“Parker would eat him alive,” she says.
“A young Elvis would punch him,” her boyfriend whispers back, “and then write a brilliant song about it.”
She smiles and gently puts her hand on his knee, “Get me another vodka tonic and maybe I’ll do the honours. The possibilities are endless. I think I just saw Harry Nilsson go into the bathroom with a woman in a catsuit. She looked just like Emma Peel.”
Liam Gallagher stumbles into the foyer. Nose crusted in fine white powder he pushes through the crowd to lunge at Paul Weller who’s busy hammering out a version of “Town Called Malice” on the now gin soaked grand piano. Gallagher trips over a Moroccan rug and hits his head on the piano bench while Weller doesn’t miss a beat.
“I don’t think he’s getting up.” The boyfriend says and tips up the wine bottle for the last swallow. “He’s gonna feel that tomorrow. Should someone call an ambulance?”
“Nah,” his girlfriend says, “he just needs a little lie down.”
Weller rings the final chord and stands to take a modest bow. He steps over Gallagher’s crumpled form and asks if anyone has seen his coat.
“I think that’s our cue.” The young woman puts her arms around her boyfriend’s neck as he leans down to kiss her. “Are you escorting me home?” She asks.
“Anywhere you want to go,” he replies.
“I think you should take me home.” She kisses him again and feels the wine flush warmth into her cheeks, “Let’s walk. The moon is over the park.”