilled cocktails.
“You said ‘right’!” she yelled.
“No, I meant—never mind,” I said, wiping soggy slices of fruit off my jeans. “My bad. I’ll go get some more.”
I made my way across the dance floor, refreshing Connector as I weaved through the handful of people swaying out of time to Ed Sheeran. Before I reached the bar, a message had popped up.
Parker: Hen do from hell? Sounds fun. Can I get in on that?
Grabbing a stool, I ordered a round of drinks, plus an extra shot of tequila for me, and tapped a message back.
No, you cannot! I wrote. But I could meet you at the Brown Derby by the pavilion?
With any luck, I could be out of here before Richard arrived. As I went to pay, I heard a voice from the other end of the bar, and I looked up to see a guy in a crumpled shirt, waving a Mastercard in my direction.
“Allow me,” he said, grinning.
Although he looked like he’d come straight from an important board meeting at Middle-Aged Office Guy PLC, the half-finished pint in front of him was clearly not his first drink of the evening. His suit jacket was draped over the bar, and even as he spoke the sweat patches under his arms seemed to spread across his no-longer-white shirt.
“No thanks, I’m with them,” I said, motioning to the booth.
I immediately buried my head in my phone, in case any part of that sentence indicated that it was, in fact, my greatest dream to be seduced by an increasingly damp man under bad lighting. And even if it had been, the strains of the “Thong Song” were just loud enough to turn any attempt at conversation beyond small talk into a lipreading exercise. I tapped out another message to Parker.
Gwen: Hey, I’m being hit on by the regional manager of Aldi here. I need rescuing! What do you say, the Derby in 10?
The barman placed five Bellinis on a tray and slid the shot of tequila over to me. I scanned the club; there was no sign of Richard yet, but the hens had moved onto the dance floor.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered to my phone, willing Parker to say yes so I could sneak out before Richard got here.
I could feel the eyes of the guy at the bar burning into me, and sure enough, when I looked up, he was swirling his finger around his now-empty glass and smiling at me.
“Stood up?” he shouted in my direction. “Well, I’m still here, sweetheart, have a drink with me.”
“No thanks,” I said firmly.
“Heh, don’t talk to strangers, isn’t that what they used to say?” the man said. “I thought that was all girls like you did these days? Talk to strangers on your phones?”
Ignoring him, I downed the tequila and grabbed the tray of drinks. Even if I could think of a pithy response to that, I decided I’d rather save my energy for something more useful, like getting away from him as soon as possible.
“Wrong kinda stranger, huh?” he called out as I walked away, balancing the tray on one hand while I refreshed Connector with the other. There was still no reply from Parker, so I stuck my phone in the back pocket of my jeans.
As I reached the middle of the dance floor, I looked up to see Richard, wrapped in a waterproof jacket and flushed from the freezing cold weather outside, making his way through the crowd toward the hens. I looked over my shoulder, wondering whether to retreat to the bar, only to see the office guy watching me, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.
I stopped in my tracks, stranded. Just then, my phone finally buzzed. Holding the tray with one hand, I pulled it out and swiped my thumb across the screen to open it.
Parker: Sorry, gonna have to reschedule. It’s not safe out there for guys like me.
Underneath, he’d pasted a link to a local news story with the headline: “Police Advise Caution after Man Found Dead by Joggers.”
I clicked on it, a flutter running through my stomach as the page loaded, revealing a photo. The softly handsome, strawberry-blond guy smiling at his graduation ceremony looked familiar, a lot like someone I used to know.
“Robert Hamilton’s body was found at six thirty a.m. by two runners in Sovereign Park,” the first sentence read.
Rob Hamilton.
At that moment, my arms turned to jelly, and the tray of drinks fell from my hand, sending orange liquid flying across the light-up floor. The hens looked up in surprise, as the few dancers jumped back to avoid splashes.
Rob didn’t just look like someone I used to know. He was someone I used to know.
I’d been on a date with him a week ago.