most women I’m always on alert but today I’m even more so. Everything is making me nervous and getting into a stranger’s car strikes me as possibly a very stupid thing to do. But don’t we do that all the time these days? Ride-service apps have become the norm.
Konstandin glances at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks as he starts to drive, his eyes shifting between me and the road. ‘Where’s your friend?’
‘She’s missing,’ I blurt out.
He double-takes in the mirror. ‘What?’
‘I can’t find her,’ I say. ‘I woke up this morning and she was gone. I don’t know where she is. I’ve been looking for her all day. I even went to the police.’ It feels good to tell someone else, to share it with someone who isn’t a sceptical policeman or on the end of a phone.
‘The police?’ Konstandin asks.
I nod. ‘Yes, but they said they couldn’t do anything and I should come back tomorrow.’
‘You’ve tried calling her?’
‘Yes. Her phone isn’t switched on.’
‘After I dropped you at the bar, did you go anywhere else?’ he asks me.
‘Home. Back to our apartment.’ I hesitate. ‘The thing is …’ I’m about to admit to him that we brought two men back but stop myself. ‘I wondered if maybe she forgot something at the bar or went back for some other reason.’
He nods thoughtfully.
I shrug. ‘And I can’t stay home waiting for her and not doing anything to find her.’
Konstandin nods and we drive along in silence. I stare out the window, taking in the arched plaza we’re passing, with its bright yellow buildings and giant statues of horses and men on plinths. Tourists are milling about, some on Segways, many posing for photographs, and I feel a pang. That’s what Kate and I should be doing right now.
A few minutes later Konstandin drops me in the same place he did last night – at the end of the alley on a main street crammed with people, both tourists and locals. I glance up the narrow street and spot the red velvet rope, the sight of it jarring loose another memory from last night, of us walking towards it.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Konstandin as I get out the car, handing him ten euros.
‘I hope you find your friend,’ he says as I shut the door.
Heading down the cobbled alley towards the blue light, a few more shards of memory start to catch the light; the argument I had with Kate outside after she invited those men home with us comes back to me. I was angry. I shouted at her. She wrenched her arm from mine. Now she’s missing.
There are no model types lounging outside smoking and posing – I guess it’s too early for that – but there is a man wearing impossibly tight jeans and a silk kaftan, sitting on a wooden stool to the right of the door. I’m not sure of his exact purpose but I can see him assessing me as I approach with not quite a sneer on his face, but not quite a smile either.
Maybe his job is to only let inside people who meet his strict standards for beauty and fashion. Is it the same man who Kate spoke to last night and who lifted the rope to let us past inside these hallowed doors? He’s an androgynous-looking, skinny-as-a-whip twenty-something. I think it might be.
I decide to turn on the Irish charm. It nearly always works, so I smile broadly though it feels fake as anything and ratchet up my accent because I know that people love an Irish accent.
‘Hello!’ I say with forced jollity. ‘I was here last night with my friend. I don’t suppose you remember me?’
He looks me up and down again, frowning at my jeans and T-shirt, and I shift uncomfortably. ‘My friend chatted to you,’ I continue. ‘I think it was you. You let us in.’
He narrows his eyes then gives a small nod of recognition. ‘I remember her. Gold shoes.’
‘Yes, that’s right! She was wearing gold shoes. We left with two men.’
He nods again, giving a slight smirk.
‘Do you know the people we left with?’ I ask, feeling a surge of hope.
He gives a non-committal shrug. ‘No.’
Frustrated, I gesture at the door he’s guarding. ‘Can I come in and maybe speak to the barman?’
He cocks his head towards a poster nailed to the wall beside him. I read it. It’s a dress code, top of which is the edict ‘no jeans’.
‘Oh, for