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.
‘I thought you could help me out,’ he said. ‘It can be a joint effort. I mean, this is probably much more your scene than mine, so my personal opinion might not be all that relevant.’
‘What is your personal opinion?’
He shrugged. ‘Bit dark. Can’t see anyone’s face. How do I know who to chat up?’
‘Right,’ I said, feeling that I’d asked for that one.
‘I mean, half the blokes are prettier than the girls. Speaking of which – eyeliner!’
He produced a stick of kohl from his inner pocket and presented it to me, point uppermost.
‘You really want me to do this?’ I asked, taking it from him.
‘Why not? I felt a bit naked up there at the bar. I need something to make my eyes flash villainously.’
‘They already do,’ I said, looking right into his heart of darkness. ‘OK. Hold still then.’
I started at the inner corner and began to draw a sweeping line across his eyelid, but his lashes flickered so madly that I had to keep giving up, laughing at his obvious panic.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But God, that feels unnatural. I keep thinking you’re going to poke me in the eye.’
‘I won’t if you just keep still.’
‘Hold my face,
