Free Little White Lies by Gemma Townley

book.
    Lucy comes over and sits on Michael’s knee, while I look on enviously, although relieved she’s created a diversion.
    “More vodka?” Michael asks me. I put my hand up to say no—I’ve already had too much—but then I put it down. Fuck it, why do I always play by the rules? For five years I’ve been the sober one, getting Pete home and trying to ignore his leching at every girl around. Maybe it’s time I let go a little. Lucy isn’t saying no, is she? And I bet Cressida wouldn’t, either.
    I grin at Michael, going into Cressida mode. “I would love some, thank you,” I say with a big smile. “Fabulous idea!”
    He grins back, as Lucy gives him a quick kiss on the forehead and gets up to dance with a guy in a tight-fitting pinstripe suit and Adidas trainers. “Guess who we had in our shop today?” he asks me conspiratorially.
    I look at him with raised eyebrows in reply. “Kate Moss!” he says gleefully. “Right there in front of me, she was.”
    “No!” I gasp. “Did she look amazing?”
    “What do you think?” he says, raising his eyebrows.
    I pretend to sigh, then I tell him about the actress I sold the Missoni dress to, and he giggles hysterically when I tell him about the larger sister buying the same dress and looking dreadful in it. See, I tell myself. It’s not bad to sell people unsuitable clothes—it’s funny. And what’s more, I’m having a good time. Maybe it isn’t such a different language, after all.
    Michael’s shouting so loudly in my ear that it tickles, and when he suggests heading for the dance floor, I agree enthusiastically. I may be a little bit drunk, but the Alistair incident feels like a distant memory, which in my book is a very good thing and should be encouraged.
    The place is now packed and it’s impossible to do more than shimmy slightly to the music. Michael puts his arms round my waist and attempts a sort of samba, but we knock into too many people, so we stop after a couple of minutes. I wonder vaguely where Alistair is, but can’t see him anywhere, and soon Michael and I are dancing around each other, shaking our hips and holding our hands up in the air. After a while, Julie reemerges, and joins us on the dance floor.
    I’m elated. This is the stuff I dreamed of back in Bath. I’m here with my new London friends, in a cool Notting Hill bar. And I’m dancing with Alistair’s friend. Who is nearly as good-looking as Alistair. I would love it if Pete were here now—would love to see his face. Hah!
    I’m also a bit drunk. Maybe a bit too drunk. I head for the bench, passing Julie, who is dancing with her arms wrapped round Jason. Michael is continuing to dance around the place on his own, knocking people’s drinks over.
    Sitting down, I shut my eyes, then open them again when I feel the room begin to spin. God, I’ve drunk more than I thought I had. There was the first vodka and tonic, then the double that Lucy bought; then there was the bottle of vodka that Michael had produced and poured into our glasses . . .
    With a jolt I realize that I might throw up. I mean, I’m not saying it’s a definite, but it’s been known to happen. And there is no way I can let anyone see me. Not here. Not in front of my friends.
    I sway over to Julie. “Jules, Jason, I’m going home,” I slur. “Got an early start.”
    “All right, darling, see ya later,” Julie says with a smile, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Be good!”
    I stagger toward the door, hoping to catch Lucy so I can say good-bye, but focusing more on getting as far away as possible before my stomach does its worst.
    I can’t see her anywhere, so I walk up the stairs toward the bouncer. As I make my way up the stairs I hear laughter.
    “In the loo? Are you serious?”
    “Totally. I saw the whole thing!”
    “Fantastic, mate. We’re going to have to get CCTV in there. It’d be a riot!”
    Alistair, Lucy, and the bouncer are standing at the top of the stairs, and to my horror I realize