‘WHAT DO you wanna drink?’ Petra yelled over the music.

‘Can we dance first?’ I said, my eyes adjusting to the dimness.

‘No. Drink.’ She pointed to the pink-backlit bar.

‘Dance. Come on.’ I took her hand and dragged her across to the shiny floor.

There were only two other bored-looking girls dancing to a Bananarama song.

We dropped our little handbags between us and danced around them. In the UV black light, Petra’s white bra glowed through her lace top. She smiled and I felt somebody behind me.

‘Hello, ladies.’ Marcus Frick, in acid-wash jeans and matching jacket, loping from foot to foot, not quite in time with the music. ‘Can I buy youse a drink?’

I was about to say no, thanks, but Petra said, ‘Fuck yeah. Bourbon and Coke.’

I shrugged. ‘A West Coast Cooler, please.’

We followed Fricky to the bar, and then perched on stools at the tall, round table he was sharing with Gareth Maher. Mahersy handed around cigarettes, and told us he was sick of working at his dad’s stockfeed store and was thinking of becoming a cop.

‘Why not a fireman?’ Petra said, exhaling smoke.

‘Nah.’ Mahersy flicked his long dark hair off his face. ‘But Christos reckons I’d get in if I wanted to.’

I caught the flutter in Petra’s eyelashes, and asked for her: ‘Where is he tonight?’

‘Christos? At work.’ Mahersy swigged from his stubby of beer. ‘I’d be fit enough for the CFA, but.’

‘You’re fucken dreamin’, mate,’ said Fricky, who was a farmhand.

‘Nah. Used to be a champion swimmer, you know.’ Mahersy rolled up his shirt sleeves. He had very broad shoulders. ‘Almost made it to the Olympics. Just missed out in the final qualifying round.’

I was watching the door, wishing so hard for Dean to walk through it that, at first, I didn’t notice Fricky’s hand on my waist. I brushed it away, stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray, and said I had to go to the ladies’.

On the way to the toilets, Brett, the weed, sprouted up from somewhere, blocking my path. He gripped my shoulders and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.

‘Why doncha love me anymore?’ he said, swaying with a something-and-Coke in his hand.

‘I’m going out with somebody else now.’

He narrowed his eyes at Fricky and Mahersy, who were both twice his size. ‘Slut!’ he spat as I walked away.

When I returned to our table, Petra was onto her second drink. Fricky’s hand was on her waist now.

After Petra’s third drink — I was still on my first — she was kissing Fricky on the dance floor.

Mahersy watched me sip my West Coast Cooler. He had cold-blue eyes, like a husky-dog. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him.

He burped and said, ‘Wanna dance?’

‘No.’

‘What music do ya like?’

‘Bon Jovi. And Poison’s OK.’

He nodded.

‘And Leonard Cohen.’

He furrowed his brow. ‘Really? My oldies like him.’

‘What do you like?’

‘AC/DC. Guns N’ Roses are all right.’

‘How about books?’

He shrugged and finished his beer, banged the stubby on the sticky tabletop and wiped his mouth. Looking at my drink, he said, ‘Want another one?’

‘Haven’t finished this one yet.’

He bought me another one anyway.

Petra trotted over, breathing heavily in between giggles, red lips smudged and swollen as if she’d been sucking a raspberry icy pole. She swayed as she whispered sloppily into my ear that she’d be back in a little while.

‘Where are you going?’ I hissed.

‘Dunno.’

‘Thought you liked Christos?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘We have to be home by one thirty. Make sure you’re back before one.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ She staggered away, tangled up with Fricky.

I finished my first drink, took a couple of sips from my second, and pretended I had to go to the ladies’ again.

In the toilet cubicle, I placed my hands against the walls as the space seemed to expand. Shouldn’t have let Mahersy buy me that second West Coast Cooler. The person to my right was whispering. Not person, but persons — it sounded like two people. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but I caught ‘Sidney’. I bent forward until I could see under the partition. No feet. The people must have been sitting on the toilet with their legs raised. Sneaky.

I wiped, flushed, and went out to wash my hands, quickly to avoid a confrontation with the people who’d been whispering about me. All the cubicles were vacant. I frowned at the mirror.

A girl came in and asked if I was OK. I nodded. Another looked at me, then turned to her friend and made a drinking gesture with her hand. I held on to the basin, and watched more girls come and go in the mirror.

‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’ Petra — dishevelled, smudged, and red-eyed — was sitting on a pink sofa in the corner, under a poster of Samantha Fox.

‘What do you mean?’ I’d only been in the bathroom for a few minutes.

‘It’s twenty past one!’

That couldn’t be right. ‘Where’s Fricky?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

I looked across the crowded room. Mahersy and my West Coast Cooler were gone too — a group of people I didn’t know were laughing around that table.

‘How much did you drink!’ Petra said.