***<\/p>\n
The place we went next would otherwise have been a typically overpriced cocktail bar had it not the unique selling point of being disguised as a New York speakeasy from the prohibition era. To enter you first had to go through a tiny, narrow burrito bar, squeezing past the customers sat eating at the counter, and on through a door at the far end as if you were going to the kitchen. Only this opened onto a short corridor at the end of which was a small, dimly-lit lounge with a bar on the right-hand wall and a row of fixed stools along the counter. I had never been to this place and found it quiet, and at 10pm on a Saturday night it was filled to the rafters. <\/span><\/p>\n I wriggled my way through to the bar and grabbed a couple of cocktail menus, handing them backwards through the crowd to Katya, and by the light of a fake candle on a shelf we perused expensive drinks with names like Winter is Coming and Minas Gift. It was noisy in there and Katya shouted the drink of her choice in my ear and I set off towards the bar with the sort of grim determination normally reserved for frontline infantry. It took me over fifteen minutes and a lot more pounds to return with two small but powerful-looking drinks, one of which had cinnamon powder all around the glass. Katya had spent the time either waiting patiently a few metres behind me or had disappeared for a cigarette in the meantime and returned, I don\u2019t know which. She took her glass from me and we looked around for somewhere to stand where we wouldn\u2019t be knocked about by clumsy patrons. Sitting was out of the question. A dangerous looking flight of stairs led down to the toilets from the corridor we came in from and I spotted a landing on the top no bigger than a manhole cover. We could throw our coats over a banister and occupy the landing, provided we breathed in a bit when folk using the toilet needed to pass. And Katya would have to stand very, very close to me.<\/span><\/p>\n I positioned her against the banister and stood on the remaining square inch of landing, then slipped my arm around her waist. My body was pressed up against hers with our faces inches apart. The wine from the meal had taken hold and the music and clamour of voices accompanied a lively atmosphere of raised pulses. We clinked glasses and drank. Mine was strong and the glass rim sticky with sugar. I took another slug. Katya lowered her glass and I pulled on the arm around her waist, squeezing her tighter, and kissed her mouth which she\u2019d already opened, our tongues working together. We came up for air after a few seconds, when somebody on their way to the toilet accidentally nudged me in the back.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019s okay here, isn\u2019t it?\u2019 I said, speaking into Katya\u2019s ear from a distance of half an inch. I have no idea what perfume she had on, but it smelled good.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Yes,\u2019 she said, with a smile sweeter than a schoolgirl\u2019s. \u2018It is. Thank you.\u2019 She leaned in and we kissed again. This time nobody disturbed us.<\/span><\/p>\n We continued like that for perhaps fifteen minutes more. By then our glasses were empty. I took a look at the scrum around the counter and the solitary barman pouring complicated cocktails and wondered for the thousandth time why London waterholes don\u2019t employ more staff. At these prices they\u2019d pay for themselves in the first three minutes. I turned back to Katya. \u2018You still have rum at your place?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Yes,\u2019 she said.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Coke?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018No. But we pass by the shop on the way home, it\u2019ll still be open.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Okay, shall we go?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Sure,\u2019 she said.<\/span><\/p>\n She took my hand as we stepped out of the burrito joint and onto the pavement, and walked in the direction of her apartment.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018You enjoyed that?\u2019 I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018I did!\u2019 she said, her New York accent drawing out the words. \u2018That place is so cool, I didn\u2019t hear about it before! How did you find out about it?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n The truthful answer was that the Iranian showed it to me after we\u2019d been to the restaurant we\u2019d eaten at earlier. I saw no purpose in telling Katya this. \u2018I found it on the Internet,\u2019 I said. \u2018It was in some review of bars in this area of London, and I went along after work one day with a colleague to check it out.\u2019 This was partially true: Ricardo and I had been there once on a Friday evening, but that wasn\u2019t my first visit.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Well thanks for showing it to me,\u2019 said Katya warmly. I squeezed her hand a little tighter.<\/span><\/p>\n Before long we were climbing the stairs to her apartment, a litre bottle of Coca-Cola hanging from my hand in a carrier bag. When we got inside and had taken off our coats and shoes Katya set about putting ice into two tumblers while I sat at the table with the bottle of rum at the ready. I poured us both generous helpings which left a couple of centimetres below the rim for Coke. I had a feeling we\u2019d not be needing that whole litre. I added what I could fit in the glass and handed one to Katya. She took a sip and pulled a face as if she\u2019d drunk bleach.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Jesus!\u2019 she exclaimed. \u2018How strong did you make it?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018You\u2019re Russian, aren\u2019t you?\u2019 I said laughing. \u2018Here, give it to me.\u2019 I took a large slurp from her glass, lowering the liquid level by a quarter, and replaced it with Coke. \u2018Is that any better?\u2019 I asked, handing her back the glass.<\/span><\/p>\n She took a sip the way a gazelle drinks at a crocodile-filled waterhole in the Serengeti. \u2018A little,\u2019 she said smiling.<\/span><\/p>\n She raised the glass to her lips once more, and I did the same. We looked at each other, and drank again. Neither of us spoke.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018You\u2019re an awful long way away,\u2019 I said softly, putting my glass down and reaching out with both of my arms.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018I am, aren\u2019t I?\u2019 she replied, and got up and sat on my lap, drink in hand. My hand slipped around her waist as the dress rode up her thighs. I picked up my glass with my free hand, and we both drank in silence. A minute ticked by.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018We\u2019re in the wrong room,\u2019 I said quietly, setting my glass down on the table.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Yes,\u2019 she whispered. \u2018We are.\u2019 She put her drink on the table beside mine and stood up. I took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom, and closed the door. We\u2019d not be needing that full litre.<\/span><\/p>\n ***<\/span><\/p>\n I awoke the following morning from a strange dream as the light was pouring through the gaps in Katya\u2019s hopelessly inadequate curtains. I dreamed I was in some sort of sex club\u00a0where a man was taking far more interest in me than I felt comfortable with. I felt Katya stir beside me and she opened her eyes as she rolled over and put her arm across my chest. Her naked body felt soft and warm, and I could smell her hair and what remained of last night\u2019s perfume.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Morning,\u2019 she said sleepily. \u2018Did you sleep well?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018I did,\u2019 I replied. \u2018But I had a weird dream.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018What about?\u2019 she asked.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018I dreamed I was at an orgy and rather than having fun with a bunch of of girls I had some fat, bearded guy wanting to go down on me,\u2019 I complained.<\/span><\/p>\n She laughed, waking up a little. \u2018Yes, that sounds like an orgy,\u2019 she said. I assumed she\u2019d read about them somewhere.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018You were in Pompeii, right?\u2019 I asked. \u2018Did you see the frescoes there, of the Roman orgies?\u2019 I have no idea why I asked this.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Yes,\u2019 she said.<\/span><\/p>\n I continued my train of thought, for no particular reason. \u2018I wonder if those things happen here. Orgies, I mean. You hear them mentioned in places like Paris, but I wonder if they go on in London. I suppose they must, somewhere,\u2019 I speculated idly.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Well, they happen in New York,\u2019 said Katya with a disturbing tone of certainty.<\/span><\/p>\n I stiffened a little. \u2018How do you know?\u2019 I asked cautiously.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Because I\u2019ve been to them,\u2019 she said.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0***<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" *** The place we went next would otherwise have been a typically overpriced cocktail bar had it not the unique selling point of being disguised as a New York speakeasy from the prohibition era. To enter you first had to … Continue reading