Dumped, Actually(40)

‘What are you doing?’ I respond, forgetting my manners.

She looks taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

I hold out my hands. ‘Well . . . look at you!’

Her eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean?’ she repeats, her tone sharpened to a point.

I let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘How am I supposed to meet another woman with you looking that incredible? They’ll avoid coming anywhere near you!’

Erica smiles and pats my cheek. ‘Oh, Ollie. I think it’ll be absolutely fine.’ She turns to the bouncer. ‘Good evening, Carlo. How are you?’

‘I’m well, thank you, Ms Hilton,’ Carlo replies, opening the door as he does so. Beyond is Manucode’s main bar and dance floor, full of people who look like they most definitely belong in a swanky gaff like this.

‘I am not nearly cool enough to go in there,’ I say in almost a whisper.

Erica rolls her eyes and snakes one arm into mine. ‘Don’t worry, Ollie. I’ll be by your side, for as long as I need to be.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. Next to you, I look like a bin bag full of cold sick.’

Without saying anything else, Erica shakes her head, and then drags me through the door.


The floor of Manucode is all polished grey concrete flecked with gold. The walls are a crisp white colour, with the occasional expensive painting hung on them. The long bar that sticks out into the centre of the expansive room is replete with every single alcoholic beverage under the sun, and is lit with that same cool blue that dominates the entire club.

The most dominant feature of the place is a waterfall that runs across the whole back wall, down a vast sheet of glass and into a long canal at the bottom that’s full of what look like gemstones. Their water bill must be bloody astronomic.

The comfy-looking black chairs that sit around the shiny chrome tables have that simple sophistication about them that you just know would cost you an arm, a leg and most of your children’s future.

There’s a low stage in the far right-hand corner of the club, where a four-piece band is filling the air with a sweet-sounding Latin number. No cheesy DJ for Manucode tonight, it appears. Live music is the sophisticated order of the day for this place.

The whole club screams wealth and stylishness.

I scream doubt and reluctance right back at it.

And it’s full of exclusive-looking people, drinking exclusive-looking drinks, with exclusive-looking expressions on their faces. I bet when they need to relieve themselves of those exclusive-looking drinks they’ll go into exclusive-looking toilets and have an exclusive wee.

The only thing exclusive I’ve ever been near is a VAT bill.

‘Let’s go sit up at the bar,’ Erica suggests, before gently leading me over to it.

‘This is horrible,’ I tell her in a low voice.

‘Why?’

‘People might think we’re . . . you know . . . together.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘And you think that’s horrible?’

‘For you, yes.’

Erica doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead she turns to the barman, who has miraculously appeared in front of us. ‘Hello, Hector. A bourbon sour for me, and for my friend here . . .’ Erica looks at me expectantly.

‘A pint of Carling?’ I venture.

Hector looks like I’ve just wiped a bogey down his nose.

‘Get him a Peroni, Hector,’ Erica interjects. I look at her for a moment before nodding at Hector, who squints at me, before going off to get our drinks.

‘Now, Ollie,’ Erica says, laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘Just relax, and stop worrying too much. You don’t look out of place at all. Have a few drinks, chill out and we’ll see what happens.’

I nod my head again, uncertainly. Erica must be mad if she thinks I don’t look out of place in this club, but then if these people do think I’m her date tonight, then maybe I won’t look all that bad. Anyone with a woman like her on their arm can’t be a complete loser, can they?

As the evening starts to tick by, however, I come to realise that nobody thinks I am Erica’s date. Erica’s pet maybe, but definitely not her date.

She appears to be extremely well known by the club’s clientele. Not a minute seems to go by without somebody new and exclusive coming up to talk to her. Erica doesn’t need to move from our spot once to get into a conversation with somebody. They all just come to her.

I am roundly ignored as much as possible, except when she drags me into the conversation.

You know when you’re chatting to someone quite happily, and then they bring up how well their dog is doing after the rubber band was surgically removed from its bowels?

Yeah. That.

By the time an hour and a half has gone by, I’m frankly amazed I haven’t been given a pat on the head and a dog biscuit.

Erica keeps buying me Peroni beers, though, so I can’t complain too much, even though this is more or less akin to having my water bowl refilled every once in a while.

The chances of me meeting a woman with which to test Callie Donnelly’s thesis on getting over heartbreak are becoming less and less likely. Nobody wants to kiss the pet dog, do they?

Colour me totally surprised, then, when I’m suddenly confronted by Vanity.

Vanity is the name of a person dressed in a very tight black cocktail dress, rather than a general description of the crowd of people here gathered, I hasten to add. Though, come to think about it . . .