‘Moleskin.’
‘I had a track-suit in that material once.’
‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Dex and Em—’
‘Em and Dex. Like Rogers and Astaire—’
‘Burton and Taylor—’
‘Mary and Joseph—’
Dexter laughed and took her hand and soon they were at the restaurant.
Poseidon was a huge bunker excavated from the remains of an underground car park. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. Feeling neither beautiful nor famous, Emma sloped down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other cupping her belly until Dexter took this arm and stopped, surveying the room as proudly as if he were the architect.
‘So. What do you think?’
‘Club Tropicana,’ she said.
The interior had been styled to suggest the romance of a luxury liner from the 20s: velvet booths, liveried waiters bearing cocktails, decorative portholes that opened onto a view of nothing, and this lack of natural light gave the place a submarine aspect, as if it had already hit the iceberg and was on its way down. The intended air of inter-war elegance was further undermined by the clamour and ostentation of the room, the pervading atmosphere of youth and sex, money and deep-fat-frying. All the burgundy velvet and pressed peach linen in the world couldn’t stifle the tumultuous noise from the open-plan kitchen, a blur of stainless steel and white. So here it is at last, thought Emma: The Eighties.
‘Are you sure this is okay? It looks quite expensive.’
‘I told you. My treat.’ He tucked the label into the back of her dress, having glanced at it first, then took her hand and led her down the rest of the stairs with a little Astaire trot, into the heart of all that money, sex and youth.
A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.
‘What do you want, Em?’
‘Gin and tonic?’
Dexter tutted. ‘You’re not in the Mandela Bar now. You’ve got to have a proper drink. Two martinis, Bombay Sapphire, very dry, with a twist.’ Emma made to speak, but Dexter held up an autocratic finger. ‘Trust me. Best martinis in London.’
Obediently she ummed and awwed at the bartender’s performance, Dexter commentating throughout. ‘The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My mum taught me when I was, what, nine?’ They touched glasses, silently toasting Alison, and both felt hope again, for the evening and for their friendship. Emma raised the martini to her lips. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’ The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank him when Dexter placed his glass in Emma’s hand, a good half of it already gone.
‘Off to the loo. They’re incredible here. The best in London.’
‘Can’t wait!’ she said, but he had already gone, and Emma stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress.
Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stockings and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Emma gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.
‘Cigarettes?’ The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed, like a figure from the fuselage of a B-52, her breasts seeming to recline on a cantilevered tray of cigars and cigarettes. ‘Would you like anything?’ she repeated, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.
‘Oh, no, I don’t smoke,’ said Emma, as if this were a personal failing she intended to address, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Emma’s shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.
‘Cigarettes, sir?’
Dexter smiled, sliding his wallet from the inside of his jacket as he scanned the wares on display below her bosom. With a connoisseur’s flourish, he settled on twenty Marlboro Lights, and the Cigarette Girl nodded as if sir had made an excellent choice.
Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.
Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.
‘You’ve got drool on your moleskin.’
‘Pardon?’
‘What was that all about?’
‘Cigarette Girl,’ he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. ‘This place is famous for it. It’s glamour, a bit of theatre.’
‘So why’s she dressed as a prostitute?’
‘I don’t know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash.’ He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post- feminism, isn’t it?’
Emma looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’
Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’
‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’
‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’
‘Mind like a laser—’
‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’
‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’
‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s not the
‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a feminist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’
‘. . and I will fight to the death, to the
And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’
‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’
‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’
Her mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’
‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a hard time!’
And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’
But he wasn’t listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the maitre d’ beckoned them over. ‘Come on — I’ve managed to get us a banquette.’
They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting
