was high spirited...except this one.
Just behind the large central column, furthest from the entrance and cut off from the view of the main area was The Corner. This portion of the ground floor was lavishly roped with silk, set with plush seats, ornate carpets and equipped with state of the art electronic entertainment. Simply walking past the sign that read ‘For VIP Use Only’ meant the handsome - depending on your sexual persuasion - Georgio would be catering for your every need, making you soon believe trekking over to the bar for anything was a preoccupation for commoners.
Why then was the gloom around this table so thick and all consuming that it could be scooped up with a spoon and served with a side order of self pity?
Y, Patra and Suzy sat in the shadow, their fruit juices in front of them sweating profusely with a mixture of expressions on their faces that ranged from disgust to anger.
The lights were dimmed and Mary J Blige was in uncompromising vocal form. On the walls were pictures of Lady Saw in gangster mode, Lil Kim letting it all hang out, Pam Grier as Cleopatra Jones and the mouth watering abs and sundry assets of Tyson Beckford and LL Cool J, honorees in their fit body Rogues gallery.
Moment s before they had been ‘bussing a sweat’ as Suzy would fondly say – in their preferred martial arts disciplines.
The sessions had been savage affairs, which forced the kickboxing instructor to make the decision that punching bags would be preferable to real life sparring partners for fear of injury. He even stayed on the sidelines to watch them take out their foul mood on the punching bags and he was a third Degree black belt. It was only after two hours of grueling work that the instructor insisted they take a break and the posse ended up downstairs.
Patra shuffled her Reebok-clad feet that had been well and truly planted on the table since they had gathered there. Her chair was on its two back legs rocking gently to and fro as she nonchalantly broke the no smoking regulations, puffing contemplatively on an aromatic cigarillo.
Suzy crossed her legs and slouched back, her blue Adidas track suit making crisp ruffling sounds of newness with her hands behind her neck while Y sat painfully upright as if she was about to announce that something rather uncomfortable was sticking up under her ass.
No need to speak if the situation didn’t warrant speech, right? The girls had to simply caste their minds back and the emptiness of loss reminded them.
In one day they had their lives upturned and Y, feeling left out, rashly gave her boss the abridged version of why she despised her and the nail technician job she had been doing for the last two years with two choice words.
Suzy attempted to lift the morose vibe.
“I drove by deh property, today,” Suzy said, trying not to show how painful it had been seeing the unfulfilled aspirations wrapped up in the guise of bricks and mortar.
Y and Patra responded with nods and grunts; they too were obviously still raw with hurt and Suzy was beginning to regret mentioning it. What Suzy had failed to mention was that she had pulled up to 123 Destiny Street - the name was an omen in itself - parked her old Peugeot 307 and sat staring at a dream that to all but her was dead. This is where it was all supposed to begin, where the magic would happen. Ground floor was supposed to be Y's and solely dedicated to Nails and Beauty. Y had plans of starting off with the basics offering them acrylic nails and nail art, manicure, pedicure, then upgrading her services to the more flashy skin treatments.
The first floor would be her baby of health and fitness and the second floor would be Patra’s focus of fashion.
“We had that bitch worked out,” Patra’s words derailing Suzy's memories.
Suzy shook her head as if it was with some effort she could convi nce them that their ambitions weren’t crumbling
Just behind the large central column, furthest from the entrance and cut off from the view of the main area was The Corner. This portion of the ground floor was lavishly roped with silk, set with plush seats, ornate carpets and equipped with state of the art electronic entertainment. Simply walking past the sign that read ‘For VIP Use Only’ meant the handsome - depending on your sexual persuasion - Georgio would be catering for your every need, making you soon believe trekking over to the bar for anything was a preoccupation for commoners.
Why then was the gloom around this table so thick and all consuming that it could be scooped up with a spoon and served with a side order of self pity?
Y, Patra and Suzy sat in the shadow, their fruit juices in front of them sweating profusely with a mixture of expressions on their faces that ranged from disgust to anger.
The lights were dimmed and Mary J Blige was in uncompromising vocal form. On the walls were pictures of Lady Saw in gangster mode, Lil Kim letting it all hang out, Pam Grier as Cleopatra Jones and the mouth watering abs and sundry assets of Tyson Beckford and LL Cool J, honorees in their fit body Rogues gallery.
Moment s before they had been ‘bussing a sweat’ as Suzy would fondly say – in their preferred martial arts disciplines.
The sessions had been savage affairs, which forced the kickboxing instructor to make the decision that punching bags would be preferable to real life sparring partners for fear of injury. He even stayed on the sidelines to watch them take out their foul mood on the punching bags and he was a third Degree black belt. It was only after two hours of grueling work that the instructor insisted they take a break and the posse ended up downstairs.
Patra shuffled her Reebok-clad feet that had been well and truly planted on the table since they had gathered there. Her chair was on its two back legs rocking gently to and fro as she nonchalantly broke the no smoking regulations, puffing contemplatively on an aromatic cigarillo.
Suzy crossed her legs and slouched back, her blue Adidas track suit making crisp ruffling sounds of newness with her hands behind her neck while Y sat painfully upright as if she was about to announce that something rather uncomfortable was sticking up under her ass.
No need to speak if the situation didn’t warrant speech, right? The girls had to simply caste their minds back and the emptiness of loss reminded them.
In one day they had their lives upturned and Y, feeling left out, rashly gave her boss the abridged version of why she despised her and the nail technician job she had been doing for the last two years with two choice words.
Suzy attempted to lift the morose vibe.
“I drove by deh property, today,” Suzy said, trying not to show how painful it had been seeing the unfulfilled aspirations wrapped up in the guise of bricks and mortar.
Y and Patra responded with nods and grunts; they too were obviously still raw with hurt and Suzy was beginning to regret mentioning it. What Suzy had failed to mention was that she had pulled up to 123 Destiny Street - the name was an omen in itself - parked her old Peugeot 307 and sat staring at a dream that to all but her was dead. This is where it was all supposed to begin, where the magic would happen. Ground floor was supposed to be Y's and solely dedicated to Nails and Beauty. Y had plans of starting off with the basics offering them acrylic nails and nail art, manicure, pedicure, then upgrading her services to the more flashy skin treatments.
The first floor would be her baby of health and fitness and the second floor would be Patra’s focus of fashion.
“We had that bitch worked out,” Patra’s words derailing Suzy's memories.
Suzy shook her head as if it was with some effort she could convi nce them that their ambitions weren’t crumbling
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