Will Harris and his Entente Cordiale!

“MY EYES! MY EYYYYYES!” Tonight’s over-reaction in a public place is brought to you by my friend M. I look over at the opposite banquette, where he’s rolling around on the leather and clawing at his face like he’s been maced. Then I look down at the picture on my phone.
“Sorry,” I say, “I scrolled the wrong way. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“That,” says M, reaching for his wine glass,
“was a long time ago”.

A few months ago, it would’ve shocked me too. The idea of trying to show someone my new top, only to accidentally flick through to a candid shot of my… um, bottom, would have sent me running straight to the restaurant kitchen to gas myself. As it is, I coolly slide my phone into a pocket and shrug.
On this particular evening, dinner with M is followed by dancing with The Girls (aka two ladies I lived with at uni, plus Nicole Scherzinger). This is a rare occurrence these days, what with jobs, conflicting schedules, two hours of MasterChef a week, and God knows how many of Saturday Morning Kitchen.

“Drink this!” commands one of The Girls, shoving a plastic jug under my nose. We are on a podium at this point, and apparently on deadline. Neon green straws bristle from the jug’s depths like alien antennae, and I sniff, instantly suspicious.
“What’s the mixer in this, cream soda?!” I shout, straining to be heard over the music. A straw is poked forcefully between my lips. It is not cream soda. As I head to the bar to replenish our jug with something less combustible, I bump into another old friend from our uni days, T, a green-eyed Frenchman with whom I once shared a clinch inside a sunbed (don’t roll those eyes – he worked weekends at a solarium and it was 2002). It’s been years since we last saw each other, and I’m keen to… “What do you mean, married?!”
“Two years next month,” T confirms, pointing at his ring finger. “He’s great. Very handsome. He is in France now. He’ll move up here eventually, get a flat together and all that, but for now,” T squeezes my arm, “it’s just me”.

“The Girls are responsible for what happens next…”

With hindsight, it is almost certainly The Girls who are responsible for what happens next. “He’s gorgeous,” they say, clamouring around T shrieking, when – being an arrogant Frenchman – he takes his top off in the middle of the dance floor. Someone pushes me towards him. Someone else wraps my arms around his shoulders.

“Too bad you’re taken,” I say, moving my lips closer, brushing my nose against his. Someone has laced my hands together behind his head. I didn’t see who.
“Oh, hello trouble,” he murmurs.
“Bonjour,” trouble murmurs back.