‘I’m never drinking again’ is a mantra Megan and I adopt weekly, usually on a Sunday. Megan’s the instigator. If it weren’t for her, I’d be in bed by 10 every Saturday night with a book.
It’s Saturday night and we are super excited. Sophie has landed me two last-minute spots on the guest list for Liquid Venus, the newly opened exclusive nightclub in the city. She says it’s teeming with seriously hot men, fire-eaters and burlesque dancers. Madison Legal HQ is just around the corner, so I hope I don’t run into any Madison lawyers.
Except our buzz is waning slightly. The nightclub queue is a good forty people deep, hasn’t moved in thirty minutes, and it’s starting to rain. In an attempt to revive my love life, I’m wearing a top with a slash down the side and rocking the side boob look, but it’s creating a draft.
Megan is dissecting the Tristan situation with me. She thinks I’m overthinking everything.
“So he was separated in Mykonos…and he’s now divorced,” she muses. “It’s not as bad as you thought.”
I roll my eyes, shivering as spits of rain fall. “Whose side are you on? He lied. Okay, if I’m going easy on him, he withheld vital information rather than lying. As a lawyer he should have known it would have a negative impact on his case,” I add sarcastically. “He was treating me like a one-night stand.”
“We thought you were a one-night stand,” she points out. “One-night stands don’t bare their souls and recite their CVs to each other.”
“We turned into a three-night stand with copious spooning. What’s that called?”
“Greedy.”
“I still think ‘I have a family’ is a fact you disclose up front,” I grumble. “I broke bread with the man.”
“It’s a big debate for online daters. How much do you disclose upfront? You don’t know if you’re going to see them again. What if they end up being psychos?” She offers me the wine-filled water bottle. “He’s asking for another chance. And you clearly like him despite your protests. Would it really be that bad to just go for it and see what happens?”
“Yes, it would be that bad.”
We inch up the queue.
“There are pictures of him all over the internet with actual supermodels, Megan. Supermodels don’t just have hot bodies, they have professionally hot bodies.” I take a mouthful of wine. If Tristan could see me drinking budget wine from a water bottle, he’d be appalled. “And do you know how sad I am? I tried counting to see if I could figure out how many women he’s been with since Greece. All he wants is a quick fling and the stakes are too high for me.”
“So cynical,” she says. “You don’t know that for sure. Besides, standing in photos with hot women doesn’t necessarily mean he had sex with them.”
“Remember what his wife said? Just another fling,” I remind her, handing back the bottle. We need to finish the wine before we get to the front of the queue. “I don’t know what he’s capable of. I don’t know anything about him, really.”
“Ummm,” she says, thinking. “But you said she was seemed mean so you don’t know that’s the truth. With everyone you meet, you take a chance. What are you so afraid of?”
“In Mykonos we were two strangers who had chemistry. Here, it’s too entangled with my life. I mean he could ruin my career. These things never end well. The trainee and the CEO? Come on. If I give in, I leave myself wide open.” I take another deep slug of wine.
“You do. Wide open.” She smirks. “Here’s the important question.” Her expression turns serious. “Do you think about him in the bath?”
I spit out some of the wine. “You think I’m brave enough to have a bath in our house? Hell, no.”
She puts her hand on her hip, waiting.
“Okay,” I admit. “I do think about him. Too much.”
She folds her arms. “And that’s exactly why I’m creating an online dating profile for you. If you’re not going to take Tristan Kane up on his offer, then we need to get you back in the dating game. Starting tonight. You’re twenty-five, not eighty-five.”
I nod hesitantly. “Fine. Speaking of online dating, did Aaron reply to you?”
“Damo,” she corrects.
“That’s the guy from Bumble?”
“No, you’re thinking of the estate agent. Damo is the fitness instructor from Tinder.”
“There are so many dating sites.” I try to keep up with Megan’s dates, but she switches them up a lot. Most guys get one date, max.
“Tell me about it.” She groans. “It’s an admin nightmare. If I make updates to my profile like adding a new picture, I have to push it out to all my dating apps. I need version control.”
“So Damo is the new one.” I need to start tracking these in a spreadsheet so I can keep up. “Didn’t you see Aaron, the estate agent, on Wednesday?”
She nods. “We went to the cinema. Such a nice guy. So considerate, kind, a true gentleman and he wants to commit to me.”
I smile. “Aaron sounds lovely!”
“Oh, he is,” she agrees. “But I’ve never been so bloody bored in all my life.”
I give her a blank look. “Then why are you still sleeping with him?”
She shrugs. “He’s so courteous, I feel it would be rude not to. I can’t tell him I don’t want to see him because he’s too nice.”
“A pity shag. But Damo is the one you’re interested in?”
Her mouth twists into a grin. “Yeah. We’re meeting tomorrow night. God, Elly, we haven’t even had sex but he’s so full of testosterone I worry I’m going to get pregnant just looking at him. If it goes well, I guess I’ll have to tell Aaron it’s over.”
I chuckle. I’ve only seen pictures of Damo but he looked like a hottie. “Just remember I can hear everything in the next room and I need a good night’s sleep before work on Monday.”
The queue moves forward until we reach the top, where four bouncers and a glamorous hostess check IDs.
“Hey.” I smile confidently, showing my driver’s licence. “The names are Elena and Megan. We’re on the list.”
The hostess doesn’t return my smile but looks down at her clipboard. Then she smiles brightly, a genuine smile.
I beam, and start to walk in.
Her arm blocks the way like a parking lot barrier. “You aren’t on the list.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. She must have made a mistake.
“You’re not on the guest list. Either pay thirty pounds for entry or leave.”
“But my friend got us on the list. Let me see, we should be on it.” I lean over to look, but she snaps it away.
“Honey,” she says, bored. “Read my lips. You’re not on the guest list.”
“Hurry up!” someone shouts from down the line. “Go in or get out of the bloody line!”
I don’t have time to call Sophie with everyone complaining behind me; that would mean leaving the queue, back to square one.
When I look at the hostess’s face, I see my attempts are like arguing with a calculator. Pointless. “‘Fine,” I mutter. “We’ll pay.”
She turns to someone farther up the stairs. “Excuse me, Arnie?” Now she is yelling. “I have two non-VIPs here coming through paying full price. Non-VIPs.”
I feel the entire queue of eyeballs boring into the back of our non-VIP heads. Crying inside, I claw my card out of my bag. Thirty quid, and we haven’t even bought a drink yet. There’d better be a hot male burlesque dancer eating fire in here for us.
We are inside but penniless because of it. It’s pink, plush, and posh. I scan the bar quickly, looking for somebody famous. So far, the search is unsuccessful. We spot a few D-class celebrities from reality TV in the corner pretending to be bored and above all this.
Hitting the bar, we wait so long I feel like I’m queueing for my pension. I holler, “Four Pornstar vodka martinis” at the barman, making an executive decision to double up on our drinks. I’ve spent too many hours in queues tonight, and I’m not doing it again.
He presents them in teeny glasses with long stems and large lumps of passionfruit. I’m bemused by the passionfruit versus alcohol ratio in the glass.
“That’s £79.20, please.”
“Excuse me?” I feel faint. I thought vodka was a communist drink. “Can I see the bill, please?”
“Certainly.” The bill is presented like a crown on a little gold dish. I check to see what extra services I’m paying for. A foot rub? Down payment on a flat? Sex with a fire-eater? But no, a single Pornstar martini costs £16.50, and there’s a 20% service charge added on top! Whimpering, I present my card.
A banging tune comes on, and Megan sways against the bar, spilling sloshes out of her cocktail.
“Megan! You’re spilling a pound a minute there! Careful.” I bring the glass to my lips and sip. It burns my throat.
She looks at me with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Her first martini has nearly disappeared. “Tonight, we are hitting this town hard, Elly. Hard.”
Uh-oh.
3 a.m.
As I down another Pornstar martini, I know Megan and I will be chanting our mantra tomorrow. Teetotal from this day forward. Still, my Fitbit says I’ve burned 500 calories dancing. Very productive night!
A guy is talking to me. I think he’s handsome, but I suspect my vision is impaired. He shouts something over the music, and I nod. I’ve no idea what he said.
Megan teeters over to me on her ten-inch heels. “I’m going to request some tunes,” she bellows. “That DJ is a snack. Look at him!”
I laugh, turning to check out the DJ. Typical Megan, she has a thing for DJs and bouncers.
“Watch this.” She winks at me, and I watch her shimmy over to the DJ booth. This DJ is putty. Men just seem to fall at Megan’s feet. She leans over the booth flashing her biggest come-fuck-me smile. He frowns and says something short to her, turning back to the decks. Oh, this one isn’t biting. Perhaps he’s not allowed to chat up women on the job.
She’s not deterred. Megan is a determined woman. A man playing hard to get is just a minor obstacle that will make victory all the sweeter.
She switches tactics and leans against the door on the side of the booth, pushing her breasts over the top of it.
My mouth falls open. She doesn’t realise the door isn’t shut properly. “Megan!” I shout. “No!”
It’s too late.
It swings open ninety degrees, and she falls through, face-planting into the DJ booth.
From where I’m standing on the dance floor, I can’t make out the commotion, but it involves an angry DJ, an irate bouncer, and a hysterical Megan.
“Excuse me,” I slur at the guy whose name I don’t know. As I squeeze through a crowd of drunken dancers, I catch up with Megan halfway to the exit as she is being dragged by a bouncer.
“That’s my friend!” I cry.
“Oh really?” he says gruffly. “Then you’re out too.”
“So, he wasn’t interested, huh?” I mutter to Megan as we are marched out.
She pouts. “I can’t be expected to be on my A game all the time.”
Moments before we reach the exit, I feel a cold sharp sensation running down my front, making me gasp.
“Sorry.” The owner of the sticky strawberry cocktail hiccups in my face, not looking sorry at all.
It’s syrupy, stinky, and seeping through my dress, past the point of recovery.
We arrived as two VIPs, were demoted to non-VIPs and now we exit as convicts. The cool air hits me as we are escorted outside.
I look up and down the street, teeming with partygoers. “Let’s check out the night buses,” I say, propping up Megan with my arm. I’m teetering on the brink, but Megan is off her tits sloshed. Perhaps the bouncer was doing us a favour.
A motorbike comes up close beside me. Too close. Is he trying to park here? I step back. Before my brain can register what’s happening, the motorbike guy snatches my bag from my arm and speeds off.
“What the hell?” I cry, watching him disappear. “He can’t do that!”
A guy smoking a cigarette against the wall next to us shrugs. “Robberies by motorbike are rife around here. You should hold on to your bag tighter.”
That’s not helpful.
“Megan, I had all our things in that bag!” I wail. “Yours too! Now we’ve got no bank cards, phones or house keys! How the hell are we gonna get home?”
She squints at me, expelling a small burp. “Another club?”
“And pay how?” I moan. “Besides, everywhere is closing soon. How many miles is it to Tooting?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Seven? It’s fine!” She giggles, launching into song.
“Quiet!” I groan, suddenly feeling sober. It’s too far in running shoes never mind stilettos.
We’re screwed.
So, we’ve got no money or phones to get home. The underground is closed for maintenance, meaning we can’t jump the barriers and get home that way. Not that I would have the guts to try it and considering Megan just face-planted into a DJ box, I don’t think we can risk more gymnastics tonight. Perhaps we could beg a bus driver? No, Megan has tried that before, and they told her to get lost. They’ll be worse when they see the state we’re in. I could try to find a payphone and call Frank the Shagger, reversing the charges, but do payphones still exist? Besides, I don’t know his number off by heart.
Our only option is to find a free internet cafe and contact Frank over social media asking him to come into town to give us cash. We’ll never find one at night, though.
Megan leans against the wall in a daze. She can’t be consulted.
I stare up at The Rosemont Hotel, and an idea starts to form. It’s ridiculous, but it’s either that or walk all night in the cold.
“Follow me, Megan,” I instruct. “Keep your head down. We’re going to find a spot in that hotel to sleep for a few hours until we can contact Frank or someone in the morning to come and get us.”
“A hotel room?” She hiccups.
“No,” I grimace. “A hallway or something.” With that, I straighten my back, cover my cocktail-stained dress with my flimsy jacket, and swing open the doors of the five-star Rosemont Hotel.
“Walk like you own it,” I mutter to Megan as we stride towards the elevators. It is essential to keep the pace of a person who belongs here. Too fast or too slow will arouse suspicion. Our noise level has to be just right too. “Like you’ve stayed here every day since birth.”
We reach the lifts without being stopped.
Megan looks confused. “What now?”
I exhale heavily. “This is a long shot,” I say in a low voice, jabbing the elevator button. “Paul Sharpe from uni told me that he was so drunk one night that he couldn’t remember which hotel room he was in, so he slept in the hallway next to the gym. The plan is to take refuge somewhere for a few hours.”
As soon as the elevator opens, I pull her in. From the control panel, the gym and spa are on the lower ground floor.
We exit the elevator into a dark hallway.
I breathe a sigh of relief. There are no bedrooms on this floor.
“Come on.” I walk down the hall, keeping Megan upright. “Let’s just find a corner to nap for a few hours. No one will be using the gym until at least 6 a.m.”
There’s one nondescript door without a key card lock, I decide to try it. Maybe it’s a spa with lounge beds? To my surprise, the door swings open to reveal a linen closet with rows of wooden shelves filled with bed linen.
Like bunk beds.
Dare we? The shelves look sturdy enough to take our weight. We would even have bed linen. I can’t imagine the cleaners starting before 6.
I make an executive decision. “This’ll do.”
“Is this allowed?” Megan peers in.
“It’s not illegal,” I say to convince myself more than Megan. “I think. Just frowned against. Up to you. Do you want to sit outside on the floor or lie horizontal for a few hours with some sheets over you?”
She walks inside and plops herself on the bottom shelf.
“Just lie down, then we’ll leave really early, okay?”
She fires her shoes off like she’s at home and lies down then rolls the linen sheets over her until she’s buried in them. “Good night.” She smiles up at me.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn, slipping off my strappy sandals. “We’ll have to make a quick exit. We need to be out before the cleaning shift starts.” I climb up to the shelf above her and lie horizontal, gently covering myself with a sheet. The last thing I need is to be liable for damage to hotel property.
That feels good. I’ll just take a brief nap…
***
Something’s wrong. My head feels like it’s been fracked overnight for precious fuels. Memories and thoughts are foggy.
Am I dreaming?
Two female voices talk animatedly. Not in English, Spanish perhaps? The pounding in my head won’t let me focus. I shift in my hard wooden bed. Oh God, that feels bad. A shudder throttles my spine as my back spasms. With a huge effort, I force my eyes open and tilt my head towards the noise.
Shit!
We fell asleep.
Three hotel cleaners are standing in the doorway, limbs flapping and talking in a highly animated tone. It’s too fast for me to decipher what they’re saying, but I get the gist. They are furious.
I abruptly incline and hit my head on the shelf above. “Megan,” I bark as I rip the linen off me. “Get up. NOW.”
She moans softly below me, but I don’t hear movement.
The cleaner that appears to be in charge jerks a thumb in our direction and gets out her radio phone.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I scramble to get down from the shelf but get caught up in bed linen. “We’re leaving! Right now.”
She says something in Spanish over the radio.
I make out two words and catapult myself off the shelf. ‘Gerente del hotel.’ Hotel Manager.
“Hop it, Megan!” I shrill, fumbling with my stilettos. She’s lifted herself off the bed but is moving too slowly given the situation.
“You stay here until our manager arrives!” the head cleaner snaps at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat as I push past her. What else can I say? It’s not like we can redeem ourselves. “Megan! Hurry the fuck up!” How bad is this situation? Can we get arrested? We haven’t technically damaged property unless they count the fake tan on the sheets.
We leg it out of the linen closet and down the hall with the cleaners in a high-speed pursuit. My heel abruptly decides to snap off, and I go down on my ankle. My ankle twinges, but I don’t falter; I keep going with my heel hanging off.
“Not the lift!” I shout to Megan when I see her shuffling towards it. “The stairs.”
We sprint up the stairs gasping for breath with the Spanish inquisition ascending behind us. There’s lots of noise coming from their radio. It sounds like an angry hotel manager.
In reception, a manager-looking bloke and two others are waiting for us. Every face in the check-in queue turns to see what the commotion is. Behind us, angry cleaners close in.
We are surrounded.
“Ladies, can you explain what you were doing in one of our linen closets?” The manager stares at us, aghast. “Are you guests in this hotel? Did you take a wrong turn?”
“No,” I say meekly. “We ran into a few unfortunate events last night and we needed to…ah…” I search for an appropriate word, “…borrow one of the linen closets.”
“So, you thought it appropriate to sleep in one of our linen closets?” His mouth slackens in disbelief. “This is not a hotel that permits unrespectable nocturnal activities.”
My brain misfires. Wait, what?
My cheeks heat. “We’re not prostitutes,” I announce loudly to clear up any misconceptions. It’s difficult when I’m wearing a drink-soaked dress and hovering on one heel. Last night I prided myself on such a well-thought-out executed plan.
The crowd hushes as they listen.
“Elly?”
I whip my head around.
Tristan.
I don’t know who is more shocked, him or me.
His eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he takes in the ambush. “What the hell is going on?”
“These ladies were found sleeping in one of our linen closets, sir,” the hotel manager reports. “We apologise deeply for the ruckus. We’re dealing with it. So sorry to disturb you, Mr. Kane.”
The blood drains from my head and pools in my ankles as Tristan stares at me like I have two heads. What the hell is he doing here? Of all the hotels in all the towns, in all the world, he has to walk into mine? I thought I would have to avoid him at work, not all seven London zones. I haven’t seen him since the awkward meeting on my first day.
His gaze drops to my feet, where I’m balancing on one shoe, then back up past my stained dress to my guilty face. Shocked is not a strong enough word for how Tristan looks at me. No word is. His expression needs its own entry in the Oxford dictionary. “Elly? What the hell is going on?”
I fidget with the breast lift tape which seems to have come loose under my arm. “My bag was stolen last night,” I say in a small voice, mortified. “We had no way to get home, so we…ah…” I can’t find a better way to describe it “…borrowed one of the linen closets.”
“Christ,” he splutters. “Sir, charge a hotel room to my card for your inconvenience. Will that appease the situation?”
I shout “No” as the manager says “Yes.”
“Do you know these ladies, Mr. Kane?” the hotel manager asks in disbelief.
“Yes,” Tristan grits out, handing his bank card to the manager. “I’ll take it from here. Are we good?”
“Yes, sir,” the manager replies, recognising his cue to leave.
Tristan eyes spear me, like he is seeing me in a new light. No hairbrush, no toothbrush, no dignity. This is not how I wanted to meet Tristan Kane. Not when I look like the Joker.
“I’ll pay you back,” I swallow. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a member here,” he says dryly. “It’s convenient, being close to the office. I’ve taken my family and friends out for breakfast.”
Oh.
I glance over his shoulder to where a table of people are watching us. There’s an older lady, dear Lord, is that his mum? I don’t have my glasses on so she’s a blur. Tristan’s son is sitting on her lap. I recognise Danny Walker, the tech tycoon, and a girl about my age. It must be his sister. The other bloke from the photos, Jack someone, is sitting beside a younger girl.
“My two sisters and my mum,” Tristan explains. “It’s Mum’s birthday.”
“That’s nice,” I choke out. I smile and wave meekly.
Most of them smile back in amusement. The mum looks appalled.
“Lovely to see you again, Tristan,” Megan jumps in.
He smiles at her then turns back to me. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”
“I’m fine, I can replace my keys and phone. It’s annoying but I’ll live. The only thing that’s hurt is my pride. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” I can’t think of a better explanation.
He rubs his chin. “You could have gone into a police station. They would have driven you home.”
Damn. Do they do that? “I thought it needed to be more serious before the police would help.”
“You could have called me. I would have collected you.” His jaw flexes. “That’s if you haven’t blocked my number.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s in the scope of the CEO’s role.”
Tristan’s not amused.
“Plus, no phone, remember?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose like he has an incoming headache. “You need to go home, Elly,” he says in an accusing tone. “You reek of alcohol, and you only have one functioning shoe. You’re an employee of Madison Legal, this is hardly appropriate behaviour.”
I open my mouth with a comeback, then close it. I’m in no position to take the moral high ground.
He sighs heavily. “I’ll get my driver to take you home.”
“No, it’s fine,” I protest meekly. Actually, that sounds like heaven.
His eyes narrow, daring me to argue.
“That sounds great, thank you.” Faced with his disapproving gaze, I look down in remorse.
He calls his driver, who appears to be outside at his beck and call, as the guy comes through the door at the speed of Superman. “George, take the ladies home, please.”
George looks at us like he’s seen it all before.
“I need to get back to the others,” Tristan says. A ghost of a smile flickers on his face. “Try to behave yourself in whatever quarter-life crisis you seem to be having.”
I cringe. “I’ll try.”
“A fucking linen closet,” he mutters, shaking his head as he walks away.
“You might have solved your problem. He probably won’t want to date you after this,” Megan adds unhelpfully.
