Page 13 of Good Girl
It must have sounded insincere because once again he reaches over and puts his hand on my arm. ‘Are you sure about that?’
I sigh, feeling the weight of my anxiety about how difficult I’ve found it letting people into my heart, then shrug that off too. I mustn’t dominate the conversation with my personal angst; it’s not fair on Sandro.
‘Yes. At least, I will be once you’ve taught me how to be a master seductress,’ I joke, picking up my fork again and finishing off my meal.
I feel him watching me as I eat but I don’t look at him again until I’ve put my fork down and wiped my mouth on my napkin.
‘You want to get out of here?’ he asks, nodding at my empty plate.
‘Yes,’ I say, liking the idea of having a break from the intensity of sitting opposite him. ‘Good idea. I could do with some fresh air.’
So after Sandro’s settled the bill, which he insists on paying, we take a walk across the square and look around the basilica, enjoying a few minutes of cool relief from the balmy evening air. I’m acutely aware of his presence, even when he’s on the other side of the building, and I find myself drawn back towards him after only a few minutes on my own gazing at the beautiful Renaissance art. He’s a work of art all on his own.
‘So, do you still want to check out that club?’ Sandro asks as we exit the church into the now dark night-time air. I nod, recognising that I really should be making more of an effort to be the sort of party girl he’s used to being with.
‘Sure, it sounds like fun.’
‘I promise you, it will be. Giorgio’s clubs are something else,’ he says with a loaded grin and I worry for a moment about what we’re about to walk into.
When we get to the club—which turns out to be in the middle of a row of bars and restaurants round the corner from our apartment—the bouncer on the door looks me up and down as if he’s assessing whether I’m cool enough to be let in. My face flushes hot with embarrassment, as I suspect he’s about to decide that I’m not, when Sandro steps forward and gruffly tells him our names, protectively sliding his arm round my waist and pulling me close.
After that we’re waved straight through.
The magic ofwho you know.
Inside there’s a chrome and black lacquer bar in the middle of the room with a large crowd of people standing around it and a small dance floor off to one side which is heaving with dancers. On the other side of the room are high tables and stools, which are currently all occupied. It’s a popular place all right.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Sandro suggests, already heading to the bar. For some reason all the other patrons turn to stare at us as we approach and there’s something strange about the way the men are looking at me, almost as though they’re sizing me up. Do I really stand out so much in my demure cocktail dress? Surely I’m not making that much of a fashion faux pas?
Once we have our drinks, we stand by the bar and I watch the crowd of people around me. They’re all so confident and full of life, laughing and flirting with each other. I have a pang of longing to be one of them. To be part of a scene that I feel welcome and comfortable in. It must be lovely, being so assured of yourself and your place in society. I turn to look at Sandro, who’s staring over at the other side of the room where there’s a long, green velvet curtain pulled across what appears to be a doorway. A tall, burly bouncer is guarding it and, as I watch, he gives a nod to a man and woman who approach but stops a small group of men from entering.
I wonder what can be going on behind that curtain. Is there a smoky room full of card sharps back there, perhaps? Or a cool nineteen-twenties-style speakeasy, or a jazz cabaret? My heart leaps with excitement. I’d love to walk through that curtain and into the middle of one of those things.
‘Is there a poker game going on back there?’ I wonder aloud to Sandro.
He gives me an indulgent sort of smile. ‘Not exactly.’
‘So whatisit?’ I ask, irritated that he apparently knows and is enjoying the fact that I don’t.
‘It’s a playroom.’
‘A what?’ I have a vision of a room full of adults all playing with train sets and building blocks. It’s a weird idea, but then people can have strange fetishes—or so I’ve heard.
‘There are beds in there where people are having sex.’
‘In—in front of each other?’ I choke out.
There’s that indulgent smile again. ‘Yeah. Some people get off on that.’
Suddenly I can barely breathe. This is the sort of thing that only happens in stories, though, right? Surely people don’t actually have sex in public in real life?
From the look in Sandro’s eyes I’m guessing I have an awful lot to learn about ‘real life’.
‘Want to go in and check it out?’ he murmurs.
My first instinct is to sayhell, noand get straight back to the safety of our apartment, but something in his face stops me. He wants me to see it. To experience everything there is to know about sex. Just as I told him I’d wanted to on the plane.
So I swallow down my fear and give him a shaky but affirmative nod.
