Dumped, Actually(39)

‘What?’ For some reason my heart rate has sped up.

‘Not on a date, of course. But if you’re going to meet a new woman, it might be a good idea for you to have some help. I’ve known you long enough to know that without it you’ll go out searching for new love . . . and come home with a new injury.’

I’d like to protest, but she’s 100 per cent correct.

‘What are you suggesting?’ I ask.

‘There’s a place I know that might do the trick. It’s quite upmarket. Lots of eligible singles for you to meet. It could be perfect.’ Erica smiles. ‘It’s certainly somewhere I’ve enjoyed frequenting on occasion.’

There’s a whole side of Erica Hilton I know nothing about. I feel more than a little nervous about finding out about it.

‘Okay. I guess that sounds . . . good.’

Erica laughs. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried, Ollie. We’ll just go along, have a couple of drinks and see if we can catch you someone nice. If not, you can just do a brief write-up on the bar itself and call it a day.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fine. Absolutely fine.’

Erica’s words calm me down a bit, but the prospect of even talking to a strange woman in a setting like the one she’s just described fills me with trepidation.

At least I won’t be going along alone. There’s something ever so comforting about Erica’s levels of self-confidence. With her along for the ride, I should be able to get through the evening without too many disasters befalling me.



It takes three attempts for me to settle on an outfit to wear.

I start off with a blue polo neck, black jeans and my least scuffed pair of Adidas. I send a picture of myself in this get-up to Erica, who almost instantly sends back a message saying, ‘NO, Ollie. Try again!’

My second attempt is, if anything, even worse. I pull out a pair of beige chinos that I haven’t worn in ten years, a purple shirt – because at one point it must have been fashionable, I guess – and a pair of black work boots.

Erica’s response to this ensemble is, ‘You look like you’re either searching for psychological help, or your next victim. Try again, Ollie. Put on something smart that you feel really uncomfortable in!’

Which sounds like strange advice to me.

However, I understand the genius of it, when I yank out the Moss Bros coal-grey suit I wore once to a wedding with Samantha and put the damn thing on. It’s awful. I feel deeply uncomfortable in it. Especially when I pair it with the slim-fit white shirt that Samantha made me buy to go along with it. And then there are the shiny black shoes, with the tops that cut into my ankles. I hate them so very, very much.

When I send a picture of me dressed in all this awfulness to Erica, I almost immediately get a response saying, ‘Great! That’s perfect! See you outside the bar in an hour!’

Why do I put myself through these things?

Because you know you might get a good story out of it.

I can’t really argue with that logic.

The taxi ride across town to the club is conducted with much chewing of fingernails. It’s probably a good job we arrive outside the place in less than half an hour, otherwise I’d be trying to chat somebody up with bloody stumps.

The club is called Manucode.

This sounds more like an order given to an IT worker by a caveman than the name for a nightclub, but what the hell do I know?

The club’s exterior looks exquisitely expensive. Which is to say, it’s minimalist in the extreme. This is not a nightclub that feels the need to advertise itself to all and sundry.

Its long, tinted-glass frontage is lit with cool blue spotlights, and I can just about see inside, to where the moody blue lighting appears to be continued around the whole club. It’s hard to make out much through the glass, other than the fact the place looks quite full.

It’s a wonder I’ve never heard of Manucode before – but then I remember who I am, and it makes perfect sense that I’ve never heard of it before.

There’s a simple but elegant sign above the double doors set at the right-hand side of the glass exterior, bearing the club’s name in that same cool blue. Standing in front is a bouncer in an equally elegant black suit. He has a pleasant, welcoming expression on his face, which is unusual for a bouncer, and is therefore quite worrying.

I bid the bouncer a good evening.

‘And to you, sir,’ he replies with a smile. Somebody working on a door who is this polite is probably incredibly dangerous.

I offer him a shaky smile in return and look out into the road to see another cab pulling up.

From it emerges Erica Hilton, and my heart sinks.

There’s no way I’m going to even get the chance to talk to another woman this evening, not with Erica looking like that. They won’t be able to stand the comparison.

Erica is wearing a dark-green evening dress that clings to places I didn’t know she had. I’ve only ever seen my boss in an efficient and straight-cut business pantsuit before. This dress tells me where all her curves are, and it’s making my knees tremble.

The redness of her hair is particularly deep this evening, and she’s worked it into a long elegant wave that must have taken hours to get right.

She walks up to me with the kind of grace usually reserved for endangered species on the savannah.

‘Evening, Ollie.’