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“Far too young,” Ali says reprovingly, and Simon has to shoot a glare her way because that is, clearly, at least a part of the point, but Ali stares right back, still not backing down, and it seems discretion is the greater part of actually picking up tonight and also not coming home to find himself locked out for the night if he creeps away at three a.m., so instead, Simon turns his gaze to the girl leaning up against the bar next to the last one he pointed out -- this one’s hair is an absolutely lurid fake-red, surely that must add at least a few years to Allison’s tally of suitability.
But, “No, not her either,” Ali says. “Come on, Simon, they clearly came together, they’re the exact same age; she’s a baby, she should be sent home to her mum, I will change the fucking locks, I swear, don’t test me.”
Simon looks to Mark for support, for some bloody reason, but Mark is leaning up against the wall cackling into his drink, he’s no help at all, so Simon goes back to scanning the crowd. Too tall, too pink, too old -- Simon starts to think he won’t find anyone who gets him going without offending Ali’s sensibilities except for the two arseholes giggling to each other who he came in with, and then he sees her.
She’s perfect, she looks expensive and obnoxious and like she’ll be utterly wild in the sack, but she also looks old enough that he might have gone to school with her -- that Ali might have, even, and he turns back to the lovely Allison and gestures discreetly.
Ali tilts her head to the side, following the direction he indicates. Her cheeks are a little pink from the whiskey she’d started out the night with, and she’s done up her eyes in a way he hasn’t seen in ages, usually too busy with the baby. She looks a treat, and she seems to be entirely enjoying the chance to give Simon hell. She gazes at Simon’s quarry for a breath, then says, “A bit out of your league, I’d have said, but sure, give it a shot if you like.”
Simon has no interest in dignifying that with a response, so he doesn’t. Mark has stopped cackling like a loon, though, which is good enough. Simon sends a salute his way, reminds Ali, “Don’t forget, you’re designated home-to-pay-the-sitter tonight,” and then peels away from them to make his way down the bar, where his quarry is leaning forward to get the bartender’s attention, cleavage-first.
As he goes, he hears Ali mutter to Mark, “Like training a cat with a spray bottle,” but he graciously chooses to ignore it; more important things are afoot.
Lucky for Simon, the bartender is already helping someone else, giving him the opening to slide into the space next to her and shake his head disapprovingly. Disgraceful, he thinks he’ll say, anyone making a pretty face like yours wait.
And then, if he’s lucky, she’ll be the type to roll her eyes at him as she edges a little closer, instead of the kind who just rolls up at the flattery alone; there’s got to be some challenge in the chase, or there’ll be no pleasure in the kill. He’ll still do it, if she’s easily charmed by him -- but he’ll respect her more if she makes him work for it.
Simon sidles up to the bar, makes a show of trying to flag down the bartender, just for the look of the thing, and as he’s turning towards the target, his eye catches on Ali and Mark who are -- Allison and Mark, they’re -- well, they’re more than kissing. There’s a significant amount of tongue there, and Ali’s got her hands where Mark’s arse would be if he wasn’t a scrawny toothpick man, and Simon could have told her she’d hardly find a satisfying handful there, but of course, he wasn’t asked, because they’ve waited to get indecent on the edge of the dance floor until Simon has already walked away.
Those utter bastards.
In the months since the three of them have set up house, Simon has had, it's true, what adds up to some pretty phenomenal sex, both in terms of quality and quantity; it's kind of amazing how easy it is to pull when you're living with two of your most often-repeated partners; if Simon has known, he might have dived head-first into domesticity long ago. These days, the Mark thing is starting to feel less nebulous and more solid, and the thing with Ali has actually been a thing again for the last few weeks, for the first time since she got back from rehab. The sticking point, so far, has been that, although both Ali and Mark seem perfectly happy to sleep with Simon -- and who can blame them -- they’re oddly unwilling to get hot and heavy with each other, and while Simon’s happy to leave them to come up with some kind of rota for who’s sleeping with him when, if they want, he also thinks it’s disgraceful that the three of them have been living in sin for so long without having a single threesome.
Simon’s quarry sighs, slumps down towards the bar, giving up on the bar tender, and this here should be Simon’s moment; he needs to sidle up beside her and say something glib but sympathetic, and then he needs to secure her a drink. He glances back at Ali and Mark, and now she has him up against a wall, and Simon can see one of Mark’s long-fingered hands cradling the back of her skull, woven into her dark hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Simon can see another bloke making his way up to Simon’s target -- weedy bloke, stringy hair, no competition. Ali’s gone up on her toes, resting her weight where she’s got her hands pressed to Mark’s narrow shoulders. Some waster jostles past Simon, breaking his stare.
When he turns back to the bar, the girl he’s been eyeing has a drink, and she’s making just enough conversation with the bloke Simon saw making his way up to be polite, but he’s pretty sure that’s the look of someone who’s hoping for an exit strategy to present itself, and that’s even better than getting to buy her a drink, getting to be her escape from someone else. Simon takes a step her way, catches her eye for a moment, but then--
--but then, it’s been weeks, and the most physically affectionate Simon has seen Mark, who has always been self-defeatingly shy with self-assured women like Ali, be with Ali, who used to buy in a bit to Mark’s big brother Billy’s claims that Mark wasn’t all there, was a quick peck on the cheek after Mark performed a particularly heroic act of diaper changing last week. Simon can’t help it; he chances a quick glance back at them. They’re not kissing anymore, but Mark is still backed up against the wall, and Ali is all leaned up against him still, giggling into his neck.
If the way they’ve been with each other so far is any indication, they might be back to avoiding brushing too close up against each other in the hallway tomorrow, and Simon will have missed all of it. Against his will, Simon find himself picturing Mark’s bare, narrow arse as he leans over Ali in her bed back at the apartment, her long, freckled arms wrapped around Mark’s pale, narrow shoulders; her long, elegantly-curved thighs hooked up around Mark’s skinny waist. At the bar, the woman Simon had been walking towards laughs at something someone says.
Simon turns back her way, and a part of him is already regretting the choice he can feel himself making even as he makes it. He salutes the woman at the bar, who raises a quizzical eyebrow back, but he’s already turning back to Mark and Allison, and starting to push his way back across the dance floor.