Vera was an instructor. I want to know even more but then Vera changes the subject and suggests we go to one of her favorite bars, which is actually around the corner from my place.
It’s only eleven and the night is young as far as Madrid is concerned. We take an Uber there, to this tiny little bar that’s covered in Marilyn Monroe photographs and memorabilia. It’s dark and crowded but no one pays us much attention and we’re able to stand near the bar and snack on bread and olives and aioli. I can tell Vera is in her element in this divey sort of place, though Mateo sticks out like a sore thumb.
I have to wonder about them a little. There’s a major age gap between them — she’s all wild and he’s refined — and yet they seem completely and totally in love, in that way that makes you just a tiny bit nauseous. It gives me hope, actually, that maybe there’s still a chance for me out there.
But looking around the bar, I don’t feel all that hopeful. Yeah, a lot of guys are smiling at me, giving me the eye. But they probably don’t know how old I am, and more than that, I know they’re just in it for a fling. Not that I’m not — lord knows I desperately need one — but I still feel this emptiness when I think about the prospect. I feel like a brand new being. On shaky legs, unsure of where she stands in this world now. I never thought that Stewart could have done so much damage to my self-esteem and self-worth, but he did. He took all my pride and confidence and power, and he removed them from me, brick by brick, until I crumbled.
Now I’m here in Madrid, picking up the pieces, and I don’t even have a blueprint. I don’t know where to start. I just know I have to.
This is the very start of your new beginning, I tell myself. Cut yourself a slab and eat the ham.
We don’t stay at the divey place for long. Vera is astute and suggests that Mateo pick the next establishment. I’m fully prepared for Mateo to tell her the night is over, but to my surprise he picks a place.
It’s not too far away from where we are, so we walk through the narrow, winding alleyways of La Latina, all of us a bit tipsy, my gait unsteady as my heels try to negotiate the cobblestone. Vera takes my arm, propping me up so I don’t eat shit, leaving Mateo to wander ahead of us.
The bar we eventually come to doesn’t seem like much more than a dark wood door among shuttered businesses. But after Mateo rings a buzzer and a man in a suit answers, I realize there is so much more to this.
We go up a narrow staircase and then meet a bouncer on the second floor. He nods at Mateo and we pass through a red velvet curtain until we’re in a surprisingly huge nightclub that seems to go on and on.
“What is this place?” I ask, looking around in awe. It’s pretty dark, everything is either mahogany wood or red velvet, the waiters are wearing tuxedos, smoke billows out from cigars and cigarettes, and funked up house music plays from the speakers.
“This is the last resort,” Mateo says. “Literally, último Recurso. We come here because it’s controlled and we know what we’re going to get.”
Now that I’ve had a moment to look around, I know what he means. Everyone seems to be somebody here. Whether actors or TV personalities or sports stars or models, this seems to be the place they can come and have fun and not be bothered. Kind of like the Soho House in LA, albeit with more music and a European flair.
Mateo leads us over to a roped off area at the back, where a man in a suit promptly lifts the rope for us. There are a few velvet couches, and before we can even say anything, a man comes by, giving us a bucket of three champagne bottles, saying a few quick words in Spanish to Mateo with a little bow, then giving me a quick wink.
“What was that about?” I ask. “He winked at me.”
“Everyone is winking at you,” Vera says, reaching for the bottle. “Have you seen you? Hell, I’m winking at you when you’re not looking.”