This Time Next Year(2)
‘Ten, nine, eight … ’ People were starting the countdown. ‘Seven, six, five … ’ Minnie looked at all the couples pulling together in anticipation of the midnight kiss. She was glad Greg wasn’t there to kiss her. She never understood why the end of the year had to be marked with the ridiculous convention of everyone locking lips in unison. People behaving like lemmings, following the herd. ‘Four, three, two, one, HAPPY NEW YEAR!’
An explosion of fireworks erupted in the sky, illuminating the city beneath in a shower of multicoloured lights. Huge bursts of energy ignited in the darkness, miniature universes flaring into existence only to fade to extinction moments later. Minnie wondered at all that effort for such a fleeting display of brilliance. The city buildings below looked still and stately, unmoved by the frenzy of activity above them. On the balcony of the club, the fireworks cast ugly shadows onto the spaced-out faces of intoxicated people, as they swayed and swerved through the crowd. Light shone into grimy corners, full of cigarette butts and discarded plastic glasses. A group of girls tottering about in high heels pushed into her and Minnie had to grab the railing to stay upright.
‘Happy Birthday to me,’ Minnie said quietly to herself. Then she felt a warm, wet sensation as one of the girls vomited down her back.
By the time Greg returned, the terrace had thinned out and Minnie was sitting on the floor by the railings waiting for him.
‘What are you wearing? Where’s your top?’ asked Greg. Minnie had folded her sodden shirt into her bag and was now only wearing a grey vest top with frayed spaghetti straps.
‘Someone was sick on my shirt,’ she said, hugging her arms around herself.
‘Oh dear. Well, it’s a bit X-rated like that.’ Greg cupped a hand in front of his mouth to make a pretend microphone. ‘Weather report in – there’s a storm in a D-cup presenting itself.’
‘Well, it’s this or vomit-couture,’ Minnie said, pulling up her top self-consciously. She’d never dream of wearing an outfit this revealing in public. She felt very exposed. ‘Did you find the party or not?’
Greg nodded. He led her back through the club, up another staircase and then through a double door covered in red velvet, pillared by two bald security guards.
‘I was here just a minute ago – we’re here for the birthday party,’ Greg explained. The security guard waved them through, glancing at Minnie’s chest as she walked past. Minnie folded her arms in front of her.
The party on the other side of the red velvet door was everything that the room they had come from was not: the music was at a normal volume, the crowd looked beautifully dressed and sophisticated, waiters were topping up champagne and nobody was being sick over anyone. The exterior curved wall of the room was floor-to-ceiling glass, giving an incredible 180-degree view of the city of London beyond. Minnie immediately felt intimidated. This was a rich persons’ party, a black tie one at that – she couldn’t look more out of place. Minnie had cooked for enough rich people to know how they reacted to people like her; they would patronise her, or worse, look right through her. If she had been wearing the right armour she could have done a good impression of someone who didn’t care, but her skimpy vest top was not it.
‘Greg! You didn’t tell me it was black tie?’ she hissed.
‘Black tie is a bourgeois construct, Minnie. I wouldn’t wear it to my own funeral.’ Greg scanned the room and then waved to a tall blonde girl in a tight red dress. ‘Lucy!’ The girl turned, gave a smile of recognition, then started making her way through the crowd towards them. ‘Better late than never, hey,’ Greg said, reaching out to touch her arm. ‘This is Minnie. Someone was sick on her shirt on the way in.’
‘Hi,’ said Lucy. Her pillowy lips closed over perfect straight teeth into a sympathetic smile. ‘Sorry about the sick. It’s ridiculous they make you wade through all the plebs to get up to the VIP suite.’
Minnie shook her head, shrugging it off.
‘Quite a party,’ she said, looking around at all the free-flowing booze. How much would a party like this cost?
‘It’s my boyfriend’s birthday on the first. We thought we’d use it as an excuse to throw an excessive New Year’s Eve bash,’ Lucy said with a flick of her hand. Then she turned to Minnie with a beaming smile, ‘Hey, didn’t Greg say you were a first of January baby too, Minnie?’
‘Oh, Happy Birthday,’ Greg said hurriedly. Lucy turned to look at him wide-eyed.
‘Greg, you didn’t even say Happy Birthday to her yet? Dump him, Minnie!’ Lucy laughed and nudged Greg in the ribs. Greg blushed and looked at his feet.
‘I’m not big on birthdays,’ Minnie smiled weakly.
They stood in silence for a moment.
‘So, um, Lucy is the food columnist at the paper,’ Greg said. ‘I’m queuing up for a jammy gig like that. I saw you were at La Petite Assiette Rouge last week. So bloody jealous, Luce.’
‘It has its downsides, darling. I’m getting fatter and fatter the amount of Michelin-star dinners I’m being forced to eat. I feel like a foie gras goose being stuffed to bursting,’ said Lucy.
Minnie glanced down at Lucy’s svelte, gym-toned figure in the skin-tight look-how-thin-I-am dress.
‘Oh diddums, such a hardship,’ said Greg, nudging his elbow into hers. ‘Smart, beautiful girl force-fed fine food – Human rights campaigners on standby!’