‘I’m sure we can work something out.’ He reached out and put his hand on her waist, drawing her to him.
That first skin-to-skin contact was electric and she shivered as his palm grazed the soft space where her tight jeans met her hip bone. Coming to rest in the space where his legs parted, she let him run his fingers over her ribs. Her eyes took in the labels: D&G jeans, simple black Dior t-shirt, Nike Air Yeezys and the chunky Breitling nestling on his wrist. It was important to recognise thelabels, to know what to look for. She thought of it as a bit like shopping; not being able to identify such things would be like going into a supermarket and searching for an artichoke but without having ever seen or eaten one – it would make life tricky to say the least. So she made it her business to know a designer label when she saw it; studying them was a bit like homework. And whilst she might not have read the recommended text by Jane Austen, had no idea about improper fractions, and had yet to start her coursework on detailed glacial motion – in label identification, she was guaranteed a straight A.
There was something about being seen with this man who was rich and famous, something about being seen to bedesiredby this man who was rich and famous, that made her feel both lightheaded and deliriously happy! It was almost impossible not to let her thoughts race ahead to a place where she could see herself on his arm, sharing moments, staring at sunsets from expensive hotel beaches and even ... yes, even walking down the aisle ... in Vera Wang. Her stomach bunched in excitement at the prospect. Looking towards her friends on the dance floor, she saw Ruby turn and put her hand over her mouth, as if to stifle a yell, before turning to Essie and whispering into her ear. Her mates laughed, winked, and gave subtle signs of approval, whilst trying to look cool and continue dancing. She knew they’d be happy for her. She had set her sights, made her move and she had scored! It was the dream.
‘Shall we get out of here?’ he whispered into her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. It sent goosebumps along her back.
‘Sure, I just need to tell my friends.’ She pointed towards the dance floor where the girls danced with their heads rolling to the beat, lost to the pull of the music that drew them in and held them fast.
‘No need, I’m only five minutes away. I can drop you back, after ...’ He let this hang and her stomach flipped at the word.After... This was happening.
With her hand in his, she liked the way everyone – the security guys, Andrea the sweetie included – almost lowered their heads in reverence when he passed. Micky Tate was a big deal, and it was her who held his hand and was about to climb into his McLaren and head off to his pool house. Excitement pinged around her gut like fireflies. It made her feel like a big deal too. And she liked it.
The car lit up as they drew close. It was low to the ground and yet wonderfully comfortable once she had managed to manoeuvre inside the pale tan leather seat. It smelled of money. Itfeltlike money. Not the kind of money that meant her dad got to drive a flash rented Merc, but serious money.
‘You really live just five minutes away?’ she asked, her heart fluttering with nerves as he pumped the accelerator and the engine roared.
‘It is if I drive like this.’ He laughed as he pulled out of the parking lot, quickly picking up speed along the lanes. With his arms out straight, gripping the leather steering wheel, and his chunky watch glinting when it caught the light, he twisted the car to the left and right, and the vehicle glided as if it was on rails. She gasped. Micky clearly saw this as an indicator of joy and went faster and faster. There was no way he could know what was coming the other way around the blind bends, and it was at this point that she felt the first flicker of fear that they might crash. Yet there was something about his recklessness that was a little thrilling. The swaying, winding motion at such speed, however, she found a lot less thrilling.
Without warning, her head flew back against the headrest, and what started as a low-level suggestion of nausea quickly developed into an instant and most pressing need to vomit.
‘Stop the car!’ she yelled with urgency, the back of her head pinned to the headrest; she banged the door with the flat of her hand.
‘What do you mean, “stop the car”? I promise you I’ve got as much champagne as you can—’
‘I’m going to be—’
Domino never got to finish the sentence. Whether it was the gut-churning combination of garlic bread, fresh creamy carbonara, a healthy slice of anniversary cake, three chunky slices of Brie, the generous slosh of vodka, topped off with cigarette smoke, or whether it was simply the potent mix of nerves and speed was neither here nor there. Either way, the result was the same.
She tried her best to stem the vomit that flew from her mouth by placing her fingers over her lips. Sadly, this only served to act as a fan and directed thin lines of pale-coloured sick on to the dashboard and underside of the windscreen.
‘What the fuck?’ Micky actually screamed and slammed on the brakes. ‘My fucking car!’ he screamed again. ‘Just stop it!’
But she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t cry, apologise or do anything other than continue to hose the interior of this man’s very expensive sports car with the soupy contents of her stomach. He wound down the windows as the car slowed to a stop and it would only be in hindsight that she would feel shame at the horrendous stench of the dairy- and garlic-infused fluid. And more shame at the thought that where her sick had splashed the windows and he had wound them down, her vodka-soaked Italian supper was now inside the car window mechanism.
Micky jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side. Yanking open the door, he pulled her forcibly by the arm. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled, his tone urgent, angry.
She felt her body fall sideways as he manhandled her from the soiled leather interior, and she collapsed on the verge withsick clinging to her hair, all over her hands and dripping from her mouth down the front of the shitty blouse she’d found at the back of her wardrobe. There was also a rind of Brie sitting in her perky cleavage.
‘I’m sorr—’
‘Don’t! Just don’t!’ He held up his hand to stop her talking before marching back and forth around the car with his hands on his hips. ‘What the fuck?’ he yelled, snorting through his nose, as if he could not comprehend what she had done.
‘You were going so fast, and I’ve been out for—’
‘I said don’t.’ He almost growled, pointing at her. ‘Don’t speak! There is nothing you can do or say! Look at the state of my fucking car!’ He sounded like he might cry.
‘Shall we go back to the club and get some paper towels and—’
‘Paper towels?’ He stared at her as if she were stupid and she felt her insides shrink. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins to try to stem the tremor to her limbs that being so very sick had created.
‘If you think you’re setting foot inside my car or that you will ever be able to show your face inside that club again, you are more of a fucking idiot than I thought.’ He walked to the driver’s side and opened the door. ‘God, it stinks! That smell!’ He banged the roof, clearly furious, and she felt the beginnings of fear.
‘What are you going to do, leave me here?’ She looked up and down the lane into the darkness and her heart jumped at the prospect. ‘You can’t leave me here on my own.’ Her voice cracked as her tears gathered. ‘I haven’t got my phone!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ he yelled again into the night sky. He walked briskly towards her and handed her his phone. ‘One call! And make it brief.’
With trembling fingers, she took his phone and saw the way he winced as her vomit-covered hand reached out. Domino didn’tknow who to call. Her dad? She began to punch in his number before deciding this was a bad idea – he thought she was studying with Ruby – when something odd happened. She put in the final digits but didn’t put the call through, deciding it would be better to call Ruby or Essie, when the name ‘Kelleway’ popped up on Micky’s screen.
