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“I’ll keep you company,” I said. “If you’ll have me.”
“I’ll have you,” Scarlett said, and took the stool next to mine.
She worked, of course. She got called up to the stage and danced two sets, and went off to do a couple of floor dances for a lad on a stag do. But every time she finished she came back to me, sat down, stole a sip of my drink and picked up our conversation exactly where we’d left it.
We talked about everything. Her nursing placements. My useless ex. The fact that she’d never once seen the sea up close. Her knee pressed against mine the whole time, and every so often her hand landed on my thigh and stayed there.
At half one, the DJ called last orders. At ten to two, the lights came up, harsh and white, and the magic of the place vanished. Suddenly it was just a big room with sticky carpet and tired women in robes.
Scarlett had changed into a hoodie and leggings. She looked about five years younger and somehow even better.
“Okay,” she said. “Confession. I don’t usually do this.”
“Do what?”
“I’m parked round the back. I could drop you home.” She bit her lip. “Or there’s a twenty-four-hour diner on Station Road, if you’re hungry.”
Dez was watching us from the door, arms folded.
“Or,” Scarlett added, “you could just get a cab and we pretend this was a nice night and nothing else.”