twenty-five and trying to slip the line at Cargo by flirting with the bouncer, except that was then and this is now and I’m not sure I’ve got the balls or the blag or the confidence of youth to pull it off. But Kate says something to him, something I don’t hear, then hands him something I don’t see, and suddenly the red rope is lifted and we gain entry.
The bar is lit like the inside of a crypt, flickering candles on the tables look like votives and in dark alcoves ghost-like shadows stir. Kate pushes her way through the crowd, ushering me ahead of her as I imagine she does with her famous clients at premieres when she’s trying to get them past the paparazzi and to the best spot on the red carpet to have their photo taken. The place is busy and a heavy beat thrums in the spaces between all the packed bodies, making my head pound and sweat break out on my brow.
Kate elbows her way to the front, gets the attention of the barman and then shouts over her shoulder at me. ‘What do you fancy?’
I glance at the multitude of bottles behind the bar and my stomach responds with a gurgle. ‘Water,’ I shout back, trying to be heard over the percussive thump of the music and roar of conversation.
Kate rolls her eyes at me. ‘Water?’
‘Yes, tap’s fine,’ I say, glancing around. It doesn’t look like there’s a table free. Are we going to have to stand among the shouting, overheated bodies to drink our drinks? I hope not. It crosses my mind once again that I’m getting far too old for this. I’d rather be in bed, in my pyjamas, reading a book, or scratch that, sleeping. Kate hands me a glass of water and then, with her own cocktail in hand, pushes her way across the bar area, towing me behind her, like an old rowing boat attached to a fancy pants yacht.
She makes a beeline straight towards the booths in the shadowy recesses along one side of the room and stops beside one. Two men are sitting there.
‘Mind if we join you?’ Kate asks them.
I start to open my mouth to protest the intrusion and pull Kate away – the booth is small after all and we’d have to squeeze in next to them on the leather banquettes – but one of the men smiles and gestures to the seat beside him.
‘Of course, please be our guest.’
Kate sits down right beside him, forcing him to squeeze over to make room. Embarrassed at Kate’s forwardness, I perch on the very edge of the banquette opposite. ‘Hi. Sorry,’ I say, smiling apologetically at the man next to me.
He smiles back at me. ‘No problem.’
‘I hope we’re not … intruding.’ I say, stumbling over the last word as my brain processes just how ridiculously, insanely good-looking he is – almost unreally so. He’s about thirty, I’d guess, with thick dark hair, tanned skin and luminous green eyes framed with lashes so long and so thick they look false. I wonder if he’s a model or an actor. He is, without a doubt, the best-looking person I’ve ever seen in real life. His skin is smoother than cream, so flawless it’s like he’s wearing a magic foundation.
‘Not intruding at all,’ he says, smiling at me in a way that suggests our interruption is the best thing that’s happened to him all night.
I glance over at Kate who is chatting to the other man. He’s just as gorgeous; darker-skinned, with almond-shaped eyes and cheekbones you could slice Parmesan on. Are all Portuguese people this beautiful? Kate says something to make the man next to her laugh and his teeth flash white in the darkness.
‘I’m Joaquim,’ the man next to me says.
I turn back to face him and find him holding out his hand to me. I shake it. ‘Orla,’ I say, noting the fluster in my voice. ‘Nice to meet you.’
He nods at his companion. ‘This is Emanuel.’
I shake hands with Emanuel too, who grins back at me. They’re both dressed in expensive-looking clothes: dark trousers and crisp shirts, the top buttons undone. My gaze starts to track downwards before I stop myself.
Even more flustered I turn back to Joaquim. ‘Are you from here?’ I ask, aware as soon as I say it that it sounds like a pick-up line. I cringe inwardly.
‘Yes,’ he answers, his voice mellow and husky. ‘You?’