Page 37 of The Black Trilogy

“Oh, come on, don’t be frigid. I won’t disappoint.”

He pressed himself up against me and wrapped his arms around my waist. F-f-fudge, my reflexes had slowed. He’d attempted to kiss me before I got my brain in gear and kneed him in the crown jewels. As he doubled over, clutching his balls, I sidestepped neatly as he threw up. A rare smile played across my lips as he collapsed on the floor, and there was a satisfying rip as the back seam of his trousers split to reveal Winnie the Pooh boxer shorts. Classy. I melted into the gathering crowd and watched from a distance as two waiters helped the muppet out of the ballroom. Boom. Henry was done for the night.

An hour later, I’d had enough. The only thing worse than numpties hitting on me was drunken numpties hitting on me. That count ran into double figures. Worse, the DJ clearly had an auditory problem because not only did he have apalling taste in music, it could be heard in the next hemisphere, meaning the staff should have been handing out earplugs instead of bar snacks.

Our car wasn’t due until 2 a.m., three and a half miserable hours away. I’d rather have been caught in the middle of a battle with the Taliban than spend another three and a half hours there. A gunfight would be easier on my ears too.

Another inebriated guy wobbled past, patting me on the bottom as he went. He attempted a smile, but the overall effect was of a lunatic who’d just escaped the asylum. I didn’t even try to point out that his zipper was undone. I’m sure he’d have taken that entirely the wrong way.

A sigh from the bartender as he handed over another glass of iced water told me he found this as painful as I did. At least now I had something to empty over the head of my next overzealous admirer. I went back to my spot, only to find it occupied by a couple auditioning for their own porn film.

Why had I agreed to this? The old me would have had enough backbone to say I wasn’t going. Now I was stuck in the tenth circle of hell.

Through the disco lights, I spotted the doors that led back to reception. Surely there must be somewhere else I could hang out until it was time to leave? This was a hotel, after all.

Time for plan B.

CHAPTER 13

I EXITED THROUGH the double doors and followed the plushly carpeted corridor back towards the hotel reception. A night porter manned the desk, slumped down in his chair and looking as bored as I felt.

“Excuse me?”

He glanced up.

“Is there a bar or a lounge somewhere here? Other than the carnage back there, I mean.” I gestured back at the way I came.

“Of course, madam. The Thornton Bar is down that corridor, last door on the right.” He straightened up and pointed at a door on the other side of the room.

My eardrums rejoiced as the music faded, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in an oak-panelled bar. It was straight out of an old oil painting—the sort of room where a bunch of country gents would retire after dinner. They’d smoke cigars and discuss the important things, like how many pigeons they’d shot that afternoon. A series of dusty tapestries on the walls spoke of a slower-paced life, before the days of cars, aeroplanes, and the internet.

If only things could be so simple now.

The bartender looked like a relic from the past too. I sat down with my water, relishing the peace and resigning myself to a few hours of waiting.

Yes, I was still bored, but at least my head had stopped pounding. The room was almost empty—the only patrons were a couple in the corner having a quiet drink and a man at the bar staring into his glass like it held the answer to life’s troubles. Then the door crashed into the wall, disturbing the peace. All heads swivelled toward the newcomer.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

He lowered the average age of the customers by a decade or two. I guessed he was around thirty, and he’d have been considered handsome if his nose hadn’t been broken one too many times. The guy ordered a round of drinks, and the barman poured them so slowly that watching him would have benefitted from time-lapse photography.

“Have you got a tray?”

The barman shook his head and shrugged. Service with a smile in this place.

I wandered over. “Need a hand?”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. Do you want to order one for yourself?”

I looked back at the bar, where the old man was wiping a cloth backwards and forwards across the same bit of surface, over and over again.

“Perhaps not, eh? I have to leave at two, and Mr. Cheerful would still be pouring it.”

The stranger laughed and rolled his eyes. Between us, we grabbed the six drinks on the bar plus the glass of water I already had, and I followed him towards the lift.

“I’m Mark. I’d shake hands, but…”

“It’s fine. You’re staying here?”

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