Mr Right for the Night by Marisa Mackle Page A

of place in the drive at Victoria’s party. Or her own drive. Not that she had a drive, of course. And the county council had now gone and painted double yellow lines outside her gate.
    Anna promised Claire she wouldn’t be long.
    ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ she promised before going back upstairs and lighting her first cigarette of the day. It was nice to have a cigarette before you went out. It put you in the mood. As did a little drink. Good idea! She’d have a beer. But to her dismay she found the fridge practically empty. Two out-of-date yoghurts, a very yellow half tub of butter, an egg (God knows how long that had been there!) and one can of beer left over from a party she’d had months back. That would have to do. She snapped it open, gingerly sniffing the contents. It smelled off. It was always hard to tell with beer. She sipped a little. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t that pleasant either. Then again, if you wanted something pleasant you’d drink coke or orange juice or something, wouldn’t you?
    Anna reluctantly undressed. It wasn’t nice undressing in a place that wasn’t room temperature. The flat wasn’t sub zero. But it wasn’t far off. She brought the beer into the shower and drank a bit more. There, it tasted better already. She turned on the water. Jesus, it was like frigging ice! Then it hit her. She’d forgotten to switch on the bloody immersion. Ah no! She couldn’t go out with unwashed hair. She positively stank. Hours of crawling around unclean cardboard boxes in the stockroom hadn’t exactly added to her appearance. At least ten creepycrawlies were planning a soire´e in her messy bun.
    She caught a glimpse of herself in the tarnished bathroom mirror. Her eyes were like two bullet holes in her sunken face. An angry spot above her left eyebrow was seriously threatening a night out. She felt like collapsing on the bed, finishing the box of cigarettes and getting hammered all by herself. Feck the night out. It was Saturday. That meant queues. Queues for buses. Queues for pubs. Queues for taxis to get from pubs to clubs. Queues for clubs. Queues for cloakrooms. Queues for the bar. Queues for the toilet. For the sink. For the dryer. For the mirror. It meant getting squashed on the dance floor . . . freezing your ass off as you walked home swearing that this would be your last night out until the summer.
    The doorbell rang. Oh God, she was still naked. She scrambled into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pyjama top and pulled on a pair of odd socks.
    ‘Claire,’ Anna grinned, ‘you look beautiful.’
    ‘Anna, I can’t believe you haven’t even started to get ready.’ Claire looked cross. She’d made a huge effort. Boots, leather mini (to the knee and not at all as tarty as it sounds) and black cashmere jacket. A hint of make-up (God, Anna envied girls who just hinted) and a subtle spray of Miracle. Perfect.
    ‘Sorry, I got held up.’ Anna ushered her in. ‘Now tell me honestly, do you think I’d get away without washing my hair?’
    ‘Honestly? Well . . . you’d get away with it but you wouldn’t look your best.’
    ‘In other words I’d look like shit.’
    Claire said nothing. This was a common Saturday night scenario in Anna’s. Nothing new here. Eventually Anna would give her hair a quick splash, add some new make-up to the old and spend the rest of the night wishing she’d made more of an effort.
     
    They abandoned the flat at 10:10 p.m. Not a sound was to be heard from the flat downstairs. The air outside was damp. The front path was covered in wet leaves and faded crisp bags. Anna trod carefully in ridiculously high heels. Her short skirt must have caught the attention of a passing cab. It screeched to a halt outside the front gate. Classic. The girls clambered in.
    They decided on a new ultra-trendy club along the quays. Problem was, so did everybody else. The queue was the length of the Liffey. There wasn’t a hare’s sniff of getting in. Unless you were