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Chelsea practically fell to her knees. “Pleaaase! Gemma, please don’t do this to me!”
“You go,” I said. “Enjoy your complimentary champagne or whatever it is.”
“VIP pass and complimentary champagne.” The asshole bouncer reached for my arm, but I shook him off. “Like I said, miss, it was my mistake. We’re very sorry.”
“PLEEEASE!” Chelsea squealed. She was pitiful, truly pitiful. “Please don’t ruin this for me!”
Shit.
I stomped back towards the club, jabbing a finger in her direction as the bouncer trailed behind. “Never again. This is it, favour of the century. No matter what happens from now until the end of time, Chelsea Rawlings, you owe me.”
How fucking humiliating.
The shocked expressions of all those bitches who’d laughed at me made it slightly satisfying to waltz through the VIP entrance, but not nearly enough to justify the embarrassment.
A hostess woman waltzed us past the cash desk, without even a mention of payment. Good. I’d milk the complimentary champagne too, for their bloody cheek.
“I’ll take you up to the VIP area,” she smiled. She was so fucking smiley. Smiley and fake like the rest of this place.
She led us through the club, and it really was something. All mirrored glass and fancy lights. Shame about the plastic people inside it.
“Why are we in VIP?” Chelsea quizzed, eyes wide as a kid’s at Christmas.
“Your presence was requested.”
“By who?” I asked.
“One of our VIPs,” she smiled. “The Singers are in tonight.”
I grabbed Chelsea’s hand, genuinely chuffed for her, and her face was a picture.
“One of the Singers asked forus?!” she shrieked. “Which one?!”
She was in. Blatantly. Suddenly the night didn’t seem so bad. Maybe this really was Chelsea’s big shot.
“Was it Theo Fernando?” I had my fingers crossed for her. Toes, too.
The hostess shook her head. “Not, Theo, no. Jason Redfern.”
Oh the irony. Sacrificing a night with my Jason, so Chelsea could land hers.
Our guide opened the barrier to the VIP area, letting us through. It was considerably more packed than I’d anticipated, heaving with Z-listers, and footballers and hangers on. Smiley woman got us our champagne then left us to it.
“Oh my God!” Chelsea squealed. “Jason Redfern wants me!”
Her eyes darted around the crowd for a glimpse of him.
“What about Theo what’s-his-name? I thought it was true love?” I teased.
“Nah, Redfern’s better,” she grinned. “Much more A-list. I just didn’t think he was an option.”
“He’s not, presumably. He’s married to that Cherry Electric woman, you said?”
“Not an option for a relationship, no.” She swigged her champagne. “But a night would be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Are you for real?” She rolled her eyes. “Enough to make me aname.”
