Page 23 of Love on the Main Stage
“Well, we really shouldn’t,” Jaz winced. “We have a competition early tomorrow and?—”
“I’m going,” Betty chirped. “I want to anyhow. If you’re inviting us? I can handle it.”
“Good lord. This is how I know you’re still a baby. My liver can’t handle it,” Jaz chuckled. “I’ll bid you all farewell, then. Have a good night.”
“Fine, be boring,” Betty gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I promise I will be there or Ingy will have my head before Hank will.”
“Be there, bitch! Great show everyone! Peace out!” The American called, departing into the dark hallway.
Betty rubbed her hands together. “So where to now?”
“Do not say The Bookstore,” Barry groaned.
“You’re outnumbered,” Alicia said. “Are you down, Betty?”
“Sure,” she agreed.
Chapter 8
The Bookstore
BETTY
Iwas confused when the band suggested we go to a bookstore for a bit of an afterparty, but soon realized it wasn’tactuallya bookstore—at least not completely. We ended up in a neighborhood I’d never seen. I was embarrassed that apart from the poshest places in London, hitting Dalston felt like taking a risk.
When we arrived, we entered through a bookstore. To the left was a cafe closed for the night. Music pumped from below our feet. And as I followed the band downstairs, a club unveiled—one like I’d never been in. I suddenly realized why the drummer complained so much. He was vastly outnumbered. Women mingled in droves, while men were few and far in between. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What? You haven’t heard about this place?” Mary laughed.
“Oh, darling, how not? I think it’s the last bar around,” Clarice laughed.
“She’s a baby,” Alicia chimed. “But how hasn’t Leah dropped the hint. Or do people your age never go to gay bars?”
“I… I’ve been to gay bars before,” I admitted, puffing my chest. “But I expected… a bookstore.”
Was I out of my depth? Perhaps. It was true that I ventured into a gay bar or two with friends, but not a bar for queer women. I never felt like I belonged. I wasn’t out nor read as queer. As Mary waved me to the bar, I followed. If I was here, I wasn’t running—not yet. I settled in by her and realized no one cared. I wasn’t unwelcome. I was just one of the girls.
“What are you drinking?” Mary asked.
“What’s good?”
“It’s not posh,” she laughed. “Beer. You like beer, right?”
“An IPA?” I asked, surprised she remembered or at least guessed accurately.
“Two of the Juicy Goss,” Mary called to the surly-looking woman over the bar.
She nodded and turned without a word. I worried we bothered her.
Mary pulled her wallet and put a card on the bar top before I even opened my purse.
Panicked, I said, “I can?—”
“Nah,” Mary insisted. “I owe Leah a debt right now. She got us into a performance showcase at the Royal Albert Hall. I have no idea why, but she’s just so damn nice.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“So, you’re back in the UK? For good?”
