‘Not a John, by any chance?’ They both laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world, but I didn’t understand and had no idea who John was.

Drink in hand, I couldn’t get away quickly enough and headed over to the large table on the raised section towards the back, in order to get a clear view of the main door.

Sat, waiting, heart near exploding, barely able to control the glass enough to direct the liquid into my mouth, the reality of what I was doing hit me. How insane it suddenly felt. But I reasoned with myself and reapplied my lipstick. Because ultimately, Samuel, you gave me no choice.

The place soon filled up, obscuring more and more of my vision. The atmosphere hummed with enjoyment, laughter. Heads back, arm slapping. People with their friends. People had friends.

I forced myself to restrict my sips, knowing that being drunk wouldn’t help me. But I was finding it difficult and would have happily been on my third.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Seven arrived and left without any sign of you.

But at seven twenty came a stroke of luck.

A group of dolled-up young women, carrying a variety of glittery gift bags and gaudy parcels, approached the table. They infiltrated the area, claimed the seats. I was about to make some sarcastic ‘Sure, no one’s sitting there’ comment when the long-haired brunette in the blood-flow-restricting dress picked up a previously unnoticed plastic ‘reserved’ sign between her gem-encrusted talons and said, ‘Well, it must be this one . . . She did say at the back.’

Realizing my mistake, I stood and was about to apologize when a woman with envy-inducing candyfloss-pink hair asked if I was there for Jen’s birthday.

‘No. I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.’

She smiled through her annoyance at my accidental gatecrashing, so I embellished as I climbed over a chair to escape: ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize it was reserved. I was meeting a date, but I think I’ve been stood up.’

Her expression changed. ‘You’re joking.’ She turned to the brunette. ‘Did you hear that, Kate? She’s been stood up by her date.’

‘Oh what? That’s awful . . . I’m so sorry, darling.’

‘Don’t get Kate started,’ said Pink Girl.

‘No, don’t get me started . . . They’re all arseholes. Fucking hate the lot of ’em. What’s your name, hon?’

‘Constance.’

‘Hey, everyone, shush a minute . . . This is Connie. Some arsehole’s gone and stood her up.’ The gang mumbled their condolences.

My eyes filled. The earlier realization reinforced. I wanted to go home. Remove my facade.

‘Hey, don’t you be crying over the wankers, Connie . . . You stick with us for the night, darling . . . Jen won’t mind, will she, Kate? If Connie joins us? We can’t let a bloke just leave her hanging like that.’