My ribcage vibrates from the throbbing bass line as we make our way around the edge of the already packed dance floor, laser beams shooting from all directions, forming crazy patterns on the walls and ceiling.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Stella shouts in my ear. ‘We literally walked in!’
‘Told you so!’ I singsong.
We pause to take a series of selfies in front of the bar with Stella’s phone, taking care to get the insanely hot barman behind us in the shot, before sending it to Tamsin and the others with the caption ‘wish you were here?’
I elbow my way to the front of the crowd at the bar and grab a menu before returning to Stella. She whips it from my hand and opens it up, her eyes flickering down the page.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she says. ‘A vodka and Coke is eight pounds fifty … Oh my God, look at this. They do a champagne cocktail with actual bits of gold in it!’
‘Where? Let me see.’
‘There,’ she says, prodding the menu. ‘The Gold Digga.’
‘It’s thirteen pounds!’ I gasp.
‘I know!’
‘OK, that’s our quest then, to find some blokes who’ll buy us one.’
I search the rest of the menu for the cheapest alcoholic item on offer. ‘Have you got nine quid?’ I ask. ‘That’ll get us a bottle of Smirnoff Ice each.’
It takes for ever to get served. When we do, the barman tries to up-sell us.
‘I can fix you an incredible lychee mojito,’ he says.
‘Sorry, but we’re allergic to lychees,’ I reply sweetly.
‘Both of you?’ he asks, his eyes flicking to Stella then back to me again.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s such a shame.’
‘Do you think he thinks we’re totally lame?’ Stella asks as we fight our way back through the crowd with our drinks.
‘Oh, who cares,’ I say. ‘Let’s go explore.’
The club is like a massive grownups’ playground. We career giddily from room to room, dancing to hardcore dance one minute, seventies funk the next. The R&B room is where it’s at though, the compact dance floor heaving with a mass of undulating bodies, a DJ with her short Afro dyed platinum blonde dancing behind a set of decks.
Combined with the jug of Blue Lagoon from Top Dogs, the Smirnoff Ice is making me feel bold and buzzy. There are no drinks allowed on the dance floor so I down the rest of it and dump the empty bottle on the edge of the bar before strutting to the centre, my spiritual home, all thoughts of Jordan and Hattie and Grace and the stupid baby dissolving with every throb of the bass line.
I start to dance, quickly finding my rhythm, grinding and writhing and tossing my head back and forth. Even though the crowd here is achingly cool, and competition for attention is tougher than what I’m used to, I know people are watching us. Stella and I make a good team on the dance floor, her skinny frame and poker-straight blonde hair complementing my curvy body and wild black curls perfectly.
As we dance, I notice two blokes watching us from the edge of the dance floor. They look older than the majority of the crowd here, in their early thirties at least, and slightly out of place as a result. Not that I care. It’s the older ones who tend to have the cash.
‘C’mon,’ I shout at Stella over the music. ‘Let’s go get another drink.’
‘What with?’ she asks. ‘I’ve only got enough left for my half of the taxi fare home.’
‘Just trust me.’
As I predicted they would, the blokes swoop in the second we leave the dance floor. One of them is tall with dark hair and designer stubble, the other shorter and strawberry blond. They’re both wearing well-cut suits and expensive aftershave.
‘You girls must be thirsty,’ the taller one shouts in my ear, tickling my eardrum. ‘Can we buy you a drink?’
I throw Stella a triumphant look. ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I shout back.
‘What are you having?’ he asks. ‘Beer, wine, cocktails?’
‘Cocktails,’ I say quickly.
‘Anything in particular?’
‘How about you surprise us.’
He smiles. ‘No problem. We’ll be right back.’
‘Ew, Mia,’ Stella says as soon as they’re out of earshot. ‘They’re ancient.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a baby,’ I say. ‘It’s not like we have to snog them or anything. We’re just letting them buy us a drink.’
The guys return a few seconds later, pressing chilled glasses into our hands.
‘Lychee mojitos OK?’ the guy who’s done all the talking so far asks.
‘Perfect,’ I purr, clinking my glass against his.
I take a sip. It’s crazy delicious.
We head up onto the roof terrace where it’s a bit quieter and we can talk without having to yell everything at least twice in order to be heard over the music.
‘I’m Miles, by the way,’ the taller guy says as we sit down. ‘And this is Greg.’
In return I give them the standard fake names Stella and I use on a night out – Martine and Simone, after characters in our old GCSE French textbook.
They ask what we do and where we live. I tell them we run our own fashion label and live in one of the really cool converted warehouses over by the canal, ignoring Stella’s elbow in my ribs as I talk. In return, Miles tells us that he and Greg work in sports PR and are here in Rushton on business.
‘Do you know anyone famous?’ Stella asks.
Miles reels off a ton of household names – footballers and rugby players and Olympic athletes. I consider telling him about Audrey but change my mind. Now maybe isn’t the best time for bringing up thirteen-year-old little sisters.
I clock Miles’s watch and decide it’s probably worth more than Mum’s motorbike. I grab a menu and point out the cocktail Stella was talking about earlier, the one with edible gold flakes in it. The Gold Digga.
‘We were thinking of trying one of these next,’ I say.
‘I like your style,’ Miles says, nodding approvingly.
‘What can I say, I have very expensive taste.’
He laughs and I realize his hand is resting on the small of my back.
‘Mia,’ Stella hisses. ‘Loo. Now.’
‘Excuse us,’ I say. ‘We’ll be right back.’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Stella asks as we squeeze into a cubicle together.
As cool as Flux is, the toilets are disgusting, the floor soaking wet and covered in wads of soggy toilet paper.
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, pulling down my knickers and hovering over the toilet seat.
‘Why are you flirting with them like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘You know what I mean. Letting Miles touch you and stuff.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not like he’s got his hand down my knickers or anything. He’s just being friendly.’
‘They’re old enough to be our dads!’
‘Hardly,’ I bluff. ‘Can you pass me some loo roll please?’
Stella rips off a few sheets and hands them to me.
‘They’re harmless,’ I say. ‘More importantly, they’re loaded.’
I flush the loo and we swap places.
‘I just feel funny about it,’ she says, her skirt hitched up round her thighs.
‘Oh, come on, you let blokes buy you drinks all the time at the Cuckoo Club.’
‘That’s different. I know where I am there.’
‘Oh, Stells, please don’t wuss out on me now. Just let them buy us another couple of drinks. I haven’t got my buzz on yet.’
Who cares if they’re kind of old and ever so slightly creepy? I’m having a good time and nothing on earth is going to persuade me to stop now.
Stella isn’t saying anything.
Time to pull out my trump card.
‘Miles has promised us the cocktail with gold flakes in it,’ I say.
As I knew she would, Stella lights up like a Christmas tree. ‘Really? But they cost a fortune.’
<
br /> ‘Like I said, they’re loaded. It’s a no-brainer, Stells, I’m telling you.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Just promise me you won’t leave me alone with Greg. It’s creeping me out the way he doesn’t say anything.’
‘Fine,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Stella can be so dramatic sometimes.
By the time we return, Miles and Greg have bought a round of Gold Diggas as promised. I pick one up and hold it up to the light. I can just about make out the flakes of gold mingling with the champagne bubbles. I finish it in three gulps, loving the slight sting as the liquid slides down my throat.
‘I’m impressed,’ Miles says.
‘Good,’ I reply.
He leans in. ‘You’re a very sexy girl, Martine,’ he says, his breath tickling my ear. ‘Did you know that?’
My stomach does a flip-flop. Not because I fancy him, because I don’t. But because it feels so good to hear those words again, to get that kind of validation, to know I haven’t lost my touch. It makes me want more.
More drinks.
More dancing.
More compliments.
More of everything.
We alternate drinking with dancing, stumbling back and forth between the bar, downing assorted cocktails in a few gulps, before returning to the dance floor. How many Gold Diggas have I drunk? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that they taste amazing. Better still, they make me feel amazing. Like I could rule the world.
Another round of drinks.
Down in one.
Another in my hand. Like magic almost.
Stella is pulling at my arm, shouting in my ear. I can’t hear her, though. It’s too loud.
I shake her off. I go to leave the glass on the edge of the bar but I miss and it falls, smashing on the floor, the glass splintering into dozens of tiny pieces. I shrug and push my way back towards the dance floor, Miles right behind me.
I’d forgotten how much I love to dance, how good it makes me feel. Tonight it feels especially good, like all my limbs and organs are made of hot liquid and I’m sort of melting into the dance floor.
I jump on Miles’s back.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, laughing.
I ignore him and hitch one leg over his shoulder, then the other.
I love being up so high, floating above everyone’s heads, like an angel. The entire time I’m laughing, harder than I have in ages. Because everything is beautiful and amazing. And so am I.
Stella is shouting at me to get down, tugging at my ankle, but I don’t care. She can shout all she likes. I can do what I want.
I stretch out my arms. ‘I’m the king of the world!’ I yell.
Beneath me, Miles staggers about as he struggles to keep his balance. Then we’re falling, the floor rushing to meet us.
We land hard but I don’t feel a thing.
I just roll onto my back and laugh and laugh and laugh.
18
I want to die.
It’s the only option.
Everything hurts.
My head, my stomach, my arms, my legs, my back.
Even breathing hurts.
I dare to open my eyes. This is easier said than done because they’re glued together with a thick layer of gooey sleep and it hurts to even lift my arms off the mattress to wipe them clean. When I finally do I’m surprised to find myself looking at the familiar crack on my bedroom ceiling.
Hang on a second, why am I not at Stella’s?
I tentatively turn my head to the left. The room is empty. The silver dress is hanging neatly over the back of my swivel chair, Stella’s studded shoes tucked beneath it. I pluck up the energy to peek under the duvet. I’m wearing yesterday’s knickers and my ‘It’s All About Mia’ T-shirt.
What am I doing here? I seem to remember lots of noise, maybe even shouting. Did Stella and I argue? Is that why I didn’t stay over?
Too many questions. They make my head ache even more than it already is.
I close my eyes and try to put everything I remember in order. I get as far as the cocktail with gold flakes in it that reminded me of a snow globe I had when I was little. But then what? After that it all goes blank. It’s like that section of the evening has been wiped clean away. The sensation should feel fresh and clean but it feels the opposite – like my brain has been flooded with a thick grey fog.
I can hear people moving about downstairs, the buzz of the kitchen radio, the ‘pop’ of our ancient toaster.
A wave of dread washes over me, pinning me to the mattress. How drunk must I have been not to even remember leaving the bar? A lot drunk, that’s how much.
An image crashes into my brain.
A car.
Yes! I remember being in a car; lying on the back seat and seeing the moon, big and full and yellow, through flickering eyelids.
But whose car?
Mum and Dad’s?
Please God, no. I’ll be grounded for life, especially after what happened on New Year’s Eve. I get a flashback to the dark weeks of January and February, the disapproving looks I got every time I walked into the room, the constant phone calls and texts once I was finally allowed out again. Only this time it would be worse, way worse.
Why can’t I remember? If I had the strength, I’d punch the wall in frustration.
I can hear a distant beeping. My phone. Of course, I should just ring Stella. She was there, she can tell me what happened. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I just got a taxi home and crept quietly up to bed. But why would I do that and risk Mum and Dad seeing me drunk when I’d already arranged to stay at Stella’s?
I reach for my mobile phone but it’s not on the bedside table where I usually leave it to charge. Instead, there’s a pint glass of water, two aspirin and a folded-up piece of paper with ‘Mia’ written on it in unfamiliar handwriting. I open it up.
Hey,
Hope you slept OK. I told your parents you didn’t feel well and so came home early this morning from Stella’s.
Sam x
I read the note twice, my useless brain aching with confusion, then prop myself up on one wobbly elbow and down the water and aspirin.
I trace my beeping phone to my handbag on the floor at the end of the bed. It takes me three attempts to reach it. As I flop back on my pillows, a series of pictures explode in my head in quick succession like a film trailer on fast-forward.
A glass smashing.
A security guard standing over me.
Stella crying.
Being carried down a long corridor.
The cold night air hitting my legs.
I try to join the dots but the gaps are just too wide and the dots keep moving.
My phone is almost out of battery. With trembling fingers I plug it in to charge. I have seven missed calls, five voicemails, three texts and ten WhatsApp messages, all from Stella. Without listening to or checking any of them, I call her back.
She answers after one ring.
‘Thank God for that!’ she cries. ‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I thought you were dead or something!’
‘Dead?’ My voice is torn to shreds.
‘Yes!’
‘Why would I be dead?’ Ow, ow, ow. Every word makes me feel like my throat is being attacked with industrial-strength sandpaper.
‘Are you actually kidding me, Mia?’
‘No.’
I tell her the dribs and drabs I’ve managed to cling on to.
‘That’s it?’ she says. ‘That’s all you’ve got?’
‘Yeah.’
She sighs heavily.
‘Stells, what happened?’ I repeat, a wave of dread rippling up my body.
‘Where should I start?’ she says, her voice thick with sarcasm.
‘The cocktail,’ I say. ‘The one with the bits of gold in it.’
According to Stella I drank at least five of them (‘like they were Ribena or something’). And that was only the beginning.
‘I kept telling you to slow down,’ Stella
says. ‘But you wouldn’t listen. It was like you were on this crazy mission. And that Miles guy didn’t help. He just kept buying you drinks and telling me to stop being a “such a spoilsport”. Then all of a sudden you went completely floppy. It was like your bones were made out of mush, Mia. And I was so bloody scared. It was like New Year’s Eve all over again, but worse because we were all by ourselves and in that massive club so far away from everything. I thought they’d drugged you or something. And I was hitting you round the face and stuff and trying to get you to wake up but you wouldn’t even open your eyes. And then fucking Miles was saying he was going to put you in a taxi.’
My heart starts to beat very fast.
‘I told him that wouldn’t work because you were staying at mine, and he just kept telling me to stop worrying and that we could sort all that out later which I knew was all bullshit because he didn’t even ask for my address.’
‘And?’ I say. ‘Then what?’
I realize I’m whispering.
I realize I’m scared.
And not just because of the trouble I might be in. I’m scared of what I can’t remember, of the memory of Miles’s hands on my body and what might have come next.
‘By this point the woman with the clipboard had appeared and was being all pissy about you being in such a state in her precious club, and Miles was saying he was going to take you home. He picked you up and was heading for the exit, and I was screaming at him and telling the woman to stop him, but by then I was really drunk too and crying and my words were all coming out in a muddle and I wasn’t making any sense and Miles kept talking over me, sounding all sober, and telling her that he had it under control, and she seemed to believe him, that you were with him and it was OK. And shit, Mia, I was so scared he was going to leave there with you and I’d never see you again, but then the clipboard woman was saying she was going to call the police if I didn’t stop making such a fuss, and that must have spooked Miles and Greg because suddenly they just bolted, like one minute they were there and then they weren’t. And that’s when I called Grace.’
‘You did what?’ I cry, finally finding some volume.