Page 45 of The Gin Lover's Guide to Dating

‘Well… this is amazing.’ Amir grins. ‘What a turnaround in one night.’

‘Yes! Chica. You are living again!’ Reyes gives me a big hug.

‘Let’s toast this shit!’ Dylan holds up his pint, and we clink our glasses together in celebration.

‘This is a new start for me,’ I declare. ‘Sod them, sod the lot of them. I don’t need them. And I don’t need the corporate world. Maybe I’ll just stay working in the bar. Have a life that’s actually worth living. Well, I mean, I love gin. I even love learning about gin. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’m not quitting. I’m staying at the bar for good. I feel freer and happier already, just thinking about—’

‘Eh… Squirt…’ Dylan interrupts me. ‘I don’t mean to piss on your parade, but if you do that, you’ll be homeless in a matter of weeks. It’s great that you’ve finally woken up, and I’m really glad you’ve put those idiots behind you. But you still need a better-paying job, otherwise it’s back to the—’

‘OK, thanks, Dylan.’ I cut him off before he can reveal any more.

‘Would you really want to be stuck working for the beast indefinitely anyway?’ Amir offers.

‘Definitely not.’ I scratch my head in consternation, as the reality of my situation floods back in waves, pushing back the alcoholic haze that has clouded my judgement. ‘OK, not everything is solved. Obviously, I still want to find a job in my field. And I want my high-flying career. But at least I’ve realised who my real friends are, and I’m happy tonight!’

‘This is the spirit, Chica. To amigos!’ Reyes toasts me, and we all clink glasses again.

‘We’ll help you out of this hole.’ Dylan pulls me into a vice-like sideways hug that’s more of a headlock. ‘Because that’s what true friends do.’

Chapter 13

The next evening, although I’ve already shared my woes, Reyes and still I go for a drink as planned on our day off. She assures me it won’t be a big one. And that’s how it starts out – in an upmarket bar on George Street. But after a couple of hours and a handful of G&Ts, Reyes has other ideas.

‘OK. We go dancing now, Chica.’ Her eyes shine mischievously.

‘What. No.’ I wave my hands in a halting gesture. ‘I’ve got job-hunting to do in the morning. Plus…’ I wince a little ‘…I can’t actually afford to spend any more tonight.’

She cocks her head to one side. ‘Then I will buy these drinks. You need night out. I know good salsa club with great cocktails.’

‘Reyes, no. I can’t allow you to do that. All right, how about we go and I’ll just not drink. I don’t need to drink to enjoy a dance anyway.’

As I say this, I find myself wondering if there will be an entry fee, but I keep these further financial concerns to myself.

‘Muy bien,’ says Reyes. ‘Let us go then.’

We finish our drinks, then grab our stuff and head for the door. Once outside in the dry but gusty late evening, Reyes leads the way to Bar Latino, a basement club just five minutes away, in the West End. As we descend the steps, nodding a greeting at the door staff as we go, the hot and sexy salsa music drifts out from inside, making it almost impossible not to be drawn in by the rhythmical beat. Then on entering the club, which I’m pleased to note doesn’t charge for entry, we’re hit by a wall of humidity, a natural by-product of the passion-filled dancing inside.

We grab a table and make ourselves comfortable on the black leather-style tub chairs, then Reyes gets straight to her feet again.

‘I go to toilet. Back in a minute.’

As she disappears across the dance floor, I watch the people dancing with interest. There are couples getting up close and personal, and groups of friends connecting through their laughter and synchronised movement to the beat of the conga drums. My gaze then shifts to the tables surrounding the dance floor, which are filled with a similar demographic. Just as I’m watching a man being very unwillingly dragged onto the dance floor by his overenthusiastic other half, Reyes reappears and plonks a cocktail down on the table in front of me.

‘I said I wasn’t going to drink.’ I look up at her, half-shouting to be heard over the music. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Why I cannot buy you drinks?’ Reyes shrugs dramatically. ‘What is this? It is British thing?’

‘Huh? No. It’s…’

‘It is Liv thing.’ Reyes finishes my sentence with her own version before I can come up with a plausible response. ‘It is this pride. You need to shake off this pride.’

Realising there’s no way I’m going to win this, I give in. ‘Thanks for the drink, Reyes. That was very kind of you.’

‘You are welcome, Chica.’ She points at her drink, which is the same as mine. ‘This is caipirinha. This is cocktail to drink when dancing salsa.’

‘I’d have thought that would be a mojito or a margarita.’

‘They are also good. But they are… common as the muck, I think you say?’

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