by Sally Bryan
And since it was on my mind, I’d bloody well tell her too. “The things that having an arse like yours can do for your life.”
She was turned into me on the sofa, her knee just barely grazing mine and she gazed down, twisting the end of her errant red braid. “It was not my arse but your face that did it.” Oh, it was a lie, as well as the biggest display of insecurity I’d yet witnessed from her, for whatever reason. Indeed, her typical self-assured nature, no fucks given attitude was the trait I admired most about her, yet here she was bodily closing up and I was about to check if she was ok when there was an almighty crash from my side, forcing a jolt from us both.
Except it wasn’t a crash, not really. “Your Champagne.” It was in one of those ice buckets on a stilt, which the waiter pulled closer before placing two large Champagne flutes on the table. He then popped the cork, spilling nothing and filled the glasses before seeming to levitate back to his original position and continuing to stare into air.
“That’s what you call walking with a broom handle stuffed up you.” It was a good thing she’d said it before I’d taken a sip otherwise I’d have been snorting expensive Champagne everywhere. “You know you’re born to be a waiter when you walk like that.”
I slapped her on the leg and she responded by shuffling even closer so that our thighs pressed together, not an unpleasant sensation, and I marvelled at her shape and the visible line that separated her rectus femoris from vastus lateralis, wanted to touch it, her, but it would pass. I’d get over it.
“Arwen, we must drink a toast to something.” Her name no longer sounded as funny as it once did.
“What do you suggest?”
“Hmm,” I wanted to suggest toasting to friendship but bottled it, “to Barcelona.”
“Well, how about to friendship?” She said, smiling coyly.
All I could do was nod, half impressed, half ashamed. “Of course, to friendship.”
We clinked glasses and tasted the nectar and I allowed the fizz to flow over my palate before sending it back. Delicious.
“Arwen,” I began, “do you think we’ll still be friends after this trip?” I felt myself sinking into the soft leather cushions and wasn’t sure if it was the sudden taste of alcohol or something else. “I mean, I’m due back home by the end of September at the latest. You’ll either still be travelling or, I assume, will go back to Australia.” That sudden realisation was like a huge kick in the…
Her hand made the small distance to take my own, which surprised me but it felt nice. “Of course we’ll still be friends, Frey, we both have WhatsApp and you’ll have to fight to stop me visiting you in Scotland. I’ve always wanted to go snorkelling in Loch Ness.”
My heart soared, not for any unrealistic, not yet fully contemplated romantic whims that were sure to fizzle away just as soon I watched a Ewan McGregor movie, saw Gabe naked or was parted from her but because what we had was a developing friendship with great potential and that was something I didn’t wish to ever lose. “You do know Nessy’s just a figment of some drunken sailor’s whisky induced imagination, right? I mean, what were the odds that the one country that possessed some mysterious sea creature just happened to be the very same that produces such a strong, intoxicating and addictive liquor?”
Her eyebrows dipped, “oh, don’t say that, please. You’re ruining the dreams of an innocent child of yore.”
“Of yore? You make yourself out to be older than what you are. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Same as me. When’s your birthday.”
“November 19th, yours?”
“October 22nd. We’re quite close.”
“We are.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
We weren’t holding hands properly, it was more like Arwen had slipped her fingers inside my limp hands that were resting in my lap but after half a minute, a wildly rough estimate, she pulled away and began to occupy them by smoothing out her skirt.
But what was I supposed to have done, interlink fingers and gaze softly into her eyes before leaning in for the kiss? And then what?
She again began to twirl her braid and despite maybe, possibly, almost conceivably, even hopefully suspecting what it might be, why she’d closed up again, I was about to ask what the problem was, when…
Shadows loomed over us and in unison, our heads tilted up to see a tall, well-built specimen of Spanish manhood in expertly tailored suit, tan, styled hair, gold cufflinks, expensive watch, polished black shoes, “hello ladies, my name’s Alejandro,” and an accent, “and I am the owner of Opium,” and evidently full of it, the man hardly resembled the description given to us by the resentful cockney.
“Hello.” We both said together, our voices rising in pitch. How we’d walked straight past him at the entrance would have been a mystery even two days before.
Without asking permission, he stepped around and occupied the pouffe, I guess he did own it, and only then did we notice the two underlings in suits standing apathetically behind holding walkie-talkies and Filofaxes.
He looked at me with piercing brown eyes. “You’re very beautiful, what is your name?”
I straightened and felt my breasts pushing out as my eyes were drawn to his five o’clock shadow. “I’m Freya.” I held out my hand, which he took and I felt the coarse skin from calluses, a weightlifter, it seemed.
“Freya, I’m happy to meet you,” and I wasn’t surprised to witness his next move and he turned to face my friend straight on as she did the same, a look of ravenous lust, of absolute burning fire in his eyes, “and you, Señorita? What is your name?”
Whether she knew it or not, she was doing the exact same as me, pushing out her boobs and I felt myself crumble being forced to witness this exchange, my eyes unable to look away, whilst his were fixed on her eyes, not moving, never moving. This was a rare man, no doubt, cocksure, arrogant, full of self-belief but perhaps with reason? What was he, mid-thirties and owning a business like this?
“I’m Arwen.” She leaned forward, overextending to shake his hand and it was the first time I’d seen her supplicate to anyone.
“Arwen, Arwen,” he repeated the name with warmth, “from Australia, it seems.” He was still holding onto her with those eyes that refused to look away and the whole world evaporated as the only thing in existence were the three of us in this strange little bubble atop a rooftop bar overlooking the Mediterranean. “The moment I saw you, I knew we had to meet and now here we are, sitting together, in my bar on this heavenly evening.” He pulled the pouffe closer, making it more comfortable for Arwen but didn’t let go, never letting go. “I hope you’re enjoying the Champagne, this beautiful city and, as a small token, my hospitality?”
She nodded and croaked, “yeah … yes.”
“As you can imagine, we get many thousands, tens, hundreds of thousands of women in this club but never have I ever seen…”
A woman, tall and dressed for business appeared, clipping the floor in heels and leaned over to whisper in his ear. It was the first time he’d taken his gaze from Arwen as his chin dropped but only a touch and he reeled something off in disgruntled Spanish. Arwen would likely have understood and despite it obviously being about the club, I hated that there were things being said that I was not privy to.
The woman again whispered into his ear, made an apologetic hand gesture and Alejandro looked back to my friend.
“I apologise but duty calls, Arwen, I have to cut this meeting painfully short but I must see you again.” He delved a large manly hand inside his jacket and pulled out a business card, embossed, and handed it to her. “We must have dinner tomorrow night and I must find out more about you. Tomorrow night,” he emphasised, “and there will be no interruptions. Enjoy the Champagne and my hospitality.” The blood in my body was doing all kinds of crazy things and then he managed to pull his eyes from Arwen to address me one last time, “Freya,” and then, with underlings tagging on behind, he was stridin
g towards the exit but not before having to stop twice more as two beautiful women attempted to engage him, he humouring them with a kiss on each cheek before moving along.
Arwen was blinking slowly, mouth opened as her glassy eyes were pointed in the general direction of where the man had disappeared, a total look of befuddlement. Finally, an audible exhalation escaped her mouth and she examined the card. “Alejandro Ruiz, Owner & Proprietor, Ruiz Ocio.” His email and mobile number were below.
“Ocio?”
“Means leisure.” She said monotoned.
“Right.” So the smoothie probably owned more than just this one club that I suddenly wanted to escape and I couldn’t hold it in, I just had to ask. “Are you gonna call that man?”
She blinked and her wits returned, “oh, no, no, I don’t even know the guy and it’s obvious what he’s after.” She shuffled and placed the card inside her clutch, zipping it closed. “No, I’m not interested, nope.”
“Excuse me, one moment.” I stood and rushed for the bathroom.
* * *
I futilely fanned my face with a paper towel, having wiped away the tears and hidden the evidence, though the mirror revealed eyes still possessing a shimmer that would betray me and a defeated glare somewhere behind them, that would only disappear after an appropriate pick me up.
There was a knock at the door and I hastily turned on the tap, thrusting my hands into the jet.
“Vanilla?” She squeaked before stepping cautiously inside the small VIP bathroom, plush with decent squirty soap, hand towels, fancy mirrors, perfume and it was clean. “It would be easy to forget we’re in a nightclub. Are you ok? You sounded upset when you stormed off.”
I’d been smiling from the use of that name but my face dropped again. “Don’t talk ridiculous, I did not storm off.”
“You did storm off.” She was enjoying this more than I was.
“I did not storm off, Arwen.”
“Ok,” she smirked, clearly not believing me and closing half the distance with a few heedful steps, stopping and then coming out with the big one. “Would you like me to tear up that guy’s card? I’ll do it, you just have to say so and…”
“No!” I whipped around and spoke fast, with instinct, perhaps even with some automatic thought for self-preservation, knowing that her offer to tear up the card was exceptionally loaded but I also suspected she could read my true feelings anyway, she wasn’t daft, far from it. “Really, Arwen,” I tried to sound as composed as possible, slowing down, breathing, maybe even pulling it off, “it’s none of my business what you do or who you choose to date.” Her eyes drifted down to my hands that were balling into tiny fists so I hid them behind my back. “He was gorgeous, you should at least meet with him to see if he’s the real deal or if that alpha male thing was one big act.”
Her face lifted and her shoulders quivered as she tried to suppress the laughter.
I stamped my heel on the tiles. “What? What are you trying not to laugh about?”
She took another pace toward me but I stepped away. “You really don’t want me to see him, do you?”
My shoulders relaxed and I faced her square on. “I want you to be happy. Gabe and I both want you to be happy. If you’re even minutely curious then you should definitely call him. Most women would.”
Her eyes dropped and seemed to fix on my heels. “Ok,” she rasped and was about to say something else but didn’t.
“So…” I shrugged, smiling without the eyes.
“So, let’s go dance.”
* * *
She grabbed the Champagne bottle, filled our glasses, ditched the remainder and with an elaborate spin, danced through the velvet curtain.
All I could do was watch, powerless, shambling after her, as she twirled past the doorman, teased her arse inappropriately close to his hungry crotch before moving swiftly on, leaving him lusty, drooling and perplexed, to shimmy around the fountain in the most overly artistic way, blowing a kiss to the fish, dipping a finger into the water, leaning over and pushing off the stone, continuing, twirling through the now crowded upper level bar, grabbing the hand of the nearest man and falling into a salsa pose, swinging back up to press her breasts against his chest, spinning in his hands and sliding away with outstretched arms, leaving him gasping and wondering how much he’d imbibed, all in time with the music, as a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on this incredible dancing woman, a few diehards grasping for position and following as she gracefully pirouetted in the direction of the stairs, red braid flaring out from the g-force, clutching onto the bannister in the most artistic way imaginable, her entire body flowing like a wave from a stationary position, descending likewise as awed men and women stepped aside and cheered, reaching the landing and seamlessly phasing into a different style as the music changed to techno, her reaching out for my hand, me rushing wearily forward, grabbing her, being pulled through the parting crowd, further and further towards the centre, wondering what had happened to our drinks along the way, being pulled close, her hips grinding into mine, her hands on my waist, a small circle opening to encompass us, feeling dizzy, being spun, her eyes burning into mine, seeing us both on a big screen over her shoulder, the loud unbearable music shaking my brain, Arwen dancing with arms raised above her head, men and women filming on their phones, her twirling, grabbing my hand, guiding me away into the crowd, her returning and pirouetting, pointing at a man to join her, he so doing, my numbness, yet unable to look away, even for a second, feeling a tap on the shoulder…
“Isn’t she incredible.” It was Samuel, donning his fisherman’s hat and holding a beer as his eyes bulged. “Where the fuck did you find her?”
Dancing with the angels. “France.” I managed to pull my eyes away and saw Luuk, Karla and Floor all engaged in something between dancing and intensively watching her. Floor, in particular, possessed an almost deranged, entranced look, her tongue playing with the straw that poked out from her glass.
“There’s a star in the house tonight.” The DJ announced over the speakers to a big cheer from a thousand clubbers.
A slim, barbie stereotype attempted to piggyback off the attention Arwen was receiving and stepped in to dance alongside her. Typically good-natured, Arwen humoured the girl, even though she was so far out of her league and then another moved in, then another, and the circle spontaneously collapsed and then Samuel lurched forward because he’d been bumped from the side and I saw that it was Floor who’d barged past, yanked a tiny girl out of the way and shoved a path through to Arwen.
Floor opened out her arms and I saw the recognition register on Arwen’s face, her mouthing, “hey,” and then receiving an embrace.
The gap was closing up and then all I could see was Floor’s extra tall frame shielding Arwen as she leaned into her ear, the strobe lights reflecting off the back of her tiara.
Samuel was saying something but there was no chance of hearing it, Karla casually bobbed her head, holding onto his hand and I looked beyond them for Luuk who, despite supposedly being involved with Floor, was dancing exceptionally close with another girl. Samuel’s mouth touched my ear, “you fancy a drink?”
I was conflicted, wanting to get away yet needing to know what was happening with Arwen. I nodded and followed Samuel and Karla through the tightly packed bodies off the dance floor, which took over a minute and we waited in line at the bar. I turned back to scan the floor for my friend but she was lost, needle in a haystack.
Samuel’s mouth was back at my ear, which was like having him literally shouting at me from close range. “It’s two for one on bottles so don’t worry about paying me back … traveller’s budget and all that but who cares.”
I pulled a twenty Euro note from my bag and handed it to him.
“Um…” he shrugged but turned back to the bar and then Karla was standing in his place.
“I think my friend likes your friend.” She screamed into my ear, observation of the century. “As if you couldn’t already tell.” Her hands were buried in t
he pockets of her baggy blue jeans as my stare fixed on the meaningless green swirly patterns of her forearm tattoos. She said something else but the only thing I made out was the word “Floor.”
My head fizzed. How long was this drink taking? I reluctantly turned away from the dance floor, to at least try appearing more sociable but then the shapes of Floor and Arwen appearing in my periphery yanked me back. The bitch was holding Arwen's hand and leading her toward the booths at the far wall and I craned my neck for a better view just as a train of men wearing bright shirts strutted past. My eyes darted to and fro, found Arwen entering a booth and Floor squeezing in after her, at the same fucking side, a half dozen partitions blotting out any further view. The music was fucking awful.
My belly lurched, my heart flipped, my throat scratched and a bottle was placed into my weary hand - Beer.
I sank half in one go and Samuel began uselessly talking about something there was never any hope of hearing, Karla nodding along like she understood everything as time elapsed slowly, no movement from the booth, nobody entering or leaving whilst I fought the urge to run over there and see what the bitch was doing with my friend. But I wasn’t that girl. At least I didn’t think so.
I don’t know how long past, forty-five minutes, an hour and a half, but at one point we went back to the dance floor then upstairs to the other bar for another drink and to have an actual conversation, not that I said much. Luuk breezed through at one point with a girl of a similar shade to himself, who couldn’t keep her hands off his dreads, definitely not Floor.
“It’s one of the hardest caches I’ve ever had to find but it’s here somewhere, I know it is and I won’t leave until I’ve found it.” Karla slurped her drink. “There’s meant to be a disposable camera in the box and the idea is that I take a selfie with it, place it back and then at a later date some other person can find it, develop the film and put the faces of everyone who found it on their blog. The usual problem is finding the thing but on this occasion, I can’t even find the coordinates, which ain’t a good start. I read they’re painted on a building somewhere but I’ve been, I’ve searched and I cannot find them.” She tossed a beer mat at Samuel, who rolled his eyes for my benefit.