Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  “Where did you get the pictures of the seventies cars?” There were large pictures of mainly beige, mostly vinyl-roofed cars from the era—Cortinas, Marinas, Princesses, Minis, Escorts—on the walls, peeking out from behind the curtains.

  “All right, aren’t they?”

  “Babe, they’re better than all right. You know it. Don’t be so modest.” I nodded towards the door. “I’m off. You don’t need to be worrying about me. Enjoy your moment in the spotlight.”

  “Stay, for the main course, will you please? It’s chicken Kiev. And I’ll bring some Arctic roll home for you. I can put you on another table if you can’t bear my parents.” He looked at his clipboard, flicking over a few pages.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll sit with them. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  As he led me to their table, he said, “You’ve not seen Mother with two bottles of Blue Nun in her.”

  As we arrived at the table, Paul introduced me to everyone as his other half, which I liked, as he said it out loud.

  Marilyn asked her husband to move one seat over, then she patted the empty chair between the two of them.

  Paul kissed me, whispered in my ear, “Good luck.” And then, louder, once I’d taken my place in the chair between his parents, “Bet you never thought your old car magazines in the attic could look so glam, eh, Father?”

  Roger looked at the walls. “I did wonder where I’d seen them before. I told your mother they’d come in useful at some point.

  Marilyn rolled her eyes, taking another sip of wine. “Twenty years sitting in boxes in the attic, but at last their day has come. With a little help from a colour copier, it seems.”

  Paul said, to himself, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Must send a thank-you card to the librarian in Chiswick.” He wrote something on the paper on his clipboard, and then he was gone, leaving me between his parents, reaching for a large glass of wine to help the evening pass smoothly.

  Later, once we’d eaten the chicken Kievs, full of buttery, garlicky goodness and covered in golden breadcrumbs, accompanied by many comments of how much they remembered these, and why didn’t they have them nowadays, and would the band play ‘Waterloo’ again, Marilyn made her way to the stage at the front of the room. She silenced the band, tapped the microphone and began.

  “Everything you see before you…” She suppressed a very small hiccup. “Excuse me. My digestive system’s not used to chicken Kiev. Evidently.”

  I caught Paul’s eye from the back of the room. He winked back at me, with one of his perfect, big, wide grins I was by now so used to, but cherished every time he shone it in my direction.

  Marilyn continued, holding onto the microphone stand with one hand and the microphone with the other. “What was I saying? Oh yes, Paul, my son, has made all this happen. He rescued me somewhat from a bit of a situation, no thanks to a certain party planner who up and dropped me in it.” She paused, pushing her hair behind her ears. “But that’s not for now. Paul, can you come here, please? Where is he?” She shaded her eyes with her hand and made a bit of a show of searching the room.

  Eventually, accompanied by a purple-kaftanned woman with bright blonde hair, Paul was brought to the stage and stood next to his mother.

  “They say some people are great. Some people have greatness thrust on them. Well, I had no idea Paul could do this. Faced with having a mess thrust into my hands, and a complete flop of an event, I knew I couldn’t do it and didn’t think I had anything to lose by asking him to help. He’s managed to break all records, and we’re pleased to announce we can send the most money for any single event to the children’s charity I know is dear to all our hearts.”

  There was a cheer and some applause from the audience.

  She continued, turning to Paul. “And he did seem so eager, didn’t you, darling?” She stroked his cheek and then snapped her fingers. Someone appeared from the edge of the stage with a wicker basket containing wine, chocolates and various glass jars of nice things, wrapped in a distinctive green bow that said ‘Harrods’ across it. “We, the woman of the West London branch of the Women’s Guild, would like you to accept this as a thank-you for your help.” She handed it to Paul.

  He took it with a smile, then moved to the microphone. “It was sink or swim, and I think I’ve swum. It was wicked.”

  His mother took the microphone back. “That, I’m reliably informed, is a good thing.” She began clapping and indicated for Paul to leave the stage. Some of the tables were moved to the edge of the room, making way for a dance floor with coloured flashing lights. The volume and tempo of the ABBA impersonator band distinctly increased.

  I thanked my table companions and slipped out into the night, and then home, back to our little unfashionable corner of Catford, where I waited for a bouncing, talkative, Arctic-role-bearing Paul to greet me a few hours later.

  ***

  In the small hours, he woke me with a kiss.

  Paul said, “Wait till I tell Slinky Simon! Ibiza, here we come.”

  “One thing at a time, babe. Let’s not run before we can walk.”

  “Honest, I’m calling him now. Tell him what I’ve done.”

  I checked my watch. “How about you do it tomorrow?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small clear bag containing half a dozen white pills. “Come on, just a half each. Celebration.” He took one from the bag and bit it in half, handing me one part.

  There he was again, beckoning me onto the Ferris wheel, onto his own one-man fairground ride. And I knew it would be fun; it always was with Paul, but I just wasn’t sure I wanted that now, at this moment, when we had lunch plans with my parents the next day. I told him as much.

  He stuck out his bottom lip. “Don’t you want a bit of a dance, a bit of a kiss and then some floaty sex?”

  That, I couldn’t deny wanting, but the impact it would have on the next day was something I tried to restate to him.

  “Too late, I’ve necked my half.” He shrugged. “She didn’t have to, but Mother paid me for organising it. Not loads-a-money, but enough to pay for flights and some rent in Ibiza.”

  “That’s your money. You earned it.”

  “It’s for us. Our money.” He kissed me.

  And with an if I must, I must attitude, I followed suit. Reaching to the bedside table for a swig of water, I jumped onto the Ferris wheel car, and together, we floated to the sky.

  I’ll pause my story for a moment to say that anyone who says they can have just a half a pill is a liar. A total and complete liar. If there are more pills to be had, you will want to take them. Trust me. Once you’re on it, once you’re in the zone, the dancing together in the bedroom, smoking like your life depends on it, glugging water to cool your sweaty body down part? All you want is more, more, more of the same. If some is good, more is better, right?

  Back to my story now.

  As predicted, we finished the bag of pills, danced in our bedroom, then the kitchen, then on Catford green as the sun came up, smoking, drinking water, both our T-shirts off, sweat dripping down our bodies, bouncing about on the grass like a two-man outdoor party, as passers-by on their way to their sensible Sundays probably gave us looks of disgust we were oblivious to at the time. Because you are. I was. I was oblivious to everything except what was happening in our little floaty bubble, our very own fairground ride.

  Mum was livid. I could feel the anger radiating off her, boring into me. We arrived at hers, both of us hanging onto the doorframe for support since the floor was doing that bumpy moving thing it sometimes did—after necking three pills each, yeah, that’s when it does it, in case you didn’t know.

  Mum ushered Paul into the living room, where he sat talking cod-shit to Dad.

  I followed her to the kitchen. She peered close to my face, looking at my eyes. “When did you get to sleep?”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?” I shrugged. That couldn’t be argued with, I felt.

  “In body but not mind. You�
�re both totally bollocksed. You gonna eat my lovely roast, are you? My roast I’ve spent all morning preparing for the two of you, so I could enjoy a nice chat with my son and his boyfriend, to hear about how things are going in your place, what you’ve been up to. What’s the good news?”

  “How’d you know?” I stared at my hand in front of my face, moving my fingers in time with the music that was playing in my mind.

  “Random guess.”

  “But how, though?” I persevered.

  “His party last night. How you are this morning. Call me Einstein, but I’ve put two and two together. Go well, did it? Last night? The seventies night.”

  “It was wicked.”

  “Bit too wicked by the looks of it. Go through to the lounge, talk to your dad. I don’t wanna see you at the moment.” She bundled me out of the kitchen.

  I sat next to Paul on the sofa, and in a rare gap in the rubbish he’d been spouting since Dad had left the room, I said, “She’s fucking livid. Told you.”

  “It’ll be fine.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “I’ll tell her it’s my fault. Leading you astray. How’s that sound?”

  “Better. Fuck knows how we’re gonna eat. My stomach’s like a bowling ball.”

  We managed to pick at some of the food Mum had put on our plates.

  Paul told her about the charity ball, and apologised for us. For him. For me. For now. For everything.

  Mum said, “Yeah, all right love, don’t apologise for everything. It kinda loses its impact. You’ll be apologising for World War Two next. Try and eat a little something, would you both, please?”

  Paul explained he wanted to do more event planning, party planning really, and we were going to talk to Slinky Simon about being in charge of the decorations, promotion, everything for one of the club nights.

  Mum said, “And he’d let you do that, would he, this Simon bloke?”

  “He’s really keen. Wanted us to go Ibiza, but one step at a time, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Best walk before you try to run, eh?” She cut her potato, allowing herself a small smile, before chewing the food.

  The conversation moved on to her and Dad’s holiday in Spain and what he’d been doing at work, and soon she’d cleared the plates and returned to the table. “Don’t suppose you both fancy a trifle, do you?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Didn’t think so. How about a cuppa and a ciggie? How’s that sound?”

  “Oh yeah. Thanks, Mum.” I caught her eye, mouthing sorry to her.

  “That’s the thing, never can stay angry with you long. Neither of you. Cos I’m a stupid soppy daft apeth and I love you both. And, in fairness, it’s nothing I haven’t done myself a few times before.” She turned to start making the tea. “When did you actually get to sleep, or have you just gone through, surfing the waves, in for a penny in for a pound, sort a thing?”

  Quietly, I said, “That. Pretty much.”

  “Thought so. You won’t want a walk in Greenwich Park later, will you?”

  Paul jumped in with, “Wicked. Better than trying to sleep and not. Good walk, fresh air, then we’ll be ready for bed when we get home tonight.” He yawned, trying to suppress it with his hand.

  “We’ll see, eh, love?” Mum replied, putting mugs of tea, a bowl of sugar and a Spanish donkey-and-basket ashtray on the table.

  “Thanks for lunch,” Paul said to Mum. “And sorry again. For us being. You know. All over the place.”

  ***

  We managed half the walk around half of Greenwich Park, Mum asking us about how the flat was going, if we needed anything, when we were next playing a set at the club.

  We sat on a bench, the warmth of the sun and the tweeting of the birds and Mum’s voice lulling us into a sudden, deep sleep.

  We woke to a gentle shaking as Mum rocked us. “Let’s get you two reprobates back. You’ve not done bad. Six o’clock. By the time you get back to yours, you can jump into bed and you shouldn’t be too fucked for work tomorrow. Is it back to reality, back to the world of the living tomorrow for both of you?”

  We nodded.

  She led us to the train station, put us on the right platform, kissed Paul on the cheek, hugged me and said, “Watch it. You can have too much of a good thing. Trust me, I’ve seen people fall apart at the seams, get totally fucking lost from too much of a good thing, all right?” She tapped her cheek.

  I kissed her hand.

  “Written that letter to Auntie Luella yet, have you?” She waved as she left us, disappearing into the crowd of the station.

  My lack of reply said all Mum needed to know. I’d started to write the letter and got a few paragraphs in and then left it, never to return. I could have told her where it was: in a draw in our bedroom. But I knew that was no good. Pointless.

  As our train arrived, I said to Paul, “Never again. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re a bad influence on me or if I’m a bad influence on you.”

  Paul looked at the train. “Is this us?”

  I nodded, and we boarded the train together, travelling back home in silence.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 8

  A MONTH OR so later, we were in the back of Rob’s white Ford Escort XR3i—lowered with blue lights under the wheel arches and the boot full of an enormous amplifier and speakers—on the way to the designated service station, all nodding in time with the music blasting from the speakers, our entire bodies pulsing with the bass. Rob’s girlfriend Sinead was in the front, and Paul and I were joined in the back by someone else whose name I’ve forgotten. Alec, or Alex, I think he was called.

  Who was Rob? Good question. He was a mate of Slinky Simon’s—‘safe as fuck, sound as a pound’ Rob was how Slinky Simon had described him. We’d met him at an after-afterparty following a night at the King’s Cross club, back at someone’s house somewhere off the A3 in South West London. Rob had mentioned the orbital party scene and said we should give it a go. We’d agreed a night even though Slinky Simon couldn’t come as he had some head office clubbing management stuff to do, but he’d told us to fill our boots and that Rob would look after us.

  Now, we stopped the car at the service station, hanging round a payphone with thirty or so other cars full of people dressed in baggy clothes and dancing to the music from their car stereos.

  I tapped Rob’s shoulder. “What now?”

  He turned. “We wait.”

  “Wicked,” Paul shouted from the seat beside me, his head nodding, well bollocksed already and immersed in the music.

  I coughed, swallowed, trying to assemble my thoughts, to marshal them from where they were currently floating above my head, somewhere between the car roof and the white fluffy clouds. “What for?” That was it, that was what I wanted to ask. I pointed to the crowd assembled round the payphone. “What’s that about?”

  Rob handed me a flyer.

  I scanned it: today’s date, then a junction number and afterwards it said PP.

  “Still none the wiser. Sorry.” I shrugged.

  “Payphone. We wait. Then someone calls that payphone with the location of the party. Which field it’s in, which warehouse we’re gonna take over. Then—” he pointed to the other cars and people dancing outside them “—we all drive to the location and then…”

  “Yeah, and then what?”

  “We all get right on it.”

  Paul said, “Wicked.”

  Rob tapped the steering wheel. “It definitely will be. Once we get there.”

  After a while, someone ran to the payphone and answered it, scribbled some things on a bit of paper, then got into his black, lowered Ford Sierra with a spoiler as big as a whale tail. It was so large I swear it would have taken off had it been driven fast enough. The air filled with hundreds of engines starting, bursting into life, doors slamming as people ran to their vehicles. Music was turned up, and everyone followed the car in front, all of us in convoy behind the black Sierra with the spoiler. Some hands poked out the windows and started clappi
ng.

  Rob started the engine. “Guys, keep an eye on that Sierra. In case we’re following some random car and they’re not going where we want.”

  “Eh?” I asked.

  “Just make sure I follow the big black Ford, all right?”

  Paul and I nodded, and we kept our eyes glued to the magical black Sierra.

  An indeterminate time later—it’s hard to judge these things when you’re coming up on a white dove, I’ve found—we arrived at a field full of cars. People had abandoned them wherever was convenient and were walking a few hundred yards to a rusted corrugated-metal warehouse the size of an aircraft hangar. It may have been a disused aircraft hangar, actually. At the door, a row of men in black T-shirts took a fiver off us, stamped our hands, then waved us on.

  Once inside, the heat of thousands of bodies dancing, jumping, shouting, enjoying, hit me in the face. The far end had a raised stage with a DJ playing records. Each wall had moving lights on stands projecting red, blue, green and white light filling the space. There was a twelve-foot-tall inflatable snowman with a wide grin and huge red eyes next to one wall. The other wall had a similarly sized red Father Christmas which inflated, then deflated, then inflated again, creating a sort of hypnotising rhythm. One wall had a green triangle with red tips inflating, then deflating.

  “What’s that?” I pointed.

  “Christmas tree,” Paul said with a laugh.

  “It’s summer, innit?” I looked at my watch, not sure why as it had never told me the month and didn’t on this occasion either.

  Paul said, “Must have got the decs from some old Christmas party. Pretty wicked, though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s certainly something.”

  Once I got used to the fact I was dancing in a warehouse in a field nowhere near anywhere else, I started enjoying myself, dancing with Paul and Rob, who kept disappearing to make friends with strangers, bringing them back to us, then walking off again.