by Laura Hird
As the dress is only 35 quid, I decide it’s maybe that time of the decade where I buy myself a new bra. My current one’s so small now, it gives me four boobs and has a nasty nicotiney tinge that won’t wash out. Having no recollection of what size I might be, I have to get measured. The assistant informs me I’m a 36DD and sounds suitably impressed. I wonder if that stands for disgustingly droopy. How the mighty have fallen.
‘Do you have any Wonderbras in that size?’ I brave, thinking about my flat-chested hairdresser Michelle’s new-found cleavage. The woman smirks.
‘I don’t really think you need a Wonderbra if you’re a 36DD.’
Grabbing the first white, lacey bra I see in my prodigious size, I pay for it and the dress, and get out of there before I embarrass myself further.
My lunch with Joyce is a disaster. She finds an inedible lump of something very un-fishlike in her salmon pâté which puts her off the rest of her meal. A large spike of bone in my haddock fillet gives me the boaks. She goes on about her husband’s new job so much that, by the time we part, I’m glad to see the back of her. We both promise to write, but know we probably won’t bother. We’re not that close. At school we were, but we both just seem to go through the motions as adults. Still, another one down in my minuscule social circle.
All in, the lunch costs £21 and I didn’t even get to mention Raymond. Fuck friendship, it’s far too expensive. At least when I get in, the flat is still that lovely, quiet, empty way and should be for a few more hours.
Making a coffee, I decide to watch my Body of Evidence video. It’s rubbish, of course, but I adore Willem Dafoe, particularly in the cunnilingus-on-the-car-bonnet scene. I have a small collection of seemingly innocuous-looking videos with good sex scenes that I watch on the rare occasions I’m alone. Paris Trout is another favourite. Dennis Hopper plays an old racist who, in one scene, sticks a beer bottle up Barbara Hershey’s arse and pours, and it’s like, wow. I know I shouldn’t find it sexy but I do.
The film’s only been on five minutes, when the phone rings.
‘Mr Murray?’
‘He moved out years ago,’ I yell, slamming it down. Fuck, we get more phone calls and mail for the couple that used to live here than we do for ourselves. The husband was a rugby referee so, when there’s an International due, it never stops. Vic keeps threatening to pretend he’s Mr Murray, on the off-chance he might get asked to do the next Grand Slam.
I crouch on the floor and fast-forward to Willem’s first scene. He was a really sexy Jesus as well. Oh, here we go. He reminds me of Rab, the squaddie I almost married. We got engaged just prior to him being sent off to the Falklands War. My pal and me were working as au pairs in London at the time. At the end of the war, I came home for the weekend as Rab’s boat was arriving back at Leith. There was a big welcome-home celebration planned. Thing was, the union wouldn’t let the dockers work overtime on a weekend, so Rab was stranded in the Forth for two days. Not wanting to waste a weekend off, I went out on the randan with some of my old pals and met Vic. I’d come off the pill for my forthcoming honeymoon, so that was basically it – bye bye life, bye bye happiness … My dad had always hated Rab anyway because he was English, and being a rabid trade unionist, was absolutely thrilled that the Edinburgh dockers’ union were responsible for the break-up of our engagement. Yes, Willem looks just like him. I’ve no idea what happened to Rab.
I’ve just slipped my hand into my knickers, when the phone goes again. I consider ignoring it, but suppose there might be some slim chance it might be Raymond.
‘Yes!’
‘Angela, is that you?’
God, it’s Vic’s dad.
‘Oh, sorry, Stewart. I’ve had people trying to sell me things over the phone all afternoon,’ I lie, feeling awful. He’s such a gentle old soul.
‘How’re you doing, love? Is everything well? I’d not heard from Victor for a while, I just wanted to check you were all right.’
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine. He’s just been a bit busy with work and that.’
I resent having to make excuses for Vic, when the truth is, he’s just a lazy bastard.
There’s a prolonged silence. I know he’s wanting to ask when we’re going to visit, but doesn’t want to seem like he’s hassling us. I have an inspired idea.
‘He was talking about going to the match on Saturday. Go with him. Come round for your tea after, if you like.’
Stewart’s beside himself. As soon as I hang up I start worrying I’ve said the wrong thing. Fuck it, though, if Vic wants to go to the football, then Vic can go to the football. I keep telling him to make the most of his dad while he’s still got one, but he’s forever avoiding the poor bugger.
Again, I attempt to watch my video but, after another phone call for the Murrays, Joni comes tearing in and heads straight for her room. I summon her through. She has a look on her face that says, this better be good.
‘What is it? I’m in a hurry.’
‘Why aren’t you at school?’
‘I’ve just come back for a book. Look, I have to go.’
Skiving little shite. She makes for the door again.
‘Hey, I’ve not finished.’
Tutting loudly, she drums her fingers on the door frame.
‘Don’t you think you should apologise to your dad for what you said this morning?’
‘What?’
‘You know what I mean.’
The penny seems to drop.
‘Yeah, well he shouldn’t pull the covers off me, pervert. What do you know anyway? You don’t know what goes on. You’re always at your fucking work or getting in strange cars when you’re supposed to be at work.’
‘What? What’re you on about?’
‘Just fuck off,’ she yells. Out of conversation and out the door. We really are so close these days.
Another disastrous day off nearly over, I go through to the kitchen and start on the tea. Jake appears as I finish peeling a huge pan of potatoes and tells me he doesn’t want any. He’s got a computer class. Throwing the peeler into the sink, I go back through to watch telly.
I’m still sitting there when Vic comes in at six. I tell him about Stewart phoning and my idea about the football. Letting out a tortured groan, he grabs the Evening News and locks himself in the toilet with it. Fucking families? I feel like just telling them all to piss off.
Chapter Five
JONI
DOUBLE ART FIRST thing, the only subject I actually enjoy. Daniel better not be there. I can’t face him after running away like that the other day.
‘I thought you wanted to shag him,’ Rosie reminds me as we wait outside the art block for lovely Mr Gallagher.
‘Yeah, so I changed my mind. I got bored and went home.’
‘Aye, right.’
‘What did he say about it, like?’
‘Just that he’d sent you to get us. I knew something had happened. You should have just done it, Jo, he’s really nice, that Daniel.’
‘Not compared to him,’ I purr, pointing at Mr Gallagher striding across the playground towards us with his sexy new hair-do.
Rosie and me gawp at him, with cheesy grins on our faces, then say in unison, ‘I really like your hair, Mr Gallagher.’ It sounds pathetic, like we’ve been practising. Rosie and me are like that, though. We often think the same thing at the same time. As he brushes past to unlock the class, I get a waft of really expensive-smelling aftershave. When we follow him in, it mingles with the arty, painty, wooden smell. Sitting at my desk, I breathe it in, watching him, not even listening to what he’s saying – gorgeous, gorgeous.
‘That’s all right with you, Joni? Model for a day?’
Oh God, what’s he on about?
‘Eh?’
He knows I’ve not been listening but is cool about it.
‘Will you model for us today? You did say you would last week. Everyone’s done it twice now.’
Bollocks. I hate modelling in class. He makes me get up on a chair,
put one foot on the sink and pretend to hammer a nail into the wall. I can hear them all sniggering behind me. I’ve got a fanny pad on. I bet they’ve all noticed. What if it starts leaking?
‘That’s great. Are you comfortable with that? Break in 15 minutes?’
I make a strange sound that means neither yes nor no.
‘Sir, can I get a bigger bit paper, sir? I can’t get her arse on this one,’ Fartin Martin shouts out. Everyone laughs.
‘Sorry, is this a primary class?’ says Mr Gallagher, gallantly. Everyone laughs again. They’d laugh at anything. Any sort of noise whatsoever they seem to find absolutely hilarious. They’re pathetic.
This is the longest 15 minutes of my whole life. My arm is aching from the stupid pose. As if galleries are full of pictures of schoolgirls hammering nails into walls. It’s 20 minutes before I get a break. Having a quick look round, I see their pictures are even more horrific than I’d anticipated. Even Rosie’s made me look like Fat Hilary from fifth year. Kes has given me a beard. Fartin Martin’s given me loads of spots. In Pete’s, my hair is just a big scribble, bastards.
‘You’re not supposed to look fat,’ says Rosie, noticing my distress, ‘… it’s just you kept moving.’
I don’t want to get up there again, but my break’s soon over. By the time the second instalment of my ordeal’s over, I’m sweating like a bastard. Mr Gallagher squeezes my shoulder as he helps me down. He’s beautiful.
‘That wasn’t too bad now, was it?’
‘It was very bad,’ I mumble through my fringe. The finished products are absolutely awful. Just this big, fat, ugh. Three people have given me sweaty armpits. I’m delighted when the bell goes as I’d probably have started crying otherwise.
I chum Rosie to the tuck shop but don’t get anything myself because I feel so fat and disgusting. Usually, I have a pie with chippie sauce at play time but I’m not going to eat anything, ever again. Rosie, bitch, gets a sausage roll. The gorgeous meaty, pastry whiff hangs in the cold air around me, even after she’s finished it. You can almost taste it.
‘See Daniel wasnae at Art, eh?’
‘Shut it, right. I dinnae fancy him.’
‘Ooh, Miss Sensitive,’ she whines, ‘… if you’re gonna be like that, I dinnae suppose you’ll want to babysit with me tonight.’
‘Babysit where?’
‘Broomhouse, that woman John knows. Ah said last week.’
‘Oh, aye. Brilliant, yeah. I’ll do that.’
By the end of play time I’m feeling much happier. Maybe John’ll be there. Maybe Rosie’ll bring the video with her. I love babysitting. You always find booze.
I try to get Rosie to skive off English and go to the museum or something. You get loads of nice guys in the museum in the afternoon. I bagged off with a boy from St Augie’s when I was there once. He had Heineken tongue, if you know what I mean.
Rosie refuses to skive though, because we’re doing As You Like It and she’s playing Rosalind. She thinks she’s bloody Winona Ryder. I have to just follow it in the book because there’s 37 pupils and only 27 characters. Jamie’s playing Oliver in his really dippit, doh-doh voice and keeps losing the place and getting words wrong. Rosie’s going for the Oscar, though, getting really actressy. I’ve absolutely no idea what they’re going on about, except when Rosie says, ‘But for the bloody napkin’ and the whole class starts laughing. I bet they’re all thinking about my bloody napkin at Art, bastards.
God, it just goes on and on and on. I hate Shakespeare. It’s complete crap. Why do we have to learn all that old shite about crappy kings and queens and rich cunts with poncey, long names you can’t pronounce? I can’t even understand what anyone’s supposed to be saying. Even when the teacher explains it, it’s still crap. The Romeo and Juliet film was all right. We went to see it with the English class the other week. The Shakespeary bits just spoilt it, though.
Miss Barnes, the relief teacher, is awful too. She wears bright orange foundation and dead tight jumpers. She’s just so pattery, you know the type? And she’s all over the boys. ‘Oh, Pete, that’s just fantastic, sooper, fantastic.’ But if one of the girls asks her something, she’s like, ‘Shut up, I’m with my boys.’ Ugly cow. And I thought my arse was big.
At last they finish the play. Miss Barnes makes us all clap the people who took part, even though it was shite. I don’t mention Rosie’s acting to her when the lesson ends as she’s really annoying me. You can tell she’s wanting everyone to tell her how brilliant she was. As if.
I chum her up to the chippie at lunch-time, still determined not to eat. There’s a big queue, though, and as people pass me with their saucy chips, I get hungrier and hungrier. The young Italian guy that works here is really nice, sort of like Johnny Depp, with a double chin. God, I’ve not eaten anything today and it’s nearly 12 o’clock. When we get to the front of the queue, I can’t help myself and have to get a bag, a pound bag. Since I’m not going home for tea, I’ll make them do me. Then Rosie gives me half her mince pie. I really love chippie mince pies, so I eat that too, then feel really fat and awful again.
We both have double Secretarial this afternoon, which it’s compulsory to skive. Telephoning Rosie’s, we let it ring 20 times before deciding her mum’s at work. She’s on the jellies, so you can never be sure.
Her house, as usual, is fucking freezing. There’s an electric bar fire, but Rosie’s mum takes the plug to work with her because she says it’s too dangerous to use when she’s out. Honest, she must think Rosie’s about five years old. I get the duvet through, for us to sit under, as she rummages the book-case.
‘Oh fuck, oh fuck. It’s gone.’
‘What, what’s wrong?’
She rifles the book-case again.
‘The video, I put it behind here. If Mum’s found it, I’m dead.’
I have to cuddle her, to calm her down.
‘Take it easy, she doesnae know it’s yours. It could be one of her boyfriends’, or her drunken pals. It could be anyone’s.’
I get her, still hysterical, over to the settee.
‘She’ll stop John coming round if she’s found it. She’ll find out about the other things as well, fucksake.’
‘What d’you mean? What other things?’
She looks all coy.
‘You know?’
‘What?’
Making a circle with her thumb and middle finger, she shakes her hand about. I’m stunned with jealousy. The bitch, the lucky bitch.
‘What? Does he do it to himself, or do you do it to him?’
‘Both,’ she says, all smug.
‘God, that’s amazing. What’s it like? Is it really big?’
She smiles and lets out a little cluck of laughter.
‘… wow, that’s absolutely immense. Is it good, you know, d’you like it?’
‘That’s what I mean. I really like him. The rest of them wouldnae understand. What’ll I do? Mum’s bound to say something.’
Going to the toilet, to try and think of a possible solution, I discover that with all the excitement, my fanny pad’s completely leaked onto my pants. Fuck, I don’t have another one with me, I’ll have to go home. At least I’ll be out the way before Rosie’s mum comes in. God, it’s really exciting. I can find out what happened when we go babysitting tonight. I definitely want clean pants for that.
We agree that I should wait at the bottom of the stair for her at six, in case her mum starts questioning me. As I run along the street towards my house, I feel my knickers squelching. Jan is yelping and trying to squeeze past me as I open the door. I run up the hall, into the bathroom, and lock her out.
Pouring a bath, I strip and stuff the gruesome big whale of a fanny pad down the toilet. Amazingly, it disappears first flush. When I get in the bath, the water turns a dirty, browny red. The blood clots look like little scraps of flesh, like I’ve been bitten by a shark. It stinks.
I look down at my wet body. My nipples are really sticking out. They’re far too big, like the tip
s of someone’s pinkies. You never see models with paps like mine, I’m like a cow. My belly looks OK though, quite flat. I imagine John standing behind me, looking down and seeing what I’m seeing. Running my fingers over my big rubbery tits and down my belly, I pretend it’s him, and end up having to X2.
It’s half-three by the time I get dried and dressed. Mum won’t be in till about five but I really don’t want to see her. I go through to their stinky bedroom.
Pushing the candlewick on top of the bed, I lift up the mattress. There’s a pile of little brown envelopes with what they’re for written on them – phone, gas, mortgage, Council Tax, computer, holidays, that sort of thing. Mum used to keep it in the bank but she’s paranoid about it suddenly disappearing when the computers all fuck up in 2000. Three cheers for micro-chips. At first, I just used to take about a tenner a week but I’ve been going a bit daft recently – I better watch. The one I usually chory from is right at the back, the most pathetic one – ‘Joni – University’. Mum thinks I only exist to do what she was too stupid to do herself, too stupid and pregnant. There’s only 80 quid in it as well, bloody cheek. Mind you, I’ve taken most of it, university of life and all that. I take another tenner, then a fiver out of ‘holidays’. I should’nt imagine she’ll need either for a very long time.
Mum’s going out tomorrow night, so I’m going up town with Rosie. I can buy her drink. Loads of lassies from my class go up Lothian Road at the weekend. We can go to the Barracuda. Supposedly anyone could get a bag-off there. Lying on my bed, I fantasise about getting off with strangers, or John being there tonight, or Robbie Williams bursting in the room and just grabbing me and I X2 again. It makes my hand all bloody.
I X2 quite a lot. Sometimes, I think I’m maybe obsessed with it. The magazines all say it’s OK, though. I’d been doing it for about five years before I read it was normal, you know, that other people did it too. It must be about the best thing ever invented for humans. I wonder if John’s done it to Rosie. Whoargh!
She’s waiting for me in the swing park when I go back along at six. Her mum hasn’t even mentioned the video, very boring.