Page 77 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Hi there,’ she trills, puffing on her cigarette and grinning wildly.

Oh God, and now everyone’s staring. I wince, hardly daring to look as I wait for the inevitable. Or not, I decide, my protective instinct kicking in. I’m supposed to be giving the benefit of my experience – stopping her from making mistakes. I can’t just sit back and let this happen, I resolve, taking a step towards her and the thumping music that’s pulsing out from the club.

‘Hey, all right there, darlin’?’

And pause. Hang on a minute. Did he just say …?

‘Nice to see you. How you doing?’

I’m staring in amazement at the bouncer, whose whole demeanour has now changed. Gone is the fearsome grimace. Instead he’s grinning warmly at Lottie.

Er, hello, she’s friends with the bouncer?

I’m friends with the bouncer?

‘I’m great. It’s my birthday.’ She’s smiling as she stands on her tiptoes and plants a kiss on each of his cheeks. ‘And I really wanted to celebrate it in the club.’

‘Well, happy birthday!’ he booms, letting out a deep rumble of laughter as he stoops down to accept her kisses, before lifting up the rope and standing back to let her pass. ‘You have a great evening.’

‘I will, thanks.’ She waves cheerfully as she sweeps past him and disappears behind the velvet curtain into the club.

Well, OK, perhaps she didn’t need my help that time, I think, as one by one the rest of us follow. And at least I didn’t have to queue, I tell myself, trying to look on the bright side, but still feeling a sense of dread as I move forwards, the music growing louder and louder, the base thumping harder and harder, the strobe lights shooting out from the gap in the curtain, until it’s my turn to go in.

Abruptly my way is blocked.

‘If you want to just hold it right there.’ Reaching in front of me, the bouncer replaces the red rope.

For a moment I look at him in confusion. What? He’s not letting me in? Then it registers. Of course. He obviously doesn’t realise I’m with Lottie.

‘Excuse me.’ I smile confidently, as I get his attention. ‘I’m with the rest of the party,’ I explain, gesturing to those who have just gone in ahead of me. ‘I’m with Lottie.’

The bouncer looks me up and down, his brow furrowed. ‘Sorry, love.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not tonight.’

My smile fades and I look at him uncertainly. ‘Lottie,’ I repeat, for want of something to say. ‘You know, scrunch-dried hair, major tan, safety pin on her dress.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, only more firmly this time. ‘Not tonight.’

I stare at him, slow realisation dawning upon me. ‘Are you telling me you’re not letting me in?’

‘We’re very busy tonight,’ he replies dismissively, before gesturing for me to stand to one side to allow more people to pass through into the club.

Blatantly. While I’m just standing there.

I glare at him angrily. ‘Excuse me, but you’ve just let all those people in,’ I say, somewhat obviously.

Sliding his gaze back to me, he looks me up and down. ‘We also have a dress code,’ he grunts, gesturing to my outfit.

‘What are you talking about?’ I gasp in frustration. ‘I’m wearing a suit.’

‘Exactly,’ he replies, shaking his head sympathetically.

I feel myself blush hotly. Admittedly my dark grey pencil skirt with matching single-breasted jacket is not the hippest of outfits, and if I’d known I was going to go clubbing, I would have worn something a bit more funky. Actually, that’s a lie. If I’d known I was going to go clubbing, I’d be wearing earplugs. But even so. It’s smart. It’s classic. For God’s sake, it’s Prada.

Behind me, I can hear people grumbling that I’m holding up the queue. I look at the bouncer in desperation. Oh God, I can’t believe this. This is so humiliating. I’m half inclined to turn round and go home. After all, I’ve got no desire to go into his loud, stinky, sweaty club. In fact, right now, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather go less.

But I can’t turn back now. Plus, even if I wanted to, my pride wouldn’t let me.

Turning back to the bouncer, I take a deep breath. So he thinks I’m not cool enough, does he? He thinks that because I’m not some young twentysomething I can’t get into his stupid club? Indignation stabs. Well, we’ll see about that.