It was often said by my friends who often spent the late hours of the night devoted to some hedonistic act, that I have far too sober attitude towards life than any 22 had any right to. In fact that was how my friend John would end his tales of his most recent debauched acts. We would often spend the Monday evening in the apartment drinking whiskey, while he boasts about his most recent conquests in what my father would describe as 'a most vulgar fashion'. But I did not mind. Having devoted my short lived years to the art of the written word, and moved from the town of my birth to nation's capital to pursue a career in journalism, this has meet I unfortunately had sacrificed my social life for success I was now enjoying.
John, who was a DJ by profession, was drawn to the city by the nightclubs, which deserved reputation draw the rich, powerful, and beautiful from across the globe. He was impulsive and brash never given a second thought any of his actions the complete contrast to my thoughtful and sober temperament. It was these differences that drew us together like the two poles of a magnet and become quite inseparable in our universities years. I lived vicariously through John and in return I provided the audience for him to tell tales of his prowess, both in his profession and bedrooms of the beautiful women he seduced.
John was finishing a tell of most recent exploits with a pair of twins from America before taking gulp of the remaining whisking in his glass before saying "I have been made an offer by Mr Sinclair, the owner of passions...."
"Is that one where the queue to get in is supposed to be three streets long" I interrupted, refilling both glasses from the steadily depleting whiskey bottle. Passions was the most popular and by the logic of business the most successful nightclub in the capital. John had signed a contract with Mr Sinclair for an exclusive three month trial period at passions, which had expired last night. "So have you been signed on for another contract then?"
"Yes but not at passions" I raised eyebrow in puzzlement at his reply. "It turns out "he continues "Mr Sinclair has been planning to open this new exclusive club, just for a higher class of clientèle, you know celebrities, models, the rich, anyone who can pay the overpriced bar tab. He's planning this massive opening event tomorrow, he's got some better known DJs for the night then I start 4 days a week." He takes another sip of his whiskey, and then taking advantage of the momentary lapse in the concession I asked "this wouldn't be the Mulan blanc by any chance?" To which he nodded in agreement. "And the best thing is he is invited me to the big event itself, even says I can bring along two other people, so how about it, fancy coming along"
The opportunist in me jumped. The culture editor of the newspaper I work that was trying, and failing to get interview with Mr Sinclair about the Mulan blanc ever since news of this development was heard. Mr Sinclair who is notoriously tight lips had refused all offers of an interview and had threatened to bar access to the club to all members of the press. John had just blown a hole in the anti-press defences erected by Mr Sinclair. A hole large enough for single journalist, to clamber through and snatched the biggest story of the year. I would have been a fool to pass this up. So we made our arrangements and retired to our respective bedrooms for some much-needed rest for the coming night.
I awoke first, making for my en-suite bathroom were I began my morning ritual of showering, brushing my teeth, dressing myself in a black suit of the latest fashionable cut before leaving the apartment. Grabbing a cup of Coffey from the coffee shop that was opposite our apartment before making the 20 minutes walk to the city centre where the offices of the newspapers was located.
Upon entering the building I was greeted by Emma, the receptionist. A pretty woman with long flowing blonde hair: no older than myself, whose petite figure was perfectly proportioned. She would often flaunt her tight breasts with a low cut top. Half of the office would stop whatever they were doing and watched the beautiful curvature of the legs clad only in dark stockings, short skirt, and high heels as she ventured from her desk to the water cooler. Each of these qualities alone would have justified countless advances of the other men in the office, which she would politely refuse. But what kept them coming back was the unique and almost musically way that she spoke. Like each octave is a musical note played an instrument. We would often exchange polite conversation with each other, she would tell me about her friends, family and weekends and the plans she had for them. I would sit there baffling in the Symphony of her condensation. Then eventually she would fix you with her deep emerald eyes: sending your heart flutter with a careless smile as she politely questioned you about yourself. You would feel yourself compelled to answer while she nodded reassuringly, like there was no one else in the world she rather be talking to. She would readily interject with flirtations, remarks which only served to stoke the fire of desire one would keep for her. I suspected that she enjoyed teasing men with forbidden fruit, I admit it was a revelation which made her no less charming. Today we simply exchange greetings, forgoing are morning ritual as I rushed to the office of Jack Lane editor-in-chief.
Mr Lane was aesthetic when I told him about jack's offer to accompany him to the Mulan blanc this evening. Then punched in the air pure ecstasy when I told him I plan to write an article on the grand opening of the club in the gonzo style that got me the job of the paper to begin with. " We got the bastards now boy, we got him now" pulling out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon he kept in his office drinks cabinet, to celebrate what he liked to call defining stories. "He fought that if you make it difficult the press will pack up and go home, ha. But you showed him that real journalists like you and I don't disappear into the night like petty criminals". He poured himself a glass before offering one to me, which I refused still feeling the hangover from last night.
The morning was mostly uneventful; I was working on an article on some new government policy. A boring and tedious from of journalism that offered little in the way of thrills compared to the first-hand account of the upcoming evening I was planning to write. The offices are usually deserted around 12, the staff led by Jack would believe the building in search of food and often find themselves in the nearest pub for at least an hour. I was about to leave when my name was called from the nearby stationary cupboard. It was a large room out of necessity, holding within the copious amount of printer ink and paper that is needed to publish a daily newspaper. Emma was hunched over the photocopier that we kept in there.
