‘Clubbing?’ I interrupt, trying not to splutter. ‘I thought we were just having dinner.’
She pulls a face at me. ‘Lisbon’s known for its nightlife. I thought we could head to this bar I heard about and then to a club …’
My expression must show my surprise because her smile fades.
‘Oh,’ she says, a little downcast. ‘I thought you’d be up for it.’
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to upset her but I’m definitely not up for clubbing. Honestly, I just want to go to bed. It’s my first night away from Marlow in nine months – my first night of freedom since she was born – and all I can think about is catching up on sleep.
‘I really wanted to let my hair down and have some fun,’ she says. ‘It’s been such a hard few months with the divorce.’
I nod, sympathetic. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
She gives me a little half-smile. ‘And it sounds like you could use a reminder of what it’s like to be footloose and fancy free.’
I sigh, letting her twist my arm. ‘Sure, we can go to a bar.’ I don’t say anything about the club though. I’m definitely not going out clubbing. Besides we’d surely be the oldest people in a club, like parents overseeing the school disco. Isn’t it a bit sad at forty to still be acting like one of the kids?
Grinning, Kate gets up from the table. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom. Back in a sec.’
I watch her weave between the tables, wondering if Kate will still be a wild partier in ten years’ time or if she’ll be a frumpy mum like me who just wants to stay home, read a book and get an early night. It’s hard to picture the latter. I imagine if she does have a baby she’ll be the most glamorous mum at school pick-up. Everyone else will be there in sweats and PJ bottoms stuffed into Uggs and Kate would be there with a full blow-out and wearing her Manolos. The thought makes me smile.
As soon as Kate is out of sight I pull my phone out to check my messages. There’s a sweet one from Rob telling me to have lots of fun. He’s sent a photo of him and Marlow. She’s sitting in her high chair, covered head to toe in orange sauce and looks like an Oompa-Loompa. Even her hair is standing on end, just like Rob’s does in the morning. The sight of them gives me an instant pang of longing. ‘I miss you,’ I text back.
‘We miss you too,’ he replies, with a heart emoji.
‘Remember to cut grapes in half,’ I type before deleting it.
When Kate returns from the bathroom it’s with a noticeable pep in her step. Her face is more animated, her gestures more jerky, and her voice louder. ‘Shall we get dessert?’ she asks, sitting down and grabbing for the menu.
I’m torn. My thighs don’t need the calories but, as Kate reminds me, ‘Toby’s paying,’ and I could use the extra carbs in my belly to soak up all the alcohol, especially if we’re heading to a bar next.
We order chocolate mousse and a Portuguese custard tart, which are both deliciously decadent, though Kate barely touches either. She’s become all fidgety and keeps pulling out her phone to check it. It buzzes in her hand and she frowns at whatever message pops up, then mutters under her breath.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ she says, furiously tapping a reply. ‘Just an angry client. Wants the impossible.’ She signals the waiter for the bill and then stands abruptly as the phone starts to buzz once more in her hand.
‘I have to take this,’ she says, already striding for the door.
I watch her through the window as she starts pacing up and down the pavement outside the restaurant, angrily gesticulating as she talks on the phone, and I wonder what the call’s about. A part of me secretly hopes that whatever it is will curtail the bar and clubbing adventure she has planned.
As I watch Kate a waiter comes and places the bill in front of me and I glance down at it, shocked at the amount – almost five hundred euro, mostly for the wine and champagne, but still, that is the most expensive sardine in history – before sliding it over to Kate’s side of the table. I feel awkward but she did say she’d pay. Or rather, that Toby would.
Kate returns a minute later and sits down, shoving her phone into her bag. Her face is red and her mascara has run a little.
‘Who was it? What happened?’ I ask in alarm. It’s not like Kate to cry. In fact I think maybe in the whole time I’ve known her I’ve only seen it happen a couple of times and once was while watching The Little Mermaid when we were hungover in our twenties, and she only cried then because she was upset Ariel gave her voice away for a man.
‘It was Toby,’ she admits, dabbing at her eyes. ‘The credit card company called him. They’d flagged unusually high spending.’
‘Oh,’ I say, trying not to glance in the direction of the bill.
‘Damn,’ she mutters, chewing on the skin by her thumbnail. ‘Bastard’s gone and put a stop on the card.’
I glance at the bill in front of her. She notices it too then bursts out laughing. ‘Shit! If only he’d waited five minutes.’ She rustles around in her bag for her wallet and fishes out another card. ‘Let’s hope this one works,’ she says, laying it down.
‘Why don’t I help?’ I say. ‘We can go halves.’
‘No,’ she says firmly, shaking her head. ‘I’ve got it. I’m the one who wanted to come here. Besides, once the divorce is finalised I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.’
‘How long will that take?’ I ask as the waiter brings the card reader over.
‘Who knows? My lawyer says it could take up to a year, maybe longer if he contests, which he will because he’s a shithead and doesn’t think I’m owed a penny. After putting up with him, though, I should say I’m owed the lot. I had to get tested for herpes and gonorrhoea thanks to his dirty little escapades. My lawyer’s putting it all in the papers. The judge will totally rule in my favour.’
‘But until then?’ I ask.
‘I’m earning enough,’ she says, waving a hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ She taps her number into the machine the waiter is holding and luckily the card is accepted. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not that Rob and I are broke – we both earn good salaries, though I’ve not been earning while I’ve been on maternity leave – but our mortgage is large and we’re saving up for an extension on the house. He’d go mad if he saw I’d spent five hundred quid on one dinner.
‘OK then,’ Kate says, with a dangerous sparkle in her eyes, ‘shall we go?’
Chapter Four
As we get in the Uber Kate’s phone buzzes again. She glances at it quickly. ‘It’s Toby,’ she says, huffing. She shoves the phone back in her bag. ‘He’s paranoid. Wants to know who I’m here with. As if it’s any of his business anymore who I’m with or what I do. For God’s sake,’ she says, as the phone keeps ringing. ‘I’m going to have to get a new number at this rate.’
The Uber driver looks over his shoulder at us. ‘Do you have the address?’ he asks gruffly. He’s in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a darkly stubbled jaw that looks like it could sand rust off a ship’s hull.
‘It’s a bar called the Blue Speakeasy,’ Kate tells him. ‘Do you know it?’
He nods and starts driving.
‘Are you sure you don’t want some?’ Kate asks me and I look down to see she’s holding the little pillbox in the palm of her hand. I glance at the driver then back at Kate, shaking my head and widening my eyes in warning.
Completely unabashed, she sprinkles some of the white powder onto the back of her hand and then snorts it, throwing back her head to sniff loudly, before wiping a hand under her nose. I shoot a look again at the driver and find him watching in his rear-view mirror.
‘Are you from here?’ I blurt out, trying to distract him, though it’s rather too late for that. He’s obviously seen.
‘No. Kosovo,’ he answers before his gaze shifts back to the road. ‘But,’ he goes on, ‘I’ve been here a long time.’
‘Your English is good,’ I comment.
‘Thank you.’
He glances at me again in the mirror. ‘Are you from the UK?’
‘Ireland,’ I tell him. ‘But I live in London.’
‘The Irish are good people,’ he says. ‘They are good at talking.’
I laugh. ‘Yes, I can’t argue with that. We do like a good conversation. And a drink!’ I’m blathering, aware that Kate is still messing around with her pillbox. Is she doing another line of coke? Dear God, how does she stay standing?
‘How long have you been driving an Uber?’ I ask, over-eagerly.
‘A few years,’ he says. ‘It pays the bills.’ His gaze shifts to Kate, who has pulled out her phone again and is busy texting, stabbing at the buttons in a frenzy while muttering to herself.
The Uber driver drops us a few minutes later in what appears to be a red-light district. ‘The bar is just up that alleyway,’ he says pointing to a narrow, cobbled lane to our right that is inaccessible to cars. ‘Have a good night,’ he says as we get out.
‘You too,’ I start to say but Kate slams the door shut.
‘He’s not getting a tip,’ Kate remarks, linking her arm through mine as he drives away.
‘Why not?’ I ask.
‘I saw the way he was looking at me in the mirror.’
‘You were snorting coke in the back of his car, Kate.’
‘Oh please,’ Kate scoffs. ‘It’s not like I vomited all over the seats.’
At the mention of the word vomit I notice how queasy my stomach is. The alcohol is sloshing around with the Michelin-starred sardines, but gamely I swallow down the acid taste of bile in my mouth and follow Kate down the alley.
It’s past midnight and the main streets all around are packed with people, mostly buzzed tourists, wandering between bars and open-air cafés and clustering in the middle of the road, oblivious to the fact it’s not a pedestrianised zone and that cars are trying to squeeze past them.
The alley with the Blue Speakeasy is quiet though, skipped over by the tourists. We spot several people standing outside a door beneath an electric blue light, smoking and vaping. I notice even from a distance of a hundred yards that this crowd seems sophisticated and better dressed, as though they’re all models posing for a photoshoot, or artists hanging outside a hip new gallery opening.
One glance as we get closer tells me they’re locals, not tourists. It’s not just the olive skin and dark hair on display, or the fact they’re way better looking and a lot more glamorous than the people you see gathered outside pubs in London’s Soho or stumbling drunk and rowdy through Leicester Square. They seem to exude exoticism in a way that makes me, frankly, very jealous. I might have inherited the Irish gift of the gab but I’d definitely swap it for whatever magic gene these people are obviously gifted at birth.
As we approach – Kate leading the way with her head held high and her gold heels striking the cobbles like flint – I notice a red velvet rope in front of the door and a boy standing in front of it holding a clipboard as though it’s a ceremonial shield. My gut clenches tightly as we reach him. It reminds me of being twenty-five and trying to slip the line at Cargo by flirting with the bouncer, except that was then and this is now and I’m not sure I’ve got the balls or the blag or the confidence of youth to pull it off. But Kate says something to him, something I don’t hear, then hands him something I don’t see, and suddenly the red rope is lifted and we gain entry.
The bar is lit like the inside of a crypt, flickering candles on the tables look like votives and in dark alcoves ghost-like shadows stir. Kate pushes her way through the crowd, ushering me ahead of her as I imagine she does with her famous clients at premieres when she’s trying to get them past the paparazzi and to the best spot on the red carpet to have their photo taken. The place is busy and a heavy beat thrums in the spaces between all the packed bodies, making my head pound and sweat break out on my brow.
Kate elbows her way to the front, gets the attention of the barman and then shouts over her shoulder at me. ‘What do you fancy?’
I glance at the multitude of bottles behind the bar and my stomach responds with a gurgle. ‘Water,’ I shout back, trying to be heard over the percussive thump of the music and roar of conversation.
Kate rolls her eyes at me. ‘Water?’
‘Yes, tap’s fine,’ I say, glancing around. It doesn’t look like there’s a table free. Are we going to have to stand among the shouting, overheated bodies to drink our drinks? I hope not. It crosses my mind once again that I’m getting far too old for this. I’d rather be in bed, in my pyjamas, reading a book, or scratch that, sleeping. Kate hands me a glass of water and then, with her own cocktail in hand, pushes her way across the bar area, towing me behind her, like an old rowing boat attached to a fancy pants yacht.
She makes a beeline straight towards the booths in the shadowy recesses along one side of the room and stops beside one. Two men are sitting there.
‘Mind if we join you?’ Kate asks them.
I start to open my mouth to protest the intrusion and pull Kate away – the booth is small after all and we’d have to squeeze in next to them on the leather banquettes – but one of the men smiles and gestures to the seat beside him.
‘Of course, please be our guest.’
Kate sits down right beside him, forcing him to squeeze over to make room. Embarrassed at Kate’s forwardness, I perch on the very edge of the banquette opposite. ‘Hi. Sorry,’ I say, smiling apologetically at the man next to me.
He smiles back at me. ‘No problem.’
‘I hope we’re not … intruding.’ I say, stumbling over the last word as my brain processes just how ridiculously, insanely good-looking he is – almost unreally so. He’s about thirty, I’d guess, with thick dark hair, tanned skin and luminous green eyes framed with lashes so long and so thick they look false. I wonder if he’s a model or an actor. He is, without a doubt, the best-looking person I’ve ever seen in real life. His skin is smoother than cream, so flawless it’s like he’s wearing a magic foundation.
‘Not intruding at all,’ he says, smiling at me in a way that suggests our interruption is the best thing that’s happened to him all night.
I glance over at Kate who is chatting to the other man. He’s just as gorgeous; darker-skinned, with almond-shaped eyes and cheekbones you could slice Parmesan on. Are all Portuguese people this beautiful? Kate says something to make the man next to her laugh and his teeth flash white in the darkness.
‘I’m Joaquim,’ the man next to me says.
I turn back to face him and find him holding out his hand to me. I shake it. ‘Orla,’ I say, noting the fluster in my voice. ‘Nice to meet you.’
He nods at his companion. ‘This is Emanuel.’
I shake hands with Emanuel too, who grins back at me. They’re both dressed in expensive-looking clothes: dark trousers and crisp shirts, the top buttons undone. My gaze starts to track downwards before I stop myself.
Even more flustered I turn back to Joaquim. ‘Are you from here?’ I ask, aware as soon as I say it that it sounds like a pick-up line. I cringe inwardly.
‘Yes,’ he answers, his voice mellow and husky. ‘You?’
‘No, can you tell? I’m actually from a little town in Ireland. More a village really. You won’t have heard of it. People have only ever heard of Dublin. But I live in London now. I have done for almost twenty years. I suppose it’s home. Though I haven’t lost my accent.’ I’m prattling on, my face heating up like an electric hotplate. I can’t take my eyes off him but I’m also too overwhelmed by his beauty to hold his gaze for longer than a second. I feel almost star-struck and internally berate myself for acting like a teenage girl stuck in an elevator with her boy-band crush. I’m a grown woman.
‘I love London,’ Joaquim says.
‘Yes, it’s a great city,’ I say, nodding enthusiastically and glancing over at Kate. She’s locked in conversation with Emanuel, leaning her head close in to his as though she’s struggling to hear him, though in this corner the music isn’t as loud.
; ‘How long are you here in Lisbon?’ Joaquim asks.
I look back at him. He’s moved his arm so it’s now resting along the top of the banquette behind my head.
‘The weekend only,’ I say, reaching for my drink. ‘I’ve got to get back.’ I stop myself abruptly. I’d been about to say ‘to my baby’ but I wrenched on the brakes for some reason.
‘Do you have plans?’ Joaquim asks.
‘What?’
‘Do you have plans while you’re here?’
‘Er, yes,’ I say feeling massively self-conscious under his gaze. ‘We’re doing an e-bike tour tomorrow morning, taking in all the sights. I’ve heard that you need an e-bike. I don’t much fancy pedalling up all those hills! And then we’re doing a food tour in the afternoon.’
‘There’s great food in Lisbon. Maybe I can show you some places.’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘we just ate actually.’
‘I meant tomorrow.’
I’m too startled to respond at first. Is he asking me out? Surely not? But it did sound like he was. I’m so out of the flirting and dating game I have no idea whether I’m reading into things. Probably. Why on earth would he want to go out with me? Not withstanding the fact we met less than a minute ago, I’m old enough to be his mother – almost, and he’s so beautiful he could have anyone.
‘Tomorrow?’ I echo, trying to gauge his intent a little more.
He nods enthusiastically. ‘There’s a little place I know. Only locals go there. It would be my pleasure to take you.’
‘Um …’ I flounder. Now is probably the time to mention I have a husband. But what if I’m reading into things wrong and he’s just being friendly? He might think it odd if I lob the fact that I’m married into the conversation like a hand grenade.
I look to Kate, but she’s fully turned to Emanuel – I watch her hand brush his arm as she throws back her head and laughs uproariously. A penny drops. This is why we’re here, why she made a beeline for this table – Kate’s on a mission to pull! And it looks like she’s succeeding. Emanuel’s hand is on her thigh, inching north. Damn it that was fast, I think, then remember Kate’s pre-Toby days. Within minutes of entering a club Kate would have located the hottest man on the dance floor and would be gyrating up against him. She’s like a homing pigeon for hot men. And nine times out of ten they respond like … horny pigeons I suppose.
The Weekend Away Page 4
