Fast And Loose

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Eight thirty? Outside the bar. It’s in Pitman Street, used to be Silvio’s nightclub.’

‘I know where it is,’ I said.

‘Of course you do. You’re a sub. You’re omniscient. See you there, then. And don’t forget the eyeliner.’

I watched his tight backside slink out of sight, leaving me free to spend the rest of the day deconstructing his ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down’ comment.

As the marketplace chapel clock struck eight thirty, I still hadn’t decided what he meant by it. Did he mean that I was just a reliable type of person in general? Did he mean that he was staking a lot on my consent to his request? Or did he just mean that I was easy? A sure thing?

I’d accepted the last explanation, and it was giving me a nasty weight in my chest that provided a more than adequate counter-balance to any excitement I might have been feeling.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that I looked fucking amazing. I’d used a whole can of hairspray and most of the contents of the Barry M section in the local goth shop. Black velvet, fishnet, spiky heels, ultra-violet manicure and a spritz of Femme Fatale body spray. The body spray was fighting with the hairspray to see which of them could make me cough the most. On balance, the hairspray won.

I didn’t often get glammed up like this – mostly I was a Doc Martens and band T-shirt kind of girl – but the occasion seemed to demand it. It was not for Crowley’s benefit, oh, no. Not a bit of it.

I stopped for a sneaky peek into a shop window at the corner and reapplied my vamp-red lipstick. Would Tom meet me inside or outside? It was November and a spot of blustery wind threatened other, less rigid, hairstyles, but mine was tornado-proof.

I strutted down the street, channelling Siouxsie Sioux, unfortunately turning an ankle on one stiletto heel just before I reached the door.

‘Fuck!’ I gasped, handing my flyer to the doorman.

‘You all right?’ he said with some concern.

‘It’s OK…just a bit of a wrench…ta.’

I got my breath back and tried to put some weight on it. The pain nearly killed me. I flailed wildly, ending up clutching the doorman’s arm.

There was no way I was going to be able to style this out. I was going to have to limp into the bar.

‘What have you done to yourself now?’

There was laughter lurking in Tom Crowley’s voice as it crept up behind me.

‘Nothing,’ I said crossly, all the blood rushing to my cheeks. So much for my white face powder.

‘Done her ankle in, innit?’ said the doorman, ceremoniously handing me over to Crowley, who put an arm around my shoulder and held me upright.

How delightful this would have been under other circumstances – but all I could feel was hot and flustered and completely idiotic.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘You can lean on me.’

It took absolutely ages to get down the stairs that led into the basement bar, but Tom was suspiciously kind and sweet about it, helping me to a dark little booth and seating me gently on the black wrought-iron and blood-red velvet banquette.

‘Anaesthetic?’ he asked politely, patting his jacket.

For the first time, I saw what he was wearing and nearly swooned away. I could have blamed the pain for it, but dear God! He looked good enough to sink my fangs into.

He wore a long black Victorian-style frock coat and a ruffle-fronted white shirt over tightish black dress trousers with a satin stripe. Pointy-toed polished boots and a ruby-red collar stud completed the look, as the fashion pages might say.

‘Vodka,’ I said faintly. ‘Love your outfit.’

‘Thanks. Kind of Jack the Ripper meets Dracula, isn’t it? Anything in the vodka?’

Bromide, perhaps.

‘Oh…tonic, maybe,’ I said vaguely. My mouth was watering indecently.

‘Coming right up, milady,’ he said, with an elaborate little bow that made matters about ten times worse.

I put my foot up on the opposite banquette and took a look around. It was dark enough that passers-by could loom up at you like graveyard bats, but there were lights here and there among the fog-effect dry ice and I could see that I was not the only way overdressed person in the vault. Which was good.

Loud music – Nine Inch Nails, I think – was being played quietly, which didn’t really suit it, but the night was young. And it meant Tom and I would be able to have a conversation. Not that that was necessarily a plus point. My chest collapsed with nerves. What would we talk about?

Everything, anything, but that night we spent together.

In the six weeks since it had happened, I had been telling myself it wasn’t that good, but now, here, with the perfumed fog swirling around me and his frock-coated back leaning over the bar, I couldn’t spin myself that line any more.

It was that good. It was…

Think about something else.

‘Thanks,’ I said, as he put the drinks down on the table. My elevated foot meant that he had to sit beside me rather than opposite. I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye, which was a relief. On the other hand, his elbow and knee were in constant dangerous proximity.

‘No running from zombies for you tonight, then,’ he said, taking a sip from his bottle of lager.

‘I’ve never had trouble with zombies,’ I said. ‘It’s the incubi I have to watch out for.’

‘Incubi,’ he repeated with relish, apparently oblivious to the little dig at his expense. ‘I love you subeditors. So precise. So correct.’ He paused and flashed me a devilish grin. ‘Of course, you wait an hour for an incubus, and then three turn up at once.’

‘Ba-doom-tish,’ I said, lifting my hand to his for a weary hi-five.

‘You’re not classing me as an incubus, though, are you?’ he said.

Dread knotted in my stomach. He was going to talk about That Night.

‘I mean,’ he continued, ‘you definitely weren’t asleep.’

‘Wasn’t I?’ I said guardedly. ‘Oh. My mistake.’

Damn. He moved an inch away from me and nursed his pint with a faint, sickly smile.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Fair enough.’

Gah, now I felt like a bitch. It wasn’t on. He was the one who hadn’t called. Though…come to think of it…neither had I. A change of subject was definitely in order.

‘So, how are you going to review this place?’ I asked with an unconvincing display of casual interest.

He brightened a little.