Chapter Fifteen

Lauren is too busy dancing for an I told you so, but I’m sure she’ll collect later on. She’s earned one. I’m not too proud to admit it: she was right, and I was wrong. Sure, I was pretty much faking my enthusiasm when she took me by the hand and all but dragged me over to the dancefloor in front of the stage, but as the music began to work its magic – well, the music and the Sazerac, anyway – I was surprised to find that I was actually having a pretty OK time. The band had read the room, and the soft, maudlin refrains of the night before had been replaced by something jazzier, more upbeat, with a real swing to it: the Big Band stylings of Glenn Miller and the Count Basie Orchestra, brought to life by the five men and women on stage.

Danielle and Jessica are the first to be approached by strangers, both overeager (but undeniably hot) men in their early twenties, still with that youthful swagger and cocky charm. Paige is next, despite her protests. ‘I can’t dance!’ she insists, but she’s obviously flattered by the attention, and the guy who asks her is kind of cute.

Lauren pushes her up from her chair. ‘Get up there,’ she says with a grin. ‘No one’s going to notice except for you.’ She’s right, of course; every few minutes Paige looks back at us and cringes, having put her delicate (but astonishingly uncoordinated) feet square on the toes of her partner, but he’s too busy noticing her cleavage in the low-cut dress she’s wearing to pay any attention to any pain she might have caused him.

Then it’s just the two of us.

Lauren is more insistent than Paige, turning down a handful of offers from the whole spectrum of drunken men, but they all take it in good humour; the mood of the room is so light that it’s hard not to. After all, isn’t that we’re here for: good times, good music, good booze, and good company in equal measure? I don’t know whether it’s for my sake or because of some sense of hyper-loyalty to Drew, but it doesn’t take long for me to realise that she’d much rather be out there on the floor than on the sidelines; she’s always been the one who loved to dance, always the first one out of her chair whenever the music started. By the time a charmingly bashful groom-to-be from one of the many bachelor parties in New Orleans comes up to ask her if she’d like to step out, I can see her resolve faltering.

‘Go on,’ I say. What are you waiting for?’

‘Are you going to be OK?’ she asks.

‘Go,’ I say. ‘Have fun.’

And she does. Her new partner’s groomsmen let out a loud collective cheer when she takes his hand and lets him pull her into a fun, drunken twirl, and before long they’re dancing a sweet, entirely platonic series of loops and spins, the way dancing is supposed to be: two people just enjoying the way their bodies can move, with no promises beyond the joy of the music.

I order another drink, and watch it all with amusement: Paige’s apologetic, pigeon-toed awkwardness; Danielle and Jessica apparently trying to compete on just how much male attention they can get; Lauren having more easy, casual fun than I’ve seen her have in months. I wonder if Drew is a dancer. He doesn’t look like he’d enjoy it, but who knows? The truth of it is, I know very little about him. Maybe he makes her just as happy as the groom-to-be does. Maybe she’d swap them out in an instant if she had the chance. Who can tell?

The band ends one number with a burst from Jack’s trumpet, and immediately launches into another fast-paced song. The lead singer, a slim blonde with an enormous voice, laughs and smiles through the garbled opening lyrics. Must be a hell of a strong drink, I think, but then it hits me: the reason the words don’t make sense isn’t because I’m drunk or because she’s not enunciating properly, but because they’re not in English.

Tu vuò fà l'Americano!

Americano! Americano!

Siente a me, chi t'o ffa fa?

The woman has a thick local accent, but boy, can she sing. She wraps her mouth around the words like she was born to it: a native musician, playing the crowd as well as any of her bandmates play their instruments. Just for a second, I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of a life – to earn a living from the approval of an audience, to get up there on stage night after night and sing your heart out, to hear that applause and know it was all for you. Perhaps, in another world, that could have been me up there next to Jack, with a crowd of dancing people in front of me. I can almost see it: hair up in a tight bun, smoky eyes and a dress that hugs my curves like I was sewn into it. A smile on my face and a drink in my hand, like a showgirl in a Prohibition speakeasy.

Maybe not. It doesn’t fit, somehow – and yet it’s a nice thought regardless. Comforting. Fun.

At the end of the first verse, she pulls Jack close to her and leans the microphone towards him; he’s almost a foot taller than her and so he has to stoop, but even though he rolls his eyes he plays along, to whoops and cheers from the crowd.

Tu vuò fà l'American!

Tu vuò fà l'American!

It’s been a while since the semester of Beginner’s Italian I took as a college freshman, but even I can tell that Jack is woefully out of his depth when it comes to the language – but no one seems to care, least of all him. And why would they? He’s obviously having fun up there, one hand on his trumpet, the other around the waist of the blonde woman at his side, and his enthusiasm is contagious. By the end of the song, it feels like everyone in the crowd is singing right along with him:

Tu vuò fà l'American!

Tu vuò fà l'American!

The song cuts out with a flourish, and the audience claps their approval. Out of nowhere, I raise my fingers to my lips and let out a wolf-whistle that catches Jack’s ear. I watch him scan the crowd, looking for the source, and when he sees me he drops an easy little salute my way before raising his trumpet back to his lips; apparently his singing session is through, and he’s ready to let the professionals take over again.

It feels kind of nice to be acknowledged by him, and I’m not sure why. For a moment or two it’s like being back in high school – the nerdy girl, picked out by the leader of the band for… what, exactly? It’s not as though he did much. It was only a wave – a nothing little gesture that he must make to a dozen customers every night, all to make them feel better. After all, isn’t that the New Orleans way? Make everyone feel at home, comfortable. Leave every customer feeling like they’re the centre of their own personal party – every customer out of the hundreds of thousands who must pass through every year. A hundred thousand snowflakes, each one led to believe they’re unique with a wink and a smile.

I feel stupid for buying into it, even for a moment, but what can I do? I’m only human, after all.

When I look away from the stage, there’s a man standing next to me. It takes me a second to realise that he’s standing there for a reason.

‘Hey,’ he says over the music.

‘Hey.’

‘Would you like to dance?’

I look around, making entirely sure he’s talking to me, but he must be: no one else is paying any attention, hard as that might be to believe. He is, by any stretch of the imagination, an extraordinarily attractive man. Everything about him is preened to perfection: designer shirt, designer shoes, designer stubble. He might have stepped right out of any number of clothing catalogues, but there’s something in his eyes, in the way he’s looking at me…

Sure, he seems charming enough – but that charm seems painted on like stage make-up; it has a fake, phony quality to it, almost too good to be real. Is it a snap judgement? Absolutely. Is it based on anything? No… nothing but a feeling, but with these things often that’s enough.

Sorry, I’m engaged.

The words come to my lips readily now – after all, it’s been six months of wearing a ring, and years and years of dating before that where I had an easy out for any chat up line from a stranger – but even the idea of invoking Carter now puts a bad taste in my mouth.

‘No, thanks,’ I say.

‘No… thanks?’ He repeats the words back to me like they’re in a foreign language, and then again like they were some sort of insult directed at his mother. ‘No, thanks?’

‘I’m not looking to dance,’ I say. ‘Nothing personal. I’m sure you’re great, but… you know. No, thanks.’

I watch as his pretty-boy jawline clenches – not so rugged and masculine now; instead, childish and petulant – and his brow furrows as he debates making a scene. Does he really think that’ll help? I think. Like he’s going to persuade me otherwise? It’s not like there aren’t other girls for him to try and hit on. There’s a whole bar full.

But he’s still here.

Please, I think, please just go away. Laugh it off. Be the bigger man. It’s not some slight against your honour. I just don’t want to dance with you, that’s all.

But he’s still here.

‘Whatever,’ he says at last. ‘I figured I’d do you a favour… throw the fat friend a bone, take one for the team. I don’t know why I bothered. You’re obviously the boring one, but all your friends were taken, you know?’ He smiles cruelly when he sees his words hit their target, and gives a hateful little c’est la vie shrug as he heads back to his friends, no doubt to tell them all that I wasn’t his type anyway.

Prick, I think as I watch him go – but that just what they do: prick-prick-prick, myriad little needle punctures up and down my spine, creeping across my skin. Death by a thousand cuts, delivered by a stranger who came out of the blue.

But no, it wasn’t him. Nine times out of ten he wouldn’t have managed to land even the most glancing of blows – not some preening man-child who’s so deluded as to think the world owes him a quick fuck every time he deigns to ask a woman to dance – but this time… this time was different. This time, it hurt.

Because it wasn’t from him, not really. It wasn’t him I was picturing saying that, oh no. The voice that I heard was much more familiar.

I can’t keep living my life according to a list.

I’m twenty-eight, not fifty.

It’s just… it’s too much.

You’re too much.

You’re just boring, honey – Capital-B Boring, and no amount of fancy cocktails and dancing in bars is going to change that. It takes more than a little bit of liquor to wash that stink off. I see it. He saw it. Hell, Jack probably sees it too. Why even fight it?

Boring, boring, boring.

And that’s why you’re alone.

The tiny little Carter in my head gets mean when I drink, apparently. Well, maybe Lauren was right. Fuck him, and fuck regular-sized Carter too. I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m boring. I’m out here, aren’t I? I’m with friends, having fun?

Well… sort of.

I mean, I’m not really with my friends at the moment. They’ve got their own thing going on. Lauren and Jessica seem to be having a whale of a time with their dance partners, but nowhere near as much fun as Danielle; she’s got her tongue so far down his throat she can probably taste what he had for breakfast. Even Paige seems to be enjoying herself, now she’s loosened up a bit.

Everyone except me.

Suddenly, the dancefloor is the last place I want to be; the Coeur de Vie in general is a close second, but I can’t just leave them without saying goodbye. Instead I cut my way through the crowd and head towards the bar, perching on a stool far away from my friends and Jack and the band, wondering why I even decided to stay.

Eddie is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a too-cool-for-school girl behind the bar who looks like she can’t possibly be older than eighteen, but I don’t much care. ‘Vodka and cranberry,’ I say. ‘Actually, make that two.’

The bartender is too busy to make small talk, and for that I am eternally grateful. When the drinks make their way to me, I take a sip of the first that quickly turns into a gulp and then a full swallow; I’ve downed the whole thing before the ice even has time to melt. The second one lasts a little longer, but not much.

Yeah, who’s boring now, bitches?

The alcohol has taken the edge off, a little. I know it’s not soon enough for it to have hit me properly – although I didn’t have much in the way of dinner; perhaps that was a mistake – but it’s cool and refreshing, just what I needed. Well, most of what I need, anyway. Partly.

It’s one of the things I needed, put it that way. Unfortunately, the others aren’t as easy as calling over a bartender to fix my problems.

Maybe I will call Carter. Maybe I’ll call him and tell him exactly what I think of him for not texting me, and for breaking up with me. And that I love him, obviously. First shouting, then that I love him. Yeah, I think. That’ll help things. If we can just talk, we can get this all straightened out, and he’ll see I’m not boring at all. He’ll see just how not-boring I am.

Good plan, Ella. Plans are good.

I pull out my phone, and an unfamiliar grid stares back at me: ten numbers and a handy little lock symbol standing in my way.

Fuck.

OK, so maybe I won’t.

Goddamn Jack, I think. Stopping me from making up with my fiancé. Oh, look at me, I’m so cool with my trumpet and my fancy suits. Look at me, up on stage with a hot blonde, blah blah blah.

Well, I’m not impressed. Takes more than that to get me all aflutter, even if the rest of the girls seemed suitably bowled over.

And what does it even matter, anyway?

The air in the club feels stagnant and stale, all of a sudden. Maybe I won’t go back to the hotel, but I definitely need to get out. I push my way out, past people laughing and dancing and generally having fun, until I wind up on the street. The night is starting to wind down, and there aren’t as many revellers around anymore. I can hear them, a little way away, but there’s not a single soul out here except for me.

Blissful. A chance to get my head on straight, at last.

I lean my head back against the brickwork of the club, letting the cool air of the night wash over me for a second. This was a mistake – all of it. Everything since I answered that damn phone call has been an absolute disaster. I should have stayed in Chicago for a couple more days, to try and sort things out with Carter face to face. Lauren would have understood, as long as I made it down for the wedding itself. I’m sure of it.

What I wouldn’t give to be back there now, back when my biggest problem in life was a sauce stain on a dress.

I take another deep breath, but it doesn’t help so much this time; it seems like the two vodkas I just pounded are starting to do their work. I’ll have to go back inside sooner or later – it’s not like I can just disappear; Lauren would straight-up murder me, never mind the fact that she’d be down a Maid of Honour – but… well, maybe in a minute. Maybe I can stay out here for just a little while longer.

I close my eyes and wait. I’m OK, I tell myself, willing it to be true. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m–

And that’s when I feel the arm slip around my neck, pulling me tight from behind, choking the air from my lungs, and I realise just how extremely, astonishingly not OK I really am.