by Matt Dunn
Nick looks across at Mark and sighs. ‘Charles. You know, weasel dust. Nose candy. Charlie. Toot. Bolivian marching powder. Coke. Cocaine, you Muppet.’
Mark looks a little uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you think your head’s big enough already without taking any mind-expanding substances?’
Nick opens his mouth to reply, but luckily the waitress arrives to take our orders before he can think of anything suitably rude to say.
Even the menu has a sporting theme, although I’m hoping that it’s bad taste in name only. Mark orders the George Best Beef, which turns out to be Irish stew, I choose the Niki Lauda Platter, which is a barbequed selection of meats, and Nick opts for the Linford Christie Lunchbox, which appears to be little more than a giant hot dog. More importantly, the wine list includes nearly two hundred different beers, ranked in an alcohol content league table kind of way. We, of course, ignore this completely and just choose the ones with the most amusing names.
Once we’ve eaten I check my watch, and it’s approaching midnight, so time to put my plan into action. I’ve been careful not to drink too much – I feel like I might need my wits about me this evening – and so I call for the bill. After Mark has divided it up to the nearest penny, we leave the restaurant and head through the back streets towards a lap-dancing bar called, imaginatively, Bazookas. 2-Tuf has recommended this place – it’s one of his regular haunts, apparently, and according to him it should be perfect for what I have in mind.
I’ve already let Mark in on the secret of where we’re going, but told him under no circumstances to tell Julia, which he’d seemed only too happy to agree with. When I tell Nick where we’re headed, he breaks into a grin.
After stumbling up a couple of dark alleys, we finally spot a black-painted doorway down one of those side streets you probably wouldn’t want to walk down even in broad daylight with Mike Tyson by your side. It’s illuminated by what looks like a pair of pink neon breasts, and as we head towards the entrance someone who looks like the aforementioned Mr Tyson’s bigger, meaner brother ‘greets’ us.
‘Do you have a reservation this evening?’ he asks. Or rather that’s what he obviously means, because what actually comes out of his gold-toothed mouth is one word.
‘Booked?’
Immediately we all feel like perverts. ‘Yes,’ I say, as I stuff twenty pounds into the bouncer’s jacket pocket, as per 2-Tuf’s advice. ‘Here’s our tickets.’
‘This way, gents!’ replies the bouncer, pronouncing the word as if it were an insult, and, extending an arm the size of a tree trunk, he opens the door. Inside, we’re met by the manageress, a short, fat woman with a face even a dog wouldn’t lick.
‘Let’s hope she’s not one of the dancers,’ whispers Mark, a little too loudly.
‘Do you want a silver table or a gold table?’ she asks, looking us up and down. We stare at each other blankly, until Mark speaks up.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Silver table has a cover charge of £100, gold table has a cover charge of £200. Gold table is right next to the stage,’ she says, reeling the figures off, and indicating the only other customers, a group of Japanese businessmen, who are sat round a table which is indeed painted gold, leering at one of the ‘dancers’. We watch as she artily removes her G-string, places a hand on each cheek and thrusts her naked bottom into the face of one of their party.
‘Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “ringside seats”,’ smirks Nick.
Mark surveys the club. ‘How much to just sit at the bar?’ he asks, still wearing his accountant’s hat.
The manageress frowns. ‘Well, I suppose you’d just have to pay for your drinks,’ she replies, hesitantly.
‘Okay. We’ll do that then,’ he says.
‘Well done, mate,’ I tell him as we head towards the bar, leaving the manageress to ponder the flaw in her pricing policy.
Mark shrugs. ‘Tax Rule Number One: always look for the loophole.’
I shake my head in admiration. ‘You see – that’s the reason you’re an accountant and I’m not.’
Mark nods. ‘Well, that and several years of study, I guess.’
‘I’m off for a quick pick me up,’ announces Nick, pointing to his nose and heading off to the toilets. Mark and I follow him, and as we push through the heavy swing door, Mark disappears into a cubicle, and I watch Nick as he removes his credit card from his wallet.
‘You don’t have to pay to use the toilets here, mate,’ I say. ‘That would be taking the piss.’ I’m such a comedian.
Nick walks over to the sink and removes a small white package from his pocket. ‘Watch the door,’ he says, as he sprinkles the powder on to the marble surface and starts to cut and shape it into lines with the edge of the card.
I look round nervously. ‘Is that why they make those cards black – so it’s easier to see what you’re doing?’
Nick ignores me and concentrates on the task in hand. Rolling up a ten-pound note, he sticks one end up his nose and prepares to vacuum up the trails of powder. Mark chooses that moment to emerge from the cubicle and, catching sight of Nick, turns as white as the lines of cocaine.
‘Are you mad?’ he shouts. ‘What if someone comes in and sees us?’
‘Relax,’ says Nick, as he turns to face him. ‘It’s not such a big deal here in the city. You suburban boys ought to get out more.’ He leans back down and starts to inhale.
‘Well I’m getting out of here,’ replies Mark, quickly washing his hands, and then it’s Nick’s turn to go pale as Mark feints mischievously for the hand drier, stopping just short of pressing the button.
‘Bastard!’ says Nick, cupping a protective hand round the coke, looking like he’s back at school and trying to prevent someone from copying his answers.
Mark and I head for the bar, where I tell him that I’ll get the drinks in, seeing as he’s saved us money on the table fees. On the stage in front of us, three women in various stages of undress are gyrating, dancing hardly being an appropriate description as they seem to be oblivious to any of the music being played by the DJ. I order three beers from the uninterested barman, and watch as he reaches under the counter for a couple of warm cans of lager, surreptitiously emptying them into three glasses.
‘Fifteen quid, mate,’ he tells me.
I can’t have heard him correctly. ‘What?’
‘Fifteen quid.’
‘Just three beers, not all your beer,’ says Nick, who’s arrived back from the toilets and is standing behind me, sniffing slightly.
Wordlessly, the barman shrugs and points to the price list behind the bar, which clearly shows £5 per lager. I pay up sheepishly and tell the boys to make it last. Nick just snorts and drains his beer in one.
I take a quick walk round the club, leaving Mark to guard the valuable lager, although by the looks of him he wouldn’t notice anything apart from what’s happening on the stage in front of him. Eventually I find who I’m looking for and, after a quick whispered conversation and a glance back in Nick’s direction, I hand over a fistful of notes and head back to join my friends.
When I get back to the bar, I find the two of them engaged in conversation with a large pair of barely restrained breasts whose owner, I learn, is named Juliet.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘it’s Sharon, really. But we all get to pick our own names in here. Something a bit more alluring.’
‘Quite,’ says Nick, smiling lecherously.
‘So, what’s the deal regarding “dances”?’ Mark asks, staring straight at Juliet’s chest.
‘Ten pounds and I’ll dance topless for you here,’ she explains. ‘Twenty pounds and I’ll dance nude for you on stage.’ She’s trying hard to make eye contact but she’s fighting a losing battle.
‘I wonder what she’ll do for a fifty?’ Mark whispers to me, all sense of economy suddenly disappearing.
I hand her a twenty and tell her to take Mark off to the stage, and he follows like an eager puppy, just about managing not t
o trip over his tongue. She sits him down, nods to the DJ and, picking up on the beat, starts to remove her clothing, which, given how little she’s wearing in the first place, doesn’t take very long at all. Mark’s grin becomes more lopsided, and Nick and I smirk knowingly at each other as Mark surreptitiously crosses his legs.
She’s good, and we watch transfixed from the bar until she finishes her routine. Once Mark has been left in no doubt at all as to her gender, Juliet picks up her outfit, pecks him on the cheek and disappears in search of other punters. He walks back to us at the bar, moving a little awkwardly, and sits down.
Juliet looks over from the side of the stage, where one of the Japanese businessmen is wearing her breasts like earmuffs, and winks at Mark.
‘I’m in there!’ he observes, his tongue firmly in his cheek.
‘It looked like you nearly were,’ I say. ‘If she’d tripped and fallen on you, we’d have had to send in a search party.’
‘You should ask her for her number,’ sneers Nick.
‘I’ve already got it,’ says Mark. ‘It’s twenty, as in pounds. And anyway, I think she’s more up Adam’s street.’
I turn round to face him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, her being called Juliet, and you being such a Romeo!’
I’m just about to order more drinks when Nick nudges me. I look round to see him staring at a very attractive but flat-chested dancer, who’s smiling at him from across the room.
‘Now she’s more my type,’ he says. ‘Mind you, I’ve seen bigger tits on my bird table.’
She flicks her eyes across at me, I nod imperceptibly, and she walks purposefully towards Nick.
‘Hello, big boy,’ she purrs, sitting down on the stool next to him, and resting a hand on his thigh. ‘I’m Destiny.’
Nick looks her up and down. ‘Of course you are.’
‘I thought you might like a dance,’ she says, sliding her hand further up his leg.
Nick swallows hard and stands up, and she leads him off towards the stage. I follow and lean against one of the mirrored pillars opposite.
‘Come on then, darling,’ says Nick, holding up a twenty-pound note. ‘Show me what you haven’t got!’ He smiles at his own joke, until he notices the steely gaze of the bouncer stood in the corner. He pays up sheepishly, and Destiny climbs up on to the stage, running through her routine with a suppleness that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame. She’s just about to finish when Nick holds up another twenty, and she starts all over again, although because she’s already naked Nick is treated to a strange reverse strip, where she actually gets dressed again to the music. Still, judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind.
Mark appears next to me, carrying three glasses of beer, which he places carefully on the ledge behind us.
‘Who’s Nick’s flexible friend?’
I can’t take my eyes off the stage. ‘I think her name is Destiny.’
Nick watches, mesmerized, as Destiny finishes her dance; then she leans in close to him and whispers something in his ear. She indicates a door by the side of the stage, and I hold my breath, waiting to see what Nick is going to do. After a brief conversation I see her smile and shrug, and when she kisses him on the cheek and walks away a wave of relief washes over me.
Nick comes back over to where we’re standing, a startled expression on his face, and Mark hands him a beer. I can’t look him in the eye.
‘Strangest thing . . .’ he says. Fortunately I can’t detect a trace of suspicion in his tone.
I keep my voice neutral. ‘What’s that, mate?’
‘I’ve just been propositioned. By a lap dancer!’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘And I didn’t even have to mention the Ferrari.’
Mark claps him on the back. ‘Bloody hell. Good on you!’
I pick up my beer and casually take a sip. ‘What did you tell her?’
Nick looks at me strangely. ‘I told her I was getting married in a month, of course.’
With frightening speed, my relief turns to guilt, and I feel a sudden need to get out of this place. Fortunately, Mark yawns loudly and looks at his watch.
‘Guys,’ he says, ‘it’s almost two o’clock. Some of us have proper jobs to go to in the morning.’
Nick takes a last lingering look round. Fortunately, Destiny is nowhere to be seen. ‘Time to go?’ he says to me.
I’m feeling terrible. What was I expecting? Did I think he could be swayed from the path so easily? Nick never goes into anything half-heartedly, so why should marriage be any different? Of course, I hadn’t wanted Nick to disappear with some lap dancer – it was supposed to be more of an experiment, to test his resolve and to see just how committed he was to this wedding lark. But what was I thinking? That engineering a date with Destiny would somehow help Nick to see his own future more clearly?
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen enough.’
By some stroke of luck we manage to flag down a cab to take Mark back to Ealing. Nick has left the Ferrari on a meter down near Hammersmith Bridge and doesn’t want to leave it there overnight, and, although he’s had too much to drink, decides he’ll drive it home. I try and talk him out of it but he’s insistent, so I volunteer to keep him company and we head off towards the river.
He’s parked it under a street lamp on the side next to the Thames, and I’m standing on the pavement, waiting for him to find his keys. As he’s searching in his pockets for the bunch, we hear a gruff voice from the shadows behind us.
‘Give me your car keys!’
Nick freezes, his mouth dropping open in astonishment as he looks over my left shoulder. Instinctively I turn round, and see a small, scruffily dressed figure emerging from behind a phone box. He’s wearing one of those Gap sweatshirts with the hood up so it’s hard to see his face, and he wouldn’t be particularly threatening if it wasn’t for the gun he’s holding.
‘Pardon?’ Sometimes I can be too polite.
‘Give me your fucking car keys. Now.’ I’m not sure what the word ‘brandishing’ actually means, but I’m pretty sure he’s brandishing the gun in my direction. I look back at Nick, who’s gone white, even in the yellow glow of the street lamp.
‘Nick, give me the car keys,’ I order, and wordlessly he passes them across the top of the car to me. My mind is doing that sort of calculation that I always wondered if it would do if I was ever in this situation. Is it a real gun? If it is, is it loaded? Is the guy a good shot? Should I try and jump him? Have I got enough milk at home for breakfast in the morning? And then I suddenly have one of those rare moments of inspiration, or foolhardiness, depending on what happens afterwards, of course.
‘I just want to get my house key off here – is that okay?’ I ask the gunman, taking a key off the bunch Nick has given me.
‘No, that’s not okay. Just give me the FUCKING KEYS!’ he shouts back, moving menacingly towards me.
‘You want the fucking keys?You get the FUCKING KEYS,’ I yell, and throw the remaining bunch as far as I can into the Thames. The three of us turn and watch them splash into the water, the Ferrari logo on the leather key fob glinting as it disappears into the murky depths.
‘You bastard! What did you do that for?’This comes from Nick, not the robber, who’s standing there, speechless.
‘What are you going to do now?’ I ask the gunman. ‘Ever tried to hotwire a Ferrari? They don’t start at the best of times.’
He looks from the car to me, turns to stare at the rapidly disappearing ripples in the Thames, then back at the car again. The gun hangs limply by his side.
‘Fuck,’ he says, to no one in particular.
I hold my breath as he raises the gun, but it’s only to scratch the side of his head with the barrel. He looks at Nick and me, then turns and jogs casually off towards Putney Bridge. I have an insane urge to chase him, but suddenly my knees buckle and I sit down hard on the wing of the Ferrari.
‘Careful. You’ll dent it,’ says Nick, coming round to
my side of the car to stand on the pavement in front of me.
I start to snigger, and then the two of us erupt into a tirade of laughter, so hard that we almost can’t breathe.
‘Christ, I think I almost wet myself,’ he says, the colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Course, now we’re buggered. How are we going to get the car home?’
‘By driving it?’ When I show him the Ferrari key, which was the one I’d taken off the bunch, Nick’s mouth drops open. ‘Trouble is, you’re going to have to get a new set of office keys cut, though.’
If I was worried about Nick being over the limit earlier, he certainly looks stone-cold sober now. As he starts the car I’m suddenly reminded of Charlie’s words, and so I decide it’s now or never.
‘So, mate, did you have a good time this evening?’
Nick looks at me strangely. ‘What, up until the time you nearly got us shot and my car stolen?’
‘Er, yeah. Up until that time. You know – just the three of us. Out with the lads. Just like old times. Young, free and single.’ I’m speaking in clichés, I realize.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘We must go to places like that more often. Especially now that I’m going to have the old ball-and-chain back at home.’
‘How are you feeling about the whole wedding thing?’ I ask him. ‘Nervous?’ Please say yes, I’m thinking.
‘No,’ says Nick. ‘Looking forward to it. Big party, expensive presents, three weeks in the Maldives. What is there to be nervous about?’
I glance across at him to try and gauge his mood, but I can’t see any trace of doubt, and I’m feeling much too ashamed about my behaviour earlier this evening to try and instil some. And whilst he may not be concerned, I certainly am, and what’s worrying me the most is the fact that at no point has he ever mentioned the words ‘love’ and ‘Sandra’ in the same sentence.
Later, after we’ve reported the incident to the police, who despite the gun had seemed as interested as if we were reporting someone dropping litter – ‘You mean nothing was actually stolen, sir?’ – and virtually told Nick it was his fault for having such a desirable car, Nick tells me he owes me a drink.