Page 56 of Charlie Sunshine
Doug shakes his head gravely. “Misha, meeting the right person makes every man a poet.”
“Well, thank goodness it’s never happened to me, then,” he says grumpily. “I don’t think I’ll enjoy sounding like a complete tit.”
“Ah, Misha,” Doug says heartily. “Are yousureyou haven’t met the right person yet?” Misha stares at him, and Doug sighs. “In the future, I’m going to enjoy talking to you about tonight,” he says happily. “I will treasure it forever. It’s already evergreen in my memory.”
“Doug,” Rupert says heartily. “Ireallyneed you to look at something on my phone.”
“But, Rupert, is it wise to pull me away from my soulmate?”
“Not only wise, it’s quite essential,” Rupert says. His expression is somewhat grim as he drags Doug away.
I glance at Bethany. She’s become bright red in the face. “Are you alright?” I ask her.
“Fine.” I’m sure I hear suppressed laughter in her voice. I narrow my eyes at her, and she immediately becomes absorbed by the action on the dancefloor. “I love this song,” she says brightly.
“So do I,” Misha says grimly and grabs my arm. “Come on.”
He drags me down the stairs, and, as I stumble after him, I say, “Didn’t I tell you that your club persona was a bit too caveman? This isexactlywhat I was talking about.”
He grunts. “I don’t think you have any room to talk after making eyes at Doug like that. He’s so cheesy he was giving a packet of Wotsits a run for their money.”
“He was very charming. Didn’t you hear what he said about librarians?” I shout over the music. I pause to consider his words. “I wasnotmaking eyes at him,” I say indignantly.
“You were practically fluttering your eyelashes at him.”
A man suddenly approaches me with grabby hands.
“No, fuck off,” Misha says sharply. “He wants to dance, not be groped by a complete twat.”
“Misha,” I say, shocked. “That’s so rude. I’m sorry,” I say to the man. He merely grins and disappears back into the crowd.
Misha pulls me onto the crowded dance floor, already moving with the sultry beat of the music.
“I love this song,” he shouts with a grin.
I laugh, all concerns gone. “Me too.”
He drags me closer, and we start to dance. Our bodies move smoothly in a syncopated rhythm that’s been hewn on dance floors all over London. We’ve been dancing together since we were sixteen and snuck into our first club. All my happy club memories include Misha.
We fall into our own rhythm, and song after song plays, our only reality the pulse of the beat, the cheers of the crowd around us, and the smell of sweat, aftershave, and dry ice. Bethany and Rupert join us for a few songs, appearing with water and then disappearing back to the side of the dancefloor, where I catch a glimpse of them laughing and talking. I smile and dance closer to Misha, pointing them out.
He gives them a quick glance and smiles before dragging me closer. “Hope their togetherness is sticking,” he shouts.
I throw my arms around his neck as he starts a bump and grind to Prince screaming about a girl called Nikki masturbating in a hotel lobby. I smile at the sight of Doug dancing nearby with a handsome redhead. He looks up and gives me a cheeky wink before turning back to the other man.
I nestle closer to Misha, following the rhythm of his hips seamlessly. “Rupert and Bethany belong together,” I say into his ear.
He looks over at them again, but I can tell he isn’t seeing them. His eyes are busy, occupied with something that seems deep inside his head. I suddenly become aware of his hands on my back, the long fingers spanning my ribs. I inhale his familiar smell of bergamot and a deeper scent that’s just him. It makes me shiver inside, and I lower my head to his shoulder as he pulls me closer.
“Misha,” I whisper warningly.
He shudders, the movement easy to read because we’re so close. I glance up at his face, and he sways to a stop. We’re both frozen in the middle of the dancefloor, lights bouncing off our faces and bodies. We’re surrounded by men and women dancing and writhing against each other, and yet we could be alone. My senses are utterly absorbed by Misha.
He stares at me intently, and for the first time in twenty years, I can’t read the expression on his face. “Misha?” I say again, my throat suddenly thick.
The music changes to Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer.” A cheer rises around us as the lights dim and couples pull each other closer. Still, we seem to be standing alone, an island in the centre of the heaving mass. Pink light paints his face in colour before dipping away, leaving him in shadow again. Enigmatic and alone.
He shakes his head, and with a quick snap of his wrist, he pulls me close. I automatically throw my arms around his neck, bringing our bodies even closer, and as he sways to the slow beat, we stare at each other in the dim light. His lips are parted, his eyes glazed. I’ve seen this expression on him before—always in clubs, always when he’s dancing with other men. I realise with a shock that it’s his turned-on face.
