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***

Gemma

I’d forgotten how long it took Chelsea to get ready for a night out. She’d insisted I arrive at hers mid-afternoon, parading every outfit in her possession only to decide on the one she’d originally picked out. I could have done without the boredom.

Her apartment was a tiny shoebox in the centre of London costing almost twice as much as ours. Blackfriars hadn’t been swanky enough for Chelsea’s aspirations, so she’d moved here on credit. I dreaded to think how much she’d racked up in debt since we’d been here, but it wasn’t really my concern.

“It’s gonna be so much fun!” she squealed. “You’ll love it, I know you will!”

Unlikely.

I tried not to dwell on what else I could be doing on a Saturday evening.

She carried on gushing. “This is my night, I can feel it!”

I felt almost sorry for this Theo chap.

Chelsea’s dress barely covered her arse, or her tits, for that matter. A tiny little scrap of pink lace, leaving virtually nothing to the imagination. She looked like a Barbie doll, pretty but plastic. Very, very plastic. Still, she was happy, and undoubtedly plenty of men at thisKingsplace would be, too.

I looked like a plain Jane at her side, but I couldn’t care less. One night at this crappy club would keep her quiet for a while, at least.

She was already half pissed on cheap wine by the time we reached the queue for Kings. It was a long one. A long one filled with Chelsea types. I stuck out like a big, sore ginger thumb.

I sent a text to Jason.

In the queue at this crappy club. Wish me luck. x

I wondered what he was doing. Something better than this if he had any sense. His reply gave little hint. A simpleenjoyand nothing else.

Finally we reached the front of the line. Chelsea shimmied up to the bouncers, fluttering her eyelashes like a professional. She was so excited, grinning her head off as they raised the barrier and waved her on in. Maybe this really would be her night. Maybe I’d even enjoy the place.

I hadn’t even noticed the barrier come down.

“Sorry, Miss, not tonight.”

I looked up at the bouncer. “Sorry, what?”

“You can’t come in,” he said. “Dress code.”

I looked down at my outfit. It was longer than Chelsea’s but that was about all. A perfectly presentable satin number with decent height heels. “What’s wrong with it?”

Chelsea came dashing back, reaching for my arm over the barrier. “She’s with me.”

“Dress code is dress code. Nothing I can do.”

My cheeks burned, mortified at the snickering from the queue behind me. Faces peered out from the club, too, my predicament in plain view of the swanky reception bar.

“What is the dress code?” I asked. “I don’t see what’s wrong.”

The bouncer leaned into me like I was some kind of simpleton. “It’s a big night for us. Singers are in. Club’s gotta look the part, you know?”

Suddenly it made sense. So much fucking sense.

“Please...” Chelsea whined. “Please let her in.”

I choked back the humiliation, knowing full well they’d never let me in. “It’s ok,” I said. “You go on.”

Her eyes flew wide. “I can’t go on my own!”

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