Bass vibrates through the toilet door. My stomach roils. I put a hand on the clammy mirror, fighting the urge to vomit onto the floor. Deep breaths. Jesus, it’s hot. Where am I, anyway?
“Excuse me, love,” a woman shouts. She nudges me aside, nearly spearing my foot with her high heel, and takes my place in front of the mirror.
The floor under me slides like a boat on stormy seas. I stumble.
A hand catches my elbow, hauls me up, and I’m looking into a man’s face. His features are swimming but he has a familiar scent, smoke and sunshine.
“You were ages.” A soft Scottish accent. “I was getting worried.”
I know that voice. It’s Will – thank God. I melt into him, then stiffen. I don’t remember us coming here together.
“Oi!” the woman at the mirror yells. “Gerrout, you pervert.”
“In your dreams. Ugly bitch,” Will mutters as he steers me out of the strip-lit toilet and into a darkness punctuated by staccato strobes and thudding beats. Everything’s muffled, like I’m underwater.
The links of my silver dress catch the flickering lights, shining scales amid a sea of bodies. People swim towards us, past us, a few heads turning our way. Will’s arm goes around me, fingers tightening on my shoulder.
“You’re wasted,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”
His face slips back into focus, stretching into a grotesque smile. Nails, sharp as claws, dig into my skin, giving me a familiar feeling.
I hesitate as I remember: hard words, harder hands, pinning, scratching, trying to yank off the new dress. He hadn’t wanted me to wear it. Said it made me look like a slag. Desperate for attention.
Then: breaking free, running out into the cold, hailing a cab. Dancing with Keeley and her other hens, being handed glass after glass of prosecco. I scan the heaving dance floor for a metallic sash, a penis headband, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
Will’s dragging me now and I don’t have the strength to stop him.
We squeeze past the crowds, through black painted doors, onto a dark street strewn with fag ends and takeaway wrappers. I shiver, coatless, my dress still twinkling.
“I knew you’d be in a state,” he says. “Fucking useless.”
His words are like cold water on my face. I pull away, slippery as a fish, then I’m darting between yellow pools of street lights, a glimmer in the darkness.
Other men stare as I run past, their looks like hooks, but I ignore them. Ahead, a “Bride to Be” sash glints and I surge towards it, seeing the light of the surface at last.