‘This place isn’t exactlysubtle, is it?’
I follow Olivia’s gaze as she watches as one of the bar staff pass, unsure quite what she means. The theme? I mean, sure, the men are dressed like they’ve stepped off the set ofPeaky Blindersand the women are sort of old-world glam, but this is way better than some of the places we’d looked at. Dayglo nylon, experimental cocktails served in a bar like a high school chemistry lab, and even a ’70s themed place in Hampstead that was cheesier than the square of cheddar served on a cocktail stick along with a lump of pineapple.
‘I like it.’ This is my jam. It’s also my night. It might be Olivia’s company, but I’ve been planning this event for weeks; sourcing possible venues and chasing publicity. ‘And you liked it when we came here for dinner last week.’
‘I know. It’s just.’ One hand on her hip, she presses the other against her forehead.
‘It’s cool. Sort of intimate.’ It’s got a naughty, sensual vibe with velvet-lined booths, wingback chairs, and a wall filled with old photographs. The bar is huge and richly polished, an aged mirror behind it reflecting the glamour of the room. And the cocktail menu, while kind of kitsch, is also extensive, offering liquor-laced cordials and tinctures. Some are even served in old-fashioned apothecary bottles.
‘I’m not sure,’ she replies with a frown. ‘I’m not sure it’s the right place.’
Too late now, not that it would help to point that out.
‘It doesn’t look like a knocking shop if that’s what you mean. Besides, you chose the place. And we’ve hung out here twice since.’
‘Tell me I’m panicking over nothing,’ she says, swinging to face me as she exhales a long, nervous breath.
‘You totally are. This place is the bomb. It’s got exactly the look we’re going for. It’s vibey, and the punters are going to love it.’
‘Vibey?’ she repeats, glancing around the place again. ‘Not more of a kind of refined depravity?’
‘Retro chic,’ I maintain. ‘Someplace you’d expect to find gangsters and their molls hanging out. Pinstriped pants and jackets with wide lapels, feather boas, and red-painted fingernails holding thin cigarette holders.’
‘Underworld charm.’
‘It’s a bar, for goodness’ sake. It’s sexy. The exact kind of place you want to be associated with. We’re selling romance here, are we not?’ She smiles at me as I add, ‘Just think of how the photographs will look.’
‘You’re right, I’m just stressing.’
Halleluiah. My God, stressing doesn’t even cover it. The woman could do with a Valium!
‘What do you want me to do with these?’ Heather suddenly appears with a dozen small silver buckets dangling from her hands. I frown at her T-shirt that declares:
Brains are the new tits.
The manifesto is strong in this one.
‘Put one on each table,’ I say. ‘Then put the cards inside each.’
Heather has spent the week printing out fancy prompts that are to go in the buckets, so our guests have somewhere to start. Icebreaker questions, I suppose.
What do you do for fun?
What do you do to relax?
Tell me something fascinating about yourself.
I suppose it might save shy couples from spending four minutes just staring at each other.
‘So, when they come in, I give them one of these little scoring cards, right?’
‘It’s maybe better we don’t call them scoring cards,’ Ols replies, even though that’s what we’ve been calling them in the office all week. ‘This isn’t a game of mini golf.’
Nope, it’s way more painful than that.
‘But we’re giving them each a mini pencil, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, one of the branded ones.’ My idea. God, I hate mini golf, but it’s something they can take away, along with their memories of a fabulous evening. You know what else I hate? Waiting. And I’m currently waiting for a call back from the jewellers. Yesterday, I’d ducked out of the office on the spur of the moment and taken the ring to the nearest jewellers,Joseph & Sons,to ask for a valuation. Apparently, it’ll cost me thirty-five pounds, and I can pick the ring up sometime this afternoon, along with a certificate with a value I can insure it for. See, that’s what I told the girl at the counter. No need to tell her the whole sordid story.
