Guess who...

It’s him.

Fat Justin – although, for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t look fat at all – leaning confidently on the pillar next to the dessert bar, with a gorgeous redhead in a glittering emerald dress on his arm.

Well, shit.

At least now it makes sense why Emma’s upset.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Emma whispers into your shirt, and you look down to see her frantically trying to wipe away her tears. ‘I’m so sorry! This isn’t your problem, and we were having such a lovely night –’

‘Hey,’ you tell her, squeezing her shoulders possessively. ‘We’re still having a great night. And it’ll get even better once I smack that fuckwipe with something hard and heavy. Maybe I can get security to give me one of my bags of shit back…’

Emma half-laughs, half-sobs into your neck. ‘You know who that is?’

‘Well…’ You’re about to tell her you Googled her ex, when suddenly it dawns on you that might sound kind of creepy. ‘I put two and two together,’ you settle for, instead. ‘Giant penis at ten o’clock? Equally giant butterface on his arm? Figures that’d be your ex.’

Emma does a funny little half-snort again, and you feel a flush of triumph; that’s it, keep her laughing, keep her surprised, then she can’t be too sad. ‘She’s not a butterface!’

To be honest, you haven’t even seen her face yet, but you figure it’ll make Emma feel better. ‘Trust me, sweetheart,’ you tell her, rubbing her forearms soothingly. ‘Nice dress, but that’s a butterface if ever I saw one.’

You wait for Emma to laugh again, but it doesn’t come, because –

‘Oh, shit,’ Emma hisses suddenly into your shirt collar. ‘He’s seen us!’

You turn, blood pounding in your ears for some reason. Fat Justin is staring coolly across the ballroom at you – no, past you. His eyes are locked on Emma’s as if you’re not even there.