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By William Shaw
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The Beach, 171-181 King’s Road Arches
Not so long back the young clubber had her own phone nicked. Now she spots a Samsung someone’s dropped on the floor at The Beach. She picks it up; pockets it.
The phone’s owner doesn’t notice it’s gone until she’s in the kebab shop on King’s Road. She’s Claire; and at 2am she’s rummaging through her bag, wishing it’s there. How could she be so stupid? She flew down from Glasgow this afternoon to come clubbing in Brighton with a bunch of colleagues from work.
Claire and her mates are trainee auditors for a big national firm. Based all around the country, they’d originally met up doing training courses: Skills 1, 2 and 3. They got along so well they decided they’d meet up again, choosing Brighton because one of them – Davinia – lives here. They’re calling tonight Skills 3.5.
Davinia took them all to Revamp in Sydney Street to pick up fancy dress gear. The theme was the Eighties, but in their big hair wigs and moustaches the boys ended up like German porn stars. They say, "We destroy the myth that all accountants are boring."
They ended up at The Beach, dancing for hours together up on the stage. It was a brilliant time, all together again.
But losing the phone has taken the edge off the night for Claire. It’s not the phone itself. It’s the contacts. The night she’s cementing her new work friendships, all the numbers of her old friends from St Andrews uni have gone.
Back at The Beach they’re helpful. "Come in. Have a look." Claire searches under the stage where they’d danced, laughing, to Madonna’s Like A Prayer, doing all the actions, dropping to their knees, sobbing.
But there is no phone.
Davinia texts: "Hi if u find this fone please call back this number."
No answer. "It’s gone," says Claire, hating herself for losing it.
It will all seem different in the morning. The young clubber wlll give the phone to her parents. They’ll know what to do – find some way of contacting the owner. She’s had a phone stolen herself. It’s horrible to lose one.