“Fuck him babe!” Clay hadn’t wasted any time in chartering a private plane back to London and pouring Champagne.

“I’ll say it again babe. Fuck him.”

I nodded slightly; my head was still spinning from everything that had just happened.

Somehow, only six hours later, I was on a jet headed for London with no Riaan. I’d tried to talk to him again; I’d tried to explain that he was being unfair, biased that he was looking at things through the lens of his ex and I wasn’t like her. But the more I started trying to convince him that it would be different, the less and less I started to believe it. The more I started speaking in terms of ‘old life’ and ‘new life’ the more frightened I got and the more I realized what I was going to be giving up.

If I moved to Africa and stayed with Riaan, a guy I’d known for three weeks, I would be giving up everything that I had ever known. Perhaps Riaan had been right, we had been existing in a perfect little bubble separate from reality, and then as soon as reality came crashing in, it burst and showed us how fragile it really was.  It was like a holiday romance; they are always so intense because you’re separate from reality with no distractions from the outside world, it all seems so perfect, but it doesn’t last because that it’s not real. I had a real life and it was not in Africa, it was in London. So I told him that he was probably right, that I probably would get bored sitting around in Africa all day and I probably would eventually go back to my old life. It seemed to be the answer that he had wanted- or the answer he was looking for. He obviously wasn’t as into me and the relationship as he’d said he was, or he would have argued. Fought harder. But he didn’t

“How dare he ask you not to be friends with me, who does he think he is?”

I sipped the Champagne, it was the first drop of alcohol I’d had in weeks and the second I swallowed it, I felt a feeling rise up that I wasn’t even sure I could control. I downed the glass. And when I’d finished it, I poured myself another one and another one.

“I mean….” Clay was on about glass three so he was nice and lubricated, “What does he want you to do? Live in Africa with him and wear bad shoes all day and fucking hang out in a kitchen and cook dead pig for people to eat and—“ He swigged his glass again, “So like I said, fuck him,”

Clay pushed the bottom of my glass up to make sure I downed the next glass too. It went to work on my head instantly, on my joints and my muscles and my bones. I suddenly felt like a pile of jelly.

I raised my glass in the air, “You’re right babe, fuck him,” I burst out laughing, but maybe only because I feared that the tears were about to come. But the more I drank, the further away Riaan and Africa got and I realized what a mistake I’d made.

I’d pretended to be someone that I wasn’t for the past three weeks. I’d acted differently, dressed differently. I can only assume that I must have bumped my head in the fall or the crash, that was the only explination. I had been living as someone else for the past three weeks. Someone that Riaan had wanted me to be- bastard. Suddenly I was furious that he'd tried to change me. That he had somehow tricked me into telling him all that stuff about my mother. This is where I belonged, here with Clay and in London drinking Champagne…

“Pour me another glass babe,” I stuck my empty glass out to Clay. “You know what else he said?” I was definitely drunk now, the alcohol had gone to my head and my brazen bravado was building, “He said you were the kind of guy that wasn’t a real friend!”

“What?” Clay screeched and flapped his arms.

“He says he knew people like you, they are only friends with you during the good times. During the party!”

“Double fuck him.”

“Yes,” I was getting so caught up in the moment and the more I put Riaan down, the better I felt. The more I forced the emotions away, the better I felt, “Triple fuck him!”

“That’s the spirit!” He quickly topped it up and I downed it again.

“A toast,” Clay said as he opened another bottle of Champagne and poured two more glasses, “To the little shit. May he be eaten by a lion!”

I burst out laughing, even though the idea of Riaan been eaten by a lion made me feel nauseous.

“So was he at least a good lay?”

“Huh?” The question caught me so off gaud.

“Good shag?”

Clay and I had always told each other everything, especially after sex. We would usually have a full- blowen post mortem where we went through all the details, but suddenly I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want to tell him that it had been the best sex of my life. That it hadn’t sex, that we had make love and that it had been one of the most amazing moments of my life. I wanted to protect that memory.

“Nah” I shrugged, “totes average.”

He nodded knowingly, “The hot ones always are.”

“Now, babes, don’t want to be rude or anything, but you look like shit. We need to get you out of those clothes if we’re going to go out. I mean, a t shirt and jeans, I could fucking die!”

By the time we’d landed at Heathrow we were completely out of it. I almost fell down the steep airplane stairs, which Clay thought was hysterical, even though I’m sure I could have broken my neck. In the plane Clay had re styled me, since I had no clothes and bags- ala hyena incident- Clay ripped my jeans until they were the hottest hot shirts you ever saw and then ripped the midriff off my shirt as well as made it a one shoulder.

“OMG- you are going to start a trend. Trust me, tomorrow everyone will be walking around with torn clothes. It’s so poor- starving- African-person chic!”

My stomach tightened at those words. I actually couldn’t believe he’d said that, had he always said such inappropriate things. I guess he had.

“Clay, there really are starving poor people in Africa who can’t eat.”

He stopped ripping my clothes and looked at me for a moment- confused at first, before his face erupted into a smile and a manic laugh, “Oh my God, you’re so funny. That’s why I’ve missed you.’

We stumbled out of the airport and into a taxi. The driver gave us both a strange look.

“Yes, yes it’s us, get over it” Clay said when it became clear the driver had recognized us.

I suddenly remembered the video and the scandal and wondered if the reason he’d looked at us so strangely was because he’d seen the video.

“That video of me? What’s happened, is everyone still talking about it?”

Clay turned and looked at me conspiratorially, “Don’t worry babe, I made that go away the day after, no one even remembers it now.”

“How?”

“Well, the next day I phoned the paper and gave them an anonymous tip that Poppy has been doing heroine and that she got pregnant last year with her fathers body guard and gave the baby away secretly that’s why she was so fat." 

“WHAT?” I screeched. “How did you find that out?”

Clay looked at me and raised his eyebrow, “I didn’t. I improvised.”

“You made it up?”

“Of course I did- so that’s all anyone can talk about now. They have totally forgotten about your video”

“But that would have hurt her,”

“Since when do you care about Poppy. She’s such a wannabe. What did you say about her, it was so funny—“ He thought for a while, “Oh yes, she looks like a Teletubbie trying to wear skinny jeans.”

Had I really said that? I had! I was shocked and ashamed. I’d said it very publically as well and I'd always suspected that it had been the reason for her dramatic weightloss. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said that about someone. I felt terrible again. Terrible about myself and---

“Clay I need another drink”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” He snapped his fingers in the air, “Oh taxi man, take us to The Ritz.” And then he turned to me, “And then we’ll hit Boujis and do a bit of a club crawl, I’m sure you’re desperate for some fun after your incarceration.”

I nodded at him and smiled, even though I wasn’t quite sure I was up to it.