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I stayed.
The lights came up at two, white and merciless. The music cut off. The magic drained out of the place like bathwater, and suddenly it was a large room with a sticky floor and a lot of very tired women in fluffy robes.
Dez started moving people toward the door. I stood to go.
Jade caught my wrist.
She’d changed into ripped jeans and a huge cardigan, hair scraped up in a clip, her stage makeup half wiped off. Without the sequins she looked softer. Twenty-nine and knackered.
“Hey, talker,” she said. “My real name is Priya.”
“Owen.”
“I know. You told me four times.” She smiled. “Listen. I don’t do this. Ever. But you sat with me for five hours and never once tried anything, and you listened to all my rubbish, and I’m wide awake.”
“Okay.”
“My flat’s ten minutes away. I’ve got a bottle of wine and a sofa.” She looked at her boots. “And I’ve got a lot of practice at lap dances that I never get to finish properly.”
Dez cleared his throat from the door, loudly.
“No pressure,” Priya said quickly. “You can say no. I’ll still see you Friday.”
My heart was going like a drum. I had maybe forty quid left and a job centre appointment on Tuesday. I also had a gorgeous woman holding my wrist, looking at me like she meant it.