17

We chug our usual jug of happy hour Blue Lagoon cocktail at Top Dogs then head straight for the taxi rank. On our way we pass the Cuckoo Club, the usual crowd queuing up outside. Amongst them are some girls from our year – April, Tamsin and Kat. They wave us over.

‘Want to sneak in?’ April asks, stepping aside to make room for us in the queue.

‘No thanks,’ I say, happily noting their disappointment. ‘We’re off to Flux.’

The three of them raise their eyebrows.

‘You think you’ll get in?’ Kat asks.

‘It’s worth a try.’

‘You know they’re really strict with ID, don’t you?’ Tamsin chimes in. ‘Passport or driving licence, that’s it.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’m not worried.’

They exchange impressed glances.

‘We should get going actually,’ I say. ‘Beat the queue.’

‘Well, good luck,’ April says.

‘If you don’t get in you can always come back here,’ Kat adds, looking hopeful.

‘Yeah, I suppose we could,’ I say. ‘I have a good feeling, though.’

We say our goodbyes and keep walking.

‘Why did you tell them about Flux?’ Stella asks as soon as we’ve turned the corner. ‘Now when we don’t get in, they’ll think we’re really lame.’

‘We can worry about that if it happens,’ I reply. ‘If.’

 

The taxi journey to Flux takes just under half an hour, our eyes on the meter the entire time. The club truly is in the middle of nowhere, a vast brick building with virtually no signage and nothing else in sight other than a lone burger van. Even though it’s still relatively early, there’s already a queue snaking round the building, everyone in it utterly immaculate and noticeably older than us. Stella throws me a nervous look, which I pretend to ignore. The best thing we can do right now is to act as relaxed as possible; door people at places like this can sniff out underage nerves at one hundred paces. As we join the back of the queue, the group in front – a sextet of girls with long glossy hair in a variety of shades – give us the once over.

‘I didn’t know it was underage night,’ one of them says.

The others titter.

‘Excuse me?’ I say, anger swirling in my belly.

The girl who spoke turns to look at me. Her face is so expertly contoured I wouldn’t be surprised if she could peel it off, like a villain in Scooby-Doo.

‘I said I didn’t know it was underage night,’ she repeats.

‘What makes you so sure we’re underage?’ I ask. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Would you like a list?’ she asks.

Cue more titters from her friends.

‘Just leave it, Mia,’ Stella whispers, tugging on my arm.

I’m not scared of them though, with their fake hair and fake nails and fake tans.

‘Look, even if they do believe you’re over eighteen,’ one of the other girls says, ‘you won’t get in unless you’re on the guest list.’

‘Says who?’ I ask.

‘That’s just how it works at Flux,’ she says, with a flick of her hair. ‘Everyone knows that.’

She and her friends give us one final withering look before turning their backs on us to face the front of the queue.

I rise up onto my tiptoes. I can just about make out the two people manning the door – a woman with a severe ponytail, holding a clipboard, who appears to be in charge, and a muscly bloke in black, his arms folded across his chest.

‘Do you think it’s true?’ Stella whispers. ‘About having to be on the guest list? On top of them being really hot on checking IDs?’

‘Nah,’ I whisper back. ‘They’re just saying that to be bitches, to psych us out.’

I sound more confident than I feel, though. The fact is, I have no idea if the guest list thing is true or not. All I know is that now we’re so close, the throb of the music just metres away, the idea of not getting into Flux tonight physically hurts.

Ten minutes later, we’re almost at the entrance, just the girls in front separating us from the door people. I hate to admit it, but they seem to be right about the guest list thing. Having witnessed four separate groups get turned away, I’m feeling increasingly pessimistic about mine and Stella’s chances.

‘We should be on the VIP list,’ the girl with the weird mask face is saying to the doorwoman.

‘Sorry, I can’t see your name,’ she replies.

‘Are you sure? Let me see?’ one of the other girls says, reaching for the clipboard.

The doorman grabs her arm to stop her, his beefy hand easily encircling her skinny wrist.

‘Get off me!’ she shrieks.

They all start yelling at once, stabbing angrily at the clipboard with their index fingers while the doorwoman attempts to shout over them. The doorman turns away and starts murmuring into a walkie-talkie.

That’s when I see our chance.

‘Run!’ I whisper.

‘What?’ Stella says, her eyes widening.

‘Run!’ I repeat, grabbing her hand and dragging her past the commotion and through the main entrance.

We keep running, only stopping to have the Flux logo stamped on the back of our hands by a girl who looks like a supermodel.

‘Have a good night, ladies,’ she drawls.

‘Oh, we will,’ I say, grinning at Stella.

We wait until we’re safely through the next set of double doors before daring to pause to scream in each other’s faces.

‘We did it!’ I shriek. ‘We actually did it!’

We join hands and practically skip down the corridor towards the thump of the music, the logo on our hands glowing triumphantly in the dark, before spilling out into a vast main room at least five times bigger than the Cuckoo Club. It’s cool and industrial, with exposed piping and bare brick walls. All the bar staff are glossy and beautiful without exception. They wear tight black T-shirts, and toss glasses and cocktail shakers in the air and behind their backs with bored expressions on their faces, like they could do it in their sleep if they had to. It makes the Cuckoo Club, with its plastic red banquettes and cheesy light-up dance floor and drinks served in plastic cups, look like a kiddies disco in comparison.

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.’

‘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.