Backstage Girl

SNEAK PEEK: Six Ways From Sunday

Oliver's story continues...

***

Oliver Hogarth sat in the pub and debated suffocating himself with a napkin.

It wasn't a bad pub, admittedly; The Prince Alfred was a quirky Victorian building, still fitted with carved mahogany and snob screens. Dwarf-sized doors — affectionately dubbed "hobbit doors" by the local Londoners — divided the different sections, but more importantly served as a handy way to determine how drunk you were. Oliver always knew it was time to go home whenever he hit his head.

Yes. He loved this pub.

Although, Oliver thought grimly, he could have done without the stained-glass windows; they gave the impression of a Catholic church confessional, which wasn't helping his nerves.

He took a large gulp of his gin-and-tonic. Bombay Sapphire, with a few cucumber slices. Exactly what he had been ordering for years. Oliver had been hoping it would settle his nerves, but instead, he feared he would never be able to drink gin again.

Bloody, buggering hell. How on earth was he meant to tell the other boys about what he had decided yesterday?

They would flay him alive.

The door shot open.

"Brits are insane." Theo trekked into the pub, throwing himself into a scrubbed wooden chair. "Don't you people have any roads that are straight?"

"Well, there's the motorway."

"I need Advil," he moaned. "And a new stomach."

Oliver studied him. His dark skin was slick with sweat, and his white jumper reeked of cigarette smoke and vodka. He looked about five minutes away from chundering. Ten, if Oliver was being generous.

Not that Oliver felt all that sorry for him.

He had seen the Instagram story of Theo dancing on a table last night, wrapped in an American flag; he had been spraying ludicrously expensive champagne into the Thames. The idiot had only himself to blame.

"Good night, then?"

"Oh, shut-up," Theo muttered half-heartedly.

Oliver swirled the cucumber around his glass. A part of him was glad that it was Theo that had come to the pub first; out of the three boys, he would take the news the best. This could be a warm-up round. Practice, really.

"Theo, there's something I need to—"

The door flew open again.

Rory shot through, collapsing against the nearest wall. He was panting heavily, and his blond hair was windswept. He was also missing his left shoe. His shoe, Oliver thought, amused, and any semblance of calm.

"British girls are crazy." Rory was still doubled over, gasping for breath. "I was just attacked for an autograph. Attacked! In broad daylight."

Theo looked up. "Did you go out without security again?"

"Well. Yes."

"And your shoe?"

Rory flushed. "I threw it at her."

"So actually," Theo said wryly, "you attacked her."

"It was self-dense!" Rory held up his hands. "You know what? I need a drink." He stalked towards the bar. "Theo, what do you want?"

"A new liver."

"Two pints of beer, then." Rory clicked his fingers. "And a mickey of vodka. Coming right up."