By JR (world of fashion and love)
A tale of how fashion changed one woman’s life and helped her find the one.
Chapter 2
(A pleasant, clean, and soapy fragrance that subtly marks his presence—a scent so inviting, it draws her in. With just one close glance, she’ll lean nearer, inhaling deeply, as if craving more.)
I’m standing in front of the mirror in my big cabinet, staring at my reflection and feeling utterly hopeless. It’s like I’m a wealthy soul trapped in a body that can’t afford its own dreams—why did the internet even have to exist? Now here I am, obsessing over that vintage Chanel double-flap medium caviar bag, knowing even my credit card or Klarna won’t cover it. But maybe… if I wait? Could it happen? Then Julia’s voice cuts through my thoughts—she’s outside my room, glaring at me from a distance and yelling, “Dahlia, don’t you dare make another reckless move! I swear, please don’t!
Julia has been my best friend since college, back when we both studied hotel management—though she ended up pursuing her passion for cooking instead. She’s a stunning Zimbabwean woman, long-legged and petite like me, with the most gorgeous dark skin tone. People always say we were destined to be friends because whenever we slip into our heels and dress up, we turn heads like a pair of supermodels.
Plus, with our names being so similar, it’s almost like we’re technically sisters out of nowhere!
But Julia—then Julia said, “No, Dahlia! You need to save and budget your money!” Dahlia protested, “But don’t you think it’s gorgeous?” Julia sighed, “Let me see… Hmm, okay, yes, it’s gorgeous, but—” Dahlia kept trying to convince her, but her best friend was strict! Julia teased, “You know, I’m surprised—for someone half-white and half-Asian, you’re a bit high-maintenance! Where are all the Asian genes?” I couldn’t help but laugh and scream at her before throwing a pillow.
I love my best friend, Julia. I remember when she moved from England to Scotland, always dressed in that striking black coat and floral dresses. She knew her body well and exactly which colors suited her. And no, we’re not lesbians—we’re just extremely close. Things got even better when she applied to work abroad, said her goodbyes to everyone, but then got scammed and couldn’t move back to her family. Instead, she hid out and stayed with me, so now we’re pretty much stuck together.
Dahlia: “Well, well… Who does she think she is? Miss Julia spends money on booze and nights out like the word ‘budget’ doesn’t even exist!” (laughs at Julia)
Julia: “Of course I know how to save money! Why do you think we’re the number one customers at Mr. Muhamad’s store? Hahaha! We always buy the discounted wine for pre-drinks before hitting the club!”
(Pauses, then adds:) “Speaking of which, I already stopped by his shop and got us some wine. And I thought you’d be dressed by now? Guess it’s my turn to get ready when I get back!”
Dahlia: (glances at the time) “Geez, it’s 9:45 PM—don’t worry, Julia, we still have plenty of time!”
Julia and I can’t wait for tonight—even though I have to wake up early tomorrow to open the shop at 8 AM. Partying with my best friend feels like a perfect escape from reality. I’m wearing a navy blue, double-layered slinky skater dress with an off-the-shoulder drape and a fitted waist, paired with my eBay steal: Christian Louboutin heels that I snagged for just £94.32 (used but in great condition!). Julia, on the other hand, is rocking a sleek red structured mini dress and her Valentino heels—another fabulous eBay find.
We’re blasting our favorite Rihanna song, sipping our pre-drinks, and touching up our makeup when Julia suddenly yells, “Girl, it’s 11:30 pm—we need to hit the club!” I mean, wow, okay—we did take forever getting ready, but we were just about to call an Uber, still undecided on where to go.
“Julia, last time we went to Grassmarket, it was… an experience,” I say, but she cuts me off, screaming, “What the hell are you thinking? We’re going to CC Blooms!”
Not surprising. Of course my bestie would pick the gay club—she feels safe there, surrounded by queer folks, especially after her last messy relationship. She’s sworn off dating for now, but whenever a lesbian hits on us, she pulls her classic move: suddenly acting like we’re together.
As a good best friend, I get it. But hey—what about me? I’m single, and if we keep going to gay clubs (not that I’m complaining—the music is always fire), when am I ever gonna meet my future man?
Okay, let’s go hit the club now, Dahlia!”Julia shouted down the hallway, rushing toward the main building door. “Our Uber’s waiting!”
You might be wondering why we’d need a ride when it’s technically just a 15 to 20-minute walk. Well, in these gorgeous heels and our stunning outfits, walking was not an option.
Tonight was going to be epic—no doubt about it—especially with my bestie by my side.
CC Blooms is a vibrant LGBTQ+ venue located at the top of Leith Walk in Edinburgh. The club features two floors, offering a stylish bar and restaurant by day, which transforms into a lively nightclub with great music and events after dark
Okay, we made it! We’re just about to head in, but the bouncer keeps asking for our IDs—honestly, I think they’re just taking the piss. They know us—we don’t come every week, but we’re here often enough. The big bouncer even tried flirting with us, but obviously, as the stunning, self-assured ladies we are (especially after the cheap wine Julia grabbed from Mr. Muhamad’s shop for pre-drinks), we weren’t having it. We’re not the type to flirt in clubs just for attention.
We both believe women should be independent, beautiful, and confident—no need to rely on any man. If someone buys us a drink, it should be because they genuinely want to, not because they expect something in return. And hey, if we decide to move on and leave? No hard feelings—that’s just how we roll.
Okay, ladies—we’re in! The bouncers finally let us through, and me and Julia exchanged a look—it’s go time. We were hyped to dance, even though it’s a Wednesday night in Edinburgh. Sure, some say Glasgow’s nightlife is better, but who has the time (or money) to trek to another city? Nah, we’re making it work right here!
Now, let’s talk rules—because we run this club strategically:
1. Claim Your Throne:
First thing? Secure a 4-seater table near the bar and the dance floor. Bags go on the extra chairs—instant “reserved for friends” signage.
2. The Buddy System:
One dances, one guards the fort. If randoms hover, hit ‘em with the classic, “Our friends are just grabbing drinks!” Rotate shifts—cheer each other on like it’s a sport.
3. Drink Spy Mode:
Free drinks? Yes, but we’re not naive. After one too many true crime docs, we monitor those glasses like FBI agents. Sip, smile, and exit stage left if they get flirty.
4. Dance Floor Diplomacy:
It’s a gay club—we’re here for the vibes, not the DMs. We twirl with the gays, laugh with the queens, and keep it zero percent sexual. Just music, moves, and pure joy.
The atmosphere feels like something out of an atmosphere song—the DJ was fantastic, mixing Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody with beats and other tracks I didn’t recognize. Somehow, it all blended perfectly.
“Okay, Julia, I’ll head to the bar first and grab our half-pints,” I said. (Why half-pints? It’s a tradition we started with another dear friend who moved back to America—she always said it was to test the drink’s quality first.)
Julia shot back, “Hurry up, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed. The bar was packed, but luckily, our table wasn’t far. As I stood waiting, I got plenty of compliments. (Being half-Filipina and half-British—though more connected to my Filipino roots since my dad left us after bringing us to the UK—I’ve been told I have a unique look. My features lean Asian, but with a hint of British influence. People say I resemble ’90s supermodel Yasmin Ghauri or Miss Universe Pia Wurtzbach.)
The hallway grew tighter, the bar more crowded, and I was still waiting to catch the bartender’s eye. Just then, a bachelorette party pushed through the narrow space, shoving me forward. As I stumbled, a man turned around, holding two Cosmopolitan drinks—only for half of them to spill as I accidentally leaned into his chest.
Thankfully, none of it got on me—he’d managed to protect his drinks at the last second. But wait… I was pressed against this man’s chest for a brief moment, and then it hit me—that scent. It was so familiar. I was sure I’d smelled it earlier that afternoon when Julia and I had wandered into the Louis Vuitton shop in St. Andrew Square, pretending we could afford something (just browsing, of course). I’d even joked with the sales assistant, “I want my man to smell like this.”
Embarrassed, I quickly pushed back and apologized—silly me. Then our eyes locked, and wow. This man was practically a model in the making—tall, striking face, those piercing blue eyes… Damn.
Before I could process it further, his friend rushed over in a panic. “Francis, you okay??”
Huh? I’m the one who nearly got drenched, and he’s not even checking on me? Then it hit me—they must be a couple.
Francis (apparently his name) was impeccably dressed: a pink Ralph Lauren polo, black trousers, a sleek black Gucci belt, and—of course—black Jimmy Choo velvet slip-ons with tassels.
Internally, I groaned. Why are all the gorgeous ones gay these days?
World Of Love and Fashion 