Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

“Let’s go dancing,” Amanda suggested.

“Tango?” Tom asked, and Nia laughed at the private joke.

Orla looked at them both trying to decipher if there had been a hidden sex reference.

“No,” Amanda said. “Regular club, decent music.”

After a quick Google of venues, they taxied to a Shoreditch club known for its eighties’ vibe and music. The kind of music Nia knew Tom liked. Once there, it was easy to find a seat in the only half-filled club. Tom choosing a booth nonchalantly after a quick visual tactical sweep of the surroundings. Tom took drink orders and headed up to the bar. All the women watched him go.

“He’s lovely,” Constance remarked. “Where did you find him again?”

Orla asked whether he had a brother or a sister. The group laughed even though jokes around Orla’s pansexuality had become a bit of tired old trope.

Tom made two trips with the drinks and then he sat back in the booth with his G&T. Nia had a vodka and slimline, for old time’s sake, and he watched and listened to the old friends continue to talk and gossip. But mostly he watched Nia. He watched how her eyes sparkled, how her lips parted over her teeth, how an occasional heavy curly stand of hair would fall over her left eye, how she would absentmindedly move the hair tucking it behind her ear, how she caught his eye and smiled.

Tom enjoyed the stories from the theatre world, of naughty things that happen on TV and movie sets, who was screwing who, it was a window into a world he didn’t know but one, through Nia, he now had a minor role in. He liked the group’s shared reminisces of a collective past as he felt it gave him access to another part of Nia.

The opening chords for the Smiths’ ‘This Charming Man’ began. Nia looked at him and nodded to the dance floor.

“C’mon,” she said and reached out for his hand.

Nia’s dancing was fluid and unselfconscious while Tom’s wasn’t, but they began to move well together occasionally touching and spinning within each other’s orbit. Nia’s friends watched from the booth.

“I don’t think I have ever seen her like this,” Amanda said.

“Me neither,” added Penny

“Ah, l’amour,” Constance said.

Orla guffawed, “Nia doesn’t do love.” But as she watched Tom and Nia on the dance floor, said, “You think so?”

Constance and Penny both nodded.

“I don’t think Nia’s grasped how lonely she’s been,” Constance continued.

“Although I think what she’s feeling on the dance floor hasn’t quite registered with her yet either,” Amanda offered sagely. “That she can’t put that emotion,” and she nodded towards Nia and Tom, “into words.”

Tom and Nia stayed out on the dance floor as George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ began. More couples made their way out to the dance floor including Penny and Amanda. Nia swayed with the music and sensed the lights dimming as the dance floor became diffuse with lavender light and the spinning reflections from electronic mirror ball projectors. Tom reached out and held her by the waist and they slow danced holding each other. Nia could feel Tom’s leg muscles taught and tight against hers. She held her face against his chest and then looked up into his face. His eyes were closed. She mouthed, “I love you, Tom Price.”

Tom liked the darkness that crept across the dance floor. He loved the touch of Nia’s body against his, the feel of her waist, the smell of her hair on his chest. He shut his eyes to prolong the moment, to isolate just the two of them. He felt her move and he opened his eyes; she held his hand away from his body as she twirled under his arm and moved backwards into him. Her back was to his front and she held his hands on her hips. She subtly but purposefully ground her bottom into his groin.

Chapter Ten

London, Autumn 2001

Nia was terribly drunk. Her head had started to throb with too many vodka and tonics and the bass heavy house beat booming through the club’s speaker system. She could feel it reverberate through her body. She was hot after dancing. Tired after a long, difficult week on set and in her personal life. She had ended any communication with her family, just tired of the constant hurt and disappointment. She looked across the club, through a haze of lavender lighting, mirror balls, and dry ice to the dance floor below. There he was, Goldenboy; Nia had aggrandised the tabloids’ nickname making it her own. Even as drunk as he was, he exuded cool, beer bottle still in hand, dancing with two or three women while others appeared to be circling him, predator like. God, Nia thought, he knows he could leave the club with any of those girls. So many, guys as well as gals, just wanted to shag him. Yes, Nia recognised, he’s so good looking but he knows it. You can’t have a face like that, eyes so blue, hair so golden and curly, and the body of a Greek God, but with a bigger dick, and not be a bit of a prick. He saw her and waved his beer bottle and smiled with unnaturally perfect and dazzling white teeth. But he’s my prick, she smiled back.

She sipped her vodka. A man Nia had never seen before sat down next to her in her booth. City type, smart suit, attitude.

“Hi Nia, baby,” he started.

“Fuck off,” Nia said. Her eyes were like flint.

The man looked hurt and angry and opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it and left. Nia downed her vodka and needed a pee. The toilets felt cold and the music more diffuse. She splashed cold water on her face. There was a knock