I exhale deeply. “Yeah, just a little nervous. I’ve never really gone out as a single woman before.”
Gemma smirks and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “You’re gonna love it.”
Anna joins in. “Tonight is all aboutus.Girl time. There’s no pressure to do anything except have a few drinks, a bit of a dance, and let go. You need and deserve this. Tonight isn’t attached to any expectations … and if Gemmadoeshappen to leave with someone, well, I’ll be next to you, cheering her on.”
“This is why you’re my best friends,” Gemma says, clinking her glass with ours.
“That was oddly insightful, thanks,” I say, surprised.
“Plus, I hear the live music on Saturday nights is amazing,” Anna says.
For the next hour, we continue to blend and enjoy fresh margaritas, sing along to the music, and chat about our days before leaving for the bar.
Mayfair gleams under the city lights, pulsating with energy. Saturday nights out on the town have always been my favourite. The atmosphere is electric as the city comes to life.Thisis truly living.
I love nothing more than dressing up and indulging in beautiful food and delicious drinks. I can’t imagine ever leaving London; I’m in love with this place.
The Uber stops outside the Mayfair Lounge, and we tumble out of the car as elegantly as we can in our tight skirts. Given our scant clothing, high heels, and alcohol, the tube wasn’t an option this evening.
The streets bustle with people dressed up for all occasions, and music and voices fill the cool air.
The Mayfair Lounge is situated in a tall, three-storey building on Regent Street. The ground floor features the main club, the second floor is exclusively for VIP members, and the third level, with its own entrance, hosts an exclusive sex club. Although I haven’t experienced the atmosphere of the sex club first hand, I’ve heard it’s luxurious and sensual. My confidence in this information stems from my trusted source, Gemma.
The last time I was here was to celebrate Lucas’s thirty-third birthday with our closest friends. I’m amazed at how much can change in the span of twelve months. In an effort to avoid those thoughts dampening my mood, I push them aside and concentrate on having a fun evening out with my two best friends.
I link arms with Anna as we step inside. Despite the bar’s spaciousness, it’s teeming with people dancing, toasting with clinking glasses, mingling in the booths, and ordering drinks at the bar. Exposed beams span the length of the ceiling, and the cocktail bar extends across the entire back wall. Shelves, illuminated by vibrant LED lights, are filled with every imaginable spirit, lining the wall from top to bottom. Professional bartenders are busy shaking, mixing, and pouring drinks while patrons bark out orders. Black leather booths stretch along the right side of the club, while a dance floor sits beside the stage on the left, where live bands perform every Saturday.
We push through the throng of people to the bar. As I survey my surroundings, I wonder which band will take the stage tonight. I love live music—the pulsating beat of the bass and drums echoes through my body, sparking it to life.
As we reach the front of the bar, Gemma waves down a bartender and orders a round of tequila shots. We each sprinklea line of salt on the back of our hands before licking it off, then downing the shot and chasing it with a wedge of lime.
“Another!” Anna exclaims, slamming her empty shot glass on the bar like a Viking.
“If I want to walk out of here tonight, I think it’s best we don’t go balls-to-the-wall on tequila,” I say.
“I’ll be pissed as a fart,” Gemma agrees.
“You need to work on your fitness,” Anna retorts.
“What does my fitness have to do with drinking?” I ask.
“Not exercise fitness, you tit. I mean, being piss-fit. A woman who can hold her alcohol,” Anna says, turning towards the bartender. “Fine, three espresso martinis, please.”
“Oh God,” Gemma says.
Anna waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”
The bartender gets to work shaking up our cocktails. We each take a glass and head to the booths, scooting in. Just as we settle, the music cuts, and we look over to the stage in anticipation of who will be playing tonight. Bright lights illuminate the performing area, and cheers ring through the room as the band makes their way out. The dance floor is packed tonight, forcing us to bob our heads to catch a glimpse.
“Oh, shit,” Gemma says, turning to me with a concerned look.
“What?” I ask.
Then I see what she’s talking about.
A tall man occupies the front, adjusting the height of the microphone. He runs his hand through his long, black hair and wets his lips before his gravelly voice filters through the room.
“How are we all doing tonight?” he asks.
