Page 78 of Who’s That Girl?

Reaching into my handbag, I pull out my purse and count out three twenties. OK, so I might not be young and hip enough to pass the scrutiny of the doormen, but you see, that’s one of the great things about being older: I don’t have to be.

Like magic, the velvet rope disappears.

‘Have a great evening,’ nods the bouncer, standing back to let me through.

‘I’ll try.’ Smiling triumphantly, I waft right by him.

Because now I can afford to bribe my way in.

Chapter Twenty-three

If you were to ask me to describe the club, I’d tell you to try this at home:

1. Turn up the thermostat on the central heating so it’s about a hundred degrees and you’re sweating profusely.

2. Switch on the stereo, choose an album of rave anthems (preferably one where all the tracks sound the same) and play on full volume so that you can’t hear yourself speak and your eardrums feel as if they’re about to explode.

3. Then turn it up even louder.

4. Put a tray of oil in the oven and turn it up as high as it will go so that everywhere fills with smoke.

5. Block up your toilet with loo roll so that it won’t flush.

6. Now squeeze as many people as you can into your front room.

7. Shut all the windows and ask everyone to start smoking.

8. Charge a fiver for water.

9. And turn out the lights so you can’t see a thing.

‘Oy, watch where you’re going,’ yells a gruff voice in my ear.

‘Oops, sorry,’ I reply, hastily removing my stiletto heel from someone’s foot.

Trying to adjust my eyes to the smoky, strobe-lit darkness, I stumble around the club on the hunt for Lottie. I can’t see her. But then again, that’s not surprising, considering I can’t see anything. Or hear anything over this thumping baseline. It’s as if two of my senses just disappeared.

Resisting the urge to stick my fingers in my ears, I take off my jacket and begin squeezing, squashing and shuffling my way through the droves of clubbers. The air is sticky with perspiration and cloying and I can already feel beads of sweat pricking the nape of my neck as I move further into the sweltering heat. Jesus, it’s as hot as hell in here.

Because this is hell, pipes up a desperate voice inside of me, as I’m jostled into a strange man’s hairy armpit. At least I think it’s an armpit. Like I said, it’s difficult to see.

A fleeting image of my bed flashes across my brain. My warm, comfy bed, with its pillow-top mattress, goose-down duvet and plumped-up pillows. Me gently sinking into it. Just the sound of ocean waves and the faint puff of the humidifier. The scent of my aromatherapy candle, which has overtones of lavender and—

BO.

Getting a really bad whiff of it, I zone back in. OK, that’s it. I can’t take much more of this. I have to find Lottie, I think desperately. Where the bloody hell can she have gone?

Hurriedly extricating myself, I move deeper into the club. To the left I can make out a small bar, and to the right are several sofas filled with dozens of smooching couples. But no Lottie. I glance quickly away and squint through the haze of cigarette smoke and dry ice, towards the small dance floor ahead of me. The odd strobe light sweeps back and forth, briefly illuminating the floor, which is covered in cigarette butts and blackened spots of chewing gum. This is one of those places where if they turned the lights on, it would send you running, screaming for the hand sanitizer.

And yet I used to love this place, I reflect, as blurry, long-forgotten memories of weekends spent here begin coming back to me. How could I? I wonder in amazement. What was there to love?

Reaching the edge of the dance floor, I pause for a moment, my eyes flicking over the sea of bodies. There’s a group of girls slap, bang in the middle, dancing round a small pile of handbags, a couple in matching leather trousers bumping and grinding over by the speakers, and then there’s Lottie.

I feel a snap of surprise.

Me? Dancing?

I never dance.