We Have History

It’s Maisie’s birthday, the big three-oh, and all the usual crowd are here…although I can’t see Sophie? Maybe she changed her mind or, as happened to me, her invitation went astray. Although she would still know. We haven’t spoken for a while, sort of lost touch as you do sometimes when life gets in the way. Maybe something came up. To be honest I was undecided myself, but Maisie’s parties are legendary and not to be missed and anyway, it was all a misunderstanding, water under the bridge and all that, and we’ve both moved on. Well, Maisie has. She’s dating Bertie now. I saw him in Racey’s Wine Bar last week. He looked like he’d just come back off holiday with that deep tan. I was going to go over but he was obviously at a work’s do so thought, better not.

I manoeuvre myself closer to one of the open windows and sip at my supermarket own brand red wine despite the array of champagne and spirit bottles lined up on the makeshift bar. Iridescent Happy 30th Birthday banners hang in swathes across the ceiling, twinkling in the dappled reflections from the rotating glitter ball. I smile…that is just so Maisie. In the corners of the hall, held hostage by string and tiny weights, lurid shiny pink helium balloons bob randomly at the slightest breath, their heart-shaped faces boldly advertising 30 in glittering silver.

Notes of laughter weave and dance through the music. It’s still early but Marcus, who always DJ’s at our parties, has gone straight into our usual must-have playlist and people are already dancing to Abba. I watch enviously, wishing I could turn back the clock. I haven’t danced since that one dance, exactly a year ago when Marcus put on Lady in Red. I’d had a few wines on top of the champagne and because Sophie was wearing a red dress I did a gentleman’s excuse me and asked Sophie, sweeping her away from Bertie’s outstretched arms and ignoring Maisie waiting for me to ask her. At the time I didn’t see the problem. The four of us always hung out together even though we were essentially two couples. “It was only one dance,” I said in my defence but I could see in Maisie’s face it was one dance too many. Maisie can be like that sometimes, petulant and unforgiving. And of course, it was her birthday.

She’s changed her hair since the last time I saw her. It’s longer, and browner, and I like the way the silky, wavy curls hug her smooth, Caribbean-tanned shoulders. I’m just presuming here, of course, but that’s where she usually goes. It suits her, her hair like that, softens her angular features. She looks amazing, and happy, and my chest hurts with a bittersweet moment as I watch her work the room as only she can; making everyone feel special. I still love the way she tilts her head slightly to the left when she’s listening; the way the top of her nose crinkles when she laughs her rather over loud laugh. She hasn’t seen me yet of course, but I know she’ll come straight over when she does. I sip at my lukewarm drink, and wait.

My stomach growls and I look hungrily towards the buffet trestles loaded with catering-sized platters of fancy canapes and designer nibbles. There’s also two special cakes, one in the shape of a three and next to it, one in the shape of a zero. Both are covered in smooth white icing with piped pink roses around the edges. I’m just guessing that’s what they are as I can’t see them properly, but pink roses are Maisie’s go-to favourites. At the far end stands another trestle this time stacked with presents wrapped in glossy paper and topped with coloured ribbons and matching bows. I haven’t been able to put mine there but it doesn’t matter, she never opens them at her party anyway. My right foot feels unbalanced and I shift to the left and take another swig of wine. The bottle’s nearly empty and I’m regretting not bringing another one. A cool breeze is picking up and hints of rain mist the windows. I shiver, wishing I’d worn a jacket as Abba fades out and Roxy Music takes over, Bryan Ferry advising us to stick together.

She’s seen me! A hot flush of excitement rises up my neck and settles on my cheeks. I smile, raise my left hand and waggle my fingers self-consciously then realise how silly I look and let it fall back to my side. Stupid! With her eyes focussing on me, Maisie cuts short her conversation with Bertie by placing a hand on his forearm and nodding towards the window. Towards me. I watch as she threads her way elegantly through the clusters of guests, a vision in floaty ivory, maintaining eye contact as she approaches the window. For the first time since deciding to come, I’m beginning to feel uneasy; that maybe this wasn’t one of my better decisions. You see, the thing with Maisie is, you’re never quite sure what’s going on behind those poker player eyes.

The now empty wine bottle slips from my clammy hand and lands with a dull thud at my feet. I resist the temptation to wipe away the nervous perspiration that’s gathering on my upper lip. My heart races as she nears. Breathe. Just breathe. Maisie stops out of touching distance, just short of the windowsill. My arms twitch wanting to hold her as I inhale her perfume. It’s still the same, Amber Nights. Legs, don’t fail me now, as I try to steady myself. I attempt to smile but I’m too nervous and I’m sure it comes out all wonky, more like a grimace as my dry lips stick to my teeth. Her eyes bore into mine. She raises a hand and I instinctively reach towards her in relief. We’re good again.

But I jump back, stumbling, as the window slams shut. Then, with a brisk swish, swish, the curtains are drawn. And just like that, Maisie has shut me out of her life.

 “It didn’t mean anything,” I yell, still standing in the rain, still on the outside but no longer looking in. My feet sink into the softening grass as I stare at the shadow of my disjointed reflection in the wet glass. “It was just a kiss,’ I whisper, my voice hoarse. I can feel my wet hair plastered to my forehead, the rain dripping into my eyes, but I don’t care. ‘Just one stupid, drunken kiss…that’s all it was.’