‘Course not. I’mnotdoing shots, though. You can’t make me.’
‘Who do you think I am? I assure you my Jägermeister days are long behind me. I’ll probably just ask for a green tea at the bar. . .’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Jeff,’ Rose says, appearing from nowhere. ‘We’re next on karaoke. “Up Where We Belong”.You and me.’
‘I thought this wasn’t your kind of place?’ I point out.
‘Oh, you know,’ she shrugs, laughing. ‘In for a penny and all that.’
We hit the dance floor and stay for what might be hours, breaking off for the odd round and to make friends with various randoms, an Italian couple on a golfing holiday and a guy from Stoke who seems determined to let me know that he once met Roger Moore.
Most of the time, we stick together. As one banger of a song starts, Lisa throws one arm around my shoulder and the other around Rose’s and we’re all laughing so hard we can barely catch our breath. I’m filled with euphoric, drunken thoughts about how lucky I was when this group of people threw their arms wide open and welcomed me in. Between Jeff, Lisa, Rose and Nora, there is no competition or envy. No barbed comments or politics. Just friendship, loyalty and love – the easiest kind there is.
As the next song comes on, we break off and dance with our hands in the air. I get lost in the music, until the moment I glance up and see Sam playing pool on a raised area next to the dance floor. He seems to sense me and turns to look. My skin suddenly feels like glitter under his gaze. The moment Sam’s game ends, he shakes hands with his opponent and puts down his cue. He walks down the four steps onto the dance floor and keeps going until he’s reached me.
‘Finally! You’ve come to dance,’ I grin.
‘Ha! No, I’ve come over because I need someone to play pool with and thought you might be persuaded.’
‘My pool skills are terrible,’ I reply.
‘Can’t be as bad as my dancing. I’m afraid I’m not drunk enough for that.’
‘How drunk would you have to be?’
‘In a coma.’ He grins and the lines around his eyes crinkle, making my heart flip.
‘Oh, comeon. Okay, how about this: I’ll play pool,ifyou dance with me afterwards.’
He ponders the prospect for a moment. ‘Fine.’
‘You promise?’
‘Stop breaking my balls. Come on, let’s go.’
His hand finds mine and, before I can argue, I’m being swept through the crowd. I can hardly keep up as we dodge arms and elbows, until we finally get to the steps. He releases my grip and goes ahead to set up.
‘There is so little point in this,’ I say, pausing on the steps. ‘I really am crap. Beating me won’t be any fun for you at all.’
‘That’s a very negative attitude. Come on, get up here.’
‘I know my limits, that’s all. I realise this might be difficult to believe given howshit hotI am at tennis, but sadly,my pool skills don’t match.’
‘You’re right, that’s very hard to imagine,’ he says, as he racks up the balls and withdraws the triangle. ‘Want to break?’
I gesture for him to go ahead. ‘You go. I’ll watch. Work out my strategy,’ I say, tapping my head.
He smirks and leans onto the table, spreading his fingers across the felt so his knuckles cradle the cue. The pale-blue cotton of his shirt stretches across his shoulders as shadows settle on his throat and jaw. He fixes his gaze, a vision of concentration. When he takes the shot, balls explode across the table like fireworks. A red ball sinks into a pocket immediately.
‘Oh, thatisdisappointing,’ I sigh.
‘What is?’
‘Finding out that you’re good at this too.’
‘Anyone can pot a ball on the break,’ he says dismissively.
