Cocktails and Dreams

by A. L. Michael

  I shook my head, eyes on the bar, jaw set.

  ‘Right,’ I heard him say quietly, as the MC went on stage and the lights dimmed. ‘We’re having tequila later.’

  ‘I don’t drink tequila.’

  ‘Tonight you do.’ He fluttered his eyelashes and stalked off, blowing a kiss to the hen party near the stage.

  I shrugged and just carried on making the drinks. I’d only been at the Martini Club a few months, but, on a normal day, I loved it. Something about the low lighting, the thrum of the music and the sultry voices. All these funny, smart, beautiful people who knew how to be sexy and playful. I wasn’t like that at all. I have always been, and probably always will be, what people call diminutive. I’m too calm, I’m too reserved. I’m, quite frankly, a cold fish. And that hurts, but it’s who I am.

  But at the Martini Club, five nights a week, I served drinks to strangers who were thrilled by everything. It wasn’t great money, enough to get by, but I was a little bit addicted. Addicted to the customers looking across the dark bar, taking in my silk corset and heavy eyeliner and little grin, and seeing someone alluring. Because it was always too loud to speak, and eye contact is one of the sexiest things there is. I got to be someone else for a while.

  * * *

  Which is the other awesome thing about being a bartender – the minute the lights go down and the real stars swan out into the spotlight, you’re invisible again.

  There was safety in the job, in pretending to listen to the music, in remembering the perfect balance of gin in the cocktail, putting in little twists of mint to add flavour, enjoying it as a science, the way I used to love cooking. The magic deliciousness of chemistry.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ My boss, Arabella, raised a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow and jutted a hip. ‘You look like someone kicked your puppy.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, just… stop looking like that. It’s making me have feelings. And I don’t have feelings during work hours. I am simply here to be adored.’

  Arabella spoke like she’d swallowed a polo mallet and had a pet pony called Muffin. If I’d passed her on the street, with her dark, swishy hair, and her curvy figure in those designer dresses, I would have sworn she was from money. I wasn’t entirely sure of much, but at the end of the night on a crappy week, she drank a beer from the bottle and took off her heels, sighing, ‘Friggin’ bloody Nora,’ to herself. That didn’t sound like private school to me. I had a feeling her name wasn’t even Arabella.

  ‘Of course, majesty.’

  She bared her white teeth at me. ‘Much better, darling. And lean forward a little when you make the drinks, would you? It’s all about spectacle.’

  ‘You know, you’d make an excellent pimp.’

  ‘The term is madam, sweetheart, and I know,’ Arabella winked, her thick winged eyeliner fluttering with the movement. ‘And if I was that excellent, I’d tell you to buy a push-up bra and a deeper shade of red lipstick… but I won’t!’

  I pressed my lips together and snorted quietly, trying not to grin. As bosses went, she was strange, but she was excellent. And that wasn’t a bad way to describe a person. I wished someone would describe me that way one day.

  I looked across the room at the expectant faces, all staring up at the stage in awe. I liked how anyone would know this place was Arabella’s – it looked like her. The black glittering stage, catching the light and shimmering like diamonds, the thick purple velvet curtains hiding those long limbs and glimpses of bare skin, right through to the oversized Martini glass at the back of the stage, a homage to Bel’s idol – Dita Von Teese. ‘One day, she’ll come. I’ll book Dita, and those investor dickheads will choke on their double macchiatos,’ was Arabella’s war cry. Sometimes she said it at the beginning of the night, as if she was going to magic the burlesque goddess out of thin air, like a mantra. Say it three times, bounce glitter off your bosom, and she will appear.

  So far, her dreams had not become a reality. But the Martini Club was packed every night of the week, with patrons looking for complicated drinks and tasteful nudity. I loved the bar the most. It was black with gold glitter. I don’t know whether it was incredibly expensive imported granite, or Arabella had spent nights when she bought the place lacquering it with sparkly nail polish, but either way, I loved to slide a drink across it and see the sparkly reflection shining up. Drunk girls at the bar on Fridays often tried to take pictures of the glittering images of themselves they saw in the bar top, and usually ended up with bumped heads and blurred photographs. I thought there was a poetry in that.

  The deep purple velvet booths matched the curtains, and the chandeliers from the ceiling shimmered. The Martini Club offered more than enough dark nooks and crannies to disappear into, but you were never quite out of sight. That was the delicious danger of it. You could be plucked from the audience in an instant, questioned and flirted with (when Gem was hosting) or treated to a dance (if Charlotte was feeling particularly feisty that evening) – anything was possible.

  ‘Cheers.’ Jacques collected the drinks. ‘Wish me luck, the grannies at table nine are practically drooling. Gagging for it.’

  ‘Oh, you love it.’ I pushed the tray over.

  ‘Being treated like a piece of meat, lusted over and adored for my body, my mind and personality cast aside like they’re meaningless?’ Jacques grinned, ‘But of course, darling, what’s not to love?’

  The MC’s voice filtered through the air over the tannoy, whispering and deep: ‘Well now, darlings, hope you’ve had yourself a tipple and got yourself good and ready because it is about to get downright filthy in here. Let’s welcome to the stage our surprise performer for the evening… the best bartender in the city… the abs of steel all the way from sweet Paree, Monsieur Jacques!’

  The hooting and cheering filled the room like dust from an explosion, settling into awe as the music started. Jacques knew how to move, every muscle bending or stretching exactly as he intended, as he jumped from one hand to the other, back flipping, and eventually did a handstand on one hand, on top of a pole in the middle of the stage. He added in a few thrusts for the female members of the audience, and a quick smooch for grandma, and then he tilted his fedora and was gone from the stage, to roaring applause.

  Always left them wanting more. Popped on to the stage, shocked them with the fact that he was almost undercover as a bartender, as if bartenders can’t be talented people who do other things, and then off he went.

  I saw the grandma fanning herself in the corner and her friends cackling. It was a good place to be, just the right level of sordid.

  The night passed in a blur, the same way it always did, a mixture of elation, exhaustion and constantly pushing Rob to the back of my mind. Her name’s Leah. Her name’s Leah. I didn’t let myself think beyond that. Where he might have met her, what she looked like. I bet she was vivacious, outgoing, fun. I chucked the glasses in the dishwasher and growled at myself. Not going there. Get angry, not sad.

  I suddenly felt liquid splash across my hand, and looked up.

  Jacques grinned, glitter on his eyelashes, fedora tilted jauntily. ‘You looked like you were trying to break that shot glass, so I thought I’d better fill it for you. Come on.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘We’re closed, the dishwasher’s on, the bar’s clean and stocked, and Bel’s cracking out the good whisky. Come on.’

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me through to the back of the bar. The performers were lazing in various states of undress. Some were already in their normal clothes, and I loved to see Miss Jolie and Vixen La Grande (Taya and Charlotte) sitting there in full stage make-up and baggy hoodies with jeans. They were unwinding, stretching out in the booths, and it was like walking up to the popular kids at school, all of them turning to look.

  ‘Look who I found, insisting on working,’ Jacques presented me, and I resisted the desire to do a pathetic little wave.

  Taya patted the space next to her. ‘Come sit! W
hat’s going on? Jacques says you’re miserable.’

  I felt flattered sitting there, these people listening to me. Jacques nodded at me to continue.

  ‘I’m not miserable… I just got dumped, but I’m not miserable. I think that maybe that’s a problem. I’m angry and irritated and really, really pissed off… but I’m not miserable.’

  Taya nudged me with her shoulder. ‘That might be a sign this was a good thing, babe. Were you happy with him?’

  ‘I… like routine. And safety. And it had been nine years. I liked the way we worked.’ I shrugged, wondering if I would get tearful. ‘Yeah… I love him. Loved… love. Urgh.’

  ‘Nine years with the same cock?’ Jacques shook his head, ‘Baby girl, the world is your oyster. Or phallic sea creature. Lobster?’

  ‘Bleugh.’ Charlotte made a face at me, and Taya laughed, shaking her head, reaching across to tap my leg.

  ‘Safety is not love.’

  ‘It’s the only love I’ve known,’ I felt immediately foolish, like a 16-year-old in the group of older people, revealing my immaturity and lack of experience. To admit that love was only security, to a group of people who sold the possibility of love, the lust of a single glance or a shoulder shrug, desire in the dimple of a thigh. It was preposterous.

  Taya grabbed my chin suddenly, and grinned at me, her face so close to mine that I could see the slight laughter lines and the tired eyes and the fake eyelashes starting to come unstuck. I was suddenly less intimidated by her, sitting there, halfway between a siren and a mess. ‘Then you thank your lucky stars, my love, because now you can find out what it’s really all about.’

  Arabella thundered over, hips jutting in her floor-length black dress, the slit halfway up her thigh. She raised an eyebrow at my presence, but slid over a glass as she poured the whisky.

  ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘Savvy’s fella dumped her,’ Charlotte said simply, ‘but she’s going to be just fine.’

  ‘Oh, thank bloody goodness!’ Bel squawked, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘That boy was a joke. You spend your evenings here and your days working in that office so he can swan about and play songs at parties and go on Z-list celeb reality TV shows! Total joke. Have you ever thought about what your dream might be, whilst you were funding his?’

  ‘I-I don’t know.’ I didn’t even know Arabella had heard much about Rob. I guess I’d mentioned he was a DJ, but…

  As if reading my mind she said, ‘He came in here, tried to get me to book him a slot for the New Year’s party, if you can imagine. Tried to use your name to do it. Looked a right fool.’ She nodded at the full glass: ‘Bottoms up.’

  I downed the drink and winced. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because, even though you’re rather quiet, darling, and I could be wrong, I think you’re kind of a smart cookie. And you have to wait for girls to outgrow their first loves.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Taya rolled her eyes. ‘I shall have you know I married the first man I ever loved and we are very happy.’

  ‘And when did you meet him?’

  ‘When I was 26,’ she cackled. ‘They’re all true love until one of them makes you feel like your heart wants to snap and your stomach churns and you want to throw up and dance and turn yourself into particles to surround them with joy while they sleep, so they always know they’re wanted.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘And then you know.’

  ‘Vomiting, chest pain and the desire to leave my physical body and become particles… okay, I’ll keep an eye out for that.’ I laughed.

  ‘Sweetheart, we’re not joking here,’ Jacques said seriously, leaning in. ‘What do you want to do with your life? What are you good at?’

  I shrugged. ‘Being invisible.’

  I listened as they tried to tell me that wasn’t true, and it was nice of them, but they were wrong. They’d known me a few months, as a quiet, hard-working bartender. I was just the petite blonde girl who had to ask for help with her eyeliner and didn’t know how to get a corset fitted.

  Before that, I had always been invisible. I was the daughter of Persephone Black, international superstar. The number of times I’d been pushed aside at a concert, her loyal fans reaching out for her, knocking me back, until I couldn’t catch up with her, was unbelievable. No one ever realized I was gone.

  It had been fun, for a while, being the invisible kid. We loved to play hide and seek, me and my mother. Moving from hotel to hotel, city to city, we would hide and seek in hotel lobbies and under bars, behind heavy curtains and beneath beds. One time I’d spent an hour and a half looking for her in a hotel in Leeds. She was due to be on stage in a couple of hours, so I knew I had to find her quickly. I did find her, eventually. In the women’s toilets in the hotel bar, having sex with a bartender. I saw those goddamn brown cowboy boots with the daisies stitched up the side, alongside black, shiny shoes, and heard those breathless gasps and groans, increasing in speed and desperation. I thought she was being sick. I didn’t really know what it meant at all, but when she emerged from the bathroom stall, checking her lipstick and washing her hands, her eyes met mine in the mirror. She blinked, once.

  ‘Your turn to hide, baby girl.’ Her eyes didn’t stray to the dark-haired male, exiting stage left, as she wiped away a stray smudge of eyeliner. ‘Go on, your turn.’

  I’d gone, hidden on the tour bus. Which was where they found me the next morning, huddled and shivering in my sleep. The whole night, and no one had wondered where the child was.

  But I didn’t tell them that, because things changed when people knew your mother was a superstar.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not invisible.’ Charlotte rubbed my arm, her eyes wide and kind. ‘You just haven’t found your sparkle yet.’

  I opened my mouth to tell her I didn’t mind being invisible, that it could be a superpower if you let it, hiding in plain sight, but I thought maybe she was right. I hadn’t found my sparkle.

  Maybe it was time to try.

  Chapter Three

  I arrived back at Jen’s at two a.m. I would have asked Dad for a lift, but as he’d already taken me all the way into central London, and then gone back to retrieve my stuff from Rob’s (not ‘ours’ any more), I didn’t want to ask. Just because your dad’s a cabbie, it doesn’t mean you can take the piss. Although I did love those evenings when he finished early, and we caught up on the drive home. It was our ‘thing’ and another advantage of working at the Martini Club.

  I reached for the huge fluffy purple pom-pom and picked out the key I hadn’t used in ages. I’d never needed to – Jen had always been standing at the window waiting, throwing open the door by the time I walked down the drive, that huge smile on her face.

  I slipped the key gently into the lock, reaching out in the dark for the hall table. Three steps forward, one to the left. Take off the shoes. Four steps forward to the kitchen. I pushed open the door, and Jen was sitting there in the same blue fluffy dressing gown with the daisies on. The same dressing gown she’d worn every night waiting for me to get in as a teenager. She smiled at me, and gestured at the pot of tea on the table, my yellow bumble bee mug sitting ready.

  ‘What are you doing up?’

  Jen smiled. ‘First night home, lovely, you think I’m not going to wait up?’

  ‘Home,’ I sighed, falling into the seat and reaching for the teapot.

  Jen always had one of those faces that radiated kindness. Even at two a.m., when there was sleep in her eyes, yawns hidden behind her cheeks, she smiled.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?’ I steeled myself, looking at the dark liquid in my mug, cupping my hands around it.

  ‘Savannah.’ There was a smile in her voice, so I looked up. ‘I have known you forever. You take your time and come to me when you’re ready.’

  I felt my throat close, and pressed my lips together. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can I make one suggestion, though?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Stop temping. You wer
e only doing it for the extra cash to cover –’

  ‘– Extra bits and bobs.’

  ‘– Rob’s spending.’ She raised an eyebrow and I sighed, deflated.

  ‘I was saving for a holiday.’

  ‘You can do that anyway now,’ Jen said, regarding me shrewdly. ‘Call the temp agency tomorrow and say you don’t need it any more. It was wearing you ragged. Stay at the bar. You like the bar.’

  ‘How do you know I like the bar?’

  ‘Because you have had an incredibly crappy day, and you’re still standing, still smiling, and you’re starting to look very comfortable in a corset, which is a gift that shouldn’t be squandered.’ Jen winked slowly, and looked ridiculous.

  ‘I’m not smiling,’ I said seriously. ‘My life is over.’

  ‘Savannah, we both know that’s not true, and don’t for a minute pretend that you believe that.’

  I widened my eyes. ‘Excuse me! Where’s the sympathy here? I’ve lost my partner, my home, I’ve been betrayed! And all anyone keeps telling me is that I’m better off, and it’s all for the best! It’s horrible!’

  Jen shook her head and reached forward to stroke my hair, her dark features so different from me, and from my mum. Her dark pixie cut and tatty dressing gown in comparison with Persephone Black’s endless flaxen curls and her cowboy boots.

  ‘I am sorry you’re hurting, lovely girl. I’m sorry that boy betrayed you, I’m sorry that place is no longer your home. But I would have been so much sorrier if we were having this conversation in ten years’ time, when you had wasted two decades on a man who didn’t deserve you.’

  She stood then, kissing me on the forehead as she had so many times when I was a child, unsure and upset, not knowing how to share my feelings or ask for help.

  ‘Missed you, gorgeous girl. Welcome home.’

  ‘Night, Jen.’

  ‘Night, Sav.’

  I sat for a few more moments before taking my tea up to my bedroom, where my darling dad had put all of my boxes, piled neatly. On the top, Jen had placed a pair of pyjamas and my toothbrush.