Most of Christmas Day has passed by in the blink of my meticulously made-up eye. I’ve broken the news to my parents that Dick and I splitting isn’t the catastrophe it initially appeared to be, that I’m better off out of a marriage that was stifling in its one-way selfishness, and managed to convince my mother that it’s not worth staying in a marriage of convenience, no matter what my bank statements say. That, and the lack of sleep last night, resulted in me flopping on the sofa for a small nap. A napette, if you will. A napette that turned into a stonking six-hour sleep.
While I feel better – the hangover that hit while I was talking to my parents has now gone – my ‘nap’ means that I’ve had just two hours to get ready.
Easy, you think. Yeah, it should be. But from Sax’s clues – especially that ‘I’d be safe even if I was practically naked’ – it’s obvious that we’re going to a gay club. Now, while I’ve been off the singles scene for some time, I’ve never been a part of the LGBT scene. Not that I have any prejudices or issues – I’m more openminded than most. I’ve just never had any gay friends. ANd what I don’t have is the luxury of knowing what the hell to wear to a gay club on Christmas Day.
I didn’t even know you could go clubbing on Christmas Day, for heaven’s sake. Does it differ from clubbing on any other day, you know, outfitwise? Does the wardrobe of a straight woman going clubbing in a gay club differ from that of a straight clubber? And if so, is there a one style fits all code when it comes to gay clubs or do they vary? And, assuming that they do, do they differ further on Christmas Day?
Spending roughly a quarter of the time I had to get ready attempting to answer these questions – and coming up blank – meant I had less than ninety minutes. I showered in record time then spent a record time rifling through my wardrobe in an attempt to convince myself that somewhere I do have something that’s remotely appropriate. The problem with not knowing what is generally worn at such events, means that the age old problem of I have nothing to wear turned into a full on Where the hell is Gok Wan when I need him? Why can’t he magically appear with something that’s not only appropriate but makes me look good enough for a gay man to look twice? And where’s that chick from Ten Years Younger? I could do with some of that shit too.
But alas, there’s only me. No celebrity stylists. No crystal ball. No magic wand. No clue.
I’m going out with Sax. Gay or not, do I want to try to turn his head? Of course I do.
This then opens up a huge dilemma. I obviously fancy Sax. I’ve made that clear – both to myself and to him. And yes, he likes me, but he rebuffs my clumsy advances. Well, now I know he’s gay so that explains that.
I was so convinced that there was a connection between us. A spark. No, stronger than that. A frisson. On several occasions in the short time since we met, he’s actively sought out my company. He must like being around me too. But he’s gay.
I’m miserable. He’s gay. But hey, on a positive note, he was never going to be into me so I’ve not had to deal with my first rejection since becoming single again. However, it’s not all great – mulling all this over, I come to the only natural conclusion: Sax pities me. He’s making it his mission to be my not-so-fairy Godmother. He’ll probably try to set me up with men and then step back, clapping his hands in glee when we hit it off.
Yet he doesn’t like it when Hugh tries to come onto me. It makes no sense … unless … Sax must instinctively know that Hugh is no good for me – he’s obviously a bit of a player from what Sax has said. Maybe Sax is under the impression that I need to dive headlong into another serious, long-term relationship. Perhaps I need to convince him that I need to have some fun. I’m rusty in the flirting department. I need no commitment hook ups. No strings sex.
And clearly, I need to recalibrate my gaydar … because it was waaaaaaay off with Sax. Or I need to have words with my hormones … there’s no way my body should respond to a gay man like that. It’s immoral … and, quite frankly, a waste of good estrogen.
I’ve convinced myself that I should be open with Sax about what I need in my life right now. I thought tonight would be the best time. However, all that fannying around meant that I had less than an hour to get ready. I found a dress that I used to go clubbing in, many moons ago. I’ve told myself that it’s one of those quintessential, timeless affairs that never go out of fashion. I didn’t believe myself so I threatened to withhold alcohol from myself … I now believe it. Thanks to Spanx, I managed to squeeze myself into it while muttering promises for the new year … dieting … no more ice-cream … no more wine … no, let’s not be hasty … less wine … maybe more Spanx, just to be one the safe side.
I step up to the mirror to appraise my hard work. My make-up looks somewhat reminiscent of the young women I’ve seen frequenting Liverpool city centre on any given evening, although I’ve tamed down my eyebrows and don’t have an orange fake tan … but I do have plump, glossy lips (although I can’t pout for the life of me) and I have more eyeliner and mascara on than I’ve ever worn before. In fact, if you scooped up all the eyeliner and mascara that I’ve ever worn and plastered it onto my eyes, you’d probably end up with something similar to my current look.
I’ve deliberately steered clear of my usual neutral, less is more look, since last time I went clubbing, less definitely wasn’t more – more was definitely more, in fact, more than more was more … to the point where more wasn’t even possible.
Instead, I’ve gone with a retro Eighties look that some glossy magazine or another was saying is ‘on point’ right now. Or at least I think I have. I’m an Eighties baby, my earliest fashion memories are from the nineties so I’m actually guessing, or presuming, mostly from music videos that I think are from the Eighties. Oh God, what if I’ve made a terrible mistake?
I turn to the mirror and scrutinise my meticulously applied makeup. No longer do I see a toned down Madonna or a raunchy Rachel Hunter … I see the heavily made-up face of Alice Cooper, with the addition of cerise pink lipstick – my on fleek turns into an oh fuck. I reach for a makeup wipe with the intention of starting over but, just as I smear blackness from one eye down onto my cheek, the doorbell chimes.
Naturally, I freeze before forcing myself to look at my watch. It’s bang on eight o’clock. Shit. Shit. Shit! That must be the driver.
I hastily wipe my eye but the black gunge that was formerly eyeliner and mascara simply smears around my eye socket and onto my cheek. The more I wipe, the further it spreads but it doesn’t get much paler. I’d thought I looked like Alice Cooper before, I was clearly mistaken. I’m now his long-lost daughter.
“Keep your knickers on,” I mutter, scrubbing at my face furiously. “Oh hell. That’s not getting any better.”
The bell sounds again and there’s a hefty knock on the glazed panel for good measure. I stare at my reflection: there’s no way I can go out looking like this. I look like I fell asleep with one half of my face in an ashtray. But, I don’t want Sax to think I’ve bailed. Bollocks!
Grabbing yet another fresh wipe, I dash down the stairs and throw open the door to find a stunning blond wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. He’s probably about the same age as me, possibly a little younger, but his skin is flawless. And those blue eyes … they’re the colour of the Med on a still summer’s day. They’re–
“Miss Duvall?” he asks, before frowning at my face and leaning forward. “Oh my goodness, darling. You look atrocious. What happened? Did you get something in your eye? Isn’t it the worst when that happens?”
Without waiting for a reply, steps inside and peers at my face. “We’re going to be late. Do you have your make-up in your handbag? I mean, all of it? Everything you used?”
I shake my head, unable to speak because his face is almost touching mine.
He steps back and pats my behind. Yes, my behind! I kid you not. “Quick. Scamper and grab it or we’ll be late. I have some wipes in the car that’ll cut through that lot no problem. You can wipe and reapply as we drive. Trust me. Oh, I’m Fez by the way. I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.”
I stare at him. He may as well be stark, bollock naked. I mean, who does that? Who meets someone under these conditions, steps right into their personal space in order to scrutinise their appearance, tells them to scamper off at the same time as patting their bottom? Oh and don’t forget that he appears to be an expert of makeup removal … and that he has wipes in the car.
Am I missing something? Hidden TV cameras, for example.
“It’s bloody typical that you’d get something in your eye the moment you finished applying the most perfect eye makeup since the Eighties, possibly even the Seventies. Oh, I do love to see ultra glamour, especially if it’s retro … and don’t get me started on vintage … no, don’t even go there, Fez. Time is of the essence. We mustn’t keep Sexy Saxy waiting, now must we? He can be such a diva when he wants to be and I know tonight, of all nights, he’d shit a cake if we were even a millisecond late.”
He gives my back the slightest push and I find my feet moving voluntarily across the hallway and back up the staircase. The metaphorical lightbulb goes off as I’m throwing every bit of makeup I’ve used into a bulging makeup bag. The chauffeur downstairs must be Sax’s other half. Or wants to be because there is no doubt he’s gay and that he’s got the hots for my crush. How many men in their thirties do you hear flamboyantly declaring that I’ve applied the most perfect eye makeup since the Eighties, possibly even the Seventies? Not to mention freely admitting how they love to see ultra glamour?
I’m in the car no longer than five minutes – sitting in the front of the limo, not the back because Fez wants to get to know me a little – when I realise this little ray of Graham Nortonlike awesomesauce is what I need in my life. He. Is. Fabulous. Darling.
The wipes he produces cut through my makeup like a hot knife through butter. I make a mental note of the brand … I need these wipes in my life. The limo is so smooth I have no problem reapplying makeup to the right side of my face. Perfectly. Beside me, Fez chats away like he’s known me all my life, patting my leg to emphasise a point or to signal agreement or … well, let’s just say he pats my leg a lot. My bare skin, actually, since the dress I’m wearing just about covers my sagging bottom. Nothing is off limits it seems. Especially when it comes to drooling over hot guys, agreeing top five charts for Hollywood Hunks, TV actors, musicians, fitness models … and so on. It would appear that we have the same taste in men. Maybe not the same, but very, very similar – he throws a curved ball when he includes David Beckham in a list. Anyone who’s stuck it in Posh Spice deserves no place on my lists.
It’s sobering to realise that the majority of winners in the top five charts we’ve compiled are in fact, totally and irrefutably gay. I burst out laughing – it’s either that or burst out crying and I’ve only just got my makeup somewhere near symmetrical. Man, it’s just my fecking luck to be attracted to gay guys. I voice my realisation to Fez, as well as my despair, but he just gasps theatrically before throwing back his head and laughing like a drain. “Don’t lose hope. Maybe, just maybe, some are secretly bi,” he giggles.
Yes. He actually giggles.
“No, Fez. With my luck, they’re all not so secretly Bye Bye, Bella.”
He cracks up, leaving me to study my newly botched makeup job in the mirror. It’ll do. It’ll have to – the limo has pulled to a stop.
“You look a million dollars. Who knows, you might do more than turn the head of some sex god, you might turn him straight,” he says, cupping my face with his hand with a devilish twinkle in his eye.
I pat his hand away but I’m unable to resist laughing with him.
Abruptly, his face smooths out and he’s looking into my eyes with apparent sincerity. “Joking apart, Miss B – is it okay if I call you that? Let me tell you, there is at least one gorgeous hunk who will not be saying bye bye, Bella tonight. Of that, I am certain.”
Before I can question him, he’s out of the car, coming around to the passenger side to open my door, help me out of the front seat and hold the rear door for me to slide into the back.
I face him before I get back in, hands on hips in a show of defiance. “What did you mean when you said–” I begin but I’m drowned out by the wolf-whistle that has both our heads whipping around.
Oh my God. Oh, not just my God but every possible God. Every possible deity. Every possible … everything!
As he nears, I’m not just speechless, I’m practically thoughtless.
Because man, he looks good enough to eat. I try to catch Fez’s eye to underscore our earlier revelation … after all, here is living, breathing proof that all the hottest guys are gay. But I can’t catch his eye, oh no, he’s too busy ogling Sax as he swaggers over to the car. And when I say ogling, I mean openly drooling, not that Sax appears to notice – I guess he’s used to it. He’s all smiles – at me. Gay or not, that smile does things to me it has no right doing. I find myself smiling coyly as a tender blush creeps up my cheeks.
He’s wearing slim fit jeans that I thought were black but, when he slides onto the back seat next to me, I can see they’re indigo. They fit him like a glove. Everywhere, if you get my meaning. And boy, does my hand wish it was in that glove. I’m practically hyperventilating at the thought, despite my brain screaming ‘he’s gay, you stupid cow’, and ‘get your mind out of the gutter – any thoughts of lady sex probably make him vomit in his mouth.’
Yet, those jeans wrapped around those strong thighs and … *cough* other parts, not to mention his mighty fine arse, coupled with his muscular torso inside a crisp white shirt and graphite waistcoat, and that modelicious face … I feel like throwing all my toys out of my pram and stamping my foot for good measure before screaming ‘it’s not fair!’ because it’s not. No offense to men or anything, but Sax is just too damn good looking and knicker-wettingly hot to be gay. There’s no other way of putting it: it really is so unfair.
I catch Fez’s smirk in the rear view mirror as Sax is gushing about how well I scrub up. Oh yeah, he’s cottoned on to the fact that Sax proves my theory that the hottest men on the planet are all gay. Cocky twat … lucky twat … lucky twatless twat. No wonder he’s smirking … I feel like flipping him the bird but Sax has taken my hands in his.
“I must warn you that I’ll have to disappear when we get to the club,” he says, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. Then, when he sees my eyebrows shoot up in horror, he adds, “You’ll be with the guys all evening … and Fez here, I’m sure he’s made a point of acquainting himself with you, yes?”
I nod and Fez winks at me in the mirror. I begin to question why he asked me to come out with him if he’s not going to be around but he continues, talking over me.
“Good. Fez won’t leave your side until you’re with the others and you’re settled … unless he gets to be too much of a pain in the arse and you’d rather be alone, of course. In that case, tell him to do one.”
The jovial teasing in his tone is evident. Fez sticks his tongue out at Sax who feigns disgust. “Put that away, Fez. God alone knows where it’s been.”
Fez clutches his chest. “Oh master, how you wound me. I’m very particular about where it goes … as you well know.”
I gasp, but manage to cover it with a fake cough. I take it my earlier suspicions about Fez and Sax have been confirmed. There is … or has been … something between them.
Fez is holding Sax’s eye in the mirror. Something unspoken passes between them, I’m sure of it.
“I think the man doth protest too much,” Sax quips, breaking their connection. “Besides, I can remember the Bear. I’m surprised you’re still not finding stray hairs inside your mouth.”
“He wasn’t a bear! He just happened to have a very hairy chest!”
“You’re telling me it was just his chest that was hairy?”
Fez grins. “Well, no. But it wasn’t just his body hair that was like a bear … if you catch my drift. The man was built like a grizzly bear … everywhere … and don’t get me started on his freakish stamina.”
“You dirty, dirty dog!” Sax laughs.
“Guilty, as charged,” Fez retorts.
Silence falls but the atmosphere is as charged as a lightning bolt. I spot Fez holding Sax’s eye in the rear-view mirror for way too long once more.
Weirdly, I’m more bothered about being a gooseberry than I am about Fez ploughing into a lamp post as he drives blindly along.
Perversely, it’s because I’m on the outside. I’m not disgusted; I’m disgruntled. In fact, I’m downright jealous. As I look from one handsome face to the other, I can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be the filling in a Fez/Sax sandwich.
I realise that Sax is now staring at me intently, like he knows what I’m thinking. I blush. When I say blush, I don’t mean a subtle pinking of the cheeks … I mean my face is glowing scarlet like a Dutch prostitute’s window.
“You look beautiful, Bella. Thank you so much for agreeing to come. I … I …” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I just hope it goes well. I need you to understand and there are things about me that you might struggle to comprehend. I like you, Bella. I’m glad we’re friends. I’m … I’m not like other men. I’m different. I’m complicated. And it’s important for me that our friendship is based on truths … complete truths, not half-truths.”
I’m frowning. It sounds for all the world as though he’s giving me a warning. A shiver slowly slides down my spine. He has my full attention, that’s for sure. There is something about him. He seems so confident usually. So in control. So content. Yet, here he is, clearly anxious. Not exactly apologising for what he is … who he is … but … who is he that he needs to warn me before I get to know the true Sax?
Does he think I haven’t guessed he’s gay? I almost tell him he has no worries on that score – that something like that would never get in the way of our friendship. In some ways, it would be a bonus. I enjoyed compiling hot men charts with Fez, I could do the same with Sax. I might even be able to pluck up the courage to tell him that he holds the number one slot in my hottest guy every chart.
But for some reason, and believe me, no one is more surprised than me, my brain engages before my Mersey tunnel of a mouth for once. Sax said he wanted me to come tonight because he wants to show me, not tell me. The mind boggles … does he want to show me him getting off with some hunky ripped Romeo? I’d be fine to see him chat up some guy and then leave with him. I can’t say I wouldn’t be jealous of his chosen pickup. I’m selfish enough to think it’s a waste as far as I’m concerned but hey, I’m sure Sax has a different take on that.
I smile at him and he squeezes my hands. I’m not sure how to reply to that. I know I have a big mouth. I know if I try to say anything I’ll out him and he clearly doesn’t want that.
Mind you, if Fez and Sax’s practically harmless interaction in here can make me want to be the mustard in their meaty sandwich, what would watching Sax getting it on with some sexy stud do for me? Or to me, to be precise? Would it make me horny?
Sax is smiling down at me. He seems relieved that I’m willing to let him do this his way. And I am. It’s killing me. But I am.
Of course, I’m intrigued. I don’t understand why he can’t just out himself verbally … in this day and age, it seems madness to want me to see it, rather than just hear it. But, like I say, I’ve never had a gay friend, never been a part of the scene so I don’t know how things are done. Maybe this is how it’s done in the modern world. Maybe it’s only celebrities who blurt it out. Or … oh yes, I’m sure that’s it … he definitely knows I fancy him so he’s letting me down gently, or giving me incontrovertible proof that I’m barking up the wrong tree. He’s into men. I’m into him. I’m not a man. The problem is obvious.
Should my suspicions need further confirmation, which they don’t, the car comes to a standstill in the heart of Liverpool’s gay quarter. I’m ushered up the steps by Sax and through the door and into a large room. With his hand on my back, he steers me towards a bar that’s at least four people deep. When I say people, I mean men. I think I’m the only female in here … presumably, the only heterosexual too. Sax goes up on his tiptoes and I watch him gesticulating over their heads. I don’t know where he thinks that’s going to get him. I can’t even see how many bar staff are at work. I have a feeling we’ll be waiting for our drinks for some time.
Fez appears moments later, although how I don’t know … have you ever tried finding a parking space in Liverpool city centre? I resolve to ask him but before I can, a young man appears at Sax’s side, bearing a cocktail of some description.
“For you, madam,” Sax grins. “A mandarin mojito. I can also heartily recommend the vanilla Martini, but be warned the measures in here are on the larger side … and mixing cocktails has the unfortunate side-effect of wiping out one’s memory … and most of the following day.”
As I take it, I return his smile. “Thank you, kind sir. Your advice is duly noted.”
“Where’s mine?” grumbles Fez with a frown as the barman walks off.
“Like me, you’re supposed to be working,” Sax retorts with a rueful expression. “Speaking of which, I’d better get going. I’ll see you very soon.”
I clutch his arm as he starts to turn away. “You’re working? But …”
“All will become clear, my dear,” he says, flashing me a million-dollar smile and walking hastily away, disappearing between the many male bodies that are queuing at the bar.
Ah, so that’s how he got me a drink without having to queue – he works here. Oh man, don’t tell me he’s going to be behind the bar all night – it occurs to me that he is dressed similarly to the young barman who brought my drink. Of course, Sax fills his clothes much more satisfactorily than anyone else in this room but yes, he does look as though he’s dressed for work.
“Come on,” says Fez. “Your feet will be killing you if you don’t take your weight off them for some of the night, at least.”
I’m about to protest at the insinuation of my weight being too much for my feet to bear when I feel an arm slide around my shoulders. I pull away instinctively and find it’s Hugh who’s attached himself to me and that Phoebe is with him.
“Hey Bella,” he says. “What are you drinking?”
“Hi Hugh, Hi Phoebe. I’m drinking a mandarin mojito … or at least I will be. I’ve not had chance to taste it yet.”
Phoebe flashes her perfect teeth. “Oh you’ll adore it. They’re to die for. I’ll have one too, Hugh.”
“Cool,” he says. “Three mandarin mojitos it is then.”
Fez coughs, none too subtly and Hugh gives him a are you kidding? look. “I’ll get you a mineral water,” he says. “You are driving tonight after all.”
Fez pulls a face but it’s good-natured enough then he leads me and Phoebe away from the bar and through the centre of the large room. Dance music is pumping through the speakers but at a volume that you can hear yourself think … as well as speak. Oh god. That means I’m officially old, doesn’t it? Next, I’ll be complaining about this modern crap and shouting for some Take That. The thought makes me shake my head.
“What’s up?” Fez asks as he steers me to a large circular table and indicates for me to take a seat.
“Nothing,” I mumble, pulling a face. “Just feeling old, that’s all.”
“Feeling up oldies, eh? You might want to keep your hands to yourself in here. With this crowd, you don’t know what you might catch.” He gives a cheeky wink and sinks into the seat next to me. Phoebe takes the one on the other side of me as I pull a face at Fez. I have a feeling he doesn’t take anything seriously. I raise my glass to my lips and take a sip, vowing to be as laidback and chilled as he is … at least for tonight.
Wow! Just wow! This cocktail is delicious … tasting way too much like fruit juice … and it’s warm in here. No wonder Sax warned me. I must be careful how many of these I knock back … I have a feeling these are the kind of drinks that you sip happily … and only when you try to stand up do you realise that your legs are now made of rubber and your head’s floating around like a helium balloon.
Jeez Louise – listen to me. I am officially past it.
I don’t know whether it’s too counterbalance my mature thoughts but I bring the glass back to my lips and knock the lot back in one in a childish act of defiance. On cue, Hugh appears and places another drink in my other hand before taking the empty glass and depositing it on the table.
I feel the slight burn of the mojito as it makes its presence felt in my throat. It feels good. We chat idly until Jack and Ben appear – two more of Sax’s friends that I remember from the first time I met his friends in a bar on his first day at the office. They’re great company and, somehow, as soon as I finish a drink, it’s replaced as swiftly as if it magically refilled itself. Twice, I put my glass down and insist on buying a round but I’m shouted down and my glass is thrust back into my grasp. Oh well, at least I tried.
I realise the volume of the music has grown steadily to the point where we’re now having to raise our voices in order to have a conversation, although I haven’t noticed it changing. Fez is regaling us with snippets of ‘classified’ information involving gay celebrities (including some who purport to be straight) he’s found in compromising positions inside the club and on the backseat of his car. When I ask what they’re doing in his car, he explains that he drives for the club, transporting VIP visitors and VIP performers to and fro.
“Ooooh,” I cry, fluttering my eyelashes. I can’t help it, being in Fez’s dramatic presence, I find myself scrabbling to attain his level of flamboyance. “So I’m your VIP tonight?”
He nods seriously. “Oh yes. You’re my Very Intriguing Pretty.”
I giggle, slapping his arm lightly. “I like you, Fez. You’re good for my self-esteem.”
He winks. “That’s what Matt Bomer said last week when I gave him a private Oscar winning performance.” He nods, sincerely. “Well, he wasn’t up to my usual high standard so I had to fake it. His balls, slapping against my arse were beginning to get on my tits.”
Alas, I’d just taken a healthy sip of mojito … which comes shooting down my nostrils when I snort with laughter. Fez sits there, pointing at me as he pisses himself laughing. Phoebe leaps up to grab a napkin from the tray on the table but Hugh pushes past her. He takes my glass and passes it to Phoebe before taking my face in his hands and wiping his lips across mine before sucking gently on my chin.
I freeze. I think everyone freezes because it’s quiet. So quiet. Unfortunately, I’m too inebriated to realise that it’s too quiet. I’m also frankly stunned that this friend of Sax’s, practically a stranger to me is now licking up the traces of mojito that escaped down my neck.
It’s when his mouth moves towards my cleavage that I’m jolted into action, attempting to pull back from him but I’m sat upright in the high backed chair and he has my face gripped in his hands so the movement does nothing. The overpowering smell of his aftershave is nauseating and, although he must feel me straining to pull away, he keeps his lips on my skin and his arms pressed over mine, preventing me from pushing him away.
Weirdly, I realise I can’t see him. Nervously, I look left and right but I can’t see anything but it’s pitch black. Panic starts welling up inside me until I hear Fez’s voice.
“You okay, Miss B?”
His concerned voice galvanises me. “I will be,” I hiss. “When Hugh gets–.”
Abruptly, Hugh puts his mouth over mine, effectively silencing me and pushing me back into the chair so there’s no escape.
Oh yes, there is.
I use my hands to locate his legs then I abruptly bring up my knee, catching him where it hurts. He hisses but releases me, apparently needing his hands to cover his groin.
“Touch me again and I’ll put them out of action. Permanently,” I hiss loudly.
He shuffles back and it’s then that I realise that the lights have come back on. No, not the dim lights that were on before; these lights are bright. I look around and see heads turned in my direction. Smirks are plastered on all of their faces. I look ahead and realise that we’re sat in front of a stage that’s now lit brightly. There’s a blonde woman standing at the front of the stage, dressed in a long black, silk dress. She’s looking straight at me. She’s not smirking. She’s not smiling at all. Her face is like thunder.
She opens her mouth saying, “Hello, everybody,” but her eyes are still trained on mine. I watch those painted red lips move but I stop hearing her words.
Not her words.
That’s not a blonde woman up there … that’s Sax. In a dress. And makeup. And heels. And …
Fuck Gok Wan, where’s my drink when I need it?