He raises an eyebrow. ‘Funny that.’
I look at his colleague imploringly. He’s wearing a wedding ring and he’s got a ‘Connor’ tattoo on his neck. ‘You look like a family man. Have you got kids?’
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even acknowledge the fact I’ve just rested my hand, very lightly, on his forearm. ‘You’d do anything to protect your children, wouldn’t you? Do anything to make them happy? To keep them healthy? I want the same for my daughter. I want her to wake up and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. You can understand that, can’t you?’
His eyes flick towards me. They’re dark and hooded, almost hidden in his big round fleshy face. ‘You’d do anything?’
‘Of course.’
He looks me up and down and grins. A gold incisor glints at me. ‘Would you suck my cock?’
I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
‘I …’ I don’t know what to say. I’ve got no idea if he’s serious or not. ‘I …’
‘How much are you paying her to suck your cock? Or is she paying you?’
A tall blond man in a white shirt, dark jeans and an expensive-looking black jacket is standing behind me. He looks me up and down then catches the married security guard’s eye and laughs.
‘What is it, grope-a-granny night? Jesus Terry, your standards have really slipped, haven’t they?’
I expect the security guard to punch him on the nose, or at least order him out of the club. Instead he laughs good-naturedly and unclips the velvet rope.
‘I take what I can get, Rob, ideally without paying for it.’
‘Excuse me.’ I side-step so I’m standing between the rope and ‘Rob’ and pull myself up to my full five foot six. ‘I am a person you know. I have got ears.’
‘Well fuck me, she’s got ears!’ He glances back at the group of people gathered behind him and laughs uproariously. ‘You’re a feisty one, aren’t you, darlin’? What happened? Take a wrong turn on your way to bingo?’
‘Are you always this rude or just to women who are too old to be impressed by a pretty face and a well-cut suit?’
‘Oh,’ his face lights up with pleasure at the unintended compliment. ‘I get it. You don’t go for the pretty boy thing, you’re more into a bit of rough like Terry over here.’ He nudges the security guard.
‘Actually, I’m not interested in either of you. I’m here to see Alex Henri.’
‘A French fancier, eh? Like a bit of foreign do you, Granny?’
‘Stop calling me that, you jumped-up little twat.’ The words are out of my mouth before my brain has time to process them.
Terry takes a step towards me and lays a warning hand on my shoulder but Rob waves him off.
‘Leave her, Tez.’ He looks me up and down and narrows his eyes. ‘Alex Henri, is it? That who you want to meet?’
I nod but say nothing.
He glances at his colleague. ‘Has Alex ever had a tart this old?’
I knot my fingers behind my back, suppressing the urge to slap Rob around his smug, patronizing face. The bouncer shrugs non-committedly.
‘Let her in. This should be funny.’ Rob nods his head at Terry who raises his eyebrows but steps backwards so the way is clear for me to ascend the stairs. I take a step forwards.
‘Off you go, Granny. Shag his pants off,’ he calls after me as I take the stairs two at a time. The sooner I speak to Alex Henri and leave the better. There’s something horribly claustrophobic about this club; the ceilings are too low, there are too many people and it’s too hot. It crosses my mind, as I reach the top of the stairs, that if a fire started in here, half the club would be trampled to death in the charge to get out the tiny entrance door. I fight to suppress the thought as my chest tightens and I squeeze past a group of Jasmine lookalikes and dodge around two huge boxer-types with broken noses. The last thing I need right now is a panic attack.
The VIP section is busier up here than it was on the ground floor and it takes me ten minutes to battle through the bodies to the seating area against the far wall. I lose count of the stunning model-like women and athlete-like men knocking back champagne, dancing on the chairs and gyrating against each other. I catch more than one confused look as I make my way through the crowd. I’ve never felt older, uglier, fatter or more out of place in my life but I plough on anyway.
‘Alex Henri,’ I breathe his name as I catch sight of him.
I wasn’t sure I’d recognize him from a couple of tiny internet photographs and a half-naked poster on Charlotte’s wall but there’s no mistaking those pale-brown eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones.
‘Excuse me, excuse me please.’ I wriggle and elbow my way through the throng of bodies surrounding his around his table. ‘I need to speak to Alex.’
I receive countless dirty looks, a jab to the hip and what I hope is white wine down the back of my dress but I make it through and suddenly I’m standing a metre away from him. Only a smoked glass coffee table loaded with an ice bucket, champagne bottles and glasses separate us.