I’m greeted by a variety of very small clothes. Small as in there’s not much to them, but also in size. They just look tiny in every sense. I hold up a corduroy cream miniskirt and immediately screw up my face as I take it in. I remember it well. It was from Morgan and I’d tried it on at least three times in one shopping session before I caved in and bought it. My hand delves into the suitcase and pulls out the items I used to team it with, brown leather cowboy boots and a tight brown long-sleeved top. I was definitely going for the legs-not-boobs look. The first night I wore this outfit out I felt the bee’s knees, or ‘the tits’ as Connie and I used to call it. Literally, it was as though this outfit gave me the confidence to talk and flirt my way through the night. I can remember chatting to Nelson James, a guy four years above me who I’d always fancied, and feeling like I was sexy as hell. We snogged that night and I’m pretty sure it was down to the outfit I’m now holding in my hands.
Holding the skirt over my hips confirms that I’m definitely not as slight as I once was (congratulations to anyone who still is – but you don’t get a medal for it or even discounted clothes for using less material!).
I quickly rummage through the rest of my clothes. There is an air of nostalgia over almost every item. I didn’t have streams and streams of clothes, but rather wore each piece to death as I saved up for some more. Items are dated now though or just look thoroughly lived in. There’s no real point in keeping any of it. All I’d be doing is storing it back up in the loft to have this moment of reminiscence all over again in another ten years. These clothes are not me, nor are they going to be. With that realization I begin throwing everything back in the case and zipping it up.
After dragging it down the stairs and hurling it into the back of Mum’s car, I take it to the dump. Once more I drag the weight up a flight of stairs which are sitting next to a huge metal container reserved for textile goods. Laying it on the narrow landing at the top, I open it and gather a bunch of my old clothes, before leaning over the side of the staircase and stretching my arms out over the container. Letting go and watching my clothes drop to the bottom feels therapeutic, as though I’m letting that part of me go as I slowly release them from my grasp. I repeat the action until there’s nothing left, because I’m not trying to revive my eighteen-year-old self. Even if it were possible to relive that kiss with Nelson James, I have to look forwards.
Grabbing hold of my empty suitcase, I skip down towards the car, feeling lighter as I go.
‘Lizzy!’ I hear, just as I’m about to duck into the car.
I look up and spot Ian’s mum Shirley. She looks nothing like him. She’s tiny with cold green eyes and bright ginger hair, which is currently scrunched on top of her head. Her eyes are wide and, most telling, she has her hand over her mouth as though wishing to snatch back the moment in which she brought her presence to my attention.
I think about going over to give her a hug, we’ve always got on well, but her awkwardness tells me that it might not be the best idea. Instead I retract my leg and stand up straight, leaning on the car door.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I offer, giving her the biggest smile I can muster.
‘Yes … I’ve been doing Mum’s garden,’ she says, gesturing to the canvas bags of garden waste in her hands with branches poking out. ‘I’m a right mess. I’d come over there but I stink so –’
‘Oh don’t worry! I’ve got to go anyway …’ I shrug. It’s a lie as my only plans for the rest of the day are going to be spent roaming the winter sales online in the hope I can get some new clothes delivered asap. But she doesn’t need to know that. ‘I hope you have a lovely New Year!’
‘Lizzy, wait,’ she calls, the desperation in her voice stopping me from leaving.
I don’t say anything as I look back towards her expectantly.
‘He’s a good boy. Always has been … I don’t know what he thinks he’s playing at. Really, I don’t,’ she looks at me regretfully and I find myself smiling back.
‘Take care of yourself, Shirley. It’s really lovely to see you.’
And it is.
Waving as I drive away I realize not everyone is looking at me and wondering what I did wrong in this situation. Some, like his own mother, are looking at Ian and wondering if he’s having an early mid-life crisis. Hell, there are probably others who don’t even care.
I know I shouldn’t even worry what others think about a relationship they only viewed from the outside. It’s only now that I realize I probably spent too long on social media adding lovely filters to photos and writing romantic captions underneath, wanting friends and family I rarely see to know exactly how perfect we were for each other. It was for their benefit rather than my own. Their adoring comments settled my insecurities and niggles. They restored my faith in my own relationship. But they can’t do that now. Sadly, their shocked reactions to our break-up are occasionally harder to deal with than the split itself, and that’s something I’ve really struggled with.
I’ve prised my focus away from them and thankfully shifted it on to myself. As a result I’ve started to realize that, quite frankly, my broken heart is none of their business anyway. It’s mine to deal with alone.
25
I decide to head over to Connie’s before travelling further into town with her and Matt, to where Natalia and her mate Alastair are meeting us. This means I’ve been able to dump my overnight bag and now only have to concentrate on walking in my heels. I simply don’t understand it. I literally lived in them from the age of sixteen to nineteen – I even went to school in stilettos because I thought they looked classy (before Mr Whittle sent me home for being inappropriately dressed) – so why are my feet acting like I’ve put them in a torture chamber? Honestly, you’d think my feet have never even walked down a hill the way they’re behaving. It might’ve been nice to look back and reacquaint myself with something else I did when I was eighteen years old, but I’m so glad I thought to put a pair of flats in my handbag too, because, I swear to God, they’re going on as soon as I get drunk enough not to care what I look like.
Needless to say I didn’t bother hunting for a new miniskirt in the shops. I think that ship has sailed. Instead I’ve opted to pair my heels with some pleather (go me – Ian hated them) leggings, a white and gold cami top and a black and gold sequinned blazer. Connie has found the whole thing hilarious as I have literally been messaging her outfit options since arranging to go out. I’m happy with the outcome, even if I did continue to send Connie crazy with my frantic calls and texts.
Connie has also gone for a black and gold theme, which is something we totally arranged. However, she’s wearing a swishy black midi skirt, which has gold diagonal lines that cross over with horizontal ones to make triangles, along with a sheer black vest top and black heels with a dainty lace detail. She looks like she’s just stepped off the set of Sex and the City.
‘So, how have you been?’ Matt asks as we make our way through Soho, which is louder and more joyous than normal with people spilling out of pubs and clubs even though it’s absolutely freezing, all singing raucously or talking over each other obliviously. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air, which is inescapable and contagious.
‘Fine,’ I shrug, not really knowing what to say. It’s taking a huge amount of effort to remember Matt’s name, thanks to me continuously referring to him as Mr Tinder in my mind. But whatever his name, he’s even more handsome than I remember. He’s ridiculously hot, especially in this casual suit look he’s currently working. I’m not at all surprised that Connie’s hung up her dating shoes and given him her full attention. I’d feel a dick for saying it out loud, but ‘hubba hubba’! Seriously. On top of that though, he appears to be a really decent guy. Like, properly decent. Hurrah for Connie.
‘Con mentioned you might be moving soon.’
‘Well, selling up and hopefully finding somewhere new,’ I say, surprised Connie has told him so. ‘I don’t know whether I’ll be buying or renting yet though. All I know is I can�
��t stay at home with my mum for ever more.’
‘Maybe you can head into town like me!’ Connie sings, linking her arms through both of ours so that we flank her. I’m grateful to be held up as my shoes are already hurting. Pretty as they might look, the heels are starting to rub and I know I’m going to be nursing a blister or two soon enough.
‘Ha! Well, then I definitely won’t be buying,’ I say, just as we come to the back door of the club as Natalia instructed, having walked past the longest queue of people I’ve ever seen. Our private entrance is literally a plain grey door. It doesn’t even have a sign. We come to a stop and ring the buzzer, all of us looking up and down the street to make sure we’re in the right place. It looks more like a house than a popular nightspot.
‘You might not be buying yet. But it won’t be long,’ Connie says coyly.
‘It might be possible, you never know,’ encourages Matt, with a frown. ‘I’m happy to take a look if you like? I don’t know if Connie’s mentioned it, but I’m actually a mortgage broker.’
‘I have,’ Connie says proudly, stroking his arm.
‘Thank you, but you really don’t have to d—’
‘Well, being up here would make sense for work, too,’ Connie says, her face breaking into a grin.
‘Where do you work?’ Matt asks.
‘Chelmsford!’ I declare.
‘Right …’ he says, looking extremely confused.
‘Not for much longer though,’ Connie trills, her eyes widening at me as the door before us opens to reveal a stocky male bouncer. He’s wearing all black, but not the kind of suit like I’m used to seeing bouncers wearing. This looks comfortable, as though he’d be able to high-kick someone out of the building without causing his expensive Italian fine wool suit to tear. His face is stern, moody and fierce. Not one part of him acts as though he’s pleased to see us. If anything, he’s pissed off that we’ve arrived, as though we’ve disturbed his sleep, or taken a bite out of his dinner (no doubt boiled chicken and broccoli). Perhaps we’ve just interrupted an episode of Breaking Bad and he’s eager to get back to it. Either way, we’re all standing and staring.
‘Names?’ he yaps, his voice an octave higher than I imagined it to be. More like an excited Jack Russell than an intimidating husky.
‘Lizzy Richardson, and this is Connie and Ma—’
‘In,’ he sharply barks, knocking his head to one side to hammer home his point.
We shuffle in; I even push Connie a little so we can do as he says quicker, and we stand in the small bright white corridor to await further instructions.
As soon as the door is shut behind us his face softens into something more welcoming, making me realize the gruff exterior might be partly to keep trouble at bay. Needless to say though, I’m still a bit wary.
‘Cheers, mate,’ Matt says, giving him a dazzling smile.
‘Bet you’re glad to be on the back tonight. It’s chaos out there!’ Connie adds, winning him over.
‘I don’t mind it, love,’ he says. ‘Right, what you want to do is head up these stairs here,’ he says, gesturing upwards. ‘Up five flights and Jasmine will be waiting to take your coats. If you’re really nice to her she might take you to your table. Have a good night, gang.’
‘Thanks,’ we all sing. I don’t know about the other two but I’m feeling relieved not to be out front queuing in the cold. I would not have been a happy bunny. In fact, more than sixty seconds and I’d have been moaning about going somewhere else. Eighteen-year-old me could queue. Sixteen-year-old me would do anything to get into a club, including removing her trousers and exposing her bra. Twenty-eight-year-old me can’t even look at a queue of bustling youngsters for too long without hankering after a comfy sofa and a pair of warm fluffy socks. Why though? It’s not as if I’m that much older than them … it’s not like I’ve become boring.
Fuck.
Let’s face it, I usually go to bed at half past ten. The fact I’m out of the house and wearing clothes is amazing, the added bonus of having done my hair and having make-up on at this hour is nothing short of miraculous. I’m here and I’m happy, even if it is taking every ounce of determination to get my butt up the five flights of stairs in these sodding heels.
When we finally reach her, Jasmine is a delight. She’s full of smiles as soon as she sees us scrambling our way towards her, while holding out her hand for our coats.
Beyond her I can hear the thumping of music along with lots of cheering. The party has well and truly started.
‘Busy?’ I ask her.
‘Heaving!’ she laughs, revealing an Irish accent. ‘You guys should be OK in the VIP section, but even that’s cosier than usual. It’s seriously mental. You will have a grand night, like, but I’m glad to be up here. That’s for sure.’
‘You’re not going to be cooped up here at the countdown though, are you?’ asks Connie, looking bereft on her behalf.
Jasmine’s eyebrows shoot up in excitement before she screws her face up and chuckles. ‘I don’t mean to tarnish your fun, but it’s just one night. I’ve never been one to celebrate the passing of a year. Plus, we’ll all have a good time later on, don’t yous worry.’
She continues laughing to herself as she leads us through the black double doors behind her and down two flights of dimly lit stairs. The whole thing is very atmospheric with the décor of rich red walls and filament bulb lighting leading the way. Once we’ve reached the bottom and are standing in front of a rather innocuous fire exit door, Jasmine turns to the three of us with a wry smile before pushing it open. A doppelganger of the first security guard greets us with the same suspicious frown as we enter the room. I merely glance in his direction because my attention is pulled by the sight in front of me and I’m aware that if I don’t keep up with Jasmine we’re going to get very lost.
There’s so much going on in the circular space, which is made up of three levels. We enter at the middle level, which gives us a great view over the balcony of the dance floor, which is located underneath a huge glass dome – the sort I always associate with observatories. It’s so dense with partygoers that the bodies seem to move in unison as they go up and down to the beat of the music, which is bass-heavy with a catchy tune from a female singer looping over the top. I don’t know the song but it must be a hit as the majority of the crowd have their heads tilted back and their mouths open wide as they shout along to the lyrics. It looks like great fun as they let themselves go under the beautiful pinks, reds and purples of the lights shining and flashing from every direction.
Around the central beacon of delight that the dance floor brings is the rest of the craziness. The bars are bustling with activity. People flirt and chatter at the various booths that are scattered around the edges, while scantily dressed girls and guys are dishing out tequila shots. And there is a lot of nudity in the place. The barmen are topless, while the female staff are in outfits my eighteen-year-old self would approve of. Instead of your standard podium dancers placed around the dance floor to encourage people to let loose (as I remember from back in the day), poles have been placed sporadically around the room and are occupied by both male and female dancers, half a dozen of whom are twisting sticks of fire in the air. It’s so unashamedly sexy, decadent and majestic.
I try my best not to gawp as I follow Jasmine up a staircase and into an area that’s filled with beds. Not the freestanding variety, but shaggy-covered mattresses that have been sunken into heavily detailed carved oak frames that follow the curve of the balcony, giving an amazing view of the room. Pillows have been piled in the middle of each bed, and the guests cradle them in their arms or recline on them as they talk to their mates or attempt to make new ones.
‘You’re here!’ I hear Natalia shouting as she lunges off one of the beds and comes towards us with her arms open wide. I’m so glad she looks happy to see us and that this isn’t awkward. Obviously we had an amazing time at the wedding and have messaged a lot since, but we haven’t actually talked properly or managed
to meet up, so this could’ve fallen flat on its face. She looks prettier than I remembered. Her long hair has been curled to look beach-swept and she’s had a fringe cut in. She’s wearing a skirt like Connie, although hers is a midi-length tulle in mauve, which she’s teamed with a white off-the-shoulder bodysuit and cute kitten heels. Her skin has an olive glow that I wish I could bottle up for my own use. She looks stunning.
As Natalia says hello to Connie and gets introduced to Matt my gaze falls on a guy who looks like he’s made for the pages of Vogue, or maybe something a little more rough and ready than that. His long brown wavy hair has been pulled back into a knot on the top of his head. His chiselled cheekbones create a gorgeously sharp shadow on his face, as does the light stubble of his beard. His outfit of boots, skinny black jeans, a black tee and thin red bomber-style jacket complete his effortlessly stylish look. Yet it’s the tattoos I see poking over the neckline that leave me feeling rather flustered. I have an instant desire to see what they are. I might be inclined to say that I’ve fallen into the realms of being a wanton sex pest mere minutes after walking into this debauched club, but it’s more to do with him and an intriguing energy he gives off. He’s captivating. I have no doubt that he is an actual Adonis, and feel my jaw slacken at the sight of him.
I might even be dribbling.
‘I’m Alastair,’ he grins, revealing a northern accent. His dark eyes shine as he jumps up, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. An actual kiss on the cheek, and not a pathetic air kiss.
Jesus wept!
‘Lizzy,’ I manage to breathe, while displaying something I’m hoping resembles a smile. I’m never like this. Soppy around guys, or, dare I say it, ‘girlie’. But then I’ve not been single around a man this hot for quite some time. Maybe ever. It was different when I was in a relationship. I was secure in who I was and the relationship I had, which meant I could chat confidently; now I’m questioning myself and wondering if it’s just me who’s swamped with unexplained desire. This is going to take some getting used to. ‘Connie and Matthew,’ I say, continuing with introductions while gesturing behind towards my mates, hoping they’ll help me save myself from becoming a complete tit.
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 19