We Love the Nightlife - Softcover

Koller Croft, Rachel

 
9780593547540: We Love the Nightlife
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593547543 ISBN 13: 9780593547540
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

Locked in a toxic female friendship, two vampires careen toward catastrophe in this dark and dazzling page-turner, set amidst London's glittering disco scene.

London 1979. Two women with a deep love for disco meet one fateful night on the dance floor, changing the course of both their lives forever.

Nicola, a beautiful and brooding vampire for nearly two centuries, can’t resist fun-loving and feisty Amber from America, ultimately offering an eternity together where the glamour of nightlife always takes center stage.

But not all is what it seems.

Nearly fifty years later, after an unexpected betrayal, Amber wants out from under Nicola’s thumb, but it won’t be so simple to break up this festering friendship when she learns others have done the same—and wound up dead.

Sensing Amber’s restlessness and in one last play to keep her close, Nicola proposes they open a nightclub of their very own, hearkening back to their best days as dancing queens.

Amber agrees but she’s secretly hatching a dangerous escape plan. And if she fails…the party is over for good.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rachel Koller Croft is the author of Stone Cold Fox and We Love the Nightlife. She’s also a WGA award–nominated screenwriter. Rachel lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Charles, and their rescue pitbull, Juniper.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

ONE

AMBER

Sometimes, when I was alone, I'd follow my husband and his third wife around Central London at night. Not like a complete psycho, but I'd see what they were up to in Mayfair or Marylebone. It was hard to believe he'd be out after sunset since he never wanted to bebop around town with me when we were together.

No, Malcolm Wells liked to curl up with a dusty old book about World War II to wind down on a weekend, sipping on a hot toddy or a cup of tea until it ran cold. Even way back then when he was still only in his thirties. He'd always been an old fogey in a young guy's body.

But soon enough, and much faster than I'd like to admit, he was old, and so was his current wife, Geraldine. Still, there he was, regularly taking her out on dates in the city, enjoying their retirement together. Dinner. Drinks. The theater.

I guess the third wife was the charm.


Malcolm was probably mortified when I started going out alone without him, not long after we got married in the summer of ‘79, but what was I supposed to do? Sit around and listen to him spout off facts about Winston Churchill? I mean, respectfully, who cares? I was twenty-three years old and, come on, we’re only young once.

Or so I thought at the time.

When we met earlier that year, Malcolm said he was attracted to my joie de vivre and I swooned. Just imagine some sophisticated British man speaking French to you when you're a small-town Wisconsin girl who came to Chicago for the day, only to get rejected at the Rockettes audition you've been waiting for your whole life.

I was devastated when they didn't call my name.

It was supposed to be my ticket to a whole new life. I really didn't want to go back home to my miserable family, who wanted to control my every move. So as I was drowning my sorrows at some fancy businessman bar in River North before getting the late train to Milwaukee, Malcolm swooped in with his accent and handsomeness and money, offering to fly me back to London with him instead.

Listen, it was the '70s and we were delightfully tipsy and how could I reject such a juicy invitation? I'd never been out of the country before. What was meant to be a one-week jaunt on some richie-rich fella's dime quickly turned into something serious, and before I knew it, we were engaged.

I fell in love with London the second I got here. And yes, I probably got that mixed up with true love for Malcolm, which now seems a little nuts. It would be a few months before I admitted it to myself, but we were a god-awful match. Unless it was for business reasons, he wasn't much for being social, and all I ever wanted to do was flit around town. Go dancing, see live music and shows, alongside other young people. But Malcolm? It was books, tea, the BBC and repeat. Nightmare.

Not that I knew what real nightmares were just yet.

I didn't tell anyone back home in Wisconsin about my potential screwup. It was a different time and I'd never confided much in my parents. Everyone was always hanging on by a thread as it was. Emotionally. Financially. And I knew my dad would have just said something about getting what I deserved after being so impulsive. My mother didn't have too much to say about it, but she didn't protest either. Money talks, obviously, and Malcolm had it. We never did. So Godspeed to her eldest daughter. One less thing to worry about.

And she still had the little one.

I feel bad about leaving my sister behind to this day.

But I try not to think about it.


The first time I revisited Malcolm, after I left him and after I turned, it was the early ‘90s. He was still in his second marriage with Cheryl, the show pony with no personality, who was also the mother of all three of his small children, so I figured he’d be up for a cheap thrill. Enough time had passed by then, over ten years, and I didn’t see how a quick cameo would cause much of a fuss.

The two of them were having a nightcap at the American Bar in the Stafford Hotel. Not the Savoy. Way too much of a scene over there for Malcolm, with the chatty pianist and the tourists and the hustle-bustle of the Strand. The Stafford was understated and classic, tucked away on a quiet street not far from St. James's Park. Honestly, I had always liked it, too.

For kicks, I asked for my usual at the bar to get his attention. A French 75. Malcolm told me once he thought it was a charming order. I agreed. When I was sixteen and on vacation in the Dells with my family, using the term vacation lightly, a much older man ordered one for me at the Ishnala Supper Club. My parents made me send it back, but when I could finally order drinks of my own, that cocktail was always my go-to because I never forgot the sweet smell from its quick stop at our table.

The second Malcolm heard my voice at the bar that night, we made eye contact. I smiled, but he did a double take. Eeeep!

He could see me.

Someone from before.

The only one from before.

I started to feel warm in my body, but it had to be in my head only, since the blood in my veins was downright frosty. Oh, it was just nostalgia, which always feels great until it doesn't anymore, taking a quick turn before you know what's what, the kind that feels like a good friend stabbing you in the back, hurt by someone you thought you knew so well.

"Amber?" Malcolm whispered softly. I think only I could hear him. I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. "Amber," he said again, louder this time, with more conviction. So much so that Cheryl looked over Malcolm's shoulder, visibly annoyed, with pursed lips, showing more emotion than she had all evening.

"Hello," she snarled, trying to intimidate me.

Good luck, babe.

I bite.

"Hi there!" I said, laying my American accent on extra thick.

"Do you know her?" she asked Malcolm, but he couldn't stop staring at me. His big brown eyes blinked rapidly, highlighting his crow's-feet. The kind I'd never have.

"Sorry, darling." Malcolm brought his attention back to Cheryl. "Thought she was someone else. Have a good night, miss."

He didn't even turn back around.

The bartender handed me the fresh cocktail and God damn it, she smelled so good. I missed the fancy buzz of a French 75. Its tall flute, the fragrance of the gin shamelessly flirting out of the glass, complete with a sweet lemon twist on the rim. The preferred drink of a party girl with pizzazz. That's me. Always was.

"Cheers," I cooed at the couple, hoping for one last lingering look with Malcolm, perfectly timed to the dreamy Cranberries song playing softly in the background.

But he didn't look my way again.


I didn’t make a habit out of showing myself to Malcolm over the years. Especially as he got older. But something came over me one night as I was following him alongside wife number three.

The night I saw him for the very last time.

He was standing outside Annabel's-just for dinner, of course. Malcolm never did like to party and he wasn't going to start as a senior citizen. He looked about ready to go home and crack into the book he probably had waiting on his nightstand. A thousand pages minimum on the Normans or Oliver Cromwell or whatever. His hands were in his pockets, eyes staring off into space, as he waited dutifully for his wife to wrap it up inside. I had to give the guy credit. Sure, he'd gotten old and tweedy, but he was still handsome despite the cranky resting face. His mustache looked great on him now. A little salt, a little pepper.

I rushed over to him, through Berkeley Square, as if I were just another busy bee off to enjoy the nearby nightlife. And then I gently bumped right into Mr. Malcolm Wells.

"Oh! Excuse me," I gasped, wondering what he was going to do, just as that...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593547543
ISBN 13 
9780593547540
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
385
Kontakt zum Hersteller
BERKLEY
https://www.penguin.com/?s=BERKLEY

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