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When I reach the side of the dance floor Charlie is holding court, so I push the glass of water into his hands. He raises it to his mouth, top lip beaded with perspiration, and takes a long, cool sip.
“Thanks.”
In a moment of unprecedented maturity, I cut off his champagne two rounds ago, and Charlie was surprisingly relaxed about my intervention. He gave up after one tiny attempt at arguing, even agreeing to alternate between beer and water. It's only when I look at the lights reflecting off his face that I realise why. There's a tell-tale residue of white powder on the rims of his nostrils, which he wipes away with the back of his hand.
Shit. I immediately feel my skin crawl when I realise how naive I must look. After all, I’ve seen drugs before. Luke used to regularly light up on a Friday night—much to my disgust—but none of my friends have ever been into coke.
Until now.
I've heard stories, of course. Tales of long, boozy lunches with clients followed by a nice sobering snifter of blow. Or the anonymous partner who has a courier deliver his weekend stash every Friday afternoon, and pays for it by bank transfer. It's not quite accepted in the city—and I'm pretty certain Diana Joseph would have a conniption fit—but it's pervasive and it's easy to get hold of. All a matter of who you know.
It would also explain why Charlie's able to stand up straight and speak without slurring.
“Are you amped?” I whisper into his ear. Charlie turns, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Why, do you want some?”
“No I bloody don't. And nor should you. This place is heaving with people from work, if they catch you you'll be dust.”
He laughs. “Dust. See what you did there.”
“Seriously, Charlie.”
He mimics me, in a high tone. “Seriously Charlie.”
People continue to brush past us, dancing and gyrating, and in spite of the vodka my buzz has well and truly worn off. Then Caro Hawes bumps into me as she reaches out to Charlie, and he passes her a tiny bag of powder without a word.
When I was at school, we read a short story by HG Wells, about a man who enters a country full of blind people. He's certain he's going to become their ruler, because he can see and they can’t. But then, the blind people capture him and remove his eyes, believing they're cancerous lumps. I feel a bit like that guy now. I seem to be the only sensible one around here. It's hard work swimming against the undertow when everyone else is having fun beneath the surface.
“I'm heading out.” I shout in order for Charlie to hear me. He inclines his head towards me, a bead of sweat running down the bridge of his nose.
“Don't leave yet. It's not even twelve.”
“It's been a long week and I have to babysit tomorrow. I'll see you on Monday.”
“C'mon, just share one little line with me.” He grabs my hand, pulling me into him. His shirt is sticking to his chest, outlining a surprisingly firm torso. I vaguely remember him saying he was on the row team at university.
“I don't do drugs.” I hate the way that makes me sound like a whiny goody-two-shoes. “Thank you anyway.” Oh, and polite, too.
“Let me buy you another drink then. Or we can dance. Whatever you want to do.” He sweeps the hair out of his eyes and it stays slicked back from his forehead. “Just stay here for five minutes, okay?”
I close my eyes, feeling the blood pumping through my veins in time to the beat of the music. I wasn't lying when I said it had been a long week. The late nights in the office were exacerbated by Callum’s absence, which has been more poignant than I care to admit.
I miss him.
“I'm going to call a cab,” I tell Charlie, unwilling to face the underground alone at this time of night. “Walk with me, okay?”
He trails me to the entrance, and the cool breeze of the night-time air hits us as soon as we walk past the bouncers. It takes my ears a moment to adapt to the sudden drop in volume, and for a minute all I can hear is the pulsing in my head.
When I take out my phone and slide the screen open, I see two missed calls and a text. Fearing the worst, I glance at the numbers, wondering if something's wrong at home.
They're from Callum. Of course my reckless heart does some kind of galloping dance, hammering against my chest and making me breathless. I assume it's a similar sensation to the one Charlie's been getting from his secret stash, except this is all natural.
“You want me to call one for you?” Charlie asks. “I've got a number here I think.” He reaches into his pocket, tugging out his iPhone, and a tiny bag flies out, the contents dusting the pavement like a miniature snowstorm. “Oh shit. Fuck.” He drops to his knees, frantically scooping the white dust in a futile attempt to get it back in the bag. I look behind to see one of the bouncers frowning at us.
“Charlie,” I whisper-shout. “We need to move.”
He says nothing, still running his palms across the concrete.
