Martinis and Memories

by Martinis

  ‘And there you were, dressed up like Elvira Queen of the Night, staring at the camera like you were telling whoever was watching to go screw themselves.’ Euan laughed, gesturing in awe at the club. ‘The girl in the article had this poncy name, but it was just similar enough to be you. And this! You built this. I always knew you would do something brilliant.’

  He looked around us as if the empty bar in the daylight was even one tenth as intoxicating as it was by night, when the lights were low and the glittery staff slithered through the crowds up onto the stage. I almost wanted him to see it in its full glory, see what I’d really achieved.

  Except these days, that would be half-filled tables and quiet applause.

  ‘You’ve done well, Bel. You should be proud.’

  I wasn’t above having my ego stroked, just a little. It had been a hard week, after all.

  It was just the level of panic at having my worlds colliding. That fear that he would ask me why I left all those years ago, why I did it the way I did. There were a hundred reasons – the laziness and messiness and gambling, the drinking. But the real reason was locked up in a padlocked chest, a secret in the back of my mind, buried at sea most of the time. Until the past turned up and brought the tide in.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said faintly. ‘It’s hard work, but I love it. So, do you want to give me your number so we can get that divorce sorted out?’

  Euan tilted his head, eyes suddenly soft. ‘Sure, sure… but what’s the rush? We’re just two old friends catching up, aren’t we?’

  Incorrigible.

  ‘Don’t start…’ I shook my head. ‘We’re getting divorced.’

  His eyes twinkled, reaching across the bar to pat my hand, ‘Of course we are, sweetheart, of course. But don’t you want someone around who knows you, the real you, in the middle of all this madness?’

  Absolutely not.

  ‘You don’t know the real me, darling. I’m not sure you ever did.’ The moment I said it, I knew it was true.

  Euan shrugged and checked his watch, as if he could tell the conversation would start to go downhill if we carried on. ‘Well, I’ve got to head off, but I’m working nearby…’

  ‘You said.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll pop by and see this place when the lights go down. No telling what things happen under the cover of darkness, is there?’ That grin again, like a goddamn flashlight.

  He stood up, and lifted a hand in farewell. ‘I’m glad I got this chance, Bel. It feels a little like fate, doesn’t it, finding each other after all this time?’

  I shook my head, but smiled a little nonetheless. ‘I don’t believe in fate. Thought you would have remembered that. Don’t believe in luck either.’

  Euan looked around the club again, and laughed. ‘Maybe I should stop. Not believing is clearly working out for you.’

  I felt myself become spiky. ‘That’s because when you don’t believe in luck, you’re left with hard work.’

  ‘Apparently so.’ He smiled widely, before reaching over to kiss my hand. ‘Well, I still feel like Lady Luck has led me back to you, Bel. Believe in fate or not, something’s going on. You’ve got to believe in timing.’

  By which you mean you need something, and here I am, an answer to your problems again.

  ‘Whatever you say, darling.’ I gritted my teeth as he left, hands in pockets, whistling a jaunty tune. That was not a good sign.

  I waited until I saw the door swing closed behind him before I collapsed forward, forearms resting on the bar. I could feel myself sweating. Timing! Timing, of all things. I did not believe in timing. Euan was looking for a payout, and it most certainly wasn’t going to come from me.

  One more shark circling the island. Great. Come at me world.

  I shook my head, pushing myself up from the bar. I didn’t have time for this.

  The performers would be here soon, and poor Aria was probably staring at her own anxious reflection in the dessert spoons. We had a club to prepare, and customers to delight, and money to make.

  There wasn’t time to think about sneaking out of that shitty flat in the middle of the night, safe in the belief that he wouldn’t find me, that I’d never have to explain myself. I wasn’t Annabelle Stone any more, and I didn’t have time for this shit.

  I had to get back to the moment at hand – get the bar sorted, check the reservations and the menus, say hello to my wonderful staff with the biggest, sparkliest smile so that they could never even suspect that something was wrong. And if I had time before the doors opened, I would sit with a glass of whisky, looking at the accounts, and allow myself a cry. Just a little one. Barely even counts.

  Chapter Two

  The night was painfully quiet, even though Charlotte sparkled on the stage, so much so that the man in the front row’s jaw actually dropped. Taya slithered into the spotlight down from the ceiling on her red silks – smooth, perfect movements until that sharp fall that left the audience gasping. But a perfect show seen by a small audience was still a small audience.

  I watched with a sort of dread in my stomach, a panic that fluttered like a drunken butterfly. I’d had four glasses of champagne that night and I usually was better than that. Each glass I thought of the cost and profit, wondered how many were drinking the good stuff, whether Jacques was upselling.

  I left early, claiming a headache, waving away concern. I couldn’t remember the last time I had left before the night was over. I was always the last person to leave, whether that was having a Martini at the bar, or cleaning out the office and checking the books. I had been there until the lights were turned out every night since I set up the place eight years ago.

  It felt like defeat.

  I walked home, those black heeled boots sharply reminding me that I was not practical enough at every turn. Usually, I stomped home, determination leading me down the streets of Soho, turning this way and that around drunks and crawling taxis.

  I didn’t tell anyone that I managed to live in central London. It conjured all sorts of expectations and jealousy. I especially didn’t tell my staff, for fear they’d think I was raking in all sorts of money from the club.

  The truth was I had gotten lucky ten years ago, almost to the day. Which, thankfully, as much as I didn’t feel like celebrating, I’d remembered.

  And that was why Euan said timing mattered. Ten years since I’d disappeared. Damn. It wasn’t fate, but it was definitely something.

  I unlocked the black wooden door in between the photography studio and that new arty vegan place, kicking it twice at the bottom, 6 cm from the right. It hadn’t changed in ten years, and I wouldn’t have wanted it to. I climbed three flights of winding stairs, unconsciously stepping over the tear in the carpet on the ninth step, and as ever, refusing to take my heels off until I got the top. I hadn’t ever done that, and I’d already broken enough rules this evening.

  I unlocked my door on the first floor, undid my shoes and chucked them off before heading to the fridge. It was mostly empty, as usual, except for the customary bottle of wine, a few chunks of decent cheese, some shrivelled grapes and the box I had bought especially. It was a pastel blue, with a gold imprint on top, and I grabbed the remainder of the wine and a glass, balanced between my fingers, before padding upstairs.

  ‘Sam? You up?’ I knocked with my elbow before walking in. The routine had been the same for as long as I could remember.

  ‘You even need to ask?’ The room was in relative darkness, that one lamp on in the corner of the room. Sam stood looking out of the window down onto the streets of Soho, smoking a roll-up. He was tall, a six-foot-something American with leathered skin and solid fingertips, scarred from playing guitar in an almost-famous band once upon a time. Not that he would tell me which band that was.

  ‘I come bearing gifts.’ I held up the box before collapsing onto the sofa, covered in blankets and shawls, greeted by Santana, the one-eyed black cat. He was a supercilious little bastard, but he’d come in for a nuzzle every now and then. I pl
aced the box on the coffee table, on top of a pile of books and CDs, and poured myself a liberal glass of wine.

  ‘Presents? Did I forget my birthday again?’ Sam’s voice always sounded like he should have a midnight radio show, a perfect balance of smooth and rough. Chocolate and whisky and good cigarettes. Sometimes I liked to close my eyes when he spoke. He was pushing sixty, but he didn’t look it. ‘Because don’t remind me.’

  ‘No, darling, it’s our anniversary.’

  He came to sit next to me, a smile forming as he picked up the box. ‘Anniversary, hey?’

  ‘Ten years since you gave a poor, lost ragamuffin a place to live,’ I said, gesturing at the box with my foot. ‘Go ahead.’

  He snorted as he opened it, seeing the beautifully iced miniature cake, topped with ‘10’. I might have to stop with the extravagant treats from specialist bakeries soon enough. Make do with supermarket doughnuts. It was a ghastly thought.

  I lived fairly minimally. I didn’t drink a lot, but I drank good wine. I didn’t eat a lot, but what I did was expensive. I would rather a little of something wonderful than enough of something ordinary. If the club didn’t start picking up soon, life would become incredibly dull.

  ‘Well thank you, sweetheart, but I don’t remember you being a lost ragamuffin. I remember a gutsy broad walked into my studio and said she needed some work and she was the best person for the job.’

  I snorted. ‘I didn’t even know what the job was.’

  ‘But you were right,’ Sam croaked, sticking a finger into the icing and tasting it. ‘Mmn. Damn, that’s good. I couldn’t have had a better photographer’s assistant. You were a brilliant model, you were good with people, you fixed their make-up, made them look better than they believed they could. I was just capitalizing on your talent, baby girl.’

  ‘It was the least I could do, believe me. Without you, the MC would never have existed.’ I paused, taking a generous glug of wine. ‘Although, if we carry on the way we are, it won’t exist for much longer.’

  ‘More of the vultures?’

  I nodded, refilling my glass. God, I was a wreck. ‘And not just the ones I’ve become accustomed to, darling. Who should show up today but a wayward ex-husband I was sure I’d lost years ago?’

  ‘A day for all sorts of anniversaries, then, hey?’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Sam looked at me, a greying eyebrow raised. ‘And what did the leech have to say for himself?’

  ‘All sorts of crap that I don’t believe for a minute.’ I thought of Euan’s face, so sincere with that nostalgic smile. ‘He said he was proud of me. Of what I’d achieved.’

  Sam chuckled throatily. ‘And he’s wondering how much of that he’s entitled to as your legal other half?’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Would selling be the worst thing in the world? They’d be investors, wouldn’t they?’ Sam stabbed the cigarette out in a heavy marble ashtray. ‘I know it’s against who you are, but we’ve all got to make sacrifices for what we love.’

  ‘I’m not an employee. I’m not going to raise the prices of my drinks, or pay my performers less, or do whatever some stuck-up suit says to get himself and his cronies some profit from my club. The MC is family. It always has been.’

  ‘Families don’t make great business, sweetheart. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. And the vultures in the suits will keep coming. They smell blood. You wanna throw them off, you’ve got to seem so strong that they know you’re not worth their time.’

  I snorted. ‘Somehow they’re not quite falling for my charming assurances that everything is tip top.’

  ‘That’s because they’re not. You’ve got to stem the bleeding – they’re following the money. Gotta get your house in order.’

  Sam knew what he was talking about. His move from music to photography looked seamless from the outside, but I was there when he was running around on shoots, offering half price deals, schmoozing with young, rich women, depending on his flattery to get him a recommendation.

  And then he got a shoot with a depressed debutante who was causing trouble on the scene. His work was always vulnerable, arresting – it made the viewer slightly uncomfortable, as if they were being judged by the subject of the photograph. It got picked up by Vogue, and that was that. The bad boy of rock and roll became the bad boy of the photography scene.

  ‘Jacques wants me to do a few deals for dinner and drinks. Thinks it’ll bring in more business,’ I said, staring at Santana as he arched his back and yawned.

  The room was a mishmash of strange, exotic items. It always had a blue tint to the darkness, and some nights when I got home, I wanted to disappear into this room and its safety.

  ‘And you don’t want to do that?’ Sam asked, frowning at me. That weathered old face often looked like it was judging you for some past misdemeanour, but often he was just pensive. His black shirt was tucked into his jeans, and even relaxed into the sofa, he looked larger than life.

  When I was a kid, I’d ask Mum about my father, and when she’d tell me I didn’t have one, I’d make one up. Some big, huge guy who would stroke my hair and tell me in this rough, deep voice that I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And I saw a picture of this guy one day, a sort of cowboy, and decided that had to be him. Which was how I convinced myself that my dad was Johnny Cash.

  When I met Sam, he fit the bill almost too well. Didn’t need to spend money on a therapist for that one. I was always on edge, waiting for the moment that my boss/landlord/older male friend crossed the line, tried something and destroyed that pretended bond forever.

  But he never had. He’d mentioned kids before, he was sure he had a few of them somewhere, probably my age now. We were pretend family to each other, and after growing up with my mother, pretend family was often preferable.

  ‘I don’t want to cheapen the place. You say those suits are smelling blood now – what happens when we extend happy hour, or offer half price show tickets? When we cut the expensive dishes from the menu and replace them with pasta? This isn’t an industry that rewards thrift. No one wants a burlesque show without the glitz, glamour and distance. You know what you’re left with? A pizza buffet at a strip joint.’ I could feel my throat closing. ‘The difference is class. And class is money.’ I huffed, throwing my head back and staring at the ceiling. ‘So how do I make class without money?’

  Sam chuckled. ‘You tell me, you’ve been doing it every damn day since I met you.’

  It was true, but that only worked with me, with my fake sparkle. When you sewed your own outfits they looked wonderful in the darkness of the club, or glittered in a spotlight. In daylight I was as raggedy as I felt.

  ‘Thrift store chic doesn’t work with burlesque. It’s about the fantasy.’ There was no way around it. Making people spend money meant making it feel expensive.

  Sam shook his head, unimpressed by my stubbornness. ‘Call that bartender, the quiet one who was good with food. Went off to be a chef? Bet she could create a menu for you that was cheap but sounded expensive.’

  Savvy could, no doubt. I’d discovered a little genius in her, and if I could have kept her in my kitchen I would have, but she had dreams, and that was fair. I supposed.

  ‘But then she’ll know something’s wrong…’

  Sam tilted his head to the side in an exaggerated motion. ‘Your pride or your club. Your choice, sweetheart.’

  Sometimes, the whole faux parent thing was a bit much to take.

  ‘Have you thought about cutting your spending?’ Sam asked, and I blinked in surprise. He was busy pouring himself a whisky on the sideboard in the open kitchen, and he turned back, holding up a glass. I held up my wine glass in return.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could cut down on the weekly high tea at Claridge’s, darling, but I really don’t expect I’ll be able to survive.’ My voice was light, but he could tell I was irritated.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
/>   ‘No, I can’t.’

  Sam’s smile was hooded, and there was a bite behind it. ‘Come on now, be a big girl and call your mama. Tell her you’re cutting her off.’

  ‘Sam, you don’t know her, okay? My mum’s… she’s not like other people. There are expectations.’

  ‘Yeah, you keep throwing money at her and you expect she’ll stay away. Be brave. You nibble at food like a dormouse and your mother is living the good life.’ Sam sat down next to me, that distinctly male smell of leather and musky aftershave. He smelled like someone had taken a bottle of bourbon into a library.

  I stood up, filling my wine glass and feeling all of that alcohol rush towards my toes. I felt the floorboards beneath my feet, cool, smooth wood. It grounded me, just a little, but I still wobbled as I poured. The slight splash of the wine against the wood went unnoticed.

  ‘You want to know about my mother?’ I could hear myself slurring a little, and yet, I hadn’t had that much. The exhaustion was setting in, the hysteria. That terrible need to giggle. ‘My mother was a failed prima ballerina who named me after herself. Yeah, let that sink in. Seems strange, right? Until she started teaching me ballet at the age of three. Because then if I won anything, if I made it, it was her name! She made it if I made it! That is who my mother is.’

  Sam looked nonplussed. ‘So, cut her off.’

  I sighed loudly, and picked up my wine bottle. ‘Darling, I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t know her.’

  ‘I know you ran off and married some idiot when you were barely an adult.’ His voice was steady and calm, not at all raised or edgy. I had yet to see him angry, even when the models twitched and moved in a shoot, or he heard another teeny bopper had covered a classic song. He just sighed and shook his head, like an old dog.

  ‘You don’t know what I would have been if I’d stayed. I wouldn’t have been me.’ I swayed a little. ‘Look, darling, I don’t want to fight. It’s our anniversary! I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Enjoy the cake, I’ll see you tomorrow.’