Chapter Eight
‘Oh my god, I love this song!’
The music is loud, the base vibrating from through the floor to my feet as they itch with an uncharacteristic urge to dance. Aided by my share of the beer pitchers we’ve been drinking, and not so much by a dubious looking taco, my body sways with the music. But I’m not drunk, just... relaxed.
Niamh and I, along with some of her friends, dined earlier in a Mexican style bar at one of Dubai’s less salubrious hotels. Agirl can’t dine five-star every day, at least not on my pay grade. Now in one of Jumeirah’s best clubs, which also happens to be on the same resort as the fabulous brunch hotel, we’re supposed to be starting the weekend in style.
Matt nods encouragingly to my exuberance, his face wearing an odd kind of smile.
So I smile back, though mine is more bemused, eyes drawing away to the dance floor. The place is buzzing and the floor packed, a sea of swaying humanity moving to the rhythms of some global beat.
Hmm. Beer philosophy. Maybe I have had too much to drink.
‘There’s something so appropriately inappropriate about a man in mascara,’ I yell, standing on my tiptoes to better be heard. I have a major crush on the singer, even if he is gay. I quickly realise my mistake, not the crush, but the leaning, as Matt places both hands on my hips.
‘You’re full of surprises, pocket-rocket. What other freaky shit you into?’
His words are slurred, his glassy gaze sliding over my skin. Something flickers in the depths of that gaze—a bad idea, by the looks of things—as he lunges forward, face looming over mine.
‘Blokes who keep their grubby mitts to themselves,’ I call, placing flat palms against his chest and pushing him away.
‘Aw, come on, Katie,’ he shouts as I leave. ‘I’ll let you paint my face!’
‘It’s Kate, arsewipe!’ I call back, grabbing a surprised Niamh as she pushes her way through the crowd.
Face flushed with dancing and drink, she begins, ‘But I’ve just—’
I don’t give her a chance to answer, finally able to laugh as I drag her away by the hand. She casts a last lingering glance at Rob as we disappear into the writhing mass.
Squeezing through the crowd, I’m sober enough to be grateful that it’s busy. Bodies jammed tightly together means there’s less chance I’ll end up looking like a bit of a klutz. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me, seductive words about dirty minds, persuasion and letting go.
‘Hey.’ Niamh pulls my arm. ‘I’m done in. I need to go home.’
‘Home-home or, you know,’ I shout, gesturing back at the bar. She’s been all over Rob like a rash. I doubt she’s even noticed her friends have drifted off over the last hour or so.
Pulling a face, she gestures to her ear as her free hand grasps mine. ‘I can’t feckin’ hear!’
So I reluctantly follow her.
There are a couple of stools at the quiet end of the bar, but we don’t take them as Niamh turns. ‘We’re sharing a cab home, drop you on the way?’
‘We’regrabbing a cab? Niamh and Rob sittin’ in a tree, gettin’ it on in a t-ax-i!’
‘Not likely.’ She snorts. ‘Taxi nasty earns you time in the clink out here, and a subsequent deportation. How much have you had to drink, by the way?’
I giggle and begin a splendidly cheesy version of the Spice GirlsTwo Become One, ignoring both question and death stare. ‘Is this like a regular thing?’ I ask, halting my rendition mid-line. ‘Are you friends who... you know, dothat?
‘Not yet,’ she answers. ‘And not if I’ve anything to do with it. This has been a long time in coming, let’s just hope the same can be said of him!’ Her raucous laugh halts, her face taking on a sudden pensive look. ‘We’ve been dancing around this thing for a while now. I like him.Reallylike him.’
‘Hooley-dooley. Serious, huh?’
Her mouth purses at my daggy expression, but she doesn’t comment. ‘I hope so. Either way, grab a cab home with us.’
‘Nah, I’ll be fine.’ Though I don’t feel fine, I think I feel... sad. Maybe lonely, though that’s a cliché, right there, being sad in a crowd. Wistful, maybe? I want to go home with someone, cuddle, climb into bed with a man. But not with Matt. ‘I’m a big girl,’ I add. ‘Besides, I don’t fancy travelling home as your spare wheel. Or a prop for the drunken roommate.’
‘Matt’s harmless.’
‘Matt’s off his face.’
