Chapter 5 #2
It’s like the goat is making a game of it, bleating loudly in a mocking tone.
After a few more seconds of me flailing about, to his credit, Jackson lets out a monumental sigh.
‘Need some help?’ He sounds snippy but I nod gratefully.
He’s very well-mannered for a recent victim of mistaken identity, I’ll give him that.
He drops grudgingly to one knee, among the throng of passengers, and before he attempts to help me, he looks up. ‘I might accidently touch you. That okay?’
I bite my lip. Poor man. I have horribly misjudged him.
I feel his hand slide methodically down my thigh to unhook the suspender strap.
There’s further bleating and nudging, followed by the snapping of the strap back into place.
Jackson emerges from below. At least he’s very calm under pressure…
and very good with his hands… and animals…
and extremely sturdy in the face of what was basically assault.
Where to begin apologising?
‘I don’t know why I slapped you,’ I say, remorsefully. He has a red mark in the shape of my hand on his cheek. I feel terrible. ‘I realise this is totally unacceptable behaviour on my part. I’m British you see.’
His face is serious. ‘Forget it,’ he replies sharply. The bus stops abruptly, sending everyone flying yet again. ‘This is your stop. The club’s just over there. Enjoy your evening.’
I peer out of the window to see bright lights and a laser beam whizzing back and forth in the sky.
‘Wait,’ I yell, following him down the bus as he hurriedly makes his way to the front.
‘Please let me make it up to you.’ I pick my way through the crowd of tourists, goats, chickens and elderly passengers and leap from the minibus.
It pulls away immediately as I straighten up at the side of the road and yank my skirt back down, pull my shirt and tie into position and adjust one of my pigtails. Jackson is walking away from me at an alarming pace.
‘Wait!’ I shout, attempting to race after him in my skyscrapers. But if anything, this causes him to speed up.
Luckily, there is a huge queue at the entrance which slows him down.
I hurry towards the big sign in neon lights welcoming everyone to Halikarnas open-air nightclub, boasting that it is the biggest nightclub in the whole of Europe.
Jackson is making his way to the front where it appears, after he tells them something, the bouncers are happy to let him walk straight through instead of queuing.
My attempt to follow him is blocked by one of the bouncers sticking out his arm (which just happens to be the size of a human leg).
He peers over my shoulder in case I’m part of a massive drunken hen do trying to push in.
‘I’m with him!’ I point to Jackson, who turns around, sees me being almost garrotted and rolls his eyes towards the stars, flickering in the night sky.
He pauses before nodding to the bouncer, who drops his arm to allow me through.
‘Thank you,’ I say when I reach him.
He huffs at me, frustrated. ‘What do you want?’
‘A chance to apologise properly for slapping you. I should have known you wouldn’t… I misread the situation.’
‘Fine. You’ve apologised. You’re in the club. You’re free to go meet your friends.’ He sweeps an arm around the scene before us.
It is stunning. Thousands of twinkling fairy lights are strung around the stone perimeter walls of this ginormous open-air nightclub.
My immediate impression is that of a luxury holiday resort with palm trees dotted about, huge sweeping white marble staircases leading to numerous balconies lined with white balustrades and supported by thick white columns that tower above the throng of people dancing below.
I spot a huge central coliseum, housing a stage area with a group of singers performing on it.
Above the sea of heads, glimmering lights snake their way around the gnarled and twisted branches of the olive trees that are liberally scattered about, creating an other-worldly, magical atmosphere.
The club is jumping, there must be thousands here, and the music is unbelievably loud, but the effect is mind-blowing.
I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s an impenetrable wall of mixed nationalities all singing along to Inner Circle wanting to make us sweat as if we weren’t all sweating enough in the oven-like heat.
‘Let me get you a drink first.’
‘You want to buy me a drink?’ He makes it sound like a ludicrous suggestion.
‘I insist.’
‘No need.’
‘Please,’ I beg as he turns to leave.
He opens his mouth and then seems to think better of it. ‘If it means you’ll leave me alone, then sure.’
When we get to the bar, Jackson is taller than everyone around him and draws the attention of the barmaid immediately.
I squeeze in beside him at the counter and ask her for a Shark Bite which is a colourful mix of Taboo, lemonade and coconut rum and is on the board behind her as the must-have cocktail of the night.
I look to Jackson for approval, but he stares blankly at me.
‘Something less fruity?’ I take a second to weigh him up and ask for a no-nonsense Brandy Alexander, two shots of raki and a pint of Efes local lager just to be sure.
Jackson shakes his head. Somehow, I am making an already awkward situation more disturbing by attempting to assess his alcoholic needs rather like a nurse reviewing a patient’s medication.
I do namaste hands and plead with him. ‘Please let me buy you lots of drinks. I feel awful.’
The barmaid charges me 75,000 Turkish lira.
‘Sorry. I think you’ve made a mistake with the bill,’ I say. ‘It can’t possibly be that much.’
She repeats herself.
‘I’m almost a trained accountant,’ I say, sympathetically. ‘Believe me. You’ve added it up wrong.’
The woman tuts and gives Jackson a questioning look.
‘Just pay the bill,’ he groans. ‘I’d think as an almost qualified accountant that you’d grasp the rudimentary basics of the exchange rate.’
How embarrassing. In my rush to pack, catch up with the few friends I kept from university, while ignoring my mother’s incessant warnings that Turkey is full of throat-slitting lunatics, I never thought to check with the Post Office to see if the economic strength of the pound against the Turkish lira had fluctuated in the last week.
‘But she’s charging less than two pounds. That can’t be right.’
‘It’s two pence a pint.’
‘What?’ Surely not. ‘Sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say two pence a pint?’
Jackson relaxes. ‘Yes. Alcohol is cheaper than water here. They call it Bar Wars. Now, can you just pay her, please?’
I hand over double the money. ‘Keep the change.’ I’m relieved to see her face light up as she takes the many notes.
‘Cheers,’ says Jackson, handing me one of the shots. He downs it in one go. I follow suit, tipping my head up to throw it down my throat.
Christ Almighty. It fucking burns.
I grip the bar, wincing, and sling one of the cocktails down after it, hoping to put out the fire.
It doesn’t work. If anything, it tastes like lighter fuel.
I grab the creamy-looking Brandy Alexander and thank God that seems to quell the inferno.
The alcohol whooshes straight to my head.
I cling to the bar to recover myself while Jackson stares disbelievingly from me to the empty glasses.
‘Sorry.’ I hiccup loudly, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.
‘I’ll get you another round. Give me a moment, I don’t usually—’
‘No. That one drink was enough, thank you. Have a good night.’ He turns on his heel and speeds away from me into the crowd. I watch him go. Him, the reluctant hero. Me, the aspirant alcoholic.
That could not have gone any worse. What a complete and utter disaster.
This is what happens when I get distracted by romance.
I need to give it up and focus on the reason why I’m here in the first place.
Starting with finding a group of reps dressed in costumes like mine.
Compared to the day I’ve had so far, how hard can that be?