The idea of Uncle Ben wanting to go to a strip club made me chuckle. Uncle Ben guffawed, before descending into a coughing fit.
“Connaught Square,” I told the driver. I clambered out of the cab and waited for the automatic door to close behind me. I was standing on the footpath, waving like a loon, waiting for the cab to drive off, while Uncle Ben talked animatedly about something with the driver. Suddenly, the rear door window lowered, and Uncle Ben’s face appeared at it.
“Did you forget something?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I meant to say congratulations!”
“What for?”
“Darling boy, you didn’t fall off your stool. Or tip the table over. Or fall down the stairs. Or trip over your own shoelaces. You’re not even ending the night covered in champagne! We have made progress, my dear little klutz!”
“Don’t be cheeky,” I said, pleased to see he had cheered a little. I tapped my hand on the roof of the cab. “Stringfellows, please, driver!”
As the cab took off up the street, I could hear Uncle Ben roaring with laughter.
Chapter9
Sunny
My eyes were still adjusting from the fluorescent lighting of the lift to the blue and purple LEDs that gave Maxime’s its famously chic atmosphere.
“Where’s the dance floor, bruv?” Petey asked.
In front of us were dozens of arty types holding even artier cocktails, bodies draped across an assortment of velvety couches and leather armchairs. A huge bar lined with bottles of alcohol of every colour dominated the centre of the room, where waiters dressed in velvety waistcoats were preparing drinks. This was a far cry from the sticky-carpeted Wetherspoons I was used to. London gifts you these little moments sometimes. The Sunny Miller who grew up on the council estate, stealing cans of Captain Morgan from the offie and drinking them on the swings in the playground, used to daydream about downing fancy cocktails with his mates in a place with a doorman and a dress code. The Sunny Miller who grew up on a council estate, the one who practised talking like a BBC newsreader so he didn’t sound like a chav, the one who studied hard to get into uni while his classmates smoked pot and played Xbox, would be dead proud of himself for being here. That Sunny Miller would feel like he had arrived. Although both that Sunny Miller and this one would have to stick to cider if he was paying for his own drinks. Maxime’s looked real pricey.
“Thereisn’ta dance floor, Petey,” Stav said. “This is a members’ club. Tonight, we’re looking for husbands, not shags. Remember?”
“Speak for yourself,” Jumaane said. “I was promised a rewilding, and this ain’t wild. I could do you under the Trade Descriptions Act of 1968, mate.”
“You had that one coming, Stav,” Dav said.
“It’s nice to know Jumaane listens when I speak,” Stav replied. “It could save his life someday.”
“This gaff is bare buki, though, bruv.” That was Petey, obviously. Petey got four A-stars on his GCSEs, including one for English, so you can’t blame the education system.
“I’m sorry everyone has their trousers on,” Stav said. “But this istheplace to be. It’s so hot on social media right now.” When he’s not being a lawyer, Stav is a relatively successful food and wine blogger, so I tend to trust his judgement when he says these kinds of things.
“I shaved my pussy for tonight, and I haven’t eaten anything since midday,” Jumaane said. “I’mgettinglaid, and I don’t see any talent in here.”
“Sorry fam, we’re out,” Petey said.
With that, the two of them blew the rest of us kisses goodnight, stepped back into the lift, and disappeared into the night to explore whatever delights the sling rooms of Vauxhall could provide.
Maxime’s occupied two floors of an old hospital on a side street around the back of Soho. It smelt of oranges, coffee beans, and the overzealous application of Viakal spray. It was a rabbit warren of a place, with little nooks and alcoves designed to disappear into for trysts or quiet conversations. Me, Stav, Dav, and Nick made ourselves comfortable on a mismatch of blue and green velvet cubes clustered around a coffee table. There was a stage in the far corner of the room. With all the brass instruments set up, it looked like we might get a jazz band later. For the moment, the venue was piping inoffensive generic house music through a sound system at a level that was almost but not quite comfortable enough to talk over. We all picked up a drinks menu, and I quickly realised one cocktail or three ciders would shoot through my budget for the night.
“They’ve got the Gaia’s Rest Vlahiko,” Stav said excitedly. “It’s from this fantastic little vineyard in Epirus. They’ve been making wine there for at least four thousand years.”
A quick scan of the menu revealed the price of the bottle was almost £100. My heart leapt from my chest and into my stomach without so much as a parachute. Dav’s eyes boggled. He must have spotted the same thing.
“If it’s all the same to you, Aristotle Onassis,” Nick growled out in his deep Aberdonian accent, “we poor media types will stick to a pint of Tennent’s, or whatever pish they serve here that does the same job without costing roughly the equivalent of a week-long all-inclusive package holiday to Magaluf.”
I laughed. A wave of gratitude washed over me. Relief was written across Dav’s face. Stav raised his eyebrows.
“Fair enough, boys. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“As long as we’re not missing our rent payments, I think we’ll survive,” Nick said.
A woman in a velvet waistcoat stepped up to our little circle and asked us what we’d like to drink.
