The
pole dancer assumed a Betty Boop gait, leaning over and placing both hands
demurely on either side of Nancy’s table. She neared her head toward Nancy’s,
arching her back. Vanilla essence, tequila and musk wafted over her. She raised
her chin, bought one hand to her mouth and inched a little closer. Eternity insignias
painted on her eyelids mesmerized Nancy in tandem with a sudden hush. Even Bex
had been lulled to silence, permitting the soft intones of a James Brown cover.
And then with protracted emphasis, the pole dancer drew her hand away in an
air-kiss.
Nancy
wasn’t fooled; she hadn’t been let off lightly. The disappointment in the room
hit her in a palpable wall. The hairs on the back of Nancy’s neck bristled in a
cold draft.
The
clapping came back and quickly died in a discordant round. The pole dancer
strutted away. Clinking of glasses gave a mundane feel to the excitement’s epic
death.
And
then Bex’s voice rang loud and clear. ‘You boring tit.’
Nancy’s
tonic water weighted a ton as she lifted the glass to her lips.
‘Yeah.’
Cora glared at the maneouvre. ‘Go easy on the mineral water, won’t you?’
Shame
prickled Nancy to the core and then she quickly realised that Cora had made a gibe,
not an account of what Nancy was drinking.
‘I
want my fuckin’ money back,’ Bex hollered at the stage which now contained two
different pole dancers – catwomen in striped leotards. She took to her feet.
‘Oi, did anyone just hear what I said! I want me fuckin’ money back!’
The
bearded man next to Nancy piped up again. ‘Put a bloody sock in it will yer?’
Bex
glared at him. ‘Who asked you, you grizzled old troll?’
The
bearded punter didn’t bite. Nancy tagged him as a History lecturer for his
plaid shirt and cords. He took on a haughty tone designed to rankle. ‘Look,
you’ve had your fun, now why don’t you move along?’
Bex’s
eyes grew pinched and daggered. ‘We’re just trying to liven things up, you
miserable old pervert!’
Cora
cackled in response. ‘Watch out, Bex, you might get your G-string in a twist with
his face in it!’
The
bearded man’s leather-clad friend slammed his drink on the table and shot up.
Bex’s daggers followed his movements out. ‘Loooser!’
Nancy
snuck another glance at the bar. The black man who liked bling had not moved. He
was still watching, but his companions had now disappeared from view. Mr.
Bling’s inertia disturbed her. His eyes glinted with humour, bordering contempt.
Nancy sensed neighbouring tables emptying and chairs scraping. Bex’s incense
was spreading its usual miasmic black cloud. ‘Stuff you with knobs on,’ she
hollered as someone shoved another table aside. Cora emitted her loudest cackle
yet.
‘…and
tell your bearded friend and to go shove it up his a-hole!’
Nancy
closed her eyes once again. She could picture Mr. Bling’s two assistants approaching
the table from an unseen quarter. Bex would be surprised from behind by a quiet
command. Cora’s cackle would die in mid-throws as she too is escorted to the
exits. Would the hot thermals from Mr. Bling’s breath caress Nancy’s ear and
shortly after find herself once again in the cold drizzle outside? When it came
to inebriated company, Nancy learned that sadly, mud sticks.
The
death of Cora’s cackle seemed to fulfil Nancy’s prophesy. ‘Oh, shit, don’t look
now.’
Nancy
opened her eyes and followed Cora’s gaze. No Mr. Bling or his company could be
seen. Instead, tucked into an alcove, Nancy spotted a clutch of tuxedoed men supping
wine on loungers. Nancy took a moment to take in this shift of events.
One
face stood out from the others. She had seen him before but from where, she
couldn’t be sure. The answer should have been obvious. The perfect face for
Vogue, he possessed nourished skin tone that suggested facials. His black,
brylcreemed hair glinted blue and his harsh eyebrows slashed their way from the
bridge of his nose, amplifying an intense gaze. A classically handsome face,
Nancy thought, but over-manicured. His hairline had been strimmed to a neat
edge; an eyebrow possessed a shaved line and when he flashed his teeth, Nancy thought
of the porcelain tiles in her bathroom. She disliked him on sight. And yet she
could not take her eyes from him, the way his intense eyes watched the catwomen
on the stage. Intense yet bored. How can such a gaze appear bored? Nancy found
this concoction unsettling.
Cora
breathed near her ear. ‘Christ, it’s Vincent Jonas!’
Nancy
almost snapped her fingers at this. Of course. Vincent Jonas, playboy
millionaire and proprietor of the Nexus nightclub chain. Countless times she
had seen his face fronting tabloids and magazines. He might be snapped on his
exit from a London club incognito with a model or sunbathing on a yatch. He had
never been snapped on an off-day or in a fracas despite his many wild parties
and fluctuating love life. Vincent Jonas appeared to thrive on appearing
unphased to the camera as ex-lovers ranted on about his misdemeanours.
Bex,
it seemed could not believe her luck. ‘It can’t be him. Jonas never comes ‘ere.
Brum ain’t as glamorous as London or Milan.’
But
Cora was adamant. ‘It’s him all right. Saw a picture of him checking out the
London Nexus last week. I read about it in Heat.’ Cora’s epiglottis gave an
abrupt rebound. ‘Jeeesus, he could have seen us snogging that stripper.
Imagine, Vincent Jonas gets a boner for Yours Truly.’
Bex’s
tone grew earnest. ‘He’s gorgeous. I could just…I could just…’
‘Do you think he’d let you?’
Coras’
reality check didn’t go down well. ‘Why the hell not? Bloody Stringfellow
would!’
Nancy
couldn‘t understand what all the fuss was about. From what she could see, Jonas
was a self-absorbed, narcissistic, over-groomed and overblown alpha male who
ticked the boxes for the tabloids. His features had been molded by a life
that’s been good. Bland. And why should he care?
