Love...Maybe by Gill Paul

Author:Gill Paul [Various]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2015-01-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

February in Liverpool is not exactly what you’d call a sub-tropical time of year. The wind was howling up the Mersey, and the gangplank onto the ferry was slippery with rain, shining black in the moonlight.

The river was all dark glass and undulating waves, and I grabbed hard onto the rail as I made my way up and in. How these gals did it in stilletos, I’d never know. I’d lay odds on some broken ankles before the night was out.

The party was in full swing, as well as the boat. Decked out with more swag than I’d ever seen in one place, the tables were covered in red velvet, the chairs tied up in glittery bows, and the ceiling was draped in streaming trails of glitter. It looked like a giant Christmas tree had exploded all over the room. The dancefloor was packed and thrumming and practically vibrating with the sound of size 10 heels bouncing around to ‘The Only Way Is Up’.

I took a moment’s pause to simply stare in wonder at the various frocks, hairdos, and makeovers on show, and to try and figure out which were male, which were female, and which were a combination of both. It was harder than it sounds; so much effort had gone into these outfits.

I’d always thought that Scouse women were the most glamourous creatures on the face of the planet. I was coming to the conclusion that I might have been wrong – and that certain types of Scouse men might actually win that contest.

I snagged a glass of pink champagne from a massive tray laid out near the entrance, and wondered how this was going to play out. As a potential interview spot, it was pretty much useless – too much noise. Too much alcholol. Too much everything really, including fumes from the all the hairspray. Harley and Dorothy had promised to introduce me to some of their friends and regulars, and staff who tended to take part in Cupid’s care.

Cupid himself, while not there in the doggie flesh, was present in the form of a giant blown-up version of the portrait they’d shown me the day before. It was standing on an easel, like the kind they sometimes have on display at weddings and funerals, with red velvet curtains tied to the side of it, creating the effect of it being on stage. I wandered over for a closer look, still wondering about that collar – the fake (or not) diamonds, and the GPS tracker that showed she was still in the club. The club I’d been through with both a fine-toothed comb and a fine-featured singing transvestite builder.

As I gazed at Cupid’s frankly horrible little face, Billy – in full Wilhelmina mode – came up beside me. He handed me another glass of champagne, which is always a good way to make a favourable impression.

‘What do you think’s happened to him?’ he said, green eyes slightly hazy with tears. ‘Do you think he’s dead, or … worse?’

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘worse’.

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