Who's That Girl (24 page)

'Oh, is the party over?' I ask, as another few people spill out of the house and squeeze past them, on to the pavement.

'I hope not,' the boy says, turning to the girl draped over his shoulder and licking her face. Urgh. Lovely.

'Charlotte!'

I whirl round to see Lottie standing on the doorstep.

She shoots me a huge grin. 'Hey, I didn't think you were coming!'

'I know, but… well, my evening got cut short,' I finish in an explanation of sorts. 'Anyway, happy birthday.' I smile, thrusting the carrier bags at her. 'I'm afraid I didn't have a chance to wrap them,' I add quickly, suddenly feeling embarrassed for handing her two plastic carrier bags instead of an expensively wrapped present.

But if she minds, she doesn't show it. Instead her eyes go saucer-wide and a look of delight sweeps over her face. 'Oh fab, is all this for me?'

'Well, it's not that much.'

'All of it?' she repeats, in astonishment.

I had no idea she would be so chuffed. She looks over the moon, and just about some stuff from Boots. God, I wasn't this thrilled when I got my new car, I think, looking at her delighted expression and feeling a curious mix of pleasure and envy.

'Uh-huh.' I nod.

'Wow! I can't believe it. You must have spent a fortune,' she gasps, tugging out an Estée Lauder foundation that's the right skintone, instead of that cheap stuff I know she wears that's bright orange. 'That's so kind of you.'

'Hey, don't mention it.' I smile modestly. I'd forgotten just what a treat getting new stuff used to be, I muse, thinking about my own bathroom cabinet at home, stuffed full with unused products, and feeling a bit guilty. Still, it looks like my list has been a raving success so far, I think, with a sense of satisfaction.

'Anyway, I'd invite you in, but everyone's getting ready to leave.'

'Oh, really?' I feel a beat of disappointment. Damn, after all that, I missed the party. 'I suppose it is pretty late. I guess I should be getting to bed too.'

'Bed?' She stares at me, incredulous, then lets out a peal of laughter. 'Ha-ha, very funny. That was a joke, right?'

'Erm, yes, of course.' I laugh uncertainly. 'So… um… if you're not going to bed, where are you going?'

'Clubbing!' she whoops.

'
Clubbing
?' My smile sort of freezes. Oh fuck. I'd totally forgotten how I used to love to go clubbing, but now it comes back to me with the blunt force of a sledgehammer. Dry ice. Swirly strobe lights. Deafening music. 'But it's a Sunday, isn't it?' I bleat hopefully.

'Yeah, but it's the August bank holiday tomorrow, so the Canal Club are having a special night.'

She beams excitedly. 'You're coming too, aren't you?'

'
I am
?' I squeak in a strangled voice.

Me? Clubbing? I don't do clubbing. Not any more. I do Pilates, and yoga, and acupuncture when my back hurts.

'Of course, silly! You're invited.'

I'm rummaging through my memory, as if it's a sock drawer and I'm feverishly looking for a pair that match. Only this doesn't match any recollection I have of this evening. Then again, it
was
ten years ago and I
was
very drunk. In fact, to be honest, every birthday till the age of about thirty is a bit of a blur.

For a brief moment I think about making up some excuse and going home, but before I have a chance she links arms and, with a battle cry, yells, 'Come on, it's time to
paaaartay
!'

And it's too late.

Help.

The club is only a couple of streets away, so we walk there - well, I walk; Lottie's wearing high heels for the first time since I've met her and sort of half totters along the pavement in the fourinch heels, giggling tipsily. She's wearing a dress covered in tiny blue cornflowers that I bought from a flea market. I remember I had to haggle the stallholder down for ages before I could afford it, even though it was only a few pounds.

Nowadays I can afford to shop for designer clothes. What I can't afford is the time to
go
shopping, so I tend to do a lot of it online, and usually only twice a year - summer and winter. Back then I was always so broke most of my wardrobe came from charity shops or markets and I'd spend weekends trawling through the racks at Camden or Portobello, looking for bargains. Like that dress, which I ended up getting for half-price because one of the straps was broken, I reflect. Though I never did get round to sewing it on, I realise, glancing at it now and seeing it's still being held on by a safety pin. I feel a flash of embarrassment. Honestly, what was I like going out like that? Absently I glance down at my jacket and pick off a couple of bits of fluff from the lapels. Didn't I care? Obviously not, I decide, looking back at myself puffing away merrily on a cigarette without a trouble in the world. I feel a rankle of disapproval. Ahead of us I see a long line of people snaking round the corner My first thought is, Wow, look at all those people. I wonder what's happening? My second is, Oh fuck, that's the queue to get in. Lottie doesn't appear to notice the queue and instead waltzes gaily to the front and beams at the bouncer. A huge, six-foot-something Jamaican man with biceps the size of watermelons and an impenetrable grimace. Horror trickles down my spine like icy-cold water. Oh my God, what am I doing?
What am I doing
? I cringe, hanging back in mortified anticipation of the public humiliation I'm going to suffer when I get sent to the back of the queue in front of all these people.

Correction,
all these kids
, I realise, my eyes sweeping over the parade of baseball caps, Celtic armband tattoos and pierced belly buttons and realising the average age is about twenty. Maybe even less, I decide, glancing at a group of rail-thin girls sporting micro-minis and what looks suspiciously like teenage acne. I glance back at the bouncer, who, at this very moment, is turning his hulking great frame towards Lottie, with the sort of slow-motion movement you get in those old dinosaur films, just before the helpless victim gets gobbled up by the big, scary brontosaurus.

'Hi there,' she trills, puffing on her cigarette and grinning wildly. Oh God, and now everyone's staring. I wince, hardly daring to look as I wait for the inevitable. Or not, I decide, my protective instinct kicking in. I'm supposed to be giving the benefit of my experience - stopping her from making mistakes. I can't just sit back and let this happen, I resolve, taking a step towards her and the thumping music that's pulsing out from the club.

'Hey, all right there, darlin'?'

And pause. Hang on a minute. Did he just say…?

'Nice to see ya. How ya doing?'

I'm staring in amazement at the bouncer, whose whole demeanour has now changed. Gone is the fearsome grimace. Instead he's grinning warmly at Lottie.

Er, hello, she's friends with the bouncer?

I'm
friends with the bouncer?

'I'm great. It's my birthday.' She's smiling as she stands on her tiptoes and plants a kiss on each of his cheeks. 'And I really wanted to celebrate it in the club.'

Oh my God. And I'm
flirting
with him to get in! What a floozy!

'Well, happy birthday!' he booms, letting out a deep rumble of laughter as he stoops down to accept her kisses, before lifting up the rope and standing back to let her pass. 'You have a great evening.'

'I will, thanks.' She waves cheerfully as she sweeps past him and disappears behind the velvet curtain into the club.

Well, OK, perhaps she didn't need my help
that
time, I think, as one by one the rest of us follow. And at least I didn't have to queue, I tell myself, trying to look on the bright side, but still feeling a sense of dread as I move forwards, the music growing louder and louder, the base thumping harder and harder, the strobe lights shooting out from the gap in the curtain, until it's my turn to go in.

Abruptly my way is blocked.

'If you want to just hold it right there.' Reaching in front of me, the bouncer replaces the red rope. For a moment I look at him in confusion. What? He's not letting me in? Then it registers. Of course. He obviously doesn't realise I'm with Lottie.

'Excuse me.' I smile confidently, as I get his attention. 'I'm with the rest of the party,' I explain, gesturing to those who have just gone in ahead of me. 'I'm with Lottie.'

The bouncer looks me up and down, his brow furrowed. 'Sorry, luv.' He shakes his head. 'Not tonight.'

My smile fades and I look at him uncertainly. 'Lottie,' I repeat, for want of something to say.

'You know, scrunch-dried hair, major tan, safety pin on her dress.'

'I'm sorry,' he repeats, only more firmly this time. 'Not tonight.'

I stare at him, slow realisation dawning upon me. 'Are you telling me you're not letting me in?'

'We're very busy tonight,' he replies dismissively, before gesturing for me to stand to one side to allow more people to pass though into the club.

Blatantly. While I'm just standing here.

I glare at him angrily. 'Excuse me, but you've just let all those people in,' I say, somewhat obviously.

Sliding his gaze back to me, he looks me up and down. 'We also have a dress code,' he grunts, gesturing to my outfit.

'What are you talking about?' I gasp in frustration. 'I'm wearing a suit.'

'Exactly,' he replies, shaking his head sympathetically.

I feel myself blush hotly. Admittedly my dark grey pencil skirt with matching single-breasted jacket is not the
hippest
of outfits, and if I'd known I was going to go clubbing, I would have worn something a bit more funky. Actually, that's a lie. If I'd known I was going to go clubbing, I'd be wearing earplugs. But even so. It's smart. It's classic. For God's sake; it's
Prada
. Behind me, I can hear people grumbling that I'm holding up the queue. I look at the bouncer in desperation. Oh God, I can't believe this. This is so humiliating. I'm half inclined to turn round and go home. After all, I've got no desire to go into his loud, stinky, sweaty club. In fact, right now, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather go less. Afghanistan, maybe. Blackpool in February, perhaps.

But I can't turn back now. Plus, even if I wanted to, my pride wouldn't let me. Turning back to the bouncer, I take a deep breath. So he thinks I'm not cool enough, does he? He thinks that because I'm not some young twentysomething and flirting with him I can't get into his stupid club? Indignation stabs. Well, we'll see about that.

Reaching into my handbag, I pull out my purse and count out three twenties. OK, so I might not be young and hip enough to pass the scrutiny of the doormen, but you see, that's one of the great things about being older: I don't have to be.

Like magic, the velvet rope disappears.

'Have a great evening,' nods the bouncer, standing back to let me through.

'I'll try.' Smiling triumphantly, I waft right by him.

Because now I can afford to bribe my way in.

Chapter Twenty-three

If you were to ask me to describe the Canal Club, I'd tell you to try this at home: 1. Turn up the thermostat on the central heating so it's about a hundred degrees and you're sweating profusely.

2. Switch on the stereo, choose a hip-hop CD (preferably one where all the tracks sound the same) and play on full volume so that you can't hear yourself speak and your eardrums feel as if they're about to explode.

3. Then turn it up even louder.

4. Put a tray of oil in the oven and turn it up as high as it will go so that everywhere fills with smoke.

5. Block up your toilet with loo roll so that it won't flush.

6. Now squeeze as many people as you can into your front room.

7. Shut all the windows and ask everyone to start smoking.

8. Charge a fiver for water.

9. And turn out the lights so you can't see a frigging thing.

'Oy, watch where you're going,' yells a gruff voice in my ear.

'Oops, sorry,' I reply, hastily removing my stiletto heel from someone's foot. Trying to adjust my eyes to the smoky, strobe-lit darkness,

I stumble around the club on the hunt for Lottie. I can't see her. But then again, that's not surprising, considering I can't see
anything
. Or hear anything over this thumping baseline. It's as if two of my senses just disappeared.

Resisting the urge to stick my fingers in my ears, I take off my jacket and begin squeezing, squashing and shuffling my way through the droves of clubbers. The air is sticky with perspiration and cloying and I can already feel beads of sweat pricking the nape of my neck as I move further into the sweltering heat. Jesus, it's as hot as hell in here.
Because this is hell
, pipes up a desperate voice inside of me, as I'm jostled into a strange man's hairy armpit. At least I think it's a man. Like I said, it's difficult to see. A fleeting image of my bed flashes across my brain. My warm, comfy bed, with its pillow-top mattress, goose-down duvet and plumped-up pillows. Me gently sinking into it. Just the sound of ocean waves and the faint puff of the humidifier. The scent of my aromatherapy candle, which has overtones of lavender and—

BO.

Getting a really bad whiff of it, I zone back in. OK, that's it. I can't take much more of this. I remember that song 'It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To'. Which is kind of apt, as trust me, I might very well be doing that if I don't find Lottie, I think desperately. Where the bloody hell can she have gone?

Hurriedly extricating myself, I move deeper into the club. To the left I can make out a small bar, and to the right are several sofas filled with dozens of smooching couples. But no Lottie. I glance quickly away and squint through the haze of cigarette smoke and dry ice, towards the small dance floor ahead of me. The odd strobe light sweeps back and forth, briefly illuminating the floor, which is covered in cigarette butts and blackened spots of chewing gum. This is one of those places where if they turned the lights on, it would send you running, screaming for the hand sanitiser.

And yet I used to love this place, I reflect, as blurry, long-forgotten memories of weekends spent here begin coming back to me. How could I? I wonder in amazement. What was there to love?