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Eighteen

Later that evening

Freddie set a plate crowded with runny fried eggs, veggie sausages, and beans in front of Mark.

“Urgh, mate.” Mark gagged. “The smell.” He covered his nose and mouth then slumped his shoulders away from the cramped breakfast bar in Freddie’s north London flat.

“Care for something else?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “A conscience, some truth serum, an STI test?”

“Si…” Freddie scowled.

Mark squinted, avoiding Simon’s leer. “What are you doing cooking a fry-up at nine at night anyway?”

“Turning your stomach, are we?” Simon’s knife and fork slashed his eggs and a blob of Worcestershire sauce into a swirly abstract design of yellow, white, and brown. “Imagine how Alex feels.”

“I haven’t thought of anything else.”

“You still determined to head to Lucy’s?” Freddie gulped tea and patted Moriarty, slinking along the counter past a cluster of prosecco bottles and two trays of half-eaten vol-au-vents. The black feline poked his nose in one and recoiled.

“Why are you encouraging him?” Simon slapped organic honey on his multigrain toast as he stared at Freddie. “What’s he going to say to her?”

“I am in the room, Si.” Mark nudged his untouched plate.

“Unfortunately.”

Freddie whipped off his Licence to Grill James Bond apron. “Si, please—not helping!”

Mark’s eyes began to water and itch. Great. Thanks, Moriarty. “Whenever you’re ready, Freds. Thanks.”

“We can go now.”

“Yeah, cheers, Freds.” Simon nodded. “You swan off. I don’t need any help cleaning up your party.”

“This mess can wait. Mark’s can’t.” Freddie grimaced at his best friend. “God, remember that New Year’s when I barfed up a brewery, snogged the face off some rando at midnight?”

“Ah-choo! Ah-choooo!” Mark half-smiled, holding back another sneeze. “Yeah, sickly suave, mate.”

Freddie caught Simon’s disapproving eye. “I was much younger then.”

“How’s your hangover?” Mark asked, cradling his throbbing head, his allergy to the cat not helping.

“Barely there.” Freddie sipped his tea. “We went for Thai, and I skipped the bubbly at Bespoke. Stuck with white wine and switched to club soda when we got back here.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”

Freddie laughed and went to scrape Mark’s plate into the trashcan. “Have you remembered anything more—”

“Christ, how good would your memory be after absinthe, tequila, and God knows what else?”

“So why should Alex take you back?” Simon’s honey-covered knife clanked against his plate. “Talk about falling down the rabbit hole of celebrity self-indulgence. Hardly reliable boyfriend material.”

“Simon!” Freddie said over his shoulder.

“No, he’s right. I deserve that.” Mark’s bloodshot eyes stared at a photo of Alex, Freddie, and Lucy on the wall. “But I have to make her see, this was all a horrible, drunken mistake. I never meant for anything like this to happen…”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“Si, I know, okay. I know. You don’t care, but hopefully Lex still does. I hope I haven’t completely lost her trust, though I wouldn’t blame her if I have.” He leaned on the counter, propping up his head with his hand. “Christ, I’ve really fucked up. I’ve kept her in the dark about so many things.”