The evening went on. Much drink was taken, much drunken dancing committed. The amount of camera flashing declined as power ran down both in camera batteries and small children, though not as much in either as one might have hoped. I spent a couple of intervals outside smoking with Ferg and his chums. Ellie and I danced in a Circassian Circle, then in a Flying Scotsman. Another Eightsome rounded off the ceilidh part of the evening but we sat that one out. More food was laid out, more drink taken. We danced to some pop, I danced with Lauren, the bride, with Grier — as instructed — and with a revived Jel. Grier insisted on consecutive dances, the second being a slow one during which she pressed herself hard against me.
‘I can feel your erection,’ she informed me, just before the song stopped.
I briefly considered denying what was, after all, the truth, and also not something I was particularly in control of. ‘I was thinking about Ellie,’ I told her.
‘Not Anjelica MacAvett?’ Grier said quietly, from beneath the black fringe.
‘No, not Anjelica MacAvett,’ I said, looking at the girl, disquieted.
‘I see a lot,’ Grier whispered into my ear.
‘I bet you do. But not Jel; El.’
‘El Jel, Jel El,’ Grier sing-songed.
‘Ellie,’ I said, firmly.
Grier nodded and pressed in against me again, as the last notes of the song faded. ‘And she’s thinking of Dean Watts.’ She stepped back, nodded. ‘Thanks, Stewart,’ she said, and skipped off.
My expression, I’m sure, must have been choice.
I was at the bar. Ellie was at a distant table going over old times with girlfriends from the Academy.
‘Real thing?’ Ferg asked quietly, suddenly at my side.
‘
‘Humpty Driscoll’s got a room and some very pure powder. More than the daft fuck knows what to do with, so a few of us are volunteering to help him out. Care to join?’
‘Fuck, yeah,’ I said, so we tramped off to the room Humpty had.
Humpty had always been the sort who needed to provide incentives for people to be his pals; once it had been sweeties and stolen fags. He was training to be a lawyer in London and his folks had moved to Australia so he’d got himself a room in the hotel. Jel was already there, hoovering a line as Ferg and I arrived. Her brother Josh was looking on with a knowing grin. Gina Hillis, Sandy McDade and Len Grady were there too, and Phelpie.
The coke was pretty good and I had a couple of very intense discussions about fuck knows what, one with Ferg and one with Jel.
We all went off to dance some energy away and, a few songs later, when Jel and I were still dancing, we saw Ferg and Josh heading for the main corridor from the ballroom to the foyer.
‘Think there’s more coke going?’ Jel asked, grabbing my arm.
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I don’t know …’ I could think of at least one other good reason Ferg and Josh were heading off somewhere together.
‘Let’s
This seemed like an extremely good idea, so we headed after them — I looked round for Ellie, but she’d disappeared again — however, we lost Ferg and Josh in the crowds of people in the corridor (a few lightweights were leaving. And it barely midnight).
We stood in front of the lifts, Jel pressing buttons seemingly at random. ‘Let’s go there anyway,’ she said. ‘It was 404, wasn’t it?’
I’d thought it was 505. Or possibly 555. ‘Umm,’ I said.
Jel nodded. ‘Let’s try it.’
‘You take the lift, I’ll take the stairs,’ I told her. This seemed like a splendid stratagem to ensure we didn’t miss anybody. And also to avoid it looking like Jel and I were proceeding in a bedroom-wards direction together.
‘Okay!’
I walked upstairs two at a time, dispensing a couple of jolly hellos to known faces en route and trying not to trip over small children.
I met Jel outside room 404, but it wasn’t right; no answer, and it and the corridor around it just didn’t look familiar either.
‘Fifth floor?’ I suggested. I was still feeling room 505.
Jel nodded. ‘Let’s try it.’
The fifth floor looked even less right. Parts weren’t even lit. ‘We’ve lost them,’ Jel said, dispirited. Then she perked up. ‘Emergency supplies!’ she said, and dug down her cleavage, feeling around inside her bra. I thought it would do no harm to observe this process closely. She produced a little paper wrap.
‘Brilliant, but I bet these are all locked,’ I said, testing the nearest door, then going to the next.
‘Keep trying,’ she said, followed almost immediately by, ‘Aha!’
It was a little ladies’ toilet: three cubicles and a shelf with three sinks opposite, modesty-panelled with a faded green floral curtain, all of it overlit from above with fluorescents and filled with a faint hissing noise like static.
