At least ‘Come On Eileen’ is on. This is so exciting that I forget my purpose and catapult into Megan, yelling, ‘THIS IS MY FAVOURITE SONG.’ I don’t think that’s true, but it feels true in this moment. I drag both of them onto the constipated dance floor and start dancing like an actual madwoman.
I’m having the very profound realisation that when ‘Come On Eileen’ starts going slow and then speeds up again, it’s impossible to feel anything but euphoria.
‘Come on, EileentaloorahYAY,’ I scream into Mr Potential Ride’s ear. He looks mildly alarmed and it’s ruining my vibe, so I turn away and fling myself into a circle of people as excited about the song bridge as I am. Suddenly I’m in the middle of them, lunging for some reason. Young people surround and clap me. I get a smidgen of sadness when I realise I’ve become that crazy older person in the club you call a ‘legend’ but secretly hope you never end up like. However, the drum beat’s coming up and the chorus is about to drop in the most wonderful way, and I don’t give a flying fuck about anything any more, so I jump and twirl and let this circle of youth worship me, and get lost in Eileen and how she must come on. The song merges into the ‘Cha Cha Slide’ and I’m shocked to find everyone knows the routine. ‘But HOW?’ I yell into a girl’s chandelier earring. ‘You must’ve been a fucking … fucking … FOETUS when this came out.’
I can’t remember the moves though – maybe my memory is going with old age – and suddenly I don’t know what to do with this group of children dressed in expensive suits who probably spent more money on shots tonight than I earn in a week. They are cha cha-ing and they are sliding, and this isn’t fun and I’m lonely now.
I turn back to Megan and instantly feel lonelier. She’s snogging Mr Potential Ride against the wall; their hands are all over one another. And, even though he doesn’t look like the nicest of kissers – Mr Potential looks like he kisses how most posh men kiss, like he’s trying to burp up Hugh Grant – she’s still kissing someone and I’m not. I’m just alone in a nightclub. At 33. The pitiableness of it hits me like a cartoon tonne. I cannot stay here. I trudge up the stairs to reclaim the bag I checked in and emerge, blinking, into the fading light of the summer’s evening.
Realising I need to tell Megan I’ve left, I dig about for my phone and find it has a message waiting for me.
Josh: Hi Gretts. How’s your Friday night out going?
It’s only 9.02 p.m. Too early for a bootie call, so what the hell is this? Is it a genuine message? Because he likes me and wants to know how my night is going?
I grin as I realise I can finally send one of those breezy flirty messages you’re supposed to send men in the early phases. The message where you’re out having an amazing time and invite them along all spontaneous and carefree. Normally on a Friday I’m in bed, reading Little House in the Big Woods and wondering if it’s problematic that I fancy Pa, and feeling smug about no impending hangover. But tonight I’ve morphed into Gretel. And Gretel is totally out at 9 p.m. and can send that message. Josh won’t be able to meet me anyway. London is too big, with everyone always at least fifty minutes away from everyone, so it’s a win-win. I can get the Tube home and be the hermit I’m longing to be but without him realising I’m a hermit. This is perfect!
I fire back a message as I stumble, blinking, out onto the streets, struggling to adjust to the sun still in the sky; the weird twilight zone of Calculus’s downstairs drunken universe fading.
Gretel: I’m out in Bank. It’s terrible! You should totally come along.
I’m lost in a side street when he replies. I don’t look at it immediately as I’m in the midst of deciphering the little map at a Boris Bike station. ‘Where the hell is the Tube station?’ I ask it, like it’s a person, tracing a path with my finger before I check his reply. ‘Oh bollocking fucking hellfire.’
Joshua: No way! I’m around Bank too! Are the stars aligning Gretel? Where you at? I’ll come over