The taxi drops us off across the street from the club in the trendy part of Brick Lane.

The nameless club is a black stone building—a sort of neo-gothic affair with blacked-out windows. It looks as if it's been involved in a fire, but as I get closer, I see it's that the stone has been painted a dark charcoal color. It must have been here for years, yet I can't remember ever seeing it before. Though, it's not as if I frequent Brick Lane a lot these days. Or London for that matter. I try to avoid the city unless absolutely necessary. And for the past six months, I've had an ex and his new girlfriend I want to be at least fifty miles away from at all times.

Of course, the venue is ridiculously crowded. Normally, this sort of queue would put us off and we'd totter along to the next place, but these VIP passes get us to the left-hand side of the doorway, which has a much smaller line moving down at a faster pace. As we walk to stand in line, the heavy thump of the music from inside gets louder.

Rob's hen group are waiting outside the gated entrance for us and wave excitedly as we approach before pulling us into fragrant hugs. I met some of them at the hen weekend a few weeks back—a weekend spa break to Barcelona, which was divine—and some I've known for a while through Rob. They're all lovely, genuine girls. Becca is the first to thank me for the invites. She's a gorgeous, petite brunette with an infectious laugh and a saucy wit who often makes me cry with laughter whenever I'm in her company.

"Oh, you're welcome. They'd only be going to waste."

"Is your brother single . . .?" Lucy asks.

"He's a priest," Rob says with an eye roll.

"He is?" Tamsin asks, intrigued. She's a solicitor from Bath and has the largest eyes I've ever seen.

"She's joking." I shake my head.

"Well, let's hope it's a good night. I've soooo needed this." Saskia beams excitedly.

"We don't even need to wait in the muggle queue. Another point to Nick the Prick . . ." Robyn says, craning her neck down the line and back up with wide, impressed eyes. "Oh my god, is that Adam Smith?" She nudges me.

Adam is a stand-up comedian I vaguely remember seeing on one of those panel shows I hardly ever watch. As I glance ahead of us in the direction she indicates, I nod. It is. I think. He's one of those new young comedians who looks like a student, so I guess it could be him, or it could just be a student. From looking around at the people queuing, it appears the clientele is mixed. Those in the "muggle queue" definitely look more like trendy student types, whereas ours seems to be for yuppie city boys who could also be footballers, their WAGs, and stand-up comedians.

Our queue moves fast, and a few minutes later, we're ushered into a dark, moody foyer where several gorgeous maître d's are taking coats and signing VIPs in.

"Good evening, doctor," a six feet tall, black-haired glamazon says to me after I hand over my invite. "So, six of you tonight?"

"Yes, six." I nod.

"Fab. If I could get you to sign in here, please, and if we could have an address and contact telephone number for you . . . I assure you, it won't be passed on to any third parties. It's to maintain our VIP guest list," she tells me professionally.

I hesitate briefly. I never give out my details, but since I don't want to appear rude or snooty by refusing, I scribble down my mobile number and email address and hand the pen back to her.

"Thank you, Dr. Marlowe. Okay, so we have you at one of our best tables this evening on the mezzanine level. It has a great view of the stage. Our main guest DJ is onstage at midnight, and there is champagne chilling on the table for you right now. Please help yourselves. There will be hosts on each floor should you need anything, and Kyle here will show you to your table," she says and indicates an incredibly attractive young guy who's smiling at us eagerly.

Kyle is pretty.

"Oh, and before I forget: There are cards on the table inviting you to pick a name for the club. Why not submit a few? You never know. The person with the winning name gets a magnum of champagne and a VIP table for a year. Worth a shot. I hope you have a great night. Kyle?"

Kyle beckons us forward, and we follow him up an elegant staircase to the mezzanine.

The inside of the club looks more like a swanky hotel than a nightclub, with elegant features such as gilded banisters and intricate paneling on the ceiling, polished wood floors, and gold embossed mirrors. As we're led down a carpeted high-ceilinged hallway, the music starts to get louder. Kyle stops at a door that reads "Number 3" in gold lettering and slides a hotel-style key card into the lock before pushing the door open.

Inside the main part of the club it's dark, with lots of exposed brick and warm but moody lighting. Kyle leads us along the mezzanine to a circular table with dark velvet seats and a contemporary black chandelier hanging low. Three ice buckets, each holding a chilled bottle of champagne, and another bucket to chill the glasses await. The girls beam at me in appreciation as we move to sit down.

"Ladies, this is your table for the night. The ladies' toilets are across the walkway to the right." Kyle gestures beyond us to a set of lit glass bridges that crisscross over the dance floor, already crowded with dancers. "If you need any drinks, you only need to press this button, and someone will come and take care of you. There's a bar in the VIP section though, which is down to the left there, and there's another across the walkway. There's also one at ground level. At the end of the night, this door will unlock, and you can leave the way you came in. Or, if you are down on the main dance floor, you can exit via the main entrance. That okay?" he asks, and we nod, somewhat awed by his pretty face and professional tone. "Great. Now, can I open this champagne for you?" he says, reaching to lift the bucket from its ice bed.

God, he's good.

"Yes, please," we answer together before breaking into stupid unified laughter.

Kyle pours our drinks with a perfect smile and wishes us a good night, though when he turns to leave, he throws a strange look in my direction.

"God, this place is amazing!" Rob exclaims. "I'm definitely coming back. Dan would love it."

"Seriously though, to think I almost binned these invites. Who do you think the guest DJ is? Anyone famous?" I take a large sip of the cool champers and lift the bottle out of the ice bucket to see it's Lanson Le Black Label Brut. "God, they must be spending a fortune on this launch night. This is not cheap."

"Well, I'm glad they've spent a fortune. Okay, I'm going to the ladies and to have a look around."

"I'll join you," Becca says, standing.

"Robyn, please don't spend hours chatting with random strangers in the toilet again. Becca, don't let her!" I shout as she steps out of our booth. Robyn is notorious for striking up deep and meaningful conversations with complete strangers in bathrooms . . . or supermarkets . . . or DIY stores. She's one of those approachable, known-you-forever types of people.

Becca gives me a smiley thumbs-up before they both teeter off across the bridge. While they're gone, Tamsin and Saskia tell me about their futuristic hotel in Shoreditch, and more specifically about the hot concierge who was one hundred percent angling for Saskia's number, according to Tamsin.

When Rob and Becca return, it's with the declaration that this is the best club since Pacha and they're convinced they saw two Chelsea footballers coming out of the men's toilet.

"Okay. My turn to pee," I say after draining my second glass of free champagne. My trip to the loo gives me a better look at the place, and though I'm not really a nightclub-goer—hot, sweaty people pressed together tend to make me think "germ transfer" rather than "good time"—the club is impressive and high-end but somehow manages to feel cool.

I'm coming out of the ladies and heading back across the bridge when pretty young Kyle comes striding toward me, beaming. He looks pleased to see me, as if he was looking for me, though that's probably wishful thinking on my part. Too young anyway.

"Dr. Marlowe, there you are! Hi! Kyle—do you remember?" he says, pointing at himself.

"Of course, Kyle. Hi." I smile.

"Eh, listen, I'm really sorry to do this, but one of our guys is feeling a bit under the weather." He rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor. "We were going to call for an ambulance, but then we remembered from the attendee list we have a doctor here." He gives me that beaming smile again—the one that makes me feel like a cradle snatcher because he must be about twenty, if a day. "Any chance you could give him a quick once-over, make sure he's not about to keel over on us?" He laughs nervously.

I resist the urge to sigh. It really is a twenty-four-hour job. Well, at least they didn't stop the music and call out, "Is there a doctor in the house?" over the sound system.

"Oh, I think he's probably fine," Kyle tells me. "He just took a bit of a . . . um . . . dizzy turn. Our manager was a bit worried." He doesn't wait for my response before he starts to walk toward a set of stairs across from the toilets. He turns and gestures for me to follow him. Which I do.

"Okay, but I have been drinking, and so you know, I would never do a consultation after drinking, but I suppose I can look him over," I say as I catch up to him.

"Of course. You're honestly a superstar. Sorry to interrupt your night like this. But the boss will be delighted," Kyle mutters.

I follow him up a flight of stairs and along another carpeted hallway exactly like the one on the first floor. At the end of the hallway, there's a door marked "Private," which he knocks on twice. He doesn't wait for a response before punching in a code and holding it open for me to follow him through.

It's a large, stylish office with more exposed brick, dark gray walls, and a few leather couches arranged to form a seating area in one corner. In the center of the room, a solid oak desk dominates the space. On the wall nearest the door, several monitors show various parts of the club: the foyer, the bar, the stage, some hallways, and two showing outside—front and back.

Behind the desk is a large flat-screen TV showing the main stage downstairs, though the sound is muted. The wall on my right is almost entirely made of glass, and through it, I can see the whole of the VIP mezzanine and down onto the dance floor below. This must be the other side of one of the large gilded mirrors I spotted on the inner walls. What a view. I immediately begin looking for Rob and the girls across the way.

"Erm, I'll go let him know you're here," Kyle says before crossing the office to leave via a different door.

As soon as he leaves, I look around the room for some water but see only champagne in an ice bucket on the desk, two glasses beside it. There's a fridge over in one corner, but I think it may be rude to go over and start rummaging through it. While I wait, I count the number of drinks I've had. Four glasses of champagne at home, and half a glass here. Okay, definitely too much to practice medicine. I'll make a brief assessment as to whether this guy needs the hospital or not and then go back to the girls.

Walking closer to the large, wall-sized window, I gaze out and across the now extremely busy club. I find our table immediately. In fact, it's almost directly across from where I am now. I see Rob and Becca dancing near the balcony while the other girls chat animatedly to a group of guys in the next booth along. Behind me, I hear the door open, and I turn around to get a look at my dizzy barman.

My heart stops dead in my chest.

Oh, god. It can't be. I can't breathe. I'm not breathing. My hot, tattooed probable criminal is walking toward me looking as if he's about to devour me whole.