Catch a Falling Star

My entry to the BeatGirl fanfiction competition- hope you enjoy! :D
Amy is a realist in a dreamer's world, which is hard work when you want to make a fantasy come true. This is the story of how Amy and Steve found each other. Can Amy ever get her feet off the ground and fly? Or will she become a falling star?
(apologies for the clichéd rhetorical questions, can't think of a way to avoid including them)


4. Vodka shots and Jelly tots

I locked up at around 8:00, dressed in a sequined bomber jacket I had lovingly customised myself and a large sweater dress, imprinted with tiny Scottie dogs. I closed the door as quietly and discreetly as possible, to avoid any unwanted attention from a certain Mrs. Thompson, but this was in vain: she was standing by the stair-well, still clad in the decaying pink dressing-gown. "Going out, are we?" She croaked, in attempt to be menacing. 

"Er... Yeah. I am." I responded, trying to find away around her bulging structure. "Were you waiting here for me, or something?" I asked and she scowled, her brow furrowed in disgruntlement. 

"Yeah, well the first bit of noise my husband and I hear, I'm calling the police. I hope that's clear." Mrs. Thompson confirmed. 

"Crystal. Yeah." I managed to squeeze past her, and dash out down the stairs, without being threatened any further. I was still in awe of how a woman who had known me for less than 24 hours could prefer a junkie drug-dealer (who I might add had left behind 3 pairs of his socks and a sleeping bag) over me. I would have to fashion her a new dressing gown, to appease her. 


I arrived at the 333 club (which was only a 5 minute stroll from my flat), fashionably late. I recognised a few of the students who were perched by the electric blue coloured bar, blending into the thick, dim lighting perfectly. One distinct, irritatingly omniscient voice belonged to a blonde girl named Charlotte, whose artificial curls gushed down the back of her blouse as she tipped her head back in laughter. If Pattern Cutting that day was anything to go by, she was loud. Wannabe-style loud. Attempting to penetrate her dominant hold on the group, I butted in. 

"Hiya," I beamed, as prominently as possible. "I'm Amy, from L.C.F. I-"

"Oh, I remember!" Charlotte interupted, "You're in Pattern Cutting with me! I'm Charlotte. Sit down, we were just discussing our favourite books. What are your's?" She batted her elongated eye-lashes at me, which made me feel slightly nauseous. Having still not been introduced to the rest of the group, I hesitated and chuckled nervously. 

"I'm quite into the classics... ya' know, Dicken's and stuff, but my fav-"

"Ooooh!" Charlotte clapped, "I bet you're dead smart! How about you, Lu-Lu?" She directed a baffled-looking Chinese girl. My mouth was still open, frozen almost. Well. It was good to know that at least someone would be acting as a conversation crowd-control. Luckily, Steve and a few other students walked in, rooting through the bumbling crowd for us. I waved at them, quite desperate for some kind of salvation. Steve sat next to me and I was blown away by the sheer simplicity of his attire: a bowler hat, red chequed waist-coat and formal-black trousers. The style was nothing more than what he was: A gay in a Soho club. 

"Hey," I said casually and Steve smiled back. 

"Hello," He returned. "Your jacket is wonderful. It reminds me of a glitter explosion during the Armstrong and Miller show. In a good way." I laughed inwardly at the way that he articulated his thoughts, in an uncanny resemblance to mine. 

"Thanks," I grinned. "I've always wanted a bowler hat," I acknowledged the millinery masterpiece that rested on his head. Taking it off gently, he placed it on my head, the silk lining caressing my hair pleasantly.

"You can have that one," I almost burst with delight. 

"Thanks a lot." 

"You look like Charlie Chaplin!" Steve wheezed gently and I stuck my finger under my nose. 

"Or just Hitler with a bowler hat..." We both giggled at that, and once we had settled down, an idea crept across Steve's face in the form of a wry smile. 

"There's a drink here that you simply have to try," Steve insisted, motioning at a sullen looking bar-tender, with a scrimpy black mustache that traced his upper lip. "It's called a 'rhyming-orange'. Unique to this place, forget the name. It'll blow your mind." The bar-tender slid two drinks across the work-top in glasses with sherbert-coated rims. 

"What's in it?" I inquired, as I took an anxious sip. 

"God knows..." Steve responded absently, as he took a large glug. 

With a jolt, I felt my eyes bulge in dis-belief. The orange flavour was inconceivably sickly-sweet. My throat burned pleasantly, as the liquid coated it thickly. A fire raged in my belly as citrus flavours infringed with peppery rum infusions exploded inside. My head span- It was nauseatingly wonderful. 

Nine 'rhyming-oranges' later, my sanity had taken its bowler hat and left for home to call its mother. I, however, was still at the bar with Steve and a few remaining students. It was 12:00. Classes started at 8:00. "That DJ's kinda cute," Steve pointed out the guy at the decks, whose face was mostly encased in head-phones. It was a wonder that Steve had seen anything at all, under all the lighting and head-gear. Even Charlotte, who had fallen asleep at the bar, had stopped talking. "I think it's time to get you home, Mr." I urged politely, releasing Steve's cradled drink from his grasp. At least I had a shread of common-sense left on my hard-drive.

"I think you might be onto something..." He slurred and stood up, straightening. "Back to Wimbledon..."

"Wimbledon! Christ in a Lamborghini!" I exclaimed, waking up Charlotte from her slumber.

"Yeah, my parents live there." Steve replied despondently. I decided to take action.

"Steve, Wimbledon is 50 minutes away on Public Transport and it's almost 1:00 in the morning. Stay at my flat, it's just around the corner. Sleep on the sofa and you can phone your parents from there." I didn't let him weigh up his other options and dragged him from the bar and back to the flat. "Just so long as you're not a serial killer." He spied playfully. 

I crept up the stair-well as quietly as possible- it seemed as though I had been gone long enough for even Mrs. Thompson to quit stalking me and go to bed. "I owe you one, Amy." Steve flopped onto the sofa and I passed him the phone.

"I'm gonna get some sleep, Steve." I told him.  "Help yourself to food and that if you want." 

It was only until I crawled into bed that it dawned on me: I had basically just let a man that I had met less than two days ago into my house. Oh, life, I sighed. 


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