Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(27)

I spit out some of the wine. “You think I’m brave enough to have a bath in our house? Hell, no.”

She puts her hand on her hip, waiting.

“Okay,” I admit. “I do think about him. Too much.”

She folds her arms. “And that’s exactly why I’m creating an online dating profile for you. If you’re not going to take Tristan Kane up on his offer, then we need to get you back in the dating game. Starting tonight. You’re twenty-five, not eighty-five.”

I nod hesitantly. “Fine. Speaking of online dating, did Aaron reply to you?”

“Damo,” she corrects.

“That’s the guy from Bumble?”

“No, you’re thinking of the estate agent. Damo is the fitness instructor from Tinder.”

“There are so many dating sites.” I try to keep up with Megan’s dates, but she switches them up a lot. Most guys get one date, max.

“Tell me about it.” She groans. “It’s an admin nightmare. If I make updates to my profile like adding a new picture, I have to push it out to all my dating apps. I need version control.”

“So Damo is the new one.” I need to start tracking these in a spreadsheet so I can keep up. “Didn’t you see Aaron, the estate agent, on Wednesday?”

She nods. “We went to the cinema. Such a nice guy. So considerate, kind, a true gentleman and he wants to commit to me.”

I smile. “Aaron sounds lovely!”

“Oh, he is,” she agrees. “But I’ve never been so bloody bored in all my life.”

I give her a blank look. “Then why are you still sleeping with him?”

She shrugs. “He’s so courteous, I feel it would be rude not to. I can’t tell him I don’t want to see him because he’s too nice.”

“A pity shag. But Damo is the one you’re interested in?”

Her mouth twists into a grin. “Yeah. We’re meeting tomorrow night. God, Elly, we haven’t even had sex but he’s so full of testosterone I worry I’m going to get pregnant just looking at him. If it goes well, I guess I’ll have to tell Aaron it’s over.”

I chuckle. I’ve only seen pictures of Damo but he looked like a hottie. “Just remember I can hear everything in the next room and I need a good night’s sleep before work on Monday.”

The queue moves forward until we reach the top, where four bouncers and a glamorous hostess check IDs.

“Hey.” I smile confidently, showing my driver’s licence. “The names are Elena and Megan. We’re on the list.”

The hostess doesn’t return my smile but looks down at her clipboard. Then she smiles brightly, a genuine smile.

I beam, and start to walk in.

Her arm blocks the way like a parking lot barrier. “You aren’t on the list.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. She must have made a mistake.

“You’re not on the guest list. Either pay thirty pounds for entry or leave.”

“But my friend got us on the list. Let me see, we should be on it.” I lean over to look, but she snaps it away.

“Honey,” she says, bored. “Read my lips. You’re not on the guest list.”

“Hurry up!” someone shouts from down the line. “Go in or get out of the bloody line!”

I don’t have time to call Sophie with everyone complaining behind me; that would mean leaving the queue, back to square one.

When I look at the hostess's face, I see my attempts are like arguing with a calculator. Pointless. “‘Fine,” I mutter. “We’ll pay.”

She turns to someone farther up the stairs. “Excuse me, Arnie?” Now she is yelling. “I have two non-VIPs here coming through paying full price. Non-VIPs.”

I feel the entire queue of eyeballs boring into the back of our non-VIP heads. Crying inside, I claw my card out of my bag. Thirty quid, and we haven’t even bought a drink yet. There’d better be a hot male burlesque dancer eating fire in here for us.

We are inside but penniless because of it. It’s pink, plush, and posh. I scan the bar quickly, looking for somebody famous. So far, the search is unsuccessful. We spot a few D-class celebrities from reality TV in the corner pretending to be bored and above all this.

Hitting the bar, we wait so long I feel like I’m queueing for my pension. I holler, “Four Pornstar vodka martinis” at the barman, making an executive decision to double up on our drinks. I’ve spent too many hours in queues tonight, and I’m not doing it again.

He presents them in teeny glasses with long stems and large lumps of passionfruit. I’m bemused by the passionfruit versus alcohol ratio in the glass.

“That’s £79.20, please.”

“Excuse me?” I feel faint. I thought vodka was a communist drink. “Can I see the bill, please?”

“Certainly.” The bill is presented like a crown on a little gold dish. I check to see what extra services I’m paying for. A foot rub? Down payment on a flat? Sex with a fire-eater? But no, a single Pornstar martini costs £16.50, and there’s a 20% service charge added on top! Whimpering, I present my card.

A banging tune comes on, and Megan sways against the bar, spilling sloshes out of her cocktail.

“Megan! You’re spilling a pound a minute there! Careful.” I bring the glass to my lips and sip. It burns my throat.