Love & Other Scams

One

"You'll be next," says a woman with a tight perm and spinach in her teeth. Coming out of nowhere, this sounds vaguely like a threat, and it takes Cat a moment to realize that the lady-the bride's aunt, she remembers-is probably referring to her presence here on Pluto.

"Fingers crossed!" she replies, smiling. Her cheeks ache like the practiced muscles of an athlete.

The tables are named after celestial bodies. Bridesmaids are seated on Venus, groomsmen on Mars. Johnny and Susie and their respective parents are on planet Earth, because as he said during the speeches, she is his whole world. Mercury is for immediate family, Jupiter for close friends, Saturn and Neptune for the couple's extended circle. Uranus has been omitted, for obvious reasons.

There aren't enough unattached people at this wedding to warrant the traditional singles table, and so Cat finds herself stranded all the way out on Pluto, within arm's reach of the loos, between Auntie Gladys (of the perm) and Greg, a friend of the groom's father who is keen for everybody to know that the Porsche parked outside belongs to him.

Now, as she sits making chitchat while overcooked salmon and room-temperature chardonnay muddle in her stomach, Cat finds herself conducting a mental cost-benefit analysis. The combined train fare and taxi to the scenic country venue were extortionate, and even though the dress she's wearing was off the sale rail and she purchased the cheapest item on Susie and Johnny's gift registry, it's all still more than she can really afford.

She shouldn't have come. She hardly knows anybody here, was not granted a plus-one, and has yet to even speak to the bride. But Cat is here anyway, because she knows this is probably the last time she will ever see Susie and Johnny. Soon they will be moving out of London, and the chances of bumping into them by chance in a pub in Soho will be eliminated. Then, a year from now, they will either get a dog or have a baby-which of the two is immaterial-and their social lives will begin to revolve around Sunday walks and coffee mornings with other parents and/or dog owners. Cat has long stopped keeping track of the times she has watched various other friends and acquaintances approach this tipping point and then vanish onto the other side.

It wasn't such a big deal in her midtwenties, when the circle of single girls she knew was wider and they were all hustling to find that perfect job, perfect flat, perfect man. What she didn't understand until later was that many people move to London only so that they can one day move back out. They do their time, work their way up some ladder or another, either cohabiting with the same boyfriend they've had since school or going on a carousel of dates until they find someone whose aspirations complement their own, and then they set about planning their escape to somewhere else, a commuter town or charming village where they can afford (with an injection of money from at least one set of parents) to buy their dream house.

Cat must have been off sick the day that everybody got that memo. She spent her twenties flitting from one temp job and unserious boyfriend to the next, and only realized everyone else was working to a strict timeline after the fourth engagement announcement.

She's not even especially close to Susie and Johnny. Cat has long harbored some unsettling suspicions about Johnny's politics, which have only been emboldened by what she has seen of his family today, and if Cat's being honest with herself, Susie can be kind of a drip. But Cat feels a sting regardless, because they are going somewhere she cannot follow. That's why she attends the weddings, she supposes. Because when else would she ever actually see any of the women she used to consider her friends?

"Oh, my dear," Gladys coos sympathetically when Cat's eyes fill up, threatening to ruin her mascara.

"I always cry at weddings," she says, and excuses herself.

The bathroom is blissfully empty. Cat locks herself in a stall and retrieves the flask of vodka from her clutch, knocking it back and swishing it like mouthwash to take away the taste of bile. At twenty-nine, she is arguably too old to be sneaking her own booze into events, but the table wine lasted all of half an hour and it's a cash bar, even though she's fairly certain neither the bride's nor the groom's family is exactly poor.

Of course, that's how the loaded stay loaded, Cat thinks, popping a Tic Tac into her mouth and refreshing her lipstick. Invite everybody to the poshest hotel in the Home Counties to show off just how bougie you are, but don't actually pay for anything you don't absolutely have to. Oh, and nobody can come unless they bring a gift or envelope full of cash.

Weddings are actually a pretty great scam, now that she thinks about it. The only start-up capital you really need is a willing accomplice. Cat scans the room on her way back to Pluto, identifying at least two single-looking men: one at the bar, another on the dance floor, dutifully swaying with Johnny's grandmother. She imagines approaching one of them and proposing they get engaged, hit up everybody they know for expensive homeware and gift certificates, then divide the spoils and go their separate ways. If she can find a guy who would be up for the idea, it might just end up being her most fruitful relationship to date.

"Did it hurt?" asks Greg when she gets back to the table.

"Did what hurt?" I swear to god, if the next words out of your mouth are "When you fell from heaven..."

"Your nose stud," Greg says. "I'm always curious when I see people with those things."

"Not really," she tells him. "I mean, yes, it did. But it was so long ago, I hardly remember."

"Like childbirth," he says.

"Sure." Cat nods. "Like childbirth."

There is an awkward lull as the DJ fumbles the transition from one song to another, and then the room is once again filled with the beat of a song from the early 2000s.

"Why aren't you up there shaking your thing?" he asks. "A young filly like you shouldn't be putting herself out to pasture with the likes of us." He jerks his head at Gladys, who wrinkles her nose at being compared to a farm animal. Cat feels a pang of sympathy. She is hardly thrilled by the pastoral metaphor either, but even Greg's fumbled attempt at a compliment hits her ear like a mother tongue after years abroad.

"I'm old-fashioned," she tells him. "Waiting for somebody to ask."

"Well, in that case," he says, grinning and extending his hand, "may I have this dance?"

Greg is easily old enough to be her father, and his skin has a slight sheen to it, like glazed pork. But Cat is single at a wedding, and his eyes have been on her since she first sat down. If nothing else, she thinks, he's probably good for a vodka tonic.

Cat has nothing in her purse but a pack of mints, a crumpled five-pound note, and a blister bandage for shoe emergencies. Her freelance job hasn't been paying much lately, and the last of her money went to the wedding gift and this dress, an aquamarine number which she has to admit looks pretty damn good.

Greg's palm is clammy as he leads her into the crowd, and Cat suspects-for the second or third time today-that it isn't a cold making him sniff and sweat so much. The song is fast, retro, and apparently right up his street. He jerks around like a bargain-basement Mick Jagger while Cat does her best to keep up, shimmying as much as her dress will allow.

"See? There's life in the old dog yet," he shouts proudly.

"I never doubted you!" Cat replies, and surprises herself by laughing. She remembers when she used to love weddings: the drinking, the dancing, the chatting absolute shit with people she's never met before. She can still salvage this evening, she thinks. As long as this corny but pleasant enough man is aware that she will most definitely be leaving alone once the lights come on.

When the music slows down and Whitney starts to sing about how she has nothing, Greg's moist grip tightens on Cat's hand, and she allows herself to be pulled into an awkward half hug.

"We love this one," he says. "My wife, I mean my ex-wife, and I. It was our song."

"It's a good song," she tells him, unsure of what else to say. He seems satisfied with her response, however, and they continue to sway in silence.

She can't remember the last time she slow-danced with somebody. From the way Greg is stepping on her feet, neither can he. Cat rests her head lightly on his shoulder as they each shuffle from side to side, embarrassed by her body's sudden hunger for any form of physical contact. The spell is soon broken, however, when her dance partner's avuncular hands begin to wander.

Handbag vodka or not, Cat suddenly feels as sober as a judge.

"I need the loo again," she says abruptly, pulling away from him just before the song comes to an end.

"Women and their bladders," says Greg, shaking his head in amusement, as if this is some sort of old adage. He makes his way toward the bar, and as soon as he is facing away from her, Cat seeks out the bride and groom to say her goodbyes.

She finds Susie sitting at the top table, dress hiked up around her knees, kneading the sole of her right foot.

"Cat!" Her eyes widen in surprise, and Cat's stomach plummets as she realizes: Susie didn't know she was here. Might have even forgotten they'd invited her in the first place.

"I just wanted to say-" Cat begins, but something catches in her throat. What does she want to say?

I paid nearly two hundred pounds to be here and I wish I hadn't bothered.

I just got sexually harassed because you sat me next to some old creep.

We haven't been friends for a long time now, have we?

"I'm off now," she says.

"You're leaving already?" Susie asks. "But we haven't even had a chance to catch up-"
 
"Congratulations," Cat interrupts. "I'm really happy for you."

It's not true, but she's told bigger and uglier lies than that. She returns to Pluto, grabs her bag off her chair, and gives Gladys a hasty wave before Greg can return, then rushes out of the ballroom and into the hotel lobby, where she asks the man at the front desk to call her a cab.

"They usually get here in around ten minutes," he tells her.

"Thank you," she says. "I'll wait outside."

Pretty soon, Greg will wonder where his wallet is. He will check and double-check his pockets and the floor under Pluto, before asking the DJ to put out an announcement, by which point Cat will be long gone. Not that he would ever suspect her of palming his billfold while he was pawing her buttocks. He was too preoccupied with his own hands to notice what she was doing with hers.

Cat holds the door open for two smokers who are heading back inside.

"Love your dress," one of them says as she passes.

"Thanks," she replies, and her smile this time is genuine. "It has pockets."

Two


The bar at the Oceanic Hotel is quiet when Cat arrives, but she opts for a bar stool rather than a seat at any of the empty tables. Jake is the only one working tonight, and he gives her the same neutral almost-smile in greeting as always. His crisp white shirt seems to glow against his brown skin, and Cat can't help but notice-not for the first time-how snugly it fits his shoulders.

"Nice dress," he says.

"Thanks," she replies. "It's already paid for itself." She retrieves Greg's wallet from the pocket at her hip and places it on the bar triumphantly. It's getting late, and she should have gone straight home, but the siren call of one more drink to celebrate her little win was too tempting to resist, and she requested a new destination as they approached Islington, tipping the driver liberally for his trouble.

"I would love a glass of whiskey," she says. "Something smoky. The pricier the better. And one for you too."

"Very generous." He raises an eyebrow, then turns to the rack behind the bar. A moment later, he places two tumblers of amber liquid on the counter between them.

"Who are these on?" he asks.

"Somebody who deserved it," says Cat. "Trust me."

Another faint smile plays on Jake's lips. He picks up his glass and gently clinks it against hers.

Cat and Jake never talk directly about her hobby. The only reason she is being so brazen now is because she knows Jake won't snitch on her. If he was going to, he would have done it by now.

Cat originally started frequenting the bar as a way of making herself scarce during her housemates' weekly date night. She even anticipated meeting somebody here, a handsome, mysterious stranger who would offer first to buy her a drink and then to sweep her off her feet. But despite its glamourous non sequitur of a name (the Oceanic isn't even within walking distance of the river, let alone the sea), Cat discovered a largely corporate clientele: consultants and conference-goers and the occasional City boy flashing the cash.

In other words, fish in a barrel.

This was a little over a year ago. Three different friends had welcomed their first precious bundles that summer, meaning a spate of baby showers, gender-reveal parties, and christenings. Cat was skint as a result and had an idea she was keen to try out; the Oceanic Bar presented a prime opportunity. She would rock up on a Thursday or Friday night, dressed in a blouse and slacks or shift dress and heels, doing her best impression of somebody who has had a long day at the office and is in need of a stiff drink. She would strike up a conversation with a table nearby or sometimes just wait for them to talk to her. She was, after all, a woman alone at a bar, and groups of men are easier to predict than Hallmark movies. She'd end up joining them at their table, laughing at their jokes and dishing back a little patter, scooting closer in her chair until she was literally rubbing shoulders with at least one of them.

And when she got near enough, her hand would slip into the jacket on the back of the chair. Or she would intentionally knock over a glass, leaving herself free to surreptitiously rifle through a wallet while her new acquaintance busied himself swabbing warm prosecco off his trousers with a napkin. Over the course of an evening, with a little luck, there were potentially hundreds to be made.

She never took huge amounts of money, and she only targeted people who she reckoned either could afford it or wouldn’t even notice. And she tried not to make too regular a habit of it. But every couple of months, when freelance graphic design gigs were thin on the ground, when rent was due, on those days when she had to choose between buying food and paying her phone bill on time, Cat knew she could fall back on an evening at the Oceanic.

And she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit, in those unguarded moments when drifting off to sleep after a night grifting the bar, that she secretly gets a kick out of it. Not the crimes themselves – they’re just a means to an end, a product of the financial necessity and borderline desperation that comes with being broke in London – but rather the moment that comes immediately after she has stolen something. That rush. There is no feeling in the world quite like breaking the rules, of doing the exact opposite of what a grown woman is supposed to do… and getting away with it.

And then Jake clocked her.

It was a busy Thursday. Cat had just relieved a recruitment consultant of thirty quid when she felt his eyes on her. She resisted the urge to tense up or look at him right away, taking a moment to reassert her composure. Then she threw her head back, shaking her scruffy blonde bob coquettishly as she laughed at the deeply unfunny comment her new friend the recruiter had made, and used the opportunity to glance towards the bar, where sure enough, Jake was watching her.

His expression was sphinx-like, his lips pursed in either judgment or mild amusement. It wasn’t the kind of gross, obvious stare Cat was used to receiving from men. It didn’t feel predatory or intrusive. He just... saw her. And she knew instantly that somehow, he had figured out what she was up to.

She assumed he would ask her to leave, or worse, call the police. But he didn’t. She gave the hotel a wide berth for a while, tried her craft on the punters in a Be At One not far away, but the bouncer made her nervous and she never went back. And when she braved another visit to the Oceanic a few weeks later, Jake greeted her with a nod as if she were a regular.

At first she thought he’d spared her because he fancied her, but he’s never made a move. In fact, he barely speaks at all, unless Cat is the one to initiate conversation. She’s done so a couple of times, thinking it can’t hurt to keep him on side. The fact that he is gorgeous, with short black curly hair and eyelashes so dark he could almost be wearing eyeliner, is beside the point.