Natural Selection

© AD Kooder 2025

Lula sat in the lounge of the Cressida Hotel. It was her third visit that week and the second time she'd worn the silver dress. When the text message buzzed in, she already knew what it would say. She read it anyway: Have to cancel. Will call later.

No surprise. She’d had the best part of an hour to prepare for it, glancing at her phone every few minutes while the barman and a cashmere-clad fifty-something, one stool over, took it in turns to size her up. With a sigh, she slid the phone into her sequined clutch bag, drained the last of her Campari and soda and convulsed with a full-body shiver as the liquid burned its way down.

‘Leaves a bitter taste, doesn’t it?’ She turned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Your drink.’

The fifty-something, now openly encroaching upon Lula’s personal space, tucked a wisp of dyed hair behind his ear and peered at her through yellowed eyes.

‘You need to keep it short.’ he continued, then in a conspiratorial murmur: ‘The barman here overdoes the soda – kills all the sweet notes.’

Lula licked a trace of viscose liquid from her lips and set the empty glass down. ‘Is that so?’ she said.

‘That is so.’ said the man. ‘Let’s share a bottle and I’ll show you how an expert does it.’

Lula studied the man’s gnarled features, the sagging apricot jumper, and mismatched red shirt from whose open collar poked silver hairs, and felt a wave of loathing sweep through her.

‘I’ll take a rain check.’ she said flatly, eyes already drifting toward the door.

‘No problem. I’m here for a few more days. We can work our way through every drink on the menu.’

Lula stood, wobbled on her heels then smiled at the man with all the nonchalance she could summon.

‘If only I’d met you when you were, let’s see, about thirty years younger,’ she said and marched towards the door.

Outside, the rain, which had pounded London for much of the day, had connived to give the Belgravia streets a watery, otherworldly feel. The stucco terrace of Chester Row stretched westward like a ravine chiseled from the banks of an improvised river, the unlit windows testament to a season where the home was abandoned for the slopes of Chamonix and St. Moritz.

Lula sucked in the ozone-infused air and shook her head. After weeks of temping around a string of anonymous offices, worn down by dull routines and impenetrable in-jokes, she wanted, no, deserved a holiday herself. Holidays meant freedom. They meant fun, new faces, and no obligations. You didn’t have to worry about getting stood up in a Spanish or Italian bar, not when good-looking men were ten a penny. She set her umbrella, straightened up and walked on.

Few people contested the street. The one couple that did, skittered past between pools of lamplight, each seeking the warmth of the other as a consolation against the watery gloom. Lula scowled at them, and silently prayed for more rain. That’d wipe the smiles from their faces she thought.

Then more rain did come, in heavy, stinging globs and Lula was still a good few minutes from Sloane Square and the shelter of the Underground station. Preservation of salon-styled hair and makeup was needed. She scampered over the Portland stone pavers as fast as her heels would allow and took refuge beneath the jutting eaves of the Fortuna Hotel.

The building – a jumble of glass and steel – rose from the corner of Eaton Terrace like some Cubist greenhouse conjured by the hand of Braque. Its discordant ensemble jarred against the stock brick and white render of its neighbours but the big windows revealed merry activity within and Lula couldn’t help but look.

A few metres away, beneath a pin-mounted stainless steel sign reading Dirty Dicks Bar and Cocktail Lounge, stood a man. He was tall, dressed in a dark slim-fit suit and smoking a More. He took a long draw, looked up at Lula and smiled.

‘You wear the dress well,’ he said, eyes roving over Lula’s curves. ‘Come inside and show it off.’

Lula glanced toward the window. Inside, well-groomed young people sat in tightly knitted groups on biscuit-coloured sofas. They sipped iridescent drinks and blew vapour clouds from e-cigarettes. One couple, close to the window, appeared to sense their detached observer and responded with interrogative looks of their own.

‘Seems a little cosy for a single girl,’ she said.

The suited man laughed.

‘A girl like you won’t stay single for long in there,’ he said.

‘If that’s meant to be a compliment_’

The man held Lula’s gaze for a moment, then exhaled a ribbon of blue smoke and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Mel Deaney,’ he said, extending a neatly manicured hand. ‘I run the place.’

‘Impressive.’

‘Very. This is West London’s number one cocktail experience.’

‘Cocktail experience?’

‘Truly. It’s an immersive sensory adventure with sights, sounds and smells that bring our classic and exclusive cocktail menu zinging into life.’

Deaney opened the door and made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his hand.

‘First drink’s on the house,’ he said.

Lula took an involuntary step forward, gained her senses then stopped. Embracing the concept that first impressions matter, she reset. Making herself tall, she contrived her mouth into an open-lipped pout and strode over the threshold like a catwalk model leading the line.

Deaney escorted her through the sparkling interior. From the walls, hyperreal images of margaritas and mint juleps mingled with planter’s punch and pisco sour’s leapt in vivid high definition. The air was infused with the aroma of juniper berries and crushed key lime, of espresso shots and velvety vanilla pods. The clientele appeared enchanted by it all as if on a sojourn through an alcoholic Never, Never Land.

At the bar, a group of punters exchanged sips from shimmering glasses, reverently cooing about the sublimity of each. Lula was more interested in the barman – an athletic and coiffed twenty-something, who greeted her with a flash of gleaming teeth.

‘This lady’s earned a free drink,’ said Deaney.

‘Earned?’ said Lula.

‘That’s right, for looking so delicious.’

Lula looked into Deaney’s dark eyes and sniffed. It was impossible to resist the thought that many women before her had heard a similar line from this man. Yet, it was a compliment and she saw no reason to reject it.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Deaney,’ she said with a smirk and turned the barmen.

‘I’ll have a Campari and soda,’ she said. ‘Easy on the soda.’

The barman deftly tossed a napkin onto the counter then flipped and caught the Campari bottle before pouring a generous measure into a glass stocked with cracked ice. He added a dash of soda, and a twist of orange skin and placed the ensemble neatly on the napkin. Lula, who had followed every moment of this showy undertaking, thanked him.

Deaney smiled. ‘If you need anything else – anything – come and find me.’

‘I will,’ said Lula.

With a wink, Deaney slipped away into the crowd. Lula watched for a moment then shifted focus to her new surroundings.

The bar itself was an island wrapped in deep-buttoned black leather and topped with a creamy slab of Carrera marble. It split the room into two distinct parts: the busy public space Lula had just crossed with Deaney and a sparsely populated lounge on the other side. A rope-and-post cordon separated the two. Lula unhooked one end of the rope, crossed the notional divide and perched herself on a barstool just inside the lounge. Regret followed almost instantly. This quieter side of the bar was a conspicuous place for a lady flying solo. The height of the stool made Lula feel like an exhibit under the luminous neon. To make matters worse, the stool’s elevated footrest forced her to sit in a way that made her short dress appear even shorter.

By contrast, the other patrons seemed perfectly at ease. They sat in groups, chatting or prancing between tables affecting self-worth. All appeared to be partnered up. Even the DJ, who stood on the edge of a minimal dance floor, spinning jazz-infused electro beats, had a bottle-tan Barbie doll glued to his shoulder.

Scrawny little vamp thought Lula as she picked the orange rind from her drink. She took a sip and let the bitterness settle on her tongue.

For Lula, it had been one of those days. Being stood up had been humiliating enough, but her morning had been even worse. A Facebook alert had awakened her at six, sent by her ‘best friend forever’ Carol. It was an invitation to an upcoming baby shower, to celebrate the recent birth of Carol and her husband, Martin’s third child. Annoying, but difficult to turn down. The others tagged in the post – a mixture of fair-weather friends and vaguely remembered relatives of the mother – all had babies of their own or were in long-term relationships and at least talking about babies.

Lula knew she would have to attend, and face the accompanying ordeal – the ritual of feigning interest, of slogging through the endless round of tributes paid to Carol for being such a great mother, while making goo-goo eyes at their wailing spawn. Along with this would come the inquisition – the relentless questions as to why, at her age, was Lula still single. Then, after she’d squirmed her way through a raft of vindications, would come the fake comforts, the pretence of jealousy – well, at least you’re still living the life girl – all those men! I wish I still had a little black book. Then they’d slip back into default mother mode, force Lula to stumble along with them through the arroyos of their stretch marks, cracked nipples and itchy bouts of thrush until the final descent into the abyss: the smartphone video of their eldest’s first day at nursery.

As Lula sat there, lost in the horror of that upcoming ordeal, she became aware of someone beside her. She turned and caught the sharp eyes of a short man with overly sculpted hair and a pinched Harley Street nose job. Decked out in a bright white polo shirt, tailored white trousers and white patent leather shoes, he beheld Lula with a look of detached amusement.

‘Your outfit tells me one of two things: either you didn't read the invitation or you're at the wrong place.'

Lula glanced down at the silvery sparkles of her dress and then back to the virginal apparel of the man.

‘Wrong place?’ she asked, deploying plaintive eyes – a tactic used often when getting her way with men. ‘But the man at the door invited me. You know, Mr. Deaney? He even bought me this drink.’

The Rhinoplasty man rolled his eyes. ‘This is the private lounge. Deaney promotes the circus on the other side of the bar. So, if you’re a guest of his, that’s where you must go.’

Lula inched forward on the stool and then stopped. ‘Can I at least finish my drink, babe?’

‘Of course, babe,’ he replied, already unhooking rope from the post. ‘Just not in the private lounge.’

Lula glanced towards the lurid, bustling space she was about to be expelled to and sighed. Clusters of couples only, locked in their little worlds. No singles to be seen. She stood, collected her glass and, resisting the urge to pour its contents over his gel-slicked mane, stepped past the man and towards the barrier. But as her foot touched the unsure ground of the other side, an enormous shadow fell across her like the onset of an eclipse.

‘Just hold on one itty-bitty minute,’ came a voice, deep and smokey and warm with the timbre of Dixie. ‘We can’t turn such a fine lady out into that ruckus just ‘cause she’s wearing the wrong colour dress.’

Lula turned and her nose brushed the placket of a sharply tailored white shirt stretched tight over a pair of pumped-up pectorals. The shirt, open from collar to sternum, revealed a waxed valley of deepest bronze. Lula’s gaze climbed upward, discovering a square-jawed, ruggedly handsome face whose mouth bore a mass of immaculate teeth. A pencil-thin moustache underlined a flat nose and a pair of green eyes twinkled above high cheekbones. At the top a dense thatch of unnaturally dark hair swept up into a pompadour of such loftiness it appeared to brush the ceiling. It was an impressive sight.

‘Bret McLean,’ said the burly Adonis, presenting a beefy hand. ‘Protector of the fairer sex and all-round good guy at your service.’

‘Lula.’ Lula said.

Behind them, the little man flapped a hand.

‘I’m sorry Bret,’ he said, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘But you told me that under no circumstances were free-loaders allowed into the lounge.’

‘Excuse me,’ Lula cut in. ‘I’m no free-loader.’

‘Oh, okay. So you bought that drink with your own money?'

The little man eyed Lula’s glass as if it contained some wondrous confectionary.

Lula’s mouth slackened but no words came out. The little man pounced.

‘So, we’ve established that you don’t have an invite and you’re depleting our bar allocation, so _’

‘Auden, Auden dear friend.’ Bret cut in, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. ‘I appreciate your due diligence here, but to every rule, there will be an equal and opposite exceptionism. With respect, why don’t you check on the other guests and leave this one here to me.’

The little man, Auden, sighed, mumbled something then flounced off towards the far side of the lounge, where a cluster of new arrivals demanded his scrutiny. Bret held the barstool for Lula to re-mount then pulled up one for himself.

‘So tell me Layla_’

‘Lula.’

‘Lula, how come a fine-looking lady like you is sat all alone in a meat-rack like this?’

‘I needed to get out of the rain.’ she said.

Bret acknowledged the statement with a preposterous expression of exaggerated sympathy. ‘Mmm, well, I can’t promise to keep you dry but I can promise you a good time. I can say that with confidence because it’s my shindig here, and when I party, a good time is mandatory, oooh yeah.’

Lula raised her glass. ‘Here’s to a good time then,’ she said and in a single gulp finished her drink.

The big man applauded Lula’s voracious feat. ‘I love to see a lady with a thirst,’ he said. Then, in an apparent homage to the achievement, summoned the barman. ‘Bring me your best champagne, on ice and two tall glasses.’

As the barman poured the drinks, Lula leant back and gave Bret a proper once over. With a little space between them, she could see just how big he really was. The great chiseled slab of him dominated one entire side of the bar, like an ancient Greek statue deliberately oversized to inspire awe in its viewers. But this copper-toned Hercules was more than just raw muscle – he was extremely well-groomed. Every detail seemed calculated for maximum impact: the crisp turnback cuffs, the rhinestone-flecked pants, the ivory-white snakeskin loafers. Together, they formed a picture so pristine it was as though he’d stepped right out of a celebrity magazine. Lula studied him and marveled. It takes a special kind of cock-sure confidence for a big man to pull off a look like that, she thought.

‘Here’s to you,’ Lula raised her glass. ‘By the way, what are we celebrating?’

‘My return.’

‘Return?’

Bret paused as a wrinkle formed up on his forehead. ‘I take it you don’t follow international sports?’

Lula shook her head. ‘Not really. An ex of mine took me to the snooker once.’

Bret let out a whoop. ‘Jumpin’ jiminy, I ain’t sure if snooker even qualifies as a sport,’ he said. ‘Anyway, if you’re not a sports fan, then you probably know me from my extensive work in TV commercials for big brands like Hot Stuff Barbeque Sauce. You do get that over here, right?’

‘Maybe - I don’t know the ad but you’re a big guy so probably you’re a… rugby player?’

‘Nope.’

‘A weightlifter?’

Bret closed his eyes, and laughed. ‘Okay,’ he said ‘Let’s try this: Heeeeeere comes the big wind...’

‘What, you’re a weatherman?’

Bret’s face contorted into a puzzle of feigned disbelief.

‘Not that kind of wind,’ he said. ‘No lucky lady, you are in the presence of none other than international wrestling sensation, and former-but-soon-to-be-again Heavyweight Champion of the World: The White Tornado.’

Lula frowned. Her only exposure to wrestling had been as a wide-eyed ten-year-old watching two overweight grapplers paw at each other in the hall at Minehead Butlins. ‘I thought you said your name was Bret?’

‘It is, honey,’ he said with a wink. ‘The White Tornado is my ring name. It fits my persona: get in the ring, do the business and get gone lickety-split – all while wearing nothing more than a pair of snippy skin tight white shorts’

‘You see, that’s it,’ said Lula, thinking on her feet. ‘I didn’t recognize you with your clothes_’

Before Lula could complete the aphorism, a man in a white jacquard dress suit thrust himself between her and Bret.

‘Mr. Mclean – White Tornado!’ The man waved his smartphone. ‘Can I take a selfie, with you?’

‘Sure you can, buddy.’

Bret angled his head, puffed up his chest and flashed a practiced smile. Lula took a sip of champagne, and did her best to appear un-phased by the interruption as the uninvited guest fiddled with his mobile. Then he handed it to her.

‘Make sure you get it all in.’ He unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a white T-shirt emblazoned with the words: The White Tornado Is Gonna Blow You Away.

Lula held the device unwillingly, humming along to the background music as she waited for the the man and Bret to prepare their pose. She took the shot and felt a prickle of envy – Bret was loving it.

‘You’ve got yourself a highly-prized souvenir there, fella,’ he said.

‘You bet,’ said the man. ‘I’ll post it straight to Instagram.’

Lula traded smiles with both of them, hoping Mr. sycophant would demand a picture with her too. But the moment slipped.

‘All done,’ he said, pocketing the phone. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of the night.’

‘Catch you later, good buddy,’ Bret said.

‘Bye.’ Said Lula through gritted teeth.

She held the smile until the man had disappeared back into the growing crowd of white-clad guests then turned back to Bret.

‘You’ve got so many friends, Bret. I hope I’m not keeping you away from them?’

‘Now, why would you think like that?’

'Well, we’re sat here, chit-chatting and this room is filling up fast. You probably want to spend time with some of these other ladies. You know, your girlfriend or your wife?’

‘Well,’ Bret paused, and stroked his big chin as if to ponder a question of great philosophical worth. ‘My wife, Lord bless her, plays only a minor role in my life these days. Our relationship is more of the brother and sister kind. I don’t mean we incestivise each other, hell no. We’re just good friends without the sexual relations part.’

‘So, who’s the lucky lady these days?’

‘Right now, there is no lucky lady,’ Bret replied, leaning back. ‘Being an international superstar is a great commitment to oneself. Finding time to meet the next Mrs. McLean is one heck of a challenge.'

Lula wasn’t sure if Bret’s avowal of singleness was a cue for her to display her availability or just bravado, but she knew an opportunity when it came knocking. She fingered a tress of hair away from her forehead and angled just enough to grant Bret a better view of her generous cleavage.

‘I bet you get lots of attention though,’ she said, watching as Bret’s eyes ping-ponged from one dune of luscious flesh to the other. ‘I bet a big, handsome man like you has to fight the girls off?’

‘Well women do go crazy for me, and that’s a fact. But I'm selective and sensitive and not the kind of guy who gives it up easy.’

‘But you must have so many needs?’

‘I do have needs,’ the big man said. ‘Lots of them. When I said selective, I didn’t mean exclusive.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of you to go around,’ she said, playfully prodding Bret's massive quadriceps. ‘Are all your muscles this big?’

‘Most.’ He replied with a rakish wink. ‘Some are even bigger.’

‘I like big muscles.’

‘Then you’ll like every inch of me, sister.’

‘I don’t know about that. I haven’t seen every inch of you, yet.’

Bret took Lula’s hand and lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘If you’d like to conduct a full examination, we can always take the party upstairs. I’m on the top floor - the Presidential Suite. It has cable TV, a well-stocked mini-bar and a bubble jet bath as big as a swimming hole.’

‘Sounds nice but I don’t have a swimsuit.’

‘None needed,’ he murmured. ‘Skinny dippin’ only in my pool.’

Lula’s cheeks burned with the potential of Bret’s words. She felt herself inching towards the edge of her seat. This movement was due in part to a force of subconscious will, that and Bret’s hand, which had slid along the bar and was making insistent little nudges in the small of her back. She moved closer to the big man, raising her chin just as Bret lowered his. She puckered. He puckered. But just as their lips were about to slam together – whammo! – a surge in the crowd behind them almost knocked Lula to the floor.

Reeling, she turned, ready to deliver a scathing rebuke. But her words caught in her throat as her eyes met the bizarre scene beginning to unfold. All along the near side of the bar, patrons were parting like water before the prow of a mighty ship. And in the wake of this swell emerged a figure. At first, it was little more than a silhouette, framed against the blinking fluorescence of the oversized plasma screens. But then, as the shape moved closer it became clear – it was a woman, and a very striking one at that. She was clad in a skintight white micro-dress, her long limbs shimmering with iridescent body spray. A diamond stud gleamed from the side of her elfin nose and her crop of ultra-platinum hair had been finger-combed into a faux hawk so spiky the tips gleamed.

All the men gawped open-mouthed, but the woman paid heed to none of them. Her focus was clearly on one person only – and that was Bret.

Lula gulped in this gaminesque vision with a rising sense of dread. She tightened her grip on Bret’s hand just as he loosened his on hers. Before she could rectify this slip, the newcomer was upon them.

‘Bret, darling,’ she said in a rusty voice, at odds with her polished appearance. ‘I heard you were having a party so I just had to drop by.’

Bret sucked in his lips, and slid wary eyes to Lula. The newcomer noticed.

‘Aw, you’re surprised to see me? How sweet.’

Bret leant back on his stool, spread his now free arms out across the bar and offered a cautious smile. ‘Well, it’s been..., a long time, I guess, miss_?’

‘Eunique.’ The woman purred, moving closer.

‘Eunique? Sure I remember. We met at_’

‘The Big Bang London after-show party, last October. You wrestled a guy called Ivan the Psycho. You knocked his front teeth out then booked him into a private clinic to have them replaced. You told me the story over a bottle of rose champagne. It was a long night and the bubbly wasn’t the only thing we shared. Ringing any bells?’

Bret shifted on his stool. ‘Well, my memory of that particular event is a little hazy,’ he said. ‘It was a crazy time. There were a lot of after-show parties.’

‘Well, Maybe I can jog your memory.’

With that, Eunique thrust herself forward until the erect nipples of each breast grazed Bret’s midriff. ‘Remember these?’ she asked, grinning. ‘You called them my little cupcakes with cherries on. You took a liking to them right after I gave you that shoulder massage in the bar. You must recall the rest now?’

Bret’s eyes widened as he ogled her well-padded chest. ‘Well, something is coming back to me, though it seams you’ve added a few more ingredients to those cupcakes.’

‘Er, Bret, baby.’ Lula cut in. ‘Weren’t we about to leave?’

Eyes still focused on Eunique’s ripened chest, Bret raised a hand.

‘Easy there, sister,’ he said, ‘There’s no rush. We still have a whole lotta champagne to finish here.’

‘My favourite drink,’ said Eunique.

She looked at the bar then looked at Lula.

‘If you could get me a glass, darling.’ she said, focusing on Lula's eyes. 'The barman's on the other side. You’ll get served faster if you walk over.’

Before Lula could answer, Bret spoke. ‘I’ll get another glass,’ he said.

He called the barman over and in a moment Eunique, between tales of her previous encounter with Bret, was guzzling from a newly filled flute.

Lula, sidelined on the subs bench, took a moment to size up her rival, to assess all potential threats. And there were many. The girl was undeniably attractive with a toned, athletic physique, shapely legs and an elegant neck, all enriched by an even application of fake tan. Her red lips, plumped by some chemical compound, formed an impossibly perfect Cupid’s bow. Her teeth were impressive too – a gleaming crescent of pearls so numerous that they seemed to hinder her mouth’s ability to close – or was it just that she talked too much? Lula wasn’t sure.

But not all was stacked in the newcomer’s favour. The plum-coloured crescent underlining each eye hinted at a lack of sleep, and the clump of concealer around her septum barely hid the little patch of scaly red skin beneath. Permissive use of sniffable class A’s surmised Lula –depressive, probably, the type to lose focus in the later rounds. And if Lula possessed one gift, it was her ability to stick things out. Even so, allowing Bret’s attention to be drawn for too long would be a severe miscalculation. A distraction was in order.

‘Shots,’ Lula said, shouted. ‘Let’s do a round of shots?’

Eunique’s mouth quivered, ready to deliver a rebuttal but Bret, no doubt thrilled at the prospect of getting both girls drunk, swooped on the idea.

‘Great!’ he roared. ‘Vodka’s, all round.’

The barman, nearby and attentive, came over to the group.

‘I can get you that in individual, chilled glasses,’ he smarmed. 'Or you can take it from the bottle courtesy of the Dirty Dick’s Ice Luge.’

‘The Dirty Dick’s what?’ Lula asked.

Without answering, the barman ducked below the counter and reappeared holding an oversized silver tray. On the tray sat a huge, pendulous ice penis, a hole visible through its crystalline mass, linking root to tip.

‘This,’ he announced. ‘Is the Dirty Dick’s Ice Luge.’

He placed the tray on the counter and carefully angled it to address Lula. ‘You put your mouth at one end and pour the vodka in at the other. The result? A shot of perfectly chilled spirit

straight to the back of the throat.’

Lula shook her head. ‘I’m not drinking from that,’ she said. ‘I’ll look like a right old slapper.’

Eunique displayed no reservation. She slipped from her stool at a pace and readied herself.

‘Give me a double load,’ she declared, turning the frozen cock until her lips touched its grotesque end.

Bret cheered and slapped the bar.

The barman unscrewed the cap of a frost-covered bottle of Beluga vodka and poured a generous slug into the upper hole. In a flash, the liquid had passed the length of the chilly member and was flowing into Eunique’s gaping mouth. She swallowed then pulled away to leave the glacial phallus glistening with a slick sheen of alcohol.

‘Lick it clean baby,’ hollered Bret.

Eunique obliged. She ducked back down and licked the icy tip until all traces of the liquid had been dutifully removed. To complete the job, she ran a finger along the length of the icy shaft whilst gifting Bret a smouldering pout.

The big man clapped his hands as he turned to Lula. ‘You sure you don’t want some, honey?’

Lula looked at the rude chute and, regardless of her earlier opposition, presented her mouth to its end.

The barman poured.

Lula swallowed and, as a celebration of her achievement, kissed the frozen tip, leaving a bright red lipstick impression on either side of the opening.

‘You ladies should take the next one together,’ roared Bret.

‘Together?’

‘That’s it honey, both of you, get down there and share that load.’

Before either woman could respond, Bret stood and pressed himself against the coarse sculpture, angling until the appendage appeared to project from his groin.

‘Come on girls,’ he said, wielding the bottle of vodka. ‘On your knees and open your mouths.’

Eunique squatted first. Her tongue stroked the business end of the luge, while her gaze focused on Bret. The cheapest of cheap shots, thought Lula as she knelt and set her mouth in place.

Bret gave a hip thrust. ‘It’s coming ladies,’ he roared, emptying a huge slug of the clear spirit into the upper opening.

Cheek to cheek, Lula felt Eunique’s lips tighten as she sucked in most of the booze. Lula caught only the last spurt.

‘That was all me,’ said Eunique, arms raised like a boxer who’d delivered a knockout blow. 'But you know I can take a mouthful, don’t you Bret, baby?’

Lula wiped a trace of vodka from her chin, composed herself and feigned a laugh at Eunique’s lewd comment. But inside, she felt a creeping chill. The repeated suggestion of intimacy between Eunique and Bret was not what Lula wanted to hear. It did not fit with her interpretation of no significant other or who was the leading contender to be the next Mrs McClean. And the more Lula thought about it, the more Eunique offered the better fit. Like Bret, she had the fake tan, the bleached teeth, the synthetic enhancements. She was loud like him, shameless, and addicted to attention. Even now she was openly stroking him, regaling him with her tawdry tales of past liaisons.

Lula had to take action if she was to avoid being counted out completely. She inched forward, and tilted her pelvis just enough to make her dress ride up, exposing a smooth expanse of thigh and the faintest hint of lace. At the same time, she fluttered her eyelashes and emitted a prolonged, orgasmic sigh. It was a melodramatic ploy but it caught Bret’s attention.

‘Are you ok, honey?’ he said, eyes shifting to Lula’s conspicuous display of flesh.

‘I’m fine babe,’ she said, inching further forward, revealing a little more. 'It's just that I caught a glimpse of your chest and it made me go all soppy.’

‘Oh, that’s natural,’ said the big man, goggling Lula as he unpeeled himself from Eunique. ‘Women always weaken when they see my body.’

‘Well, you’re in amazing condition.’

Lula leaned in to fondle Bret, wedging her arm between the wrestler’s bicep and Eunique’s ribs.

‘You must spend hours in the gym,’ she said.

‘Every morning – except when I’ve been partying. On Mondays, I work the shoulders and back. Tuesdays the arms.’ The big man grinned as he pulled a double bicep pose. ‘Wednesday it’s the core, Thursday is all about the legs.’

‘Well those legs certainly are full of big muscles,’ said Lula and the two of them laughed.

Eunique grimaced. She placed a hand on Bret’s inner thigh and slid it up towards his crotch. ‘Bret’s full of big mus_musclesss everywhere, assnt you babe?’

Lula narrowed her eyes. It was clear that Eunique knew the physical ins and outs of Bret, and that could not be contested. But the woman had revealed a chink in her armour, one that no amount of intimate knowledge could save her from. During her feigning and fawning, she’d slurred her words. The alcohol had begun its work on the central nervous system. It was simply a matter of time until the girl collapsed into the abyss of total inebriation. All Lula had to do was run her hard, keep the drinks flowing and speed her to total ruin.

‘Why don’t we drink a toast to Bret’s career?’ she said, loading everyone's champagne flute from the vodka bottle.

‘That’s the spirit,’ boomed Bret. ‘Let’s celebrate the restorisation of me.’

Eunique raised her glass. ‘The restorassshun,’ she echoed and took the liquid down in a single, unflinching gulp.

Lula lifted her glass but took barely a sip. ‘Let’s drink some more,’ she said.

Eunique didn’t even bother to look at her.

‘Rack ‘em up, girl,’ she spat. ‘I’m off to powder my nossss.’

Eunique tottered off just as the music cranked up – some retro acid jazz track popular enough to raise a cheer from the punters who cavorted by the DJ booth. Lula watched for a moment then turned to Bret and placed a hand on his knee.

‘Why don’t we take the dance floor, get a little more physical?’ she said.

Bret nodded. ‘That sounds like a plan sweet lady, but I’m one heck of a stepper, so you better be ready.’

‘Oh, I’m more than ready.’

Lula led the way, hips synched to the beat as she walked. Bret followed with a bow-legged strut, waving at the knot of other dancers as if making his way to the ring. The pair found space under a spotlight on the far side of the dance floor. Lula let the incandescent brilliance of the beam fuse her to the big man. She shook her hair, a springy coil of lustrous chestnut falling across one eye.

Then she pulled Bret close and began to groove. It was a slow seductive sashay, honed in basement nightclubs, as smooth as a milkshake yet as fresh as lemon and lime. Bret drank it in, stepping with her, arms wide and big frame trying to match the roll of her hips. He was slow – that old spinal compression that never really healed kept him in check – but Lula didn't care. I've got him to myself she thought, and that’s exactly where I want him.

Around them, the other dancers had stopped moving. Many stared, like onlookers at a fairground sideshow. Lula wrapped herself around Bret, confident they watched out of envy. But as she looked from face to face, she realized their eyes weren’t trained on her but on something behind her, behind the great mass of Bret. She followed their gaze, and her eyes fell upon an ominous sight. Speeding towards them, hips rocking and arms pumping, was Eunique.

‘Move over flipper,’ she hissed at Lula. ‘This dance is mine.’

In one deft move, the brassy upstart slipped between Lula and Bret and let loose. Lula was driven back, overwhelmed by the sheer dynamism of Eunique’s gyrations. Bret became indistinct – just a shape behind a whirl of flailing arms.

Lula leapt to her left, desperate to regain eye contact with Bret but the big man had been hooked by an altogether more stimulating proposition. It wasn’t clear if Eunique was fully aware of the situation, but her energetic performance had encouraged the silky fabric of her dress to work its way downward. Where once there had been suggestion now there was a blatant spectacle: two silicone-enhanced hemispheres of flesh, bouncing freely right under the big man’s nose.

Lula stared at each immaculate breast and felt her heart sink. She shrank, cowed like a domestic dog watching a she-wolf steal its supper. To make matters worse, another man, old and grey and out of place among the fascicle of bright young things, lurched forward and cut off the connection completely.

‘Hey good looking,’ he shouted over the music. ‘You look like you need a partner.’

‘Take a hike granddad,’ Lula said, straining to see over him. ‘I’m already taken.’

The old daddy glanced over his shoulder and laughed. ‘I think the big dude’s got his hands full,’ he yelled.

The statement was true, literally. Eunique had taken Bret's hands and pressed them against her exposed skin.

Lula felt an animal lust slashing at her guts – a rage that demanded explicit and immediate action. Part inspiration, part desperation, she grabbed hold of the old duffer and spun him around in a wild 360-degree arc. He spun so fast, that his Chelsea boots lifted clean from the floor. Then, like a fizzing human top, he was released to whirl across the dance floor and smash into the flank of the unsuspecting Eunique. The pair crashed to the boards in a chaotic tangle of limbs. The elfin girl tried to stand, but her already compromised dress snagged a raised nail and came away altogether. The crowd gasped in unison as she lost her balance and collapsed back onto the stunned wreck of the older man.

Lula seized her chance. She launched herself at Bret, wrapping her arms around his thick neck and pulling his massive head towards hers. Eyes wide open, she pressed her lips against his, and sucked in the peppery essence of his vodka-laced spittle.

Bret pressed back with more than just lip and tongue.

Lula broke the kiss off.

‘Let’s go up to your suite, right now hero and I’ll show you how a real woman cuts it.’

Bret nodded vigorously. ‘I’m already walking sister.’

But the words had barely left his lips when a familiar voice, loud and fierce, cut through the music like a sharpened machete.

‘GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF HIM YOU PILFERING FISHWIFE. HE’S MINE, MINE, MINE!’

Lula and Bret turned and beheld an awesome sight: Eunique, back on her feet, shaking, shimmering and naked as a newborn. But Lula set her feet and stared the hellcat down. ‘You’re done lady,’ she said, pressing closer to Bret. 'Why don't you get dressed and leave me and my man to get busy?’

Eunique froze. Stood there, like an inanimate plastic doll, she appeared unable to figure out what to do next. Then something clicked. Her eyes welled up and her puffed lips began to quiver. 'You WHORE!’ she shrieked and leapt forward, claws out.

Lula stumbled back, but Bret was quick. ‘Enough!’ he roared, thrusting a muscled arm

between the two women.

Eunique reeled away, arms raised to her face as if caught in the backdraft of a great inferno.

‘B_but Baby,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Why waste the night on this cheap tramp when you can have me?’

Bret stood tall, straightened his shirt, and wrinkled up his forehead.

‘I’ve had you before darling,’ he said in a slow deliberate drawl. ‘And trust me – it just wasn’t that good.’

One of the other patrons clapped, followed by another. Someone else whistled, and from the back, someone let out a supportive shout. Bret responded with a wave followed by a bow, which sparked a euphoric cheer from the entire room.

  Lula stepped forward, hooked her arm around Bret, and shot dark eyes at Eunique. But as the pair soaked up the adulation, Eunique’s rage boiled over. With great speed, she snatched a cola-coloured cocktail from a bemused on-looker and hurled its aqueous contents in the direction of Bret’s white shirt. A collective gasp rose up as a stirring stick, crushed ice and dark liquid splattered across the pristine cotton.

Bret looked down at the marbled stain and his cheeks flushed with the tones of a ripened plum.

‘This shirt was a two hundred dollar piece of bespoke tailoring,' he said. 'And you've turned it into nothing but a damn rag.’

But his whinging was cut short. As a besuited doorman pulled her away, Eunique managed to fire a final salvo.

‘Take it from me,’ she screeched at Lula. ‘Tarts like you are ten a penny to this guy. He'll offer you the world tonight then dump you in the morning just like the trash you are.’

With that, the doorman whisked her away through the crowd. Bret exhaled sharply, and put his hands on Lula’s waist. ‘Ignore that crazy drunk, ornery, loudmouth,’ he said. 'She's just as jealous as hell.'

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Lula said, grabbing the big man’s hand. ‘Let’s get you upstairs and out of that wet shirt.’

Bret nodded and together they turned.

‘Make way for my man,’ shouted Lula as she led Bret through the gaggle of onlookers and on towards the hotel reception.

As they waited for the lift, Lula’s keen hand slid inside Bret’s open shirt and found the inflated pectoral. Behind the reception desk, a smart young man typed away on an unseen keyboard. He looked up and smiled. Lula flashed him a cheeky wink and then looked up at Bret.

‘We’re not going to be interrupted again are we?’ she asked.

Bret shook his head. ‘Not a chance, baby and you can bet your last dollar on it. From here on in this night is all about me and you.’

Lula tightened her grip on Bret’s hand, her fingers tracing the outline of his palm as the lift ascended. And as they rose, her hands wandered and found other parts of Bret to explore. At the fourth floor, the doors opened with a soft ding, and they hurried along the corridor. Lula purred in anticipation as Bret fumbled with the key card. When the door swung open, he wasted no time, heading straight for the bathroom.

‘I’m gonna clean up,’ he said, ‘Call room service honey and get them to send up a bottle of their best champagne.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Lula, peeping through the half-open bathroom door as the big man stripped. She watched until he was fully disrobed then found the phone and ordered a bottle of Moet on ice, two glasses.

It felt good to be up in the penthouse, far away from the madness of downstairs. Lula soaked up the room’s calming ambience: the minimal furniture, the palette of warm greys, and the omnipresent scent of summer flowers. She kicked off her shoes, fussed her hair and dropped her jacket and bag onto the tanned leather recliner, which had been carefully positioned a metre from the bed. And, what a bed it was. Festooned with an array of silk pillows and a luxurious fur throw, it was probably twice the size of the one in Lula’s bedroom. She stretched out on its sumptuous expanse, striking a pose like that of Manet’s Olympia with one arm propped up on the pillows, the other draped lazily over her thigh. Unlike the girl in the painting, Lula was still fully clothed though her dress was hitched high enough to reveal the fullness of her thigh.

She lay there, secure in a valley of extravagant pillows, and admired her silver dress. It had served her well tonight, as it always did in the pulling game. The same little metallic number had been a critical factor in at least four previous dates and would probably do more in the future. Lula ruminated on the value of functioning apparel - something Eunique had ignored to her cost.

Content in her daydream, Lula drifted. It took several moments before she realized that the telephone was ringing and several more before she summoned the will to answer it. Eventually, she did.

‘Yes?’ she said into the receiver, her voice betraying the irritation she felt at being disturbed.

The voice on the other end was clear and level: ‘This is Pierre from the concierge desk. I’d like to speak with Mr. McLean urgently.’

‘Bret? He’s in the shower. Are you sending up that champagne or what?’

‘This is not room service, madam. I'm calling to let Mr. McLean know that his wife has just collected a key-card from reception.'

‘Bret’s wife?’

‘Yes – Mrs. Wanda McLean. And she is now waiting for the lift.’

Lula dropped the receiver. She looked down at her naked feet, trying to form a mental picture of what was about to happen. The suite was on the fourth floor. Travelling up from the lobby, Bret's wife would be at the room in what, less than a minute? Even if the lift was in action elsewhere, it wouldn’t take much longer.

From the bathroom came the sound of water clattering against the tub, that and Bret’s carefree warble. He sang: who knows what tomorrow brings?

Lula quickly assembled this additional information and the picture came up sharp, like the lash of a wet towel around the back of the head. She sprang to her feet, pulled on her shoes and grabbed her jacket from the chair. In a moment she was at the door.

Outside, the corridor was empty. With controlled urgency, Lula turned back to the room, stepped over to the bed and whipped the duvet clean away. She grabbed a crisp white pillow and pressed her mouth against it leaving a perfect red impression of her lips. Then she unhooked one of her sparkly star-shaped earrings and placed it into the middle of the sheet. A souvenir from yours truly, asshole she said then walked out.

Lula stood tall, straightened her dress and adopted an air of detachment as she waited for the lift. A chime signalled its arrival. The doors slid open and a well-dressed blonde – younger and slimmer than Lula – stepped out.

She was pushing an expensive-looking technical buggy with a sleeping infant tucked inside. Lula stepped past them without even the concession of a nod.

Downstairs things had descended into the burlesque. Still naked save for the doorman’s hastily loaned overcoat, Eunique stood in the main vestibule, hurling expletives at a flustered-looking Mel Deaney. Around them, shocked punters craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse of flesh. Lula watched, half hidden by the fronds of a tall potted fern. She studied Deaney, trying to decide if he was suitable material for a future date. The answer was no. His appeal had diminished as he was clearly melting under the heat of Eunique’s tirade. Lula turned and left by the side door.

Outside the rain had stopped. The dark clouds had thinned to reveal a scatter of brilliant stars. But with this stellar display came the cold. The temperature had dropped by degrees and as Lula walked, she was stricken by a wave of shivers. No time to worry though. The Kings Road wasn't too far away. There’d be plenty of warm taxicabs plying their trade up and down that venerable old street. Maybe she could extend the night anyway – stop by Harry’s Bar for an hour or The Havana. Maybe she’d find a nice young public school-educated shipping heir, looking to finish the night off with some fun. She could impress him with her knowledge of cocktail mixology, maybe share a bottle of Campari. After all, what else should a thirty-something single girl be doing on a Saturday night?

Hope diminished about halfway down Whittaker Street when Lula realized that her purse, make-up, keys and phone were still in her clutch bag, which was, presumably, still on the tan leather chair by the bed in Bret’s penthouse suite back at the Fortuna.