Chapter 19
19
I sit inside The Olive Bar. It’s eight o’clock and the place is already half-full. Despite my new clothes, on the inside I feel like a can of cheap supermarket lager set amongst glossy liquor bottles. I perch on a stool by the bar and pull down the hem of my dress. Coloured lights swirl across the room. If Flossie was here, she’d go for the kill, convinced they were some kind of rainbow mice climbing the walls. A disco beat thumps loudly in the background and a circle of friends by the window sing along while taking selfies. I tap my foot in time to the music and study the drinks menu. Do people even use the word ‘disco’ any more? Uncle Kevin taught me my first dance steps. I’d stand on his feet and we’d hold hands and move at the same time until I found the confidence to jump off and create my own moves.
The barman ignores a group of women waiting at the other end of the bar, beams at me and asks what I’d like – or rather shouts. The latest tune must be playing above the legal number of allowed decibels. Yet I don’t mind. Somehow it makes me feel less conspicuous.
‘What do you recommend?’ I ask in a raised voice.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Violet, I mean… Vi.’
He takes a moment. ‘I’ve got it. I’ll make you a Vi-tai. How about that?’
I’ve had a Mai Tai before and like rum. He blends ingredients in a silver shaker and ice clatters as he moves it up and down, as if he’s the lead performer in a percussion band. He seems oblivious to the frowns of the other women waiting.
I sway side to side along to the song until my drink arrives in a tumbler with a small sprig of mint. Kath’s excited to blog about conservation and wouldn’t approve of the plastic straw.
‘Thank you. What a lovely colour.’
The barman winks.
‘I’ll have one of those too,’ says a voice next to me.
The barman gives the thumbs up and calls a colleague over to deal with the other customers. I turn around to face the most penetrating eyes and a chest full of leopard print.
‘That shirt is actually for real?’ I ask before I can stop myself. ‘I mean…’
Casey bursts out laughing. It’s a delicious sound. Full, warm, with notes of mischief like a spiced gingerbread latte. Not like Lenny’s, which is always a bit too loud, as if he’s trying to convince other people that he’s having the best time. Casey’s head jerks towards a table near the window with two seats and his jet-black fringe flops down. His long fingers smooth it back. I take my drink over. The music is a little quieter here. He waits for his, having insisted on paying. I focus on the Friday crowds outside surrounding a street juggler, but my eyes are drawn back to Casey. He’s just as striking as in the photo I saw. Nora would say he belonged on one of her Mills it’s as if it’s a book I can’t put down. We order bar snacks. I pick at olives and crisps. The style of music changes.
Casey grabs my hand. ‘I love soul music.’
‘But—’
Before I know it, we are facing each other on the square dance floor, if you can call it that. Really it’s just a space at the back, between the toilets and bar. It means that everyone moves very close together. Normally I’d feel self-conscious, but for some reason I don’t. The women around me twist their bodies, drop to the floor and spring up. They curve their arms in the air and sing along as the chorus plays. Moving my feet side to side has always been a winning formula. Casey grabs my hand and swirls me. I grin and nearly lose my balance. He slips one arm around my back. It’s almost as if he senses I’ve not had much practice. Yet in his arms I feel like Beyoncé in one of her music videos.
The alcohol hits me. I’m more unsteady and my mouth feels as if I’ve eaten a handful of crackers. I make my excuses, telling him about the book club and how I’ve a busy weekend ahead, setting up the website and Twitter account.
‘Good luck with it,’ he says as we step outside. It’s quieter now, more like my usual Friday nights. ‘How about we do this again? You’ve not yet worked hard enough to sell me Felicity as an editor,’ he says in that mischievous gingerbread latte voice.
‘Felicity sells herself.’
‘Have you shown her my manuscript?’
‘No. I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up if your agent decides not to formally let her read.’
‘Maybe I’ll mention Thoth to him. See what he says.’
‘Don’t mention me though, will you? It’s best that he contacts Felicity,’ I say quickly.
He looks down at me. ‘I can’t make you out, Vi. Something just doesn’t add up.’
I feel different again. Purple. Frumpy. ‘What do you mean?’ Perhaps he’s discovered that the person he’s looking at isn’t really me. That underneath I’m the woman Lenny thought was boring in bed; the woman he felt he could cheat on and take for granted.
‘I don’t know, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. There’s nothing I like more than a puzzle – and a beautiful one at that.’
I look away.
‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ he says, and with his hand he gently guides my chin back to face him. ‘A woman like you can’t be unaware of her good looks – and yet you genuinely doubt yours.’ My pulse speeds up. ‘It’s a mystery I’d love to unravel. I propose we get together again – how about it? You and me? Let’s make it a date.’
‘Is that what it is?’
He grins. ‘If you prefer; we don’t have to label it. Have you ever heard of Chapter Battle? It’s happening in Camden Town next Saturday afternoon. Writers stand up and read out their first chapter. The winner is the one who gets to the end without being booed down. It starts just after lunch. It’s fun.’
‘It sounds brutal.’ But what an unusual idea. ‘I know a jazz café there that does a great brunch.’ It used to be one of Lenny and my favourites, with its chilled, melodic ambiance during the day. I’d have maple syrup pancakes whereas Lenny would pretend to love trendy mashed avocado and poached eggs on toast. He wasn’t overly keen on the Camden vibe. It was too bohemian for him and not enough designer labels, but apparently celebrities ate there, so it was often our weekend trip of choice. The chances of Lenny being in the area were small. On the grapevine, I’d heard that Alpaca Books would be holding an all-day meet and greet event, on that date, starring its top erotic romance authors with champagne and luxury goody bags and male pole dancers. There would be too many Instagram opportunities for him and Beatrix to miss.
‘Perfect. We’ll meet for lunch first. Let’s email this week.’ He kisses me on the cheek and checks I’m okay getting home. I watch him stride into the distance and, feeling like royalty, treat myself to a black cab. Smiling, I have to move my phone away from my ear as Bella squeals when I tell her the evening was a great success.