A DARK FALL: The Published Edition

Two

The taxi drops us off across the street from the club in the trendy part of Brick Lane.

The nameless club is a black stone building—a sort of neo-gothic affair with blacked-out windows. It looks as if it's been involved in a fire, but as I get closer, I see it's that the stone has been painted a dark charcoal color. It must have been here for years, yet I can't remember ever seeing it before. Though, it's not as if I frequent Brick Lane a lot these days. Or London for that matter. I try to avoid the city unless absolutely necessary. And for the past six months, I've had an ex and his new girlfriend I want to be at least fifty miles away from at all times.

Of course, the venue is ridiculously crowded. Normally, this sort of queue would put us off and we'd totter along to the next place, but these VIP passes get us to the left-hand side of the doorway, which has a much smaller line moving down at a faster pace. As we walk to stand in line, the heavy thump of the music from inside gets louder.

Rob's hen group are waiting outside the gated entrance for us and wave excitedly as we approach before pulling us into fragrant hugs. I met some of them at the hen weekend a few weeks back—a weekend spa break to Barcelona, which was divine—and some I've known for a while through Rob. They're all lovely, genuine girls. Becca is the first to thank me for the invites. She's a gorgeous, petite brunette with an infectious laugh and a saucy wit who often makes me cry with laughter whenever I'm in her company.

"Oh, you're welcome. They'd only be going to waste."

"Is your brother single . . .?" Lucy asks.

"He's a priest," Rob says with an eye roll.

"He is?" Tamsin asks, intrigued. She's a solicitor from Bath and has the largest eyes I've ever seen.

"She's joking." I shake my head.

"Well, let's hope it's a good night. I've soooo needed this." Saskia beams excitedly.

"We don't even need to wait in the muggle queue. Another point to Nick the Prick . . ." Robyn says, craning her neck down the line and back up with wide, impressed eyes. "Oh my god, is that Adam Smith?" She nudges me.

Adam is a stand-up comedian I vaguely remember seeing on one of those panel shows I hardly ever watch. As I glance ahead of us in the direction she indicates, I nod. It is. I think. He's one of those new young comedians who looks like a student, so I guess it could be him, or it could just be a student. From looking around at the people queuing, it appears the clientele is mixed. Those in the "muggle queue" definitely look more like trendy student types, whereas ours seems to be for yuppie city boys who could also be footballers, their WAGs, and stand-up comedians.

Our queue moves fast, and a few minutes later, we're ushered into a dark, moody foyer where several gorgeous maître d's are taking coats and signing VIPs in.

"Good evening, doctor," a six feet tall, black-haired glamazon says to me after I hand over my invite. "So, six of you tonight?"

"Yes, six." I nod.

"Fab. If I could get you to sign in here, please, and if we could have an address and contact telephone number for you . . . I assure you, it won't be passed on to any third parties. It's to maintain our VIP guest list," she tells me professionally.

I hesitate briefly. I never give out my details, but since I don't want to appear rude or snooty by refusing, I scribble down my mobile number and email address and hand the pen back to her.

"Thank you, Dr. Marlowe. Okay, so we have you at one of our best tables this evening on the mezzanine level. It has a great view of the stage. Our main guest DJ is onstage at midnight, and there is champagne chilling on the table for you right now. Please help yourselves. There will be hosts on each floor should you need anything, and Kyle here will show you to your table," she says and indicates an incredibly attractive young guy who's smiling at us eagerly.