We retrace our steps back to the Jungle area with the drumstick in our hands once again. Our arms brush together as we walk, and honestly I can’t tell if I re-introduced the stick for us to share so he could safely lead me through the crowds, or if it’s just an excuse to be a little closer to him. Pausing every so often to let tides of people pass us, I wait next to him and let his strong frame shield me from the crowds.
‘So, what’s Neptune’s Lounge like?’ I ask as we make our way under the Jungle entrance.
‘No idea, haven’t been there yet. It’ll be a new one for both of us.’
The sun has almost completely set now, leaving a line of burning scarlet on the horizon. Colourful lighting jolts new life into the Jungle area as hues of green illuminate the venues and palm trees. That familiar sensation of heavy bass shudders under my feet once again.
A circular red tent comes into view as we approach the lounge’s supposed location according to the map. An elaborate mural decorates every inch of the tent’s walls, depicting paintings of mermaids with long, flowing hair and sirens with glowing eyes. The entrance is sealed with a heavy, red curtain and guarded by a man in all black checking IDs. After briefly flashing our driving licenses in his direction, we’re inside.
I’m instantly hit with the thrum of a steady, low bass line and the smell of something heavy and smoky. The tent has a simple layout, with a long bar lining the back and some standing tables dotted in front of it. Around the edges are cosy booths and sitting areas of all kinds, including a rowing boat, a phone box, a swinging garden seat, and even a bed shrouded with black gauze. Pairs stand at every table caressing their drinks and leaning close together to talk over the music.
The walls of the tent are completely covered with leaves and adorned with hanging lanterns glowing a deep red. There are a few tyre swings near the entrance, which I can’t help but think is a questionable choice of seating at a venue that sells alcohol. It doesn’t escape my notice that the atmosphere in here is different from the other venues. The combination of the slow, rolling rhythm of the music paired with the low lighting and intimate conversations dotted around the tent makes me stand up a little straighter.
Elliot eventually faces me with a question in his eyes. ‘Drink?’
‘Yep,’ I say with a nod.
We walk to the bar and unceremoniously drop our joining hands with the drumstick on top of it, browsing the menu behind a short, blonde barmaid in silence.
Upon seeing the drumstick, she lets out a loud gasp.
‘Oh my God, it’s you! You’re the drumstick couple!’ Her voice is airy and high with a strong Welsh accent.
I feel my eyes go wide.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, as I hear Elliot mutter, ‘Oh no.’
‘I saw that photo of you on Twitter – wait a minute, are you the ones who caught a drumstick after a show and had that blazing row?’
We both nod with our mouths sealed, faces almost glowing with shame.
‘And you’ve really both been holding it thiswholetime?’ she asks incredulously.
‘Yeah, um… kind of,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice light.
‘Well, fuck me,’ she says, her eyebrows sky high. ‘Wow, that is commitment, isn’t it? Right, so what can I get you? It’s on me,’ she announces happily.
Elliot shakes his head profusely. ‘That’s really kind, but you don’t have to–’
‘It’s our pleasure, honestly. It is within our power to gift the odd couple free drinks, no big deal.’
‘We’re not a–’ I stop myself with a grim smile, deciding not to waste my breath. ‘That’s really nice of you, thank you.’ We order a cocktail each and wait in heavy silence until she returns with wonderfully pink concoctions in glasses so wide they almost look like bowls.
‘Cool glasses,’ I point out, trying to break the strange new tension.
‘Girthy, aren’t they?’ she replies with an eager nod. Elliot immediately clears his throat and reaches for his glass.
‘Thanks again,’ I say, reaching for my own. ‘We really appreciate it.’
Elliot similarly grumbles his thanks.
‘So, any idea yet on who you think might actually get to keep it?’ she asks, leaning forward on her elbows. ‘If, you know, the winner truly takes all?’
Unsure how to respond, Elliot and I turn to look at each other questioningly. At this stage, I have absolutely no idea who willbe the one to take it home. It has become an almost permanent fixture between us.
‘Uh, nope. Not sure yet,’ Elliot says mildly.
‘Well, good luck! Post an update about who wins on Twitter, please,’ she says with another wink and a grin, tapping the bar before turning to another girl waiting next to us. As sweet as she is, I think that the chances of a Twitter announcement have just reached an all-time low, if Elliot’s expression is anything to go by.
