Revelry. Lucy Lord

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СКАЧАТЬ idea of my night culminating in some hot shagging disappearing in a puff of smoke.

      ‘I’ll be back in a minute, babe.’ Mark can’t get away fast enough. He practically runs over to them and they both squeal enthusiastically and throw their arms around him.

      And in a flash the scene changes from divinely decadent to disgustingly decadent. Dwarfs leer repellently. The lingerie-clad babes seem to mock me, cackling as they crack their whips. The Nazis assume a terrifyingly sinister mantle. Of course they do, they’re fucking Nazis, for Christ’s sake. Whoever thought that was cool? I want to scream. My father has his hand right up Kimbo’s skirt. It’s the last straw. I mumble hasty goodbyes to a surprised Poppy and Damian and push my way past the crowds out of the club.

      Outside I catch my breath and light a cigarette.

      ‘Are you all right?’ I look up to see Andy standing behind me, his intelligent eyes concerned behind the specs. He must have followed me out.

      ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. It just all got a bit much, that’s all,’ I say, trying to disguise my humiliation. I’m feeling horribly frumpy in my maxidress now.

      ‘Listen,’ says Andy awkwardly. ‘I saw what happened in there, and for what it’s worth, I think Mark’s a fool. Those two girls are … well, they’re nothing special really.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I laugh, a trifle tearfully. ‘However, they’re practically half my age and there are two of them. You do the math, as our American cousins are wont to say.’

      Andy laughs too, looking relieved. ‘Do you want to go back inside?’ he asks. I shake my head.

      ‘No, I’ve had enough. I’ll get a cab back to the villa.’

      ‘OK, I’ll see you back.’

      ‘Don’t be silly; you’ve got a pink ticket. You go back inside and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.’

      ‘Well, if you’re sure. Let me see you into a cab at any rate.’

      He is as good as his word and five minutes later I am sitting in a taxi, speeding along the motorway back in the direction of Ibiza Town. Now I’m away from the seediness of Manumission I decide I fancy another drink. I’m still buzzing from the various substances I’ve ingested and am certainly not ready for bed yet. The idea of chilling with the Alisons and Charlie just doesn’t do it for me, so I ask the driver to take me back to the harbour, instead of taking the turn that would take us back to the villa.

      He shrugs. ‘Sí sí, claro.’ He’s seen it all before.

      Five in the morning is probably the quietest you’ll ever see Ibiza Town. Most of the bars pack up around three, as everyone decamps to the clubs, and there’s respite for a few hours before the bars and cafés start opening up for breakfast. I am starting to regret my decision not to go home, when I see a light glimmering in the distance. I walk towards it and discover a little bar, just behind the waterfront. It’s distinctly unglamorous, with unflattering strip lighting and about ten customers, but it’s a bar and it will serve me a drink. I go in.

      ‘Un vodka limón, por favor,’ I say to the barman, plonking myself onto one of the high bar stools.

      ‘Cinco euros,’ says the barman, handing me the drink. I look up in surprise. Very cheap, by Ibiza standards.

      ‘Here, let me get that,’ says an unmistakeably cheeky chappie cockney voice in my ear. I look over into a pair of very sparkly blue eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face.

      ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

      ‘Yeah, no problem. So what’s a lovely lady like you doing all alone on a night like this? Where are your mates?’

      As I start to tell him, it dawns on me that there is something out of the ordinary about this particular fellow. The short arms, the large head, the … the … little dangly legs, swinging from the bar stool. Yes, I’m being chatted up by a dwarf.

      He notices me noticing and says matter-of-factly, ‘Yeah babe, I’m a dwarf. Just finished my shift at Manumission. All the industry workers come here after their shifts – it’s the only bar left open in town. You were lucky to find it.’

      ‘I just kind of stumbled on it,’ I say, and we start chatting. He’s a bright chap, it turns out, and I surprise myself by enjoying the conversation as much as any I’ve had in the last few days. He seems to think so too, as he says:

      ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to talk to an intelligent English girl. I meet so many gorgeous babes in my line of business, but they’re Spanish, or Dutch, or Swedish, and I haven’t had a good chat for months.’ Just as I am wondering whether this is a compliment or not – nothing about me being a gorgeous babe, I notice – he pipes up, ‘Hey, I’ve got some Charlie back in my apartment – just along the front here. Do you fancy coming back for a line?’

      Without missing a beat, I say, ‘Sure,’ wondering how much weirder the night can get. I get off the bar stool and watch as he swings his little legs round and leaps down to the floor. Quite a lot weirder, it transpires, as I take his hand. It’s like walking along with a toddler.

      ‘Bye Joe!’ ‘Adios José!’ ‘Ciao Giacomo!’ Everyone calls out their goodbyes. My diminutive friend is popular in these parts, it seems.

      It’s totally light now and the cafés are setting their tables with gingham cloths and laminated menus, in time for the breakfast rush. Surprised, I ask Joe the time.

      ‘Blimey, it’s eight thirty,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘Time does fly when you’re having fun.’ He winks. We’ve been talking for three and a half hours? Bloody hell, I think, as I follow him up the narrow staircase to his flat.

      On the first floor of a slightly dilapidated nineteenth-century building, right on the seafront, it is in a fab location. I tell him as much, as I look out to sea over his wrought-iron balcony.

      ‘Being a Manumission dwarf must pay well,’ I joke, and he nods seriously.

      ‘It’s the best job in the world. I mean, let’s face it, being born a dwarf could be a serious bummer, but in my line of work I meet all these gorgeous babes …’ He’s off again, I think. ‘… I mean, I should spread the word to all dwarfs – move to Ibiza – but then I might be doing myself out of a job.’

      As he can’t reach the table, he racks a couple of lines out on the wooden floorboards and we both sniff greedily. Then he gets out a photo album and starts showing me pictures of all the ‘babes’ he’s had over the years. ‘She was my girlfriend,’ he says, pointing out an improbably pneumatic blonde. ‘And her,’ gesturing towards a leggy brunette. And on and on and on.

      By now I am wondering what to make of it all. He is clearly trying to pull me, I think. Could I go through with it? On the one hand, it would be a great story to tell the grandchildren. On the other … hmmm. In my defence, it’s been a very long night.

      I’m still trying to make up my mind when he excuses himself to go to the loo. I’m idly wondering if he has a special WC, half a foot off the ground, so he can reach it (or is his cock ENORMOUS? – surely nature compensates in some way?), when something catches my eye. Hanging over a chair that until now was partially obscured from my vision is a very familiar-looking dress. My white dress.

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