view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.
When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…
Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.
The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?
Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.
There was nowhere to sit down. Well, there were plenty of tables in alcoves where laughing groups sat round ice buckets full of champagne and bowls of strange-looking drinks. But to get a seat you had to reserve a table and you could only reserve a table if you were going to spend serious amounts of money. Not hard, as Jake muttered, going pale as our two drinks took a huge chunk from his credit card. We were definitely out of our league. But we could pretend for a night.
As my eyes got used to the dim but changing light—an icy blue made everyone look like ghosts, almost green, like aliens from a cheap science-fiction film. I thought I could recognise some of the people—someone from a boy band perhaps, or the guy who played Hugh Grant’s little brother in something. But maybe it was just a look. All the guys looked like Hugh Grant’s little brother. Handsome is as handsome does, as my mother used to say, quoting her fearsome Granny Allen; but handsome is still very nice to look at. Everyone seemed to know each other—lots of shrieks and greetings and extravagant air kisses. I couldn’t see the footballers but there was no VIP area—the whole place was a VIP area—just a series of booths leading off the main room, and I guessed they were in one of those. Then I stopped looking, made the most of the music and leaned into Jake for a dance, surrounded by all the beautiful people.
This was all for work, of course. For Jake, everything revolves around work. Clubbing isn’t his first choice for a night out. And such a club…I spotted Kit Kenzo, who does that late-night music programme, all over the girl who does the football reports. Then that earl who’s a model, and I couldn’t help gazing at him over Jake’s shoulder. This was beginning to be fun. Then a tall elegant girl with the most perfect shoulders gazed with interest and a hint of envy at my earrings. Good.
As the night wore on, the music grew louder (great DJ), the atmosphere looser. Even the beautiful people looked not quite as beautiful now and not quite so bored. I wanted to keep dancing, but Jake was standing by the bar, watching people over the top of his bottle of Asaki.
‘Come on, Jake, let’s dance,’ I said, putting my glass back on the bar and taking his hand, trying to encourage him onto the dance floor. I wanted to make the most of this.
‘Yeah, OK, Tilly,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, a rare show of affection these days. I glanced up happily to meet the warmth of his gaze, but instead I could see he was watching someone on the other side of the room. I turned to see a couple of middle-aged men in expensive suits coming in and going round to one of the booths. I recognised one of them—Simeon Maynard, a billionaire businessman who had come from nowhere to buy Shadwell, the premiership football club that Clayton Silver played for. Presumably that’s who he was drinking with. A few minutes later a waitress went over with ice buckets of champagne.
Of course this was why we were here. For weeks Jake had been researching some big story. Not quite sure what it was about—he didn’t talk about work so much to me these days and we were increasingly like ships that passed in the night—but it was hard not to notice all the newspaper cuttings about Maynard piling up in the flat.
I danced close to Jake, my arms round his neck, but he didn’t bend into me, the way he usually did. Somehow it felt as though he wasn’t there with me at all. Or didn’t want to be. After a while I gave up, stood back from him, let my arms drop to my side. At the same time, the two actresses who’d been drinking with the footballers and Maynard were coming out of one of the private booths and heading rather unsteadily across the floor.
Now Jake took my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Try and listen in to their conversation. See if they say anything interesting.’
Excuse me? He was definitely beginning to lose it. I looked at him and shook my head, and then followed the actresses downstairs to the Ladies. At least I’d get a sit-down. My strippy-strappy shoes were beginning to give me strippy-strappy blisters; there’s a limit to what party feet gel insoles can achieve.
In the Ladies, there was a whole different party going on. Small groups of girls giggled round the washbasins. I didn’t look too closely at what they were doing, but I don’t think they were sharing their holiday snaps. A girl with a face straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting lay slumped across an armchair, her eyes shut, her minuscule handbag dropped on the floor. She groaned slightly. I must have looked alarmed because a blonde with the sort of tan you only get from sunbathing on the deck of mega-yachts said dismissively, ‘Leave her. She’s always the same after too much of the house hooch…’ she paused…‘on top of everything else.’
Other girls in their tiny dresses, as leggy as storks, leant forward into the mirrors, pouting provocatively at their own reflections as they brushed back manes of expertly highlighted hair.
The actresses I had followed had already emerged from the cubicles, swaying, laughing loudly. They joined the girls at the mirror.
‘Not
