Page 48 of Something Borrowed

Stan’s head turns, a smile breaking over his face. “I’m fine, Neil,” he calls. “Your Steps album came in. It’s behind the counter.”

“Brilliant,” the man mountain shouts. “Come on through.”

Some men at the front of the queue grumble and mutter, but Neil gives them a steely glance, and they immediately pretend to be deep in conversation.

I clap him on the arm. “Cheers, mate.”

“You’re welcome. You going on to the Pink Parrot afterwards?”

Stan’s hand tenses on my arm, but I concentrate on answering Neil. He’s not the kind of bloke you like to have staring down at you while he waits for a response.

“Nope. Just me and Stan tonight.” I give Stan an encouraging nudge. “We must ration out his personality, as his friends canonly handle him in small doses. It’s my turn with him tonight.” I give a brave and loud sigh. “I have to be strong.”

Neil laughs, and Stan punches my arm. “Wanker.”

I’m smiling as we head into The Jampot, one of my favourite venues. The building is beautiful and has great history. In the sixties and seventies, it was a nightclub where all the big acts played. It went bankrupt in the eighties, shortly becoming a restaurant and then a bingo hall, and now it’s a nightclub again. The elements of its past are evident in the avocado green fittings in the bathrooms and the huge disco balls dangling from the ceilings. Some wag has decorated the old bingo calling box with a plastic skeleton that’s wearing a hair net and a ballgown.

Once inside, Stan folds his stick. After clipping it to the holster on the back of his jeans, he takes my arm, and I guide us through the entryway which is carpeted in red velvet.

When we get to the huge gilded double doors that lead downstairs, another bouncer called Ben signals us. I push through the crowd, Stan’s hand clutching tight to my arm.

“Beer’s here, boys,” Ben says, reaching down to produce two bottles and handing them to us.

“You’re wonderful,” Stan says.

Ben smiles and says, “My wife still talks about our wedding with stars in her eyes, mate. For that, Raff can have all the beer he wants.”

Ben had been made redundant when he and his fiancée Iris were planning their wedding with my agency. I’d grown attached to them, so I waived my fee and called in a lot of favours so they could still have the wedding they wanted.

I slap him on the back. “How’s Iris doing?”

His stern face always softens when he talks about his wife. “Much better now, thanks, Raff. The first three months are the worst, but the morning sickness has disappeared.”

“That’s great.”

Ben turns to open a curtain covering the wall. Then opens a door the curtain was hiding and gestures at me and Stan. “Through you go.”

“Why can’t we go through there?” the woman behind us asks sharply.

“Ah, these are VIPs, madam,” Ben explains.

After thanking him, I escort Stan through, and Ben closes the door behind us.

We start down a gloomy corridor, taking the route the stagehands and stars use to get from the dressing rooms to the stage. Since Stan and I are regulars, the management lets us use this back way, which is much easier for Stan to traverse than the steep central staircase that always has an eager crowd pushing and shoving along its narrow stairs.

I walk more steadily as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light.

“Is it as much like a rabbit warren down here as it feels?” Stan asks, totally at home in the darkness.

A man bustles down the narrow corridor, holding a coil of wiring. “Watch out,” I murmur to Stan, pulling him closer to my side and against the wall so the man can get past. Stan stiffens but then immediately relaxes into me, his body warm and familiar. The man gives us a harried nod and vanishes around the corner.

Instead of continuing, I find myself resting with Stan against the wall. It’s rather comfortable in the warm, dim light, and I’m enjoying a relaxed feeling that’s escaped me lately. Stan has always been able to simultaneously soothe me and make me feel more alive than anyone else.

I tighten my hold on him, and instead of pulling away as he has done for months, he melts into me, his arms coming around my waist. His breath is hot on my ear, and his hair is a silky caress against my chin. Unbidden, my fingers push into his silkycurls, scratching his scalp gently. He gives a half-stifled grunt, and I groan when his lips brush against my cheek. My hold on him tightens, and I’m just leaning close to kiss him, when footsteps make us jump apart.

The man from before appears around the corner. He gives us a curious look and walks away, leaving us in an uneasy silence. I try to think of something to say—anything that won’t result in more horrible awkwardness.

Stan straightens and asks, “Are we listening to the concert in a corridor tonight?”

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