Chapter One

One Drink

It’s nine o’clock when I arrive outside the nightclub, and the first thing I notice is the silence.

No queue curling around the building. No groups of people laughing beneath the streetlights. Not even the distant thump of bass leaking through the walls.

For a moment, I wonder whether the place is actually open.

A small sign near the entrance confirms that it is, although the lack of activity doesn’t fill me with confidence. I stand there for a few seconds, debating whether to turn around and find somewhere else.

Maybe the club is terrible.

Maybe everyone else knows something I don’t.

Still, I’ve made the effort to come out. Going straight home would feel like admitting defeat, so I walk towards the entrance.

I approach the counter expecting to be charged an entry fee, but the woman behind it barely looks up.

“Free before ten,” she says.

I thank her and head inside.

The place is even quieter than I expected. A few people are scattered around the room, while the dance floor is completely empty.

Coloured lights move lazily across the walls.

It feels less like a nightclub and more like a private party where nobody has arrived yet.

I head towards the bar, expecting the prices to be expensive.

I decide I’ll stay for a while and give the place a chance.

The barman comes over.

“What can I get you?”

I order my usual drink.

He gives me a brief nod and begins making it.

When he tells me the price, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s far more reasonable than I expected.

Perhaps the place isn’t completely hopeless.

I pay, take my glass and choose a small table near the edge of the dance floor.

From there, I can watch the room without looking as though I’m watching the room.

I take a sip and notice a woman sitting a few metres away.

She looks disappointed.

Not dramatically upset, but deflated, as though the evening hasn’t turned out the way she expected. She checks her phone, puts it down, then picks it up again a minute later.

Maybe someone has stood her up.

A boyfriend, perhaps.

Or maybe a friend who cancelled at the last minute.

I glance at her again and realise she’s attractive. Her dark hair falls naturally around her shoulders, and her makeup is subtle enough to let her features show rather than hiding them.

She looks over.

I quickly turn my attention back towards the dance floor.

Smooth.

A few seconds later, I glance back.

She’s speaking to another woman now. Her friend, I assume. The second woman gestures in my direction.

That doesn’t look promising.

Before I have time to wonder what they’re discussing, her friend starts walking towards me.

She stops beside my table. “I need to ask you something.”

I stare at her.

“That sounds ominous.”

She points towards the drink in my hand.

“My friend likes you, but she thinks your choice of drink is questionable.”

I look down at my Black Russian.

“My drink?”

“That isn’t exactly what she expected you to order.”

For several seconds, I have no idea how to respond.

I glance towards Jen, who immediately looks away when she realises I’ve caught her watching. “So I’m being judged by my choice of cocktail?”

Claire looks at my glass again.

“When you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous.”

“Just slightly.”

A faint blush appears on her face.

“Right. Fair point.”

She looks back towards Jen, then at me again.

“Sorry.”

Before I can reply, she turns and walks back across the room.

I sit there, still trying to understand what just happened.

Across the room, Jen looks mortified. Claire leans towards her, apparently trying to explain herself, but Jen covers her face with one hand.

I can’t help smiling.

It’s ridiculous, but at least something interesting has finally happened.

I finish my drink and set the empty glass on the table.

I could leave now.

That had been the plan.

But I’m curious.

I stand and walk towards them.

Claire notices me first. Her eyes widen, and she looks as though she would happily disappear beneath the table.

Jen turns around.

Up close, she’s even more attractive.

I hold out my hand.

“I’m Mick,” I say. “Nice to meet you. And, for the record,

I happen to like Black Russians.”

A smile slowly appears on her face.

She takes my hand.

“I’m Jen.”

Claire lets out a relieved breath.

“I really am sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t normally walk up to strangers and question their choice of drink.”

“Only when cocktails are involved?”

Jen laughs, and Claire gives me an embarrassed smile.

“I’m going to get another drink,” she says.

“Choose carefully,” I reply. “Apparently people are judging.”

That makes Jen laugh again.

Claire points at me as though issuing a warning, but she’s smiling as she walks away.

For a moment, Jen and I are left standing together.

“So,” I say, “do you come here often?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

It sounds like the worst chat-up line ever invented.

Jen raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously?”

“I know. That was terrible.”

“It really was.”

“In my defence, I’ve just had my choice of cocktail investigated. I’m still recovering.”

She smiles.

“No, I don’t come here often. My friend persuaded me.”

“Same, in a way. I thought I’d try somewhere different.”

“And what do you think so far?”

I look around the nearly empty club.

“I’m trying not to judge too quickly.”

“That bad?”

“I nearly left after one drink.”

“What stopped you?” I look at her.

“A misunderstanding.”

She lowers her gaze, smiling.

The song changes, replaced by something faster and more energetic. A few people finally move towards the dance floor.

Claire returns carrying another pint and a drink for Jen. “There you go,” she says, handing it over. “Peace offering.”

“To me or Mick?” Jen asks.

“Both of you.”

She turns towards me.

“What are you drinking now?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m worried about making another controversial choice.”

“Get whatever you like,” Jen says. “I promise not to judge.”

Claire lifts her pint.

“I make no such promise.”

I laugh and head to the bar for another Black Russian.

When I return, Jen shakes her head.

“You’re brave.”

“I refuse to be intimidated.”

The three of us talk for a while. The conversation is easy, helped by the fact that Claire seems determined to repair the damage she caused.

I learn that Claire is thirty-five and that she and Jen have known each other for years. Claire does most of the talking at first, telling stories that make Jen protest and cover her face.

Gradually, more people arrive. The tables begin to fill, and the dance floor no longer looks abandoned.

The DJ moves through one eighties song after another. Some I recognise immediately. Others sound vaguely familiar, as though I’ve heard them playing in the background of films.

Claire finishes her drink and looks towards the dance floor.

“Come on,” she says to Jen.

Jen hesitates, then turns to me.

“Are you coming?”

Dancing isn’t exactly my greatest talent.

“I might watch for a bit.”

“That means no,” Claire says. “It means I’m considering my options.”

Jen holds out her hand.

“Come on. Nobody cares how good you are.”

I look at her hand, then at the dance floor.

I could refuse. I could stay safely beside the table with my drink.

Instead, I put down my glass and take her hand.

She leads me onto the dance floor.

At first, I feel awkward. I’m too aware of where my arms are, where my feet are and whether I look like someone trying desperately not to look uncomfortable.

Jen, on the other hand, moves with complete confidence.

She simply listens to the music and lets herself enjoy it.

After a while, some of that confidence rubs off on me.

I stop worrying about what I look like.

The music changes into a deep house remix of an old soul track. The beat is slower now, pulsing through the room as blue and purple lights sweep across the crowd.

Jen moves closer.

Her dark hair catches the coloured light, and I notice the faint scent of her perfume. Something floral, with a hint of vanilla.

“I don’t normally do this,” I shout over the music.

“What?”

She leans closer, trying to hear me.

For a second, I forget what I said. “This,” I repeat. “Dancing like this.”

She smiles.

“Neither do I.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re far too good at it.”

“I just like dancing.”

“So I’m doing all right?”

“So far.”

She laughs and steps closer again.

Our movements slowly find the same rhythm.

She isn’t trying to impress me, and I’m no longer trying to impress her.

We’re simply enjoying ourselves.

As the night continues, more eighties songs fill the club. Jen laughs whenever I recognise one and attempt to sing along. I laugh whenever she confidently sings the wrong lyrics.

The hours seem to slip past unnoticed.

Between songs, we return to the bar and talk.

I tell her I’m an electrician.

She tells me she works in education.

“That must take patience,” I say.

“A lot of it.”

“I don’t think I could do it.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

“I doubt it. I struggle to keep myself organised.”

“That sounds promising.”

She smiles and takes a sip of her drink.

“So how old are you?” she asks.

“Thirty-eight.”

Jen looks at me for a moment.

“Really?”

“I’m not sure whether that’s a good reaction.”

“It is. I would have guessed younger.”

“I’ll definitely take that. What about you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Really?” I say, deliberately copying her reaction.

She laughs.

“Careful.”

“I was going to say I would have guessed younger too.”

“Good answer.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you enjoy the job?”

Her expression softens.

“I do. It can be exhausting, but I really enjoy what I do.

Even on difficult days, there’s usually something that makes me smile.”

“You sound like you really care about your work.”

“I do.”

There’s warmth in her voice when she talks about her job, and I find myself wanting to know more.

We talk about music, films, holidays and jobs we had years ago. We compare the worst nights out we’ve ever experienced and agree that this one has improved considerably since its silent beginning.

At one point, Claire appears beside us.

“So,” she says, “have I interrupted the wedding plans?”

Jen nudges her.

“We’ve only just met.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” “You’ve interrupted nothing,” Jen says.

Claire turns to me.

“Still drinking Black Russians?”

“I’m committed now.”

“I respect the dedication.”

She wanders back towards another group, leaving us alone again.

Jen shakes her head.

“She’s impossible.”

“I like her.”

“Even after what she said?”

“If she hadn’t said it, we might still be sitting on opposite sides of the room.”

Jen looks at me for a moment.

“I’m glad she did.”

“So am I.”

The words hang between us.

For the first time that night, neither of us laughs or makes a joke.

Something has changed.

It isn’t uncomfortable. It feels honest.

The DJ announces that the final few songs are about to begin.

The tempo slows, and the atmosphere changes with it. People begin collecting coats and finishing drinks. The bright energy of the night softens into something calmer.

Jen and I continue dancing.

I realise that I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Not simply attraction.

Hope, perhaps.

The sense that something unexpected has happened and that I don’t want it to end.

Eventually, we leave the dance floor.

For a moment, we stand near the edge of the room, facing one another while the music plays behind us.

Jen brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

I look into her eyes, trying to judge whether I’m reading the moment correctly.

My heart is beating harder than it should be.

I lean towards her slowly.

Jen smiles and moves a little closer.