Eighties Night

Chapter 6 - Pickup

Amber slid in through the service door and out into the lounge. The full-on eighties outfit got her some looks, but word hadn't filtered down about her performance upstairs, and she had to queue to get a drink. She compromised between her idea that a brandy would be warming and Samantha's insistence that a glass of port would be Just The Thing and settled on a large sherry. Now she spent a few minutes loitering gently behind a cheerful group of Friday Night office people, out for somebody's birthday drink, while she warmed up.

'So.'

Samantha was there in her head, refusing to feel guilty at holding out-of-date, politically-incorrect opinions.

Yes Dear.

'What do you make of that? He was all over the place. What's with the hot and cold?'

When you are ready - it sounded like an accusation of weakness - we could question the young man again.

'I'm not having you slapping him silly. I'm sure we could have talked him into telling us more.'

We shall have to agree to differ. These people understand a firm hand.

'These people?'

Amber accidentally spoke out loud, earning a couple of glances from the group.

Men, Dear.

Honestly. It was like trying to punch fog. Nineteenth century attitudes met Twenty first century liberal values, took what they wanted and then stuck their fingers in their ears, La-ing loudly when it came to discussions of Civil Rights, Human Rights or anything but the right of the Political Right. Sadly, mid-investigation, whilst wearing massive shoulder pads and a skirt short enough to cause pneumonia in anybody over twenty, was not the time for an all-out dingdong on the subject. Not in a busy pub, anyway.

Amber blew out a long, slow breath. It was meant to take the anger with it, but all it got was a comment about draughts - which she completely ignored - from the group she was hiding behind.

'Well, talking of men, we should go and talk to the DJ. Not that I want to, the little...' She carefully bit down on a Politically Incorrect epithet.

The Little...? Prompted Samantha, sweetly.

'The Little. Just 'The Little'. No. Let's leave Daryl where he is and head back upstairs; if nothing else, we might just still have our table. Things have probably settled down and perhaps the DJ will want to apologise.'

Hoping that she was right but doubting it strongly, Amber swallowed the rest of her drink and headed for the doors back to the disco.

Waving her wrist stamp at the doorman, Amber slipped back into the room. DJ Jay-but-my-real-name-is-Ronald noticed and gave her a sour look, but said nothing over the current track. At least there were still people dancing. The Moses Parting The Seas trick didn't work this time and Amber had to thread her way through to collect another sherry, which was far better than the white wine, anyway.

'Hi. You're a fantastic dancer. I... just wanted to say that. To be honest, I thought you'd gone...'

Oh. God. Not nowwww...

A young man, somewhere in his later twenties and holding a half-empty pint glass had arrived at her elbow. He obviously hadn't come along for the 80s night - not in those impeccably twenty-first century jeans. And he needed to know that collars like that really didn't suit him. However, Amber smiled nicely. It wasn't as if he was bad looking, even if he needed fashion advice.

'Thanks. I shouldn't really have shown off, but that DJ was being mean.'

'Ohhhh. Yeah?'

All right. Probably one of the bunch who'd stampeded up from the bar.