Life and Soul of the Party by Mike Gayle

university in York and your middle name is Louise.’
    It was all stuff that she had told me that night we’d first met and of course by referencing these facts I was also referencing in as roundabout a manner as I could manage the fact that we had kissed.
    ‘So you were listening?’ She asked.
    ‘Just to the interesting bits,’ I replied.
    She told me that she was here at the hotel with her company and that her colleagues had been drinking since just after lunchtime; although she had only joined them around five, she had more than made up for lost time.
    ‘Well, you look sober enough to me.’
    ‘Believe me, I’m not.’
    Just as we’d reached the end of the conversation, the DJ played an old Take That song and the whole ballroom erupted in collective euphoria.
    ‘Relight My Fire,’ she said, almost squealing with delight, ‘I love this song. You have to come and dance with me.’
    ‘I don’t dance,’ I replied.
    ‘And I don’t care,’ replied Polly. She grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.
    We ended up dancing for over an hour: camping it up to boy bands, disco tunes and cheesy Eighties nostalgia – channelling the flamboyance of the music as an excuse to initiate physical contact: hand to hand, hands to waist then lower back, hips together swaying in time to the music. When an unfamiliar dance song came on and the dance floor emptied Polly led me out of the ballroom. We kissed in the foyer and only stopped when someone from Polly’s office passed by. Nervous and jumpy at nearly being caught out we made our way separately to the cloakroom to get our things and leave. Outside a waiting taxi, we were momentarily baffled by the driver’s question about where we wanted to go. For the first time that evening I took the lead and called out the hotel near Piccadilly station where we sometimes put up important clients. The only room they had left was a junior suite which cost a fortune, but I booked it on my credit card without hesitation. And as we made our way across the city centre I made sure I didn’t think about Vicky, William or even my friend Tony.
    In fact, I made sure I didn’t think at all.
    Melissa
    A bus pulled up at the stop where we were all standing. Before its hydraulic doors had even fully opened a trio of teenage boys streamed onto the pavement shouting and yelling abuse at the driver. The driver, a young guy with a shaven head and pierced eyebrow, refused to let the fact that he was in uniform get in the way of taking some form of retribution and coolly brandished the middle finger of his right hand in their direction. The boys, unsettled by his action, jeered him in an attempt to save face. But it was too late. The bus was already pulling away and the driver was no longer looking in their direction. Stubbornly refusing to give in to defeat they chased after the bus but gave up after twenty yards before changing tack and hurling abuse at the back of the bus until it had disappeared from view.
    ‘I’d better go.’ Hannah hazarded a brief glance in my direction but I said nothing. I wondered if Paul wanted to say something reassuring to her. That he’d call her. That they would talk later. That somehow this mess would get sorted out. But I knew he wouldn’t say a thing for fear of appearing disloyal. Hannah must have understood his predicament because she waited for a mini-cab to pass by, then crossed the road towards her car.
    Suddenly every movement she made seemed to be imbued with some extraordinary significance. I could barely take my eyes off her as she opened up the car and put on her seat belt. It was almost as though I was expecting something out of the ordinary to happen now that the laws that governed the everyday activities of life had been irrevocably broken. But nothing out of the ordinary happened. A pretty young girl simply turned on the ignition of her car and cast a last glance across the road at us before driving away.
    Vicky
    It was getting late and a fair