had felt her best friendâs last drop of life taper to nothing as she held her in her arms that night at The Kitty Kat Club.
Lying back on the stained sheets of her Manchester hotel room bed, Amy couldnât help but think of her departed friend. She would have thrown some much-needed light onto the murky depths Amy found herself wallowing in. Sheâd also have told Amy to check out of the sub-standard hotel she was staying at and book into somewhere half-decent. But with no real income coming in and her money from selling jewellery and clothes dwindling away she knew that economising was the best idea. She didnât intend to stay in Manchester any longer than she needed to, just enough to try and find some clues to lead her to Riley, and she would hardly be at the hotel if she kept herself busy, so splashing out on five star luxury seemed pointless. It wasnât that long ago that Riley would have insisted on her settling for nothing less than the best. For now, being frugal was the sensible option.
The stains on the bed sheets ranged from, as far as Amy could make out, faded blood through to indubitably ancient splashes of tea and coffee. Flea-pit was not even close. In Amyâs fuzzy-headed state of mind on her arrival in Manchester she had booked herself into the first hotel she could find. The façade and the Reception area had looked okay â window frames painted, Christmas decorations in place, no smashed bulbs on the illuminated sign â it was only once Amy had let herself into her room that sheâd realised just how vile the place actually was. The carpet was a mass of cigarette burns, the edges of the curling wallpaper a distressed brown. It was a million light years away from any of the luxurious places she had ever stayed with Riley. But Riley wasnât here now, was he? She was alone ... with no-one to talk to. God, she missed Laura ...
13
Then, 2004
----
L aura Cash and Amy Barrowman had first bumped into each other at a glam rock tribute concert in Manchesterâs town centre. Literally bumped into each other. Amy had been walking back from the bar with two full glasses of Jägerbombs balanced between her fingers ready to lose herself in yet another slab of the thunderous beats of her favourite glam rock tribute act â Sweet Treat. In an era where dance music from the likes of Gwen Stefani, Beyoncé and Shakira ruled the airwaves, Amy was still proud to love music from days gone by. She was all about the tribute and had often thought that she must have been born in the wrong era. Seventies and eighties tunes were just so cool.
Her fringe, straight, long and teased as far down her face as possible, fell across one of her eyes and momentarily caused her to stumble on her platform heels. Glam nights meant dressing up top to toe. Amy adored a theme and the chance to create an outfit for the night. She would happily sit down with her motherâs old Singer sewing machine and work her magic with a stack of fat quarters and cotton jelly rolls until a couture era-befitting creation had been born.
As she tried to regain her footing both drinks went sailing from her clutches, one cascading down her own homemade outfit, while the other landed across the ample cleavage of Laura Cash, poured into the tightest bright purple cat suit Amy had ever seen. A triangular expanse of flesh ran from Lauraâs neckline, narrowing its way between her large, round breasts and ending at her belly button. The entire area of skin was decorated with glitter, which started to run in rivulets as it mixed with the Jägermeister/Red Bull cocktail hurtling down Lauraâs curves.
âOh, for fuckâs sake. I spent all evening getting that glitter just right in the hope that the lead singer might cop an eyeful,â screamed Laura. âAnd now itâs sodding ruined. I was hoping that working these beauties might get me backstage after the gig. It worked for one of the boarders in
Lying back on the stained sheets of her Manchester hotel room bed, Amy couldnât help but think of her departed friend. She would have thrown some much-needed light onto the murky depths Amy found herself wallowing in. Sheâd also have told Amy to check out of the sub-standard hotel she was staying at and book into somewhere half-decent. But with no real income coming in and her money from selling jewellery and clothes dwindling away she knew that economising was the best idea. She didnât intend to stay in Manchester any longer than she needed to, just enough to try and find some clues to lead her to Riley, and she would hardly be at the hotel if she kept herself busy, so splashing out on five star luxury seemed pointless. It wasnât that long ago that Riley would have insisted on her settling for nothing less than the best. For now, being frugal was the sensible option.
The stains on the bed sheets ranged from, as far as Amy could make out, faded blood through to indubitably ancient splashes of tea and coffee. Flea-pit was not even close. In Amyâs fuzzy-headed state of mind on her arrival in Manchester she had booked herself into the first hotel she could find. The façade and the Reception area had looked okay â window frames painted, Christmas decorations in place, no smashed bulbs on the illuminated sign â it was only once Amy had let herself into her room that sheâd realised just how vile the place actually was. The carpet was a mass of cigarette burns, the edges of the curling wallpaper a distressed brown. It was a million light years away from any of the luxurious places she had ever stayed with Riley. But Riley wasnât here now, was he? She was alone ... with no-one to talk to. God, she missed Laura ...
13
Then, 2004
----
L aura Cash and Amy Barrowman had first bumped into each other at a glam rock tribute concert in Manchesterâs town centre. Literally bumped into each other. Amy had been walking back from the bar with two full glasses of Jägerbombs balanced between her fingers ready to lose herself in yet another slab of the thunderous beats of her favourite glam rock tribute act â Sweet Treat. In an era where dance music from the likes of Gwen Stefani, Beyoncé and Shakira ruled the airwaves, Amy was still proud to love music from days gone by. She was all about the tribute and had often thought that she must have been born in the wrong era. Seventies and eighties tunes were just so cool.
Her fringe, straight, long and teased as far down her face as possible, fell across one of her eyes and momentarily caused her to stumble on her platform heels. Glam nights meant dressing up top to toe. Amy adored a theme and the chance to create an outfit for the night. She would happily sit down with her motherâs old Singer sewing machine and work her magic with a stack of fat quarters and cotton jelly rolls until a couture era-befitting creation had been born.
As she tried to regain her footing both drinks went sailing from her clutches, one cascading down her own homemade outfit, while the other landed across the ample cleavage of Laura Cash, poured into the tightest bright purple cat suit Amy had ever seen. A triangular expanse of flesh ran from Lauraâs neckline, narrowing its way between her large, round breasts and ending at her belly button. The entire area of skin was decorated with glitter, which started to run in rivulets as it mixed with the Jägermeister/Red Bull cocktail hurtling down Lauraâs curves.
âOh, for fuckâs sake. I spent all evening getting that glitter just right in the hope that the lead singer might cop an eyeful,â screamed Laura. âAnd now itâs sodding ruined. I was hoping that working these beauties might get me backstage after the gig. It worked for one of the boarders in
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