by Haley Hill
Steve scrunched up his face. ‘One hundred and fifty cocktails in fifteen minutes – they’ll get what they get.’
‘Let me help.’ Caro jumped up onto the bar, flipped her legs over and landed, most impressively, on the other side. Marie popped up next to her as though she had been hiding there all along.
‘I weel elp Steve,’ Marie said, lunging towards him, boobs bursting out of a flimsy halter-necked top.
When I suggested to Marie, that considering she was the receptionist, she might be best placed greeting the guests at reception, she span around, rising on her heels. Her green eyes narrowed to slits and she hissed something in French that Caro translated as, “stupid pouting horse”.
By 8pm, aside from three hundred luminous pink cocktails lined up like a Texan beauty pageant, the bar was a vision of understated elegance. Cushions lay strewn across the sofas, while freshly plucked flowers leaned against crystal vases like models draped over yachts. To the haunting sounds of “Bar Grooves” as it echoed through the vaults, shadows moved across the walls like the ghosts of parties past.
In the bronze gilt mirror suspended on the wall, a girl looked back at me, the implied optimism of her glittery dress almost enough to distract from the angst in her eyes.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Steve said after I’d caught him watching me.
My shoes pinched, my bra was too tight and it was an effort to hold in my tummy. Funny how looking good means feeling bad, I thought as I picked up one of the overdressed cocktails. Only after I’d fought my way through the tacky paraphernalia, and mastered the curly straw, did I feel the warmth of the alcohol burn in my stomach and spread through my veins.
By the time my breathing had slowed, excited voices began to trickle down the staircase and groups of girls flooded into the bar like schools of migrating salmon. Modelling this season’s Gucci and Dior, they strode into the room with the polish of a Miss World procession. Pilates-sculpted muscles were vacuum-packed in spa fresh skin, and finished with St Tropez tans. Hair shone the L’Oreal spectrum of shades from deep chestnut to champagne blonde. Nature’s flaws were concealed by MAC, nature’s blessings were enhanced by shimmer.
A girl with a Heidi Klum body walked down the staircase and straight towards me.
‘Where are the men?’ she asked, scanning the room like an assassin.
I checked my watch. It was 8.10pm. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said.
She glared at me as though she expected me to produce one from my pocket, so I ushered her towards the cocktails.
‘Would you like one?’ I asked.
She sneered and then grabbed a glass, holding it away from her as though it might explode at any moment.
‘It’s a cherry plucker,’ I said, trying to match the enthusiasm with which Caro and Steve had christened it.
Using the umbrella as a probe, she examined the contents with the precision of a pathologist, eventually retrieving a freakishly large cherry that she held aloft, as though she had located the tumour that had turned an otherwise good cocktail bad. She handed me the glass, but retained the cherry presumably to send it for further testing. With a glass in each hand, I took a large gulp from each and then smiled, feeling like a politician at a press conference, making a point out of eating a GM vegetable. As the sugary syrup lined my throat, I looked up to see two men strutting down the staircase side by side, all cheekbones and jawlines. It was Mike and Stephen who we’d met at the Champagne bar. Throwing the cherry to the ground, the Heidi Klum look-a-like, along with the rest of the Stepford-Wives-in-waiting, moved towards them like starved piranhas. I took another sip from each cocktail and wondered when it was that the hunters had become the hunted.
Next down the staircase was a pair of pneumatic blondes, teetering and tottering with almost contrived instability. Their bottoms were lifted by five-inch heels and their pretty faces were eclipsed by giant yellow hair. Almond-shaped nipples poked through white vests, and mahogany-stained legs protruded from bottom skimming skirts. At a glance, they could have been twins. Like dogs and their owners, I thought as I walked towards them, it’s funny how friends grow to look the same.
‘Hiya. I’m Stacey.’ The prettiest one introduced herself. ‘And this is Lacey.’ She pointed at her friend.
‘Where are the men?’ Lacey asked, scouring the room, her pupils constricted like those of a lioness.
‘There are two in there,’ I said pointing to the crowd that I suspected contained Mike and Stephen. Stacey laughed, but Lacey just looked confused. I checked my watch again: it was 8.20pm ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said before walking away.
I found Caro at the bar, laughing and leaning towards Steve. His attentions were alternating between the cocktail production line and her cleavage, which had a cherry wedged in it.
‘Do they require a garnish now?’ I asked, pulling the cherry out.
She laughed. ‘Lighten up, stresshead.’
I pulled myself onto a bar stool. ‘Where are the men?’
We both turned to Steve as though he were the spokesperson for the entire male species.
‘Men don’t arrive to parties on time,’ he said, pushing another cherry into Caro’s cleavage.
‘But the girls have made the effort to be here,’ I said, pulling the cherry out and lobbing it towards the bin. I missed.
Steve frowned and then picked another one from the overfilled jar in front of him. ‘Desperate,’ he said, handing it to Caro.
‘It’s a singles party. There’s no need to play hard to get,’ she said before popping it in her mouth.
‘That’s the only way to play,’ he replied, screwing the lid on the jar.
It was just before 10pm when the rest of the men arrived, all one hundred and forty-eight of them. The beat of the music quickened as Omega watches, Dunhill cufflinks, Church’s shoes and Dax-waxed hair piled into the bar. Musky cologne overpowered the fading vanilla notes and the air grew thick and heady.
While the women had claimed the sofas, the men commandeered the bar, jostling for position and ordering rounds as though their spend were directly proportional to their self-worth. Once the pecking order had been established, the dominant males leaned back expansively while the girls eyed up the contents of the ice buckets like a binger might a cream puff.
Last into the pit were two men wearing Diesel jeans and Paul Smith jackets, their long hair styled as though they’d arrived via a wind tunnel. Cordelia informed me they were entrepreneurs, the co-founders of a well-known online business, which had recently floated on the Stock Exchange. Stacey and Lacey tottered over at their fastest speed, but two brunettes got there first, targeting the men with what looked like a well-rehearsed pincer movement. Their smiles were demure, but their eyes betrayed an excited recognition.
‘Do they know each other already?’ I asked Cordelia. She sighed. ‘They were listed as The Times most eligible bachelors last week. Everyone knows them. You have to sharpen up.’
As the night progressed, the assets stretched: American Express pre-authorised inflated bar bills and the girls hammed up their sexuality. While the men with the biggest budgets gained territory around the bar, it was the girls wearing the least clothes who secured the most champagne, only to be usurped only by those who were grinding against pillars or pretending to be lesbians.
‘Is that really it?’ I asked Cordelia, while the men gawped at Stacey and Lacey who appeared to be reenacting a scene from one of Robert’s videos, which I think was entitled, “Pussy-hungry College Girls”.
Cordelia laughed. ‘If you wave a sausage in front of a dog’s nose, it won’t be able to think about anything else.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, men are more sophisticated than that, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘When there are no sausages, they can be delightful company.’
‘But if there are sausages everywhere they go, then surely the urge would abate, and they’d suffer from some kind of aversion, like sausage fatigue?’
‘Sausage fatigue?’ she said, flicking a sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘You mean because there is an endless supply of boobs and bums on offer, men will get desensitised?’
I nodded.
‘Well they already are,’ she said, pointing at Stacey who was now pretending to bite Lacey’s nipples through her top. ‘Those two will have to get their internal organs out in a few years to even warrant a second glance.’
With that, she shuffled off, head held high, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her skirt was working against her.
When Stacey and Lacey’s sideshow was over, I noticed Caro, tailing three tall muscular men as they strutted around the room like silverback gorillas. After I’d caught her eye, she rushed towards me, flapping her arms excitedly.
‘They’re RAF pilots!’ she squealed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. ‘Did you know that’s my ultimate fantasy?’
I rolled my eyes, recalling the million times she had described the scenario.
‘He’s an injured pilot ran aground in a field and you’re a virginal milkmaid who comes to his aid,’ I said in a dull monotone.
She fanned her flushed chest. ‘Well, thinking about it, it would be unlikely that there would only be one pilot in the aircraft. Maybe it would be more plausible with three?’
I shook my head and watched her stride across the room, sticking her boobs out and hitching up her skirt.
As the night drew on, the walls of the cave grew damp and sticky. Styled hair softened, sweat glowed though face powder and natural scent overpowered the synthetic. Masks slipped and inhibitions gave way to instinct.
This wasn’t an orgy. This wasn’t a bunch of teenagers on spring break. These were professional people, who, earlier on, had been sharing awkward exchanges about the economy and current affairs. Now they were writhing on leather sofas: tongues locked, limbs entwined, hands up skirts, down tops, under shirts, down trousers. The candles, once flickering gently, were now burning violently, wax dripping down their shafts.
Perched on a sofa in the only uninhabited alcove, I looked on, watching an equities trader dry-humping a pretty florist at the bar. He really reminded me of something. Now what was it?
‘Randy dog,’ a man’s voice said, directed at me.
Yes, that’s it, I thought, before looking up to see a broad smile beaming down at me. We both turned back to see the subject’s bottom bobbing up and down with increasing momentum.
‘He’s with me, I’m sorry to say,’ he said, still grinning.
I smirked. ‘Can’t you put him on a leash then?’
He laughed, then sat down, fixing me with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen.
‘I’m Nick,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’
I shuffled up the sofa, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘So you’re the brains behind all this then?’
I nodded. ‘Though this is not quite what I had in mind.’
He looked around the room and smiled. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know … a little more self-restraint.’
He laughed. ‘If you put kids in a candy shop …’ He nodded in the direction of a man, whose hand was emerging from a short denim skirt ‘… they get sticky fingers.’
I rolled my eyes while he laughed heartily at his own joke.
‘And, you?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t you found a florist to dry-hump or a sticky place to put your fingers?’
He shook his head, ‘There’s only one girl who caught my eye.’
‘And?’
‘She seems to have a bit of an attitude problem.’
Before I could stop it, a smile crept across my face.
‘I knew you’d crack eventually,’ he said, his hand skimming mine as he reached for his drink. A tingle shot up my arm and then a flash of white light ripped through the bar. I looked up, my eyes squinting against the neon beams, as though abruptly awoken from a dream. The music stopped and voices hushed.
‘Time, everyone,’ Steve announced. ‘Bar’s closing.’
The light shone down on us and when Nick looked at me, it was with such intensity that I suddenly felt as though a spotlight were on me, exposing every pore, every blemish and every scar that I’d hoped to conceal. A surge of panic raced through my nerves and I jumped up from my seat, mumbling something incoherent about needing to help clean up and then walked away.
Without the comforting canopy of candlelight, the crudeness of reality was unveiled. The guests clambered to their feet and wiped their lipstick-smudged faces as though desperate to reclaim some dignity. From a hidden alcove, I watched the guests leave. My eyes tracked Nick as he sauntered up the stairs, my stomach tightening when I noticed a leggy brunette tottering after him. When I saw him smile at her, the smile that I’d secretly hoped he’d reserved for me, the electricity tripped and the room was plunged back into darkness.
By the time Steve had flipped the fuse, the bar had emptied out. I slumped back down on my seat. Only a few hours earlier, before the guests arrived, the atmosphere had seemed charged and full of anticipation, but now it felt as flat as a collapsed lung. The flowers had wilted, with their stems drooping and petals curled. The candles had withered down to useless stumps, droplets of wax eating away at the polished veneer. Beside them, stood smeared glasses containing fluids mixed and merged. Beneath the tables, trampled cherries bled into the carpet.
‘Imagine all the shagging that’s going on tonight, thanks to you!’ Caro said as we shared a taxi home.
‘There might be a little baby being made as we speak,’ Cordelia joked.
I huffed. ‘That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I was hoping for blossoming love not rampant sex.’
‘Don’t the two go hand in hand?’ Caro answered.
‘I’d settle for rampant sex,’ Cordelia chipped in.
‘Rampant rabbit for me tonight,’ Caro said before curling her bottom lip. ‘Not quite RAF pilot. But…’ She paused, retrieving a damp piece of paper from her cleavage ‘… I got their numbers!’
‘Anyway, what about you, Ellie?’ Cordelia asked. ‘That cute guy you were chatting to – what happened there? He looked gutted when you walked off.’
‘Yes, he was cute but …’
‘He had a cute butt, I saw.’
‘Caro, stop it,’ Cordelia interrupted and looked back at me. ‘But what?’
‘But I don’t have time for a relationship at the moment. I’m concentrating on other things.’
‘That’s such a load of rubbish!’ Cordelia said waving her arms around. ‘You haven’t had a relationship since …’
She paused, placing her hands back on her lap.
‘You can mention it, you know. I’m not going to break down into a gibbering wreck. Since my shambles of an engagement, you meant to say?’
‘No. Since your lucky escape from that twat. That’s what I meant to say. You know it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it again. It’s in the past.’
‘You never want to talk about it. And it’s not in the past if it’s stopping you from meeting someone new.’
‘I’m fine. I just want to focus on–’
‘Whatever!’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Great strategy. You’ll never get hurt again if you never have a relationship again. Brilliant idea!’ She folded her arms and looked away from me.
‘Okay, that’s enough ladies!’ Caro interrupted. ‘You can have one of my pilots if you like?’ She turned to me with a silly grin.
‘I’d make sure she washed the milkmaid outfit before borrowing that though.’ Cordelia said unfolding her arms and offering me an olive-branch smile.
I leant forward and put my arms around them both. ‘Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.’
Initiating a drunken group hug was a bit of a challenge in the back of a fast-moving taxi, especially as the driver took a sharp corner into my road at our most vulnerable moment. Caro went flying, bottom over boobs and onto t
he taxi floor, Cordelia managed to retain her composure for a few seconds and grabbed my arm to steady me, but as the driver slammed on the breaks outside my flat, it was too late. I knew I was going down and that she was coming with me. Flying out of our seats, I landed across Caro, my face cushioned by her inbuilt airbags, but Cordelia continued to slide around the taxi before finally settling between Caro’s legs, her mouth open against black satin knickers and her hands gripping Caro’s lace-topped stockings. It was like a particularly creative scene from “Girls Gone Wild”.
The taxi driver did a double-take in the rear-view mirror.
‘All right ladies?’ he said, turning around and looking a little alarmed, but clearly refusing to acknowledge any responsibility in the matter.
‘Yes, we’re fine, thank you,’ Cordelia replied, her recovery thwarted by the penguin ensemble.
When we were vertical again and safely out on the street, I leaned in to pay the driver. He looked at me, his eyebrows knitted together, with an unsettling intensity in his eyes.
‘You’re a nice-looking girl,’ he said, patting me on the shoulder. ‘You’ll find a man, don’t worry.’
I rolled my eyes and Caro slammed the door.
‘There goes your tip,’ Cordelia said before leading me back to my flat.
Lying in bed that night, wedged uncomfortably between a fidgeting Cordelia and a snoring Caro, I realised how much the dating game had changed. Before I met Robert, I’d never had to look for a man. They’d always seemed in plentiful supply and ever eager for a date. However, from my observations that night, it seemed that now, the men had all the power. And it appeared it was us women who had handed it to them. With a cherry on top.
I wondered if Matthew was right. Had men been socially conditioned by the recent wave of engineered sex bombs sporting glued on hair, mutilated boobs and creosoted legs so that a normal girl didn’t stand a chance anymore?
One who wasn’t prepared to strut around with her bottom in the air, proclaiming a love of anal and threesomes.
My temples throbbed at the injustice of it all. As I pulled the pillow over my head to drown out Caro’s snores, I remembered the brunette trotting after Nick, her ridiculously short skirt riding up over her bottom. I felt a rage burning inside. It was as though my blood had been on a low simmer but tonight the heat had been ramped up a notch.