I try to dismiss these strange thoughts on Ashford’s driving. What the hell am I thinking?
“We can’t go in dressed like this,” I pause, looking at our clothes.
“What do you mean? This is ultimate elegance!”
“For the theatre, maybe… but we’re too flashy for a club!”
“I’m not going back to Denby to change my clothes,” he says, slightly annoyed.
“Of course not… let’s see,” I ponder for a moment. “Yes!” I say, taking off my dress and remaining in my expensive Stella McCartney geranium red silk and lace slip. I’ll just keep the wrap, which I arrange on my shoulders.
“Now it’s your turn,” I say, reflecting on how I can change Ashford’s look. “Take off your jacket,” I tell him.
“I had no doubt,” he comments.
“And the bow tie.”
I drum my fingers on the armrest, meditating. Something is missing, but I don’t know what.
“Mmm, let’s see, the waistcoat is fine, but… here,” I say, rolling the sleeves of his shirt halfway up his forearms and sorting his hair to give him that ‘I’m too cool to comb my hair, but it took me half an hour to mess it like this’ kind of style.
“That’s it. Now you’re really se—” I say, managing to stop a second before saying a word for which I’d have to punish myself. Was I about to say that Ashford is sexy? Oh God, I really have to find someone tonight.
“Really… what?” He encourages me to go on.
“Um… fashionable.”
“Fashionable,” he repeats, not very convinced.
“What are we waiting for? Shall we go in?” I urge, while getting out of the car.
I open and close my hand in order to chase away the feeling of his hair on my palm and the tingling sensation I can still feel between my fingers until I reach the entrance to the club.
60
Ashford’s Version
I follow Jemma, who enters the crowded place with confidence.
“Let the hunt begin.” She says, reaching out to shake hands and start the challenge.
I do it, even though I have mixed feelings about this: I want to win, but I also want to control her. Yes, there’s no point in denying it, if a woman wants to, she will always find someone to pick her up in a place like this. It’s like fishing with dynamite; any man would be happy to give her his phone number, kiss her, take her home, and so on. She’s won by default. And I’m not sure I agree with this.
Jemma has moved out of my field of vision, so I head towards the bar. I need a drink.
I lean against a stool, examining the crowd and any potential conquests.
Too short.
Huge nose.
Jaw too squared.
Fat bottom.
“Looking for someone?” A voice comes from my left.
I turn round: a girl is sitting next to me. She’s quite good looking. Not too bad, to start with.
