“No. You wore them best!” she flatters.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I kiss Ella’s cheek. “You smell lovely,” I say.
“You smell of egg fried rice! Glove compartment”—she points—“there’s some mouth freshener in there.”
I peer in the tiny dark cubicle.
“This?” I ask.
“Yep. Spray it.”
“In my mouth?”
“Wherever!”
I ignore her and toss the mint mouth freshener back in the hatch, slapping it shut.
“I’m only joking—tell her, Runner—I’m only joking, aren’t I?”
“Shh,” I whisper, “I haven’t told her where we’re going.”
Ella cocks her head.
“Well, get a move on,” she says, “we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
All right, shh, I mouth.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll have a quiet word with her. Runner secretly likes me.”
“You think?” I say.
“I know!” Ella smiles.
“Hey, I’ve got some good news.” I shine. “That job I applied for, they called me for an interview.”
“Amazing. When?”
“Next week.”
I watch her face disguise her insecurity, a tinge of envy detected in her eyes because I know her so well.
“Cool,” she allows.
“This is great,” I say, pointing at the stereo, hoping the distraction might ease any awkwardness. “Who is it?”
Ella turns up the music.
“Haim. Three sisters, Californian. Super cool, right?”
We coast through Shoreditch, music filling Ella’s small Fiat Punto. I wind down my window, the bleed of acoustics escaping as the night air enters, blowing my hair—long strands sticking to my sheer lip gloss that I wipe away and tuck behind my left ear. Girls are out, in twos, threes, or more. Their sanguine arms linked as they head into Old Street’s lively bars, legs bare, skirts hitched.
Crawling up to the traffic lights, Ella stops and checks her lipstick. Cleans her teeth with her tongue and gives the lemon air freshener hanging from her rearview mirror a sharp flick. She releases the clutch. The slow vocals and off-kilter percussion telling me to let go, let go, let go. I close my eyes, releasing a muscle or two, working the words over in my mind like the lusty bounce of a yo-yo.
Yeah, that’s it, Oneiroi whispers, chill.
As I sense the Body ease back, my hand reaching to loosen and set free my hair, Runner steps out.
“Where are you taking us?” she snarls, eyes at half-mast.
Ella looks at me—us—sensing the switch, and presses down on the gas.
“To a sex club,” she says, “so either get on board, or get back inside.”
We park beneath one of the streetlamps in Hoxton Square.
Already, small groups of thirtysomethings are gathering. The neon light from Electra’s overhead sign casting a haze of magenta across naked shoulders and intimate holds. Two girls pull their boyfriends in close when they catch sight of Ella, her shoulders pulled back for extra zeal. Her swaying silhouette like the night glide of a lynx.
“He said to use the back entrance,” Ella says, looking past the crowd, then pulls me with her toward the rear of the club. An alley of shadows and stink.
The Electra Girls are outside smoking. I prepare inwardly for their mood—warm, dismissive—who knows? A beautiful red-haired girl reaches in her Prada clutch, retrieves a cigarette, and tilts her head to one side while her friend offers up a light. She throws her hair across her shoulder, avoiding any possibility of it going up in flames, inhales, head sliding back. The athletic brunette forces the lighter back into the pocket of her spray-on jeans, and then leans against the wall. A clear heel raised behind her. Tenderly they embrace between long drags of smoke.
Two brittle blondes, twins, join them, both with hair piled high like Mister Softee ice creams. Both younger, they smile, but not before sizing up the other two, a lightning dart from their heavily worked eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, turning to Ella, who squeezes my hand three times.
“It’s fine, come on,” she says. “We won’t be here long. Promise.”
A pause.
“Everyone inside okay?” she whispers, pulling me closer.
“What do you fucking think?” Runner snaps, hijacking the Body.
Ella stops and weighs up my tone.
“Sorry,” I say, nudging Runner back inside, “you know Runner. Can’t shut her up sometimes.”
Taking me by the shoulders, my Reason looks me square in the eyes. “Listen up, everyone,” she reassures us, “it’s gonna be fine. Trust me.”
Aimed at the Electra Girls, we head toward the alley. The sound of crashing bottles makes me jump and I scoot closer into Ella’s side.
I suddenly remember—nerves switched on—that the redhead is the girl who was gyrating on the nickel pole on Wednesday night. Up close, I realize she is older than I first thought. A mole floating on the top of her lip, age fixed with thick makeup and tight clothes. Her eyes are wide and buzzing, a sure sign she’s stoned.
“I’m here to see Navid,” Ella blurts.
Sniffing out her unease, the girls smile. Seemingly pleased that they have the upper hand.
“And who are you?” one of the Softee Sisters asks.
“Ella.”
“He never mentioned no Ella,” she says.
“Shaun, the barman, told me to come,” Ella responds. “Said Navid’s looking for someone to work reception, or the bar.”
The four girls look to one another and snicker. The athletic brunette adjusting her bra strap and checking her nails.
“Nice jacket,” the redhead says, pawing the collar of Ella’s new leather addition. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was a gift,” Ella lies.
The redhead strokes the hem, nods approvingly.
“He’s in the bar,” she allows. “Up the stairs, then take a left.”
“Thanks.” Ella smiles.
Shrugging, the other three let us pass. My back bristles knowing they’re watching us as we make our way up the steep flight of stairs. When I cut a glance over my shoulder, I notice the redhead still staring, her eyes fixed. Then she winks, sly as a cat. Stirred, I smile back.
A zigzag of black and white tiles leads us inside. Faux opulent deco with geometric shapes, mirrors, and chrome reflecting people’s moods. I hadn’t spotted on Wednesday night—my eyes fixed on a certain barman—how luxurious the polished walnut and black lacquered chairs were mixed alongside satins and furs. The seats are low and streamlined, angled for comfort in single pieces rather than suites, and on top of the bar: a huge silver airplane, wings three feet wide with propellers like giant kitchen whisks.
An Asian girl with a tight puckered mouth like the arse of a cat walks toward us wearing a short black skirt, stockings, and pearls. She strokes her long anise-brown hair, a wave of cascading curls. A headband securing her bangs.
“Is that a wig?” Oneiroi whispers, seizing the Body.
Back inside, I order again, reclaiming the Body, making sure to stay strong in the Light.
The Asian girl catches her reflection in an etched mirror next to a cream velvet loveseat, clearly not happy with what she sees. Furrows a penciled brow, adjusts a curl. I smile at her, but immediately she shoots me down with war-mongering eyes and a petulant mouth. Face hard and frozen.