When love comes to town I'm gonna catch that train
When love comes to town I'm gonna catch that flame
Maybe I was wrong to ever let you down
But I did what I did before love came to town
(fragment of ‘When Love Comes To Town’ by U2 feat. BB King)

 

I look in the mirror and I like what I see: a gorgeous girl, modern, with good taste, a feel for fashion, mad with make-up, the body of a goddess, all dressed up for a night in the city with her friends. The good-looking girl in the mirror returns my smile with confidence. “All this and brains too.”, she seems to think. I can only agree with her.

I take one step back and put my feet apart and firmly on the ground. With a serious face and my left hand on my hip for emphasis, I point my right index finger at my image in the mirror, and say: “London, are you ready for the Space Girls? Because this Space Girl is ready for London…”

The doorbell rings. It’s Emma, shouting: “Are you ready, Vicky? We’re waiting for you.”

I open the window and look down. They’re all there: Emma, Mel, Melody Brown and Ginger. “One second. Just find my purse and I’ll come down.”

“Girl power!”, Ginger shouts and they all laugh when I close the window, grab my things and close the door of my tiny apartment behind me.

When I open the front door, I can’t resist making a little pirouette and ask: “How do I look?”

Emma is jealous: “Hm. A little too posh, if you ask me.”

Ginger wipes it away: “You shut up, Emma. She looks gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as me, of course, but hey, the girl will not embarrass us with her company, will she?”

“What shall we do first? Dinner or dance?”, Mel asks.

“I vote for dance. I’m on a diet. Dancing burns calories and dinner grows fat.”, Ginger answers.

“I vote for dance too. I’m so full of energy… It has to get out.”, Melody agrees.

Emma also prefers the dance hall: “It’s Friday night and I want to have fun. We can eat and drink later.”

Mel decides: “Let’s go. Prepare yourself, West Ham. The Space Girls are on their way to become the absolute stars of tonight. Karaoke-bar Sing ‘n’ Bling it will be. Clean up the stage, because we’re gonna set the night on fire.”

She starts to sing and we all join her while we head for the Sing ‘n’ Bling: “Baby, the night is on fire. Somos fuego en el cielo, llamas en lo oscuro. Baila, Baila morena. Bajo ésta luna llena. Under the moonlight…” The front walls of the houses in the deserted streets of West Ham echo our voices into a spooky sound effect. Someone on the fifth floor of an old brick building shouts that we should be quiet because the kids want to sleep. I wonder how those kids manage to sleep when their mother shouts like that all night.

Our first impression when we enter the Sing ‘n’ Bling is negative.  “Michelle is here.”, whispers Emma when we hang our coats on the pegs near the entrance.

I look around and see Michelle hanging on the bar, trying to make the bar stool disappear under her big butt. Michelle, Miss Understanding, was one of our best friends in a long forgotten past, but her… indecent behaviour… changed that situation. If you want to be a friend, you have to start to behave friendly, appreciate the friendship of your friends, not try to steal a big fish that one of your friends just hooked. Michelle preferred the fish and lost the friendship. She lost the fish too because he turned out to be a creep when she got to know him better, but that’s another story.

I decide not to let Michelle have a bad influence on my mood: “Michelle will drop dead soon enough and I’m not interested to see it happen because my place is on stage and not at the bar. I came here to sing and dance and that’s what I will do. There will be enough time to get a little tipsy at the bar after Michelle dropped dead, right?”

On our way to the stage, when we pass Michelle, each of us puts a hand on her shoulder, whispers: “Hello, Michelle, I hope you drop dead.”, bids her farewell with a wave of the hand and a friendly smile, and moves on. Michelle nods and her lips form the words: “I understand.”, what would be an impressive achievement, according to the noise in the bar.

Everybody grins and we head for the stage. There is already a line, so we warm up by singing the songs the others perform, by dancing and by shouting that we love them and that we want more. Then it is our turn. We had picked our favourite song, ‘Wannabee’, to start with and we give a performance that makes everyone in the bar look at us. We feel great. All that attention motivates us to give our best. The joy we feel when the song is over is one of genuine energy, of girl power, of something nobody can ever achieve alone, but only with friends.

When we leave the stage, George comes up next, starting with ‘Love me tender’ from Elvis.

“It’s time to go to the ladies room and powder our noses. Girl powder.”, I indicate. The noise in the bar is so loud that it is impossible to hear what someone else says. No need to talk. People come here to sing, dance, have fun, drink and sometimes to pick up a nice chick or bloke to fall in love with, and all that can be done without saying one word.

This falling in love, as everybody knows, had nothing to do with talking, but everything with looks. Talk is cheap. People lie. Someone’s outside tells you everything you want to know about his inside. A handsome face means honesty. His hair tells everything about him paying attention to what he does, or just the opposite, being a bum. His clothes tell you everything of his character; if he’s a caveman like George of the Jungle or a knight of the round table like President Whatshisname. His shoes are most important. When a man pays attention to his shoes, he is a man who likes details, who will never forget a birthday or an anniversary. When he is a good dancer, he’ll be a great lover too. A gold Swiss watch indicates a man who will be a great father of your kids and a big car makes it clear that this is a man with an interesting life, a man who’s fun to hang out with. And the best part of all that is: when you find out that you were wrong, you can always dump him and find a better one.

When we walk to the ladies room, I see the man that has it all… the looks, the hair, the watch, and he’s sexy too. His blue eyes meet mine, his irresistible smile tells me that he had seen me on stage and that he liked me, and the fact that he keeps staring at me means that he wants me to become the mother of his children and make me happy for the rest of my life.

I feel confused. A man that handsome does not exist. He must be fiction. I look over my shoulder, just before entering the ladies, but he’s still there and he’s still looking. I give him a smile, but only a smile that tells him I’m amused, not that smile that tells that I’m interested. I’m not interested. Not yet. First, I want the opinion of my friends about this man.

“Did you see Mister Blue Eyes? It seems he dropped one of those blue eyes on me.”, I start.

“He was already staring at you when we sang the first couplet of the song. What song will we do next? ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’?”, Emma says, with difficulty because painting your lips and talking at the same time is quite an effort.

Melody works on her hair: “If you ask me, I think he’s a businessman.”

Mel tips her eyelashes: “No, he’s too handsome to be a businessman. My guess would be that he’s a model, a movie star or a singer. Didn’t he play the main role in ‘Meet Joe Black?’ Or perhaps I saw him in the final of last year’s Wimbledon?”

“The first one was Brad Pitt, and the other hunk was Rafa Nadal, Mel. I agree with Melody. I think this guy has his own line of fashion.”, Ginger suggests.

Emma almost agrees with her: “Perfume would be my guess. It’s the kind of man that has his own fragrance. Try to get close and use your nose, Vicky.”

I decide to follow that advice, or at least the first part of it: “I’ll get close and I will ask him. That’s the best way to find out.” I collect my make-up articles from all over the sink, stow them in my purse and leave. When I enter the bar, Blue Eyes is still where I left him and still staring in my direction. It looks like I’ve made quite an impression.

I wrestle myself through the crowd until I’m close. I smell an expensive and exclusive perfume and shout in his ear, as loud as I can: “I’m Vicky.”

He tries to shout something back, but the noise of George and Elvis and his tender loved fans is so deafening that I’m not sure if I understand what he says. It sounds like: “I’m David. Are you a whore?”

I lift my hands and shoulders, point at my deaf ear and put a puzzled look on my face. That helps. David proves that he is intelligent: he takes a notebook from the pocket of his Armani jacket, writes some words on it and shows it to me:

“Too much noise. We go outside?”

I take the pen and write below his message:

“Why?”

David smiles and writes:

“Have dinner.”

I write back:

“My 4 friends? Invited too?”

David hesitates… and accepts with a nod. The note disappears in his pocket. That is a note that he wants to keep. This starts to look promising. It was a one hundred pound bank note.

I make some gestures to my four friends: a thumb to the exit, an index into my open mouth, then move my hand like holding a glass that I empty between my thirsty lips and finally I point at David and make the universal sign with thumb and index finger that explains that our financial crisis has been solved for the rest of the night. We get our coats and step outside, into the clear air of the streets of London.

David and the girls shake hands, while David explains that his name is David Westham and I do the honours of presenting my friends: “This girl with the ginger coloured hair is Ginger. Her real name is Geri, but we call her Ginger. This girl with the baby-face is Emma. This girl with the cup C is Mel. Her real name is Melany, but everyone started to call her Melony, because of her big boobs, you know, so we just call her Mel. And this black beauty here is Melody Brown…”

David interrupts: “Ah, you call her Melody Brown because she’s brown. That’s very funny.”

“No, we call her Melody Brown because her father’s name is James Brown and he called his daughter Melody. Brown is her family name.”

When we walk to the restaurant, David asks me: “How does that work with girls? Aren’t you afraid that one of your friends will steal the handsome prince from you?”

I smile and return the question: “How do male friends do that when they go fishing? When one of them catches a fish, a BIG fish, do all the others try to steal it from him or do they help him to get it on the shore and slap him on the shoulder to congratulate him with his great catch?”

Fishing is not a good example. I realise that men would end that story with a party, lots of beer and everyone taking a bite of that same one fish, made hot above the BBQ. I should not try to talk in metaphors without thinking them over first… Luckily David is not a fisherman and he doesn’t look much like a team player either.

After a short walk, we arrive at the restaurant that David had in mind. He holds the door open to let us in and we can hardly hide the surprise on our faces. We are used to quite a lot on this side of London, but this restaurant beats all our expectations. It is called ‘Fifties’ and made of chrome, glass and neon lights. They serve hamburgers, Pepsi cola and milkshakes.

I feel a bit embarrassed when we sit down, David on the red plastic bank on one side of the steel table and we on the other side. To break the ice, I say: “I’m sorry. I’m not used to places like this. A wine card with alien drinks like Chateauneuf du Pape or Chateau Rothschild 1815 makes me nervous. I hope you can order for us.”

David orders one vanilla milkshake with six straws. When the waitress returns to the counter, he looks at me and repeats his question from the Sing ‘n’ Bling again: “Are you a whore?”

“I BEG your pardon?”, I say. My surprise is real. What kind of opening line is that?

“Ah, you beg. You’re a beggar. That’s fine, no problem at all, but that was not the question. The question was: are you a whore? I’ll make myself clear. I’m looking for a woman. She has to clean my house, wash my clothes, cook my dinner, prepare my breakfast, take care of the kids and of course she has to be beautiful because I like to have hot and steamy sex with her every night. The question was: are you like all those other women, who provide that service and ask money in return? The question was: are you a whore? I’m not looking for a whore. I’m looking for a woman who does all that housework and also has a decent job outside the house, so instead of costing me money, she can earn the income that is necessary to pay the bills and the mortgage and a little extra to go out every now and then…”

I’m flabbergasted… but manage to return: “And what do YOU do all day?”

David smiles his irresistible smile: “Well… I play. I’m a player. I play. That’s what players do.”

“You play GAMES?”

David looks shocked: “No, no, no, no. Pacman and Angry Birds and all that stuff? No, don’t get me wrong. I don’t play that kind of games. I play for real. I’m a professional player…”

Mel interrupts: “This is an emergency, Vicky. We really, really, really have to powder our nose.”

David doesn’t understand: “Powder? Are you coke sniffers? Is that what you do in the bathroom all the time? In that case, I’ve made a mistake…”

Mel takes her powder-box out of her purse, opens it and puts it so close to David’s face that it leaves a white dot on the tip of his nose: “No, girl powder. Make-up. You are really not the brightest light of Old Trafford, are you? Let’s go, girls.”

Cramped up in the one-woman bathroom of restaurant Fifties, all doing our best to see our own face in the tiny mirror, the other girls start to gossip:

“One milkshake for six people? That guy is Scottish…”, Emma starts.

“No, it’s worse.”, Ginger says.

Emma wonders: “What’s worse than being Scottish?”

Ginger spits out: “He’s DUTCH! He likes to go out double Dutch, he talks like a Dutch uncle and he’s as generous as Uncle Scrooge from Dickens’ Christmas Carol. We thought he came out of a fairy tale, but no, on the contrary: he’s from Old English Classic Literature. I bet you that, when we return, the first ghost has already arrived…”

Melody does that scary trick with her hair again, making it jump out to all sides, while her hollow voice gives us the creeps in the cold ladies room: “UUUH! I’m the ghost of Christmas past. I’m the one that serves old baked pastry and other delicious typical English dishes way over ‘best before’-date.”

When we return… our seats have been taken. Not just one of our seats, but all of them. A new player has arrived. It is Michelle. She has parked her big bum on the bench opposite of David, who just said something funny because Michelle answers: “I understand…” and she gives him her warmest smile. David returns his warmest smile, but of course, he’s just trying to be polite. The milkshake on the table had turned sour of all that heat that flows between the two.

The look from my eyes turns the cooked milk into an iceberg again: “Michelle… How nice to see you… I hope you stay here with David for a long time, so we can go back to the Sing ‘n’ Bling and have a good time.”

Michelle smiles polite and returns the freeze: “I understand, but don’t worry, girls. David just proposed me. We won’t stay here much longer either. He promised me to show me his house… and his bedroom… and his pyjamas in the colours of Fucking Man United…”

She turns to David and asks him: “Can you please order another vanilla milkshake, David… I need one to cool down… I’m so hot… Do you want me to show you what I can do with that straw? I’m great at sucking, but… I can also blow bubbles with it. You’ve never seen a blow job like mine…”

David feels that he is in the middle of a medieval battle between two devastating forces: “It is really nice getting to know you, Michelle, but… I invited Vicky and her friends for dinner, and I don’t think…”

Michelle interrupted: “You don’t have to think, my dear. I’m exactly the woman you’re looking for. I can clean, I can wash, I’m a great cook, I make spectacular breakfasts, I’m fantastic with children, especially with the art of making them, and… I have a job, well paid, and lots of happy clients who can assure you that hot and steamy sex is my speciality…”

“How do you know all this?”, I ask.

“Oh, you should ask your dear friend Emma. She recorded the whole interview and published it on Facebook. No secrets between friends, my dearest Victoria.” She turns to David and says, like I’m no longer there: “Do you know what you find when you google Victoria’s secrets? You’d be amazed, David…”

We decide to ignore Michelle and David and go back to the Sing ‘n’ Bling. I feel sad, disappointed, used, like some cheap bitch from the street. I don’t deserve this. But when you’re down, it’s always nice to realise that you have friends. The other girls start to cheer me up.

Emma says: “Forget him, Vicky. He’s a creep… Well, a handsome creep. A terribly good looking creep. I’m glad I took his picture in that restaurant, so I have something to print on poster format and hang on the wall above my bed…”

“EMMA!”, the other girls shout.

Emma does not apologise: “You girls don’t understand. Have you seen the walls in my bedroom? The wallpaper is all torn up. I have to do something to cover the cracks and all those handsome football stars have their portrait rights covered by the clubs they play for. Do you know how much a poster of Cristiano Ronaldo costs?”

We stop for a bite at Joe’s Fish ‘n’ Chips. I order haddock ‘n’ lays, but I’m not eating, just picking, and I leave most of it on the newspaper it was served on.

“Are you going to eat that?”, Ginger asks.

“I thought you were on a diet? No, you can have it if you want. I’m not hungry.”, I sigh.

Ginger grabs my food, sprinkles sugar and spice over it and finishes my dinner. Mel starts to sing that old Joe Jackson song and all the others join her: “Fools in love… Are there any creatures more pathetic? … Fools in love… Never knowing when they’ve lost the game…”

“I’m not in love.”, I grunt.

Mel takes that as a reason to start the old 10CC-song, but nobody joins her and she stops the effort. She sees that I feel hurt and that her jokes don’t help me this time.

Melody puts an arm around me and smiles: “Forget him, Vicky. The world is full of better men.”

I smile back, a sad and weary smile, but I say nothing.

Emma explains: “It’s not about David, Melody. It’s about Michelle. If your boyfriend decides to dump you for me, it would hurt, but you would accept it because he picked somebody better than you. But if a man thinks that Miss ‘I Understand’ Michelle is better than our great friend Vicky, and he’s not aware of the big mistake he is making, that would make everyone feel hopeless.”

Melody understands: “I see… Well, there’s only one thing we can do about it: go back to the Sing ‘n’ Bling and do that song again. Everybody liked it so much, we can’t disappoint them. It’s Friday night, girls, and I want to have fun. I will not allow Michelle to keep me from having a good time. How about you? Tell me what you want, what you really, really want. ”

“If he wants to be your lover, he’s got to get with your friends, Vicky. And we don’t let him. We need you on stage.”, Ginger concludes.

“Come on, Vicky. Don’t make it last forever, or this friendship will end.”, Emma adds.

I stand up, smile, this time a real one, and say: “Stage is waiting, girls. We’ve got an audience to drive crazy…”

* * *

It’s late when we leave the bar. We kiss goodbye and each goes her own way. On the first corner of my way I see David, waiting for me: “Can I walk you home?”

“Walk me home? How about you offer me a ride in your Mercedes?”

“I don’t have a Mercedes, the Rolls is in the garage and the Ferrari has only one seat, otherwise I’m not allowed to use it on Silverstone.”

“Yeah. Right. And Miss Understanding took the Bentley because she went shopping and you can’t expect her to walk home with all those bags…”

“Do you mean Michelle? I’m not interested in Michelle. I’m interested in you.”

“Too bad, but I’m not interested in you. You’re looking for a whore to do the dirty work while you play around with girls like Michelle. Please leave me alone, David. I’m sick of you and your stupid words. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m just a man, and, like every other man, I’m not very good with words. I told you the truth, I’m a player and I play for real, but you made the mistake this time. You didn’t hear the uppercase letter in that line. I play for Real, for Real Madrid. I have a contract: they pay me 20 million euros per year and when that contract is over I go to Los Angeles, where they pay me 250 million US dollars for the next five years. I’m stuck with those contracts. I can’t do anything else but play football. I’m not allowed to change a broken light bulb in my own house, I’m not allowed to cook or make breakfast, to avoid domestic incidents that cause a negative effect on my performance on the field, and I need help with all those important things, but I don’t want to take the risk to run into some bitch who will benefit from my good faith and run off with all my money. So I’m looking for a woman who can be trusted, which is hard, impossible when you’re rich like me. When I saw you… I thought that I had found her, the girl of my dreams, with a career of her own, not depending on me for my money but just loving me for what I am, a simple handsome football player who needs a little help from a friend… I guess I was just jealous of the loyal friendship between you and your friends…”

I need time to think. My first thought is: “20 million euro per year? 250 million US-dollars in five years? Can’t those people afford it to pay you in some decent currency like the British Pound of the Swiss Franc?”

“How does it feel to play in a team like Real Madrid, David? How does it feel to be on top of the world?”, I ask.

“Lonely…”, David admits.

“What is it that I have??