Page 10 of Little Miss Fortune

‘They won’t let us in if we’re too off our tits,’ Sashka warns. Her eyes can’t seem to catch the man in their focus.

‘Oh, no, mine are off already.’ He brushes his fingers over his mesh shirt, just where the top surgery scars live, and pours a shot out. ‘Drink!’

We laugh. We are high, and drunk, and now fully employed for at least three months. Everything is funnier when your life isn’t on a complete downward spiral. It took them three months to convince me to go out clubbing, and finally, with the convergence of my birthday and employment, I caved. Dressed in a short dress and wearing my hair and makeup as I did at uni, I’m ready to party.

Leon locks the door and orders a taxi. When a black Toyota arrives, he lets us in and squeezes behind us. Our eyes are mildly bloodshot, but Sashka brought eye drops. They sting for a moment but fix the doped-up look. We look presentable and so, so hot.

‘Can’t believe you fainted at the interview. It’s honestly more impressive than getting the job,’ says Sashka.

‘Ugh, today no talking about work or my embarrassments.’

‘Boo, those are, like, the best stories. It’s really movie magic that you ran into your naked man again,’ Leon says, raising an eyebrow, as if it’s a tool to test my patience.

‘There is no magic at play. It is all my bad luck. And he is definitely not my naked man. He is going to be my supervisor.’

‘Ugh, you and your luck.’ Sashka rolls her eyes. ‘There is no such thing as luck. You just have chaos following you.’

Sashka doesn’t believe my theories but loves to hear about people’s luck. Like someone who doesn’t believe in zodiac signs but reads their horoscope anyway. Still, she sometimes brings a boy round to meet me to determine his luck, and if it’s below small fortune, she’s cautious.

‘I’m telling you, we should have used the Tube to exhaust our misfortunes before the club. Bad things always happen on the Tube. Now who knows what is going to happen?’

‘Knowing us, we won’t even get in.’ Sashka snorts at the thought, and I guffaw with her.

We missed our flight to Ibiza once because Sashka got stuck in security for half an hour.

‘Keep your wits about you. It would be embarrassing to get turned away from Judgement on your birthday,’ Leon warns us over our giggling.

Judgement was known as the last resort club, but we liked it because the music was good and the people at the beginning of the night were always respectful. And hot. Leon and Sashka want to pull. I do too, but because we haven’t exhausted my bad luck, that would be too risky. I’d catch something uncomfortable but treatable. Maybe something like crabs. Again.

At the door, I try hard, really, really hard to appear sober, as fresh as a daisy, as erect as the Gherkin. I am staring the bag checkers down. No illegal substances in there, miss. They are in this body with a sexy dress on.

The bouncer at the door checks my driver’s licence with a red L on the side and nods. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘You too!’ I shout in relief at getting admitted as someone stamps my hand.

I realise what I said only when I hear a hysterical outburst from my friends, who now look as if they will have to crawl up the stairs on their hands and knees. Luckily, we are already through the gates of Judgement; it’s hard to get kicked out now.

‘You are so funny, Fuko. I love you. I am sorry I said you are chaos. You bring peace to my life.’ Sashka lays her head on my shoulder and accepts the barrage of kisses I plant on her forehead.

‘Too early for this. We’re going to dance to sober up.’ Leon tries to pull us together, ignoring the sidelong glances from the other club-goers. All so hot.

God, I could make out with any of them right now. If it were me from five years ago, I would’ve. As long as they weren’t under 20. If they were under 20, I’d call the police on myself.

‘Leon, I am worried I am too pissed for this.’ Sashka sways from side to side, forgetting about her mission to make out with an Australian man with a ‘stash and a mullet’.

‘I need you to focus.’ He lets people squeeze through on the stairs, quickly throwing in, ‘Love your dress.’ Before returning to us with a determined nod, he runs his fingers through his dark hair. ‘We are going to go up to the pop music floor, and we are going to have a boogie.’

‘I don’t think people call it a boogie anymore, love.’ Sashka giggles into my neck.

I respond by slapping her back with silent laughter. Anything anyone says right now is hilarious.

‘Sooka, keep your eyes on the prize.’ Leon pulls out the only swear word he knows. ‘Do you want to snog a lad today or not?’

His words work like a charm, as if she heard a call from the wheat fields of her motherland, leading the stride to the top floor.

When the doors open, lights flash in and out; lasers spin around the room; and music hits us like a wave, covering our bodies with its intensity. The beat is not heard as much as it is felt through the skin, giving the bones a massage all the way to the marrow.

And somehow it is still not as loud as the shirt of the man by the bar. As if Marie Antoinette’s grave was robbed, printed onto fabric, and stitched into a shirt. As if Amalienborg called, they want their wall panels back. Hmm, is there another one I can come up with?