It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill

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      She took a glass, holding it away from her as though it might explode at any moment.

      ‘It’s a Cherry Plucker,’ I said, trying to match the enthusiasm with which Kat and Steve had christened it.

      Using the umbrella as a probe, she examined the contents with the precision of a pathologist, eventually retrieving a freakishly large cherry, which she held aloft, as though she had located the tumour that had turned an otherwise good cocktail bad. She handed me the glass, but retained the cherry presumably to send it for further testing. With a cocktail in each hand, I took a large gulp of each and then smiled, feeling like a politician at a press conference, making a point out of eating a GM vegetable. As the sugary syrup lined my throat, I looked up to see two men strutting down the staircase side by side, all cheekbones and jawlines. It was Mike and Stephen whom we’d met at the champagne bar.

      Throwing the cherry to the ground, Heidi Klum, along with what Steve had described as the ‘Stepford-Wives-in-waiting’, moved towards them like starved piranhas. I took another sip from each cocktail and wondered when it was that the hunters had become the hunted.

      Next down the staircase was a pair of pneumatic blondes, teetering and tottering with almost contrived instability. Their bottoms were lifted by five-inch heels and their pretty faces were eclipsed by giant yellow hair. Almond-shaped nipples poked through white vests, and mahogany-stained legs protruded from bottom-skimming skirts. At a glance, they could have been twins. Like dogs and their owners, I thought as I walked towards them, it’s funny how friends grow to look the same.

      ‘Hiya. I’m Stacey.’ The prettiest one introduced herself. ‘And this is Lacey.’ She pointed at her friend.

      ‘Where are the men?’ Lacey asked, scouring the room, her pupils constricted like those of a lioness.

      ‘There are two in there,’ I said, pointing to the crowd that I suspected contained Mike and Stephen. Stacey laughed, but Lacey just looked confused. I checked my watch again: it was eight-twenty p.m. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said, before walking away.

      I found Kat at the bar, laughing and leaning towards Steve. His attentions were alternating between the cocktail production line and her cleavage, which had a cherry wedged in it.

      ‘Do they require a garnish now?’ I asked, pulling the cherry out.

      She laughed. ‘Lighten up, stresshead.’

      I pulled myself onto a bar stool. ‘Where are the men?’

      We both turned to Steve as though he were the spokesperson for the entire male species.

      ‘Men don’t arrive to parties on time,’ he said, pushing another cherry into Kat’s cleavage.

      ‘But the girls have made the effort to be here,’ I said, pulling the cherry out and lobbing it towards the bin. I missed.

      Steve frowned and then picked another one from the overfilled jar in front of him. ‘Desperate,’ he said, handing it to Kat.

      ‘It’s a singles party. There’s no need to play hard to get,’ she said before popping it in her mouth.

      ‘That’s the only way to play,’ he replied, screwing the lid on the jar.

      It was just before nine p.m. when the rest of the men started to arrive. The beat of the music quickened as Omega watches, Dunhill cufflinks, Church’s shoes and Dax-waxed hair piled into the bar. Musky cologne overpowered the fading vanilla notes and the air grew thick and heady.

      While the women had claimed the sofas, the men commandeered the bar, jostling for position and ordering rounds as though their spend was directly proportional to their self-worth. Once the pecking order had been established, the dominant males leant back expansively while the girls eyed up the contents of their ice buckets.

      Last into the pit were two men wearing Diesel jeans and Paul Smith jackets, their hair styled as though they’d arrived via a wind tunnel. Cordelia informed me they were entrepreneurs, the co-founders of a well-known online business, which had recently floated on the Stock Exchange. Stacey and Lacey tottered over at their fastest speed, but two brunettes got there first, targeting the men with what looked like a well-rehearsed pincer movement. Their smiles were demure, but their eyes betrayed an excited recognition.

      ‘Do they already know each other?’ I asked Cordelia.

      She let out a dramatic sigh. ‘They were listed as The Times’ most eligible bachelors last week. Everyone knows them. Ellie, you have to sharpen up.’

      As the night progressed, the assets stretched: American Express pre-authorised inflated bar bills and the girls hammed up their sexiness. While the men with the biggest budgets gained territory around the bar, it was the girls wearing the least clothes who secured the most champagne, only to be usurped by those who were grinding against pillars or pretending to be lesbians.

      ‘Is that really it?’ I asked Cordelia, while the men gawped at Stacey and Lacey

      Cordelia laughed. ‘If you wave a sausage in front of a dog’s nose, it won’t be able to think about anything else.’

      I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, men are more sophisticated than that, aren’t they?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘When there are no sausages, they can be delightful company.’

      ‘But if there are sausages everywhere they go, then surely the urge would abate, and they’d suffer from some kind of aversion, like sausage fatigue?’

      ‘Sausage fatigue?’ she said, flicking a sheet of golden hair over her shoulder. ‘You mean because there is an endless supply of boobs and bums on offer, men will get desensitised?’

      I nodded.

      ‘They already are,’ she said, pointing at Stacey who was now pretending to bite Lacey’s nipples through her top. ‘Those two will have to get their internal organs out in a few years to even warrant a second glance.’

      With that she shuffled off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her skirt was working against her.

      When Stacey and Lacey’s show was over, I noticed Kat tailing three tall muscular men as they strutted round the room like silverback gorillas. After I’d caught her eye, she rushed towards me.

      ‘They’re RAF pilots!’ she squealed, flapping her arms excitedly.

      I rolled my eyes, recalling the million times she had described her ‘ultimate fantasy’.

      ‘He’s an injured pilot ran aground in a field and you’re a virginal milkmaid who comes to his aid,’ I said in a dull monotone.

      She fanned her flushed chest. ‘Well, thinking about it, it would be unlikely that there would only be one pilot in the aircraft. Maybe it would be more plausible with three?’

      I shook my head and watched her stride across the room, sticking out her boobs and hitching up her skirt.

      As the night drew on, the walls of the cave grew damp and sticky. Styled hair softened, sweat glowed through face powder and natural scent overpowered the synthetic. СКАЧАТЬ