So I Married a Rockstar

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ch.27: Party like a Rockstar

"What do you think?" Elle asked, linking her arm with mine.

I'd known that a party at Jude's loft wouldn't be as big and over-the-top as some of those that he'd thrown in his LA mansion, but my only prior experiences with house parties had been the ones I'd gone to as a teenager – where everyone drank cheap beer or cheaper bottles of neon-bright pre-mixed drinks, before awkwardly pairing off to kiss and fumble at each other's clothes.

I'd never been to a house party as an adult – not because I didn't want to, but because the opportunity hadn't come up. Jake and I couldn't host one in our tiny flat, and he hadn't always wanted to make the effort to go to someone else's house.

Classic rock music spilled from speakers hidden among the potted plants, loud enough that I felt it in my bones. The neighbours would have been furious, except I suspected they were all here.

Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with famous faces – models, actors, popstars, a couple of rappers that I vaguely recognised, and other rock-bands, from all eras of rock history. Strangely though, there was no sign of Jude's parents. I didn't even know if they'd been invited.

Oval-shaped copper buckets were strategically positioned around the loft and the terrace, all of them brimming with crushed ice, and overflowing with bottled beers, champagne, and spirits, as well as assorted soft drinks.

Annie flitted about, her red hair a flash of colour, checking that everything was going okay, and I spotted Neil and Don chatting about something in a corner. Neil was actually smiling for once.

There was no food, which didn't surprise me – one of the bands I'd spotted in the kitchen were Mark of Cain, a Danish heavy metal group who'd recently finished a UK tour and who had a reputation for starting enormous food fights. While I suspected that Jude would happily join in a food fight in a hotel or somewhere similar, he drew the line at trashing his own loft.

Up on the terrace, a red-haired model wearing a bikini was stretched out on her back on a small table while two Oscar-winning actors and the bassist of Horns, another rock-band, did body shots off her. I had no idea if Jude had arranged this, or if the model was doing it of her own volition.

The smell of expensive perfume and cologne, cigarette smoke and weed mingled in the air. In one corner, Skyclad, an all-female rock group from Finland, were snorting white lines off another small table.

Maybe it was smaller than one of the American dos – there were probably only a hundred and fifty people here – but it was everything I'd imagined.

"I love it," I told Elle, and took a sip of my champagne. It tasted like sunshine and liquid gold.

She grinned.

Having never been to a celebrity party before, I'd been at a loss as to what to wear. Jude's suggestion to wear whatever I wanted had not been helpful. Luckily Elle had arrived this afternoon to save me.

Immediately she'd vetoed my smart/casual combo of jeans and a pretty top, and had insisted I needed to make a statement. It was a good thing she'd given me so many of her castoffs, otherwise I'd have been in trouble.

With her approval, I'd chosen a dress of gold sequins, cut short at the skirt and scooped low in the back, clinging to the shape of my body. My hair was lightly curled, and I'd gone for a more-dramatic-than-usual makeup look, with smoky eyes and dark red lips.

Beside me, Elle was dressed in a skin-tight black skirt with a slit that ran up the thigh, and what I could only describe as a black beaded bra. She'd left her hair natural, and her eye makeup minimal, drawing attention to her bright red lipstick, a few shades lighter than mine.