Page 39 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘I’m going in,’ I repeated. ‘I’m going to cop off with LaST SToP. Pretty sure he’ll soon be expressing some vowel sounds. In fact, I manifest it. And I manifest Charlotte seeing the photos, and weeping.’
‘Good luck getting past all the other fans who’ve had the same idea,’ said New Steven.
LST STP (Sunday 1 January, 1am)
Turned out I didn’t need good luck because the Universe, for once, was on my side: I must be getting good at this manifestation thing. I blindly (literally because I accidentally looked directly at the strobe) pushed my way through the throng (and it’s not easy to orienteer when you’re drunk and freshly sight-impaired) and yet somehow ended up right where I was meant to be: at the booth. I’d mouthed ‘hi’ to a shadowy LST STP and he took off his headphones, mopped his brow and shouted, ‘You talking to me?’
And when I yelled back, ‘Why, do you want me to be talking to you?’
He pulled me up to stand in front of the decks, before I could even think. ‘Fuck yeah, you’re fit as fuck,’ he said hoarsely in my ear.
And I said, ‘Thanks. So are you. Apparently.’
I couldn’t make out much in the dark and the dry ice to be honest. But what did it matter? A sex symbol is a sex symbol, and actually I got it. It was incredible being up here, in the booth, with the DJ.
‘All you girls like the decks. Am I right?’ he said.
‘Yeah we do.’ Now wasn’t the time to educate him on gendered norms or for a nuanced debate about fourth-wave feminism.
And then he did a bit of grinding behind me (his stomach pressed quite hard into my lower back) and I must say he was a pretty enthusiastic dancer, if extremely sexual. Essentially it was dry humping. Nothing wrong with dry humping. And there was clearly an air of star quality about it all, and him. Within a couple of minutes, revellers had noticed and a fair few photos were taken of us. That’s fame for you. I swiped right, held my own phone aloft and attempted to capture us, which wasn’t easy given the movement in the squashed space. LST STP took my phone for me and held it further up, immediately pressing the arrow and posting the image to my story before I’d had a chance to check it, but I imagine someone who’s photographed as much as he is must be pretty adept at the angles. I danced even harder, imagining Charlotte’s face when she clocked what I was up to. LST STP was panting behind me, smelling quite musky.
‘Do you want a drink? I can take you somewhere private… ’ he offered.
Dirty bastard. I twisted round to give him a coy look and the light temporarily illuminated his T-shirted torso before plunging him into darkness again. The strobe lights were playing havoc with my eyes. But if he’d been asked to go onLove Island, he was probably ripped. Plus, Charlotte was into him. And we had similar taste in men given we both liked Guy Carmichael. ‘Okay,’ I said.
A few minutes later, he’d pushed us through the smoky crowds and straight out a back door into an unlit car park. He grabbed my bum and squeezed, making me jump.
‘Are you sure you’re comfortable with this? Touching your backside? Can’t be too careful nowadays.’
Good to see even stars recognise they aren’t exempt now. ‘Probably best to checkbeforeyou touch?’
‘Oh yeah. You got to get consent,’ he said, unlocking the back of a van. It was probably kitted out inside in some super-cool way with sofas and a bar and stuff. ‘Come on into my office.’ He heaved himself in. ‘If you’re comfortable?’
‘Sure,’ I said, following suit.
My sore eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the interior lighting and as LST STP had his back to me, I had the chance to have a quick look around. There were definitely no sofas – just a ladder, quite a few paint cans and a lot of mess.
‘Is it better in the front?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Nah. Less room in there. And I dropped an egg sandwich between the seats.’
Christ, that was a fair deal of arse crack he was sharing.
‘Heineken or Co-op Premium Strength Lager?’ rasped LST STP, straightening up and turning round to face me.
Obviously overhead lighting is never generous and I didn’t watch the last season ofLove Island, but I’ve got to say I wasn’t expecting LST STP to look like this. I mean, as much as I wanted to make Charlotte jealous, I was starting to feel concerned I was just too shallow to see this plan through. However famous LST STP may be, I generally favour men under sixty and with eyebrows: I guess I’m picky like that.
‘Help yourself to a snack,’ said LST STP magnanimously. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
‘Gosh.’ I riffled through the Asda bag he’d handed me. ‘That’s quite the array of meat-based pastry products.’
‘You gotta be ready when Lady Luck calls.’ He paused to tap himself on the forehead before handing me a fizzingopened can. ‘It’s not every day a bloke gets a beauty like you in the back of his van.’
‘That can’t be true,’ I said, carefully blotting up the lager from my top (well, strictly speaking Drunk Stephen’s housemate Mira’s top but she’d left it in the bathroom which is a shared space, so). ‘You’ve got two million followers; you must get women literally chucking themselves at you.’
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘There’s the odd one who thinks they’ll get access via me. But not many are that desperate if I’m honest.’
‘What?’ I said, looking up in consternation, and then immediately swallowing my beer the wrong way at the sight before me, and spraying it out of my nose everywhere: LST STP was naked, save for his underpants.
