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 cocktailstained 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.