Page 63 of Best Man
“I don’t think there are many of those in South West London,” I say dubiously.
He edges closer, and I feel my arm go up so he can lean into me. I hug him tight and marvel at the fact that he smells so wonderful and that my body is also operating completely independently of my brain nowadays.
“Tell me,” he whispers.
“I joined this club. It’s huge. Each month they hire a location and you have to put in your code to get the address. They send it to you and you have an hour to get there.”
“This is like being spies,” he marvels, and I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the faint scent of eucalyptus that clings to the shiny locks. “So, what happens when we get there?”
“I’m sorry,” I say smugly. “You don’t have the code. I can’t tell you. You’ll have to guess.”
His guesses get wilder and wilder, and I’m laughing as we get out of the taxi. “No to naked camel racing. Jesus Christ.”
He looks around. We’re standing outside what was obviously once a huge ballroom. Its Art Deco exterior is still beautiful despite the faint air of neglect clinging to it. His eyes sharpen as he looks at the queue of people waiting to get into the building. They’re dressed in thirties costumes, the women glittering in the evening light in their pretty dresses, their hair arranged into jaunty bobs.
“Oh my God, this is already the best date I’ve ever been on,” he breathes, and I squeeze his hand.
“Me too,” I say softly. But it’s not because of the costumes or the air of excitement. It’s to do with him and the thought that I’d be happy walking round Sainsbury’s if I was with him. Nobody makes me laugh like him or challenges my brain so much.
I push the thought away and pull him over to the queue, which is moving quickly now that the doors have opened. Within five minutes, I’ve given the code to the bouncer dressed in a black suit with a white silk scarf thrown jauntily around his neck, and we’re inside.
Jesse looks around avidly as we move past people giving their coats to hat-check girls dressed in tight, black silk dresses. The huge double doors are thrown open, and I hear his gasp.
The inside of the Art Deco ballroom is huge. A wide wooden dance floor is already half full of people dancing to the live jazz band that are playing, and the long bar is busy with people ordering cocktails. But what makes it most magical is the fact that there are no overhead lights on. Instead, it’s softly lit by huge lanterns and the candles that are everywhere, sending shadows dancing up the walls as if the ghosts of old partygoers are still around.
“Oh my God, this is like a film on prohibition I watched the other day,” Jesse shouts in my ear.
I smile and pull him close. “That’s what they’re emulating. They’ve taken over all sorts of venues, apparently. They set up and then pull it all down the next day and move on to another venue.” I look around. “I must say this is a good place, though. Very atmospheric.”
I pull him through the crowd to the bar, and after consulting him, I buy us each an Old Fashioned. We move off to a gilt table tucked in the corner with a view over the dance floor. A lively tune is playing, and for a few minutes we sip our drinks and watch people dancing. It reminds me of an old newsreel film, watching the almost courtly movements. Very different from a nightclub.
Jesse edges close to me, throwing his arm around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “I love it,” he says fervently. “This is amazing.”
I shoot him a look. He’s so beautiful this close up. “You really like it?”
He nods. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Thank you, sweetheart.”
“I thought we vetoed the endearments,” I say hoarsely, ignoring the thrill that went through me at hearing it.
He kisses me quickly and pulls back, leaving the faint taste of his cocktail on my lips. I lick over the taste.
“You vetoed it. I didn’t,” he says calmly and takes a sip of his drink. “Okay, why this for a date?”
“I wanted to do something different. I’d heard about this club where you pay membership, and they organise this, and thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
“I do,” he assures me, his eyes dark and shiny in the candlelight. “I really do.”
“And I like this era,” I say slowly. “It’s fun to dress up like this and be a part of this.”
“Why this era?”
I hum contemplatively. “It was a very glamorous time,” I finally say. “It reminds me of my grandfather. He used to sing in the clubs. He was offered a recording contract at one point. They wanted to set him up to rival Frank Sinatra.”
“Did he get it?”
I shake my head. “No. They wanted him to go to America and he’d met and fallen in love with my grandmother by then.”
“Did he regret it?”
