Ashford’s Version
I follow Jemma, who enters the crowded place with confidence.
“Let the hunt begin.” She says, reaching out to shake hands and start the challenge.
I do it, even though I have mixed feelings about this: I want to win, but I also want to control her. Yes, there’s no point in denying it, if a woman wants to, she will always find someone to pick her up in a place like this. It’s like fishing with dynamite; any man would be happy to give her his phone number, kiss her, take her home, and so on. She’s won by default. And I’m not sure I agree with this.
Jemma has moved out of my field of vision, so I head towards the bar. I need a drink.
I lean against a stool, examining the crowd and any potential conquests.
Too short.
Huge nose.
Jaw too squared.
Fat bottom.
“Looking for someone?” A voice comes from my left.
I turn round: a girl is sitting next to me. She’s quite good looking. Not too bad, to start with.
“I came with someone, but it doesn’t matter any more. We’ll meet up later.”
She looks at me and smiles. “I was with my friends, but they are queuing up in the toilets. I was tired of waiting!”
“I see,” random conversation in clubs is a pain.
“I’m Ellie,” she reaches out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ashford.”
“Do you come here often?”
My eyes wander throughout the dance floor, trying to spot a red silk dress with a lace band which caresses thighs.
“Ashford, did you hear me?” She asks.
“Um, yes. You were saying?”
“I asked you if you come here often.”
“No, not at all,” I say, absent mindedly.
There it is! Red dress heading to the toilets.
“Excuse me,” I get up and go to meet Jemma.
I thought that Jemma’s hair was curly tonight, but maybe she’s undone her hairstyle. “Jemma,” I call, but it’s not her. It’s obvious now, this one couldn’t be more different.
“I’m not Jemma, but I can be, if you want,” the girl replies flirtatiously.
“Sorry, I mistook you for someone I know.”
“No worries. I’m Ashley.”
“Ashford,” I reply, scanning the queue for the toilets. No red dresses.
“How cute! Our names are so alike! Ashley and Ashford.”
I stop her before she starts listing the names of our hypothetical children. “Yes, well… I have something to do. See you,” I say, and I go back to the main hall.
I don’t know why, but finding Jemma has become vital. I need to check if she’s already met someone.
I go towards the dance floor, walking between tables, and I bump into a girl who has just left her own.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder rather unnaturally.
“My fault,” I apologise.
“Are you at our table?” She asks me.
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you here for Faye’s birthday?”
“No, actually, I’m not.” Who’s Faye?
“Oh, I thought I’d seen you before, but maybe I’m wrong.”
“You probably confused me with someone else.” No red clothes at the tables, either.
“My name is Tamara, by the way. Nice to meet you,” she reaches out her hand towards mine.
“Ashford.”
“So, are you staying with us?”
There she is. It’s Jemma. I can’t believe it, she’s climbing onto the podium just in front of the dj’s booth, joining a group of girls who are just as uninhibited.
What a poser!
Tamara pats my shoulder. “Are you staying with us?”
I look at Jemma with a mix of resentment and a desire for revenge in my head. “Why not?” I answer, keeping my eyes on the dj’s booth.