by T. S. Easton
The waiter brought our abused starters at that point. ‘Let me think about it,’ George said after a while. ‘I’ll have a look at my schedules and see what I can do.’ Then he lapsed into silence. I could tell he wasn’t happy. And I felt bad because we’d been having such a lovely time and he’d been playing along with the food-smashing thing. As I tasted my pounded chickpeas, I contemplated taking it back. Telling him it didn’t matter. That Wednesday was fine for Date Night.
But I’m glad I didn’t. It was time to stand my ground.
Fairy Godbrother
I pulled the curtain aside and stepped out into the shop feeling about as vulnerable as a fox at a Downton Abbey Hunt Ball. I was wearing lipstick and had my hair up in the way I was intending to have it for the event. The dress was black and had lacy arms. It was the seventh dress I’d tried on and Pip had insisted it would suit me.
Pip shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you look like an Italian widow.’ In theory I should have been suspicious of fashion advice from someone who dressed like Pip. Today, for example, he was wearing a sort of long, flowing raincoat with a floppy hoodie that made him look a little like a Dementor. I’ve never seen anyone or anything else wear an outfit that looked even remotely similar. Apart from the Dementors themselves, of course. But then again I don’t get down to Brighton club nights as often as I’d like. Dementor-chic was quite possibly all the rage down there. But Pip gives off such an air of expert confidence when it comes to other people’s clothes that I knew he was right. And Mediterranean mourning clothes are clearly not my thing. Pip handed me another dress, this time ice-blue satin. I sighed and went back into the changing room.
‘Hi, Elsa,’ Blossom said, grinning at me as soon as I came out. ‘Have you seen my friend Fleur?’ I looked at myself in the mirror and groaned.
‘Why is it that it’s only when you try to make yourself pretty that you realise how awful you look?’ I said.
‘You don’t look awful,’ Pip said. ‘Just … weird.’
‘That’s it, though. When I’m dressed normally I don’t care how I look,’ I said. ‘I don’t even think about it. As soon as I make an effort to look nice I just go weird and awkward. I hunch my shoulders. I forget how to walk properly. I don’t know where to put my hands. I’m just not a ball-gown kind of girl.’
‘Nonsense,’ Pip said. ‘Every girl looks good in a ball gown, the problem is finding the right one for you.’ Then his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. ‘I know where we’ll try next. Vintage Vicky’s.’
‘That’s all corsets and halters. I am not going to the Naval College Ball dressed like a Victorian prostitute,’ I said.
‘Trust me,’ he replied.
And he turned out to be right, of course. Vintage Vicky’s is a treasure-trove of unusual items, not just clothes, but all sorts of things from the past. Record players, old steamer trunks and suitcases with faded stickers. There are accessories jostling with old kettles and fascinators racked next to a row of antique Singer sewing machines. There’s an entire room given over to buttons. Pip showed me where he’d found his bloomers, in a tiny cupboard-like room right at the back where the sporting goods were. There were old tennis rackets, an oar from a rowing boat, an antique croquet set, and right down at the bottom, under a pile of random shoes, I caught a glimpse of something that made me look again. I knelt down and pulled the item out. It was a boot. A style I recognised, the sort of high, tightly laced boot that Ricky wore. It was a boxing boot, black and cream. I rummaged around until I found the other boot and checked the size. Not perfect, but close enough.
But then Pip called my name. He’d found me a dress. Simple and cream with minimum lace. I put it on and looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t the dress so much, it suited me well. But more than that I could see the shadowed contours in my upper arms and shoulders. I looked toned. Healthy. I was definitely bigger than I had been, and the scales confirmed this. I’d put on two kilos and it suited me. I got into my stance and threw a few shadow punches, rolling my waist, twisting my hips into the punch.
When I came out of the changing room Pip nodded and came over to give me a Groot hug. ‘Thank the stars,’ he said. Over his shoulder Blossom smiled at me.
Here Come the Girls
Have I mentioned how much I hate skipping? Gradually, as I’d got fitter, most exercises got easier and less horrific. But not skipping. Something I was so good at as a kid, and used to love, was now a form of torture. I dreaded the words: ‘Find yourselves a rope.’
‘Why do boxers skip so much?’ I asked Tarik that Saturday.
‘Most important thing for a boxer is fitness. Second most important is strong legs.’
‘What about discipline?’ I asked. ‘Ricky says discipline is important.’
‘Discipline is important too,’ Tarik conceded. ‘But fitness and legs are more important. You have good legs.’
‘Err. Thank you,’ I said. He grinned at me. He must have meant I had strong legs.
My legs were stronger, it was true. I’d been working hard. Even though there was one more week of college, exams had ended so I had time. I ran every morning and did weights. And I ate chicken. A lot of chicken.
‘Hi, Sharon,’ I said when she turned up that Saturday, carrying a big cardboard box. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Oh, OK,’ she sighed. ‘But we’re a bit worried about numbers. Unless we get some more people to come we might have to call it a day.’
‘What? You can’t close us down!’
‘We’re not quite breaking even,’ Sharon explained.
‘Can’t you raise the fees?’ I asked.
Sharon shook her head. ‘A lot of the boys can hardly afford to pay as it is. There’s not a lot of money around here. In fact, Ricky lets a couple of them train for free.’ That was sobering. And things didn’t improve when Ricky told me I wouldn’t be able to spar that night because Joe was in hospital.
‘Oh no, what’s wrong?’
‘He’s having his corns shaved off. He’ll miss a few weeks.’
‘Isn’t there someone else I can spar with?’
Ricky shook his head. ‘They’re too young, too big, too fit. And most of all, too inexperienced. They can’t control themselves, you see.’
‘I’m not sure I do see,’ I said.
‘They won’t hold back,’ Ricky said.
‘I don’t want them to hold back,’ I replied, bristling. ‘I can handle it.’
‘It’s about safety,’ Ricky said. ‘I wouldn’t let a flyweight spar with a heavyweight, male or female. And I won’t let you spar with them.’ He pointed to the ring where Chris was dancing around Jerome. As if to illustrate Ricky’s point, Chris dropped his guard and Jerome hit him hard in the side of the head, sending him into the ropes.
As there were only five more days of college, I didn’t have much time. I typed up a flyer, went in early next morning and stuck it up on every notice board. You’re supposed to ask permission but nobody does. There are a lot of posters advertising for death metal guitarists (no time waisters plze) and flyers advertising reiki treatments.
My flyer had a large photo of Nicola Adams and the text underneath read as follows:
It was nearly time for class to begin, and as I was putting the last one up, I noticed a small crowd had formed behind me.
‘Isn’t that a bit sexist?’ Ryan Cook asked. ‘What about men?’
‘Oh shut up, Ryan,’ I sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Don’t you no-platform me,’ Ryan said. ‘I will have my say.’
‘Men are welcome too,’ I said. ‘But this recruitment drive is aimed at women. The numbers are unbalanced at the moment.’
‘I suppose it’s OK to attack men, isn’t it, Fleur?’ Ryan said shaking his head. ‘Men are the only minority you’re allowed to oppress these days.’ Like a shark sniffing a white-male-oppression situation, Blossom turned up at that point, jaws agape.
‘Right, first of all men are not some oppressed minori
ty,’ she began, jabbing a finger at him. ‘Secondly, affirmative action is a legitimate tactic used to re-balance a gender disparity. No one is stopping you doing anything. Fleur is just trying to do her bit to bring down the patriarchy.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Though it’s more that I need someone to spar against.’
‘Whatever,’ Ryan said, walking off. Blossom folded her arms in victory. She is amazing. As the crowd dispersed, I saw one person left behind. Someone who’d been standing at the back, watching the whole thing.
Bonita.
Jar Jar Binks
The day of George’s Mess Ball came around at last and I couldn’t quite decide if I was excited or terrified. Maybe both. As I straightened my fringe and looked in the mirror, I breathed a quick prayer of thanks to Pip. At least the dress was right. And my choice of footwear made me feel like me – even if I was a bit glossier than usual.
George smiled in approval when he saw me, and I grinned back in relief. We hurried into the main hall and he steered me through the maze of tables and men in uniform and women in posh frocks. We reached our table and I blinked in surprise as everyone looked up.
‘And this gang of reprobates,’ George announced, ‘are my so-called friends.’
I glanced round uneasily. It wasn’t the guys I was concerned with, but the girlfriends. They were blonde. All five of them. Not only that, they all had a fringe, just like mine. It was like Being John Malkovich. As one they smiled and waved and I waved timidly back.
‘That’s Fadge and Hattie,’ George said indicating the couple to our left. ‘Then there’s Big Hal and Molly, Humpy and Caz, Jar Jar Binks and Eva, and these two here are Pete and Sal.’ They waved as George pointed at them. ‘Everyone, this is Fleur.’
‘Hello,’ they chorused. I blinked, still reeling from the bizarre introductions.
‘I like your dress,’ Sal said.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, ‘but check out the shoes.’ I lifted the hem of the dress a few inches to show my boots off.
‘Wow!’ Sal said.
‘Extraordinary,’ Fadge added.
George’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets. ‘What are you wearing?’ he hissed.
‘Vintage boxing boots,’ I said. ‘On trend in Bosford.’
‘I think they’re … amazing,’ Sal said. George didn’t look like he was going to agree so I decided to change the subject.
‘Did you say someone’s called Jar Jar Binks?’ I asked. George nodded at me and pointed to poor Jar Jar’s lips, which were ever so slightly elongated.
‘And why doesn’t Pete get a nickname?’ I asked.
‘Pete IS his nickname,’ George said.
‘My real name’s Dave,’ said Pete. ‘It’s sort of a joke, that I have dull name so get a dull nickname.’
‘What’s your nickname?’ I asked George.
‘Welly,’ he said, looking slightly embarrassed, but not as embarrassed as he should have done in my opinion. ‘Because I like to give it some.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ I said. George showed me to my seat between Humpy and Pete, who both smiled but didn’t say anything. There was wine but I decided to stick to water. I hadn’t eaten and there was the small matter of still being under-age. Anyway, I was in training.
The boys all drank quite a bit; I’d never seen George drink much before. The girls sipped their wine demurely. It was a slightly odd arrangement because the guys sat back in the seats shouting across the table, bantering, trash-talking each other, while the girls leaned forward so they could chat. I didn’t have much to say and felt slightly trapped between these two large men. So I kept quiet and just listened in, hoping they’d bring the food soon.
When the starter arrived I was slightly disappointed. Not with the dish: I like goat’s cheese and sun-dried tomato tart as much as the next girl. I was disappointed with the size. It was tiny. I inhaled it quickly, almost before anyone else had taken their first mouthful, and wondered if it would be uncouth to also eat the radish carved into a flower shape.
Humpy had started talking very loudly about an officer called Trumper, though whether this was his real name or a nickname, I couldn’t guess. I should have eaten before I came. I bet the other girls all had. I looked around at them, a couple had taken a mouthful or two of their tarts but then had abandoned them. Sal and Molly hadn’t even touched their food. I caught Sal’s eye.
‘Not hungry?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’m wheat-intolerant. And egg-sensitive.’
‘Oh, sorry to hear that,’ I said, hoping she’d offer her tart to a wheat-tolerant, egg-starved Fleur. But she didn’t. Listening in to the girls’ conversation, I realised they were all a little older than me, about the same age as the boys. It turned out they were all at university in Brighton and were mostly chatting about the lecturers. I was the baby, the only one still in college. I sat and listened for a while, then ate the radish.
Finally, the main course arrived. Again, it looked tasty, but there just wasn’t enough of it. A small chicken breast wrapped in Parma ham. A few boiled potatoes and carrots and another carved radish. Four hundred calories at most, even with the creamy sauce. I tried to eat slowly, chewing each mouthful twenty times, but I still managed to finish before anyone else. I could see George watching me with slightly pursed lips. I glared back at him. Don’t judge me. Can’t you see I’m hungry?
Sal didn’t eat much of her food. Or at least, she ate the vegetables but hardly any of the chicken. ‘Are you poultry-intolerant?’ I asked her, trying to make a joke but realising as I did that it was possibly the most sarcastic thing anyone has ever said. Sal peered at my plate.
‘Would you like my chicken?’ she asked. I’m sure I should have refused, that there was almost certainly some obscure Naval tradition that you only ever passed your leftover Parma-ham wrapped chicken breast to the left. But I nodded eagerly as Sal gave me her plate and I scraped it off. The boys on either side of me watched this with interest and I could feel George’s eyes burning into me.
I felt slightly more human after that, but still found myself hoping dessert was rather more substantial. A sticky toffee pudding for example, rather than a sorbet. The men’s conversation had moved on to rugby. It turns out Pete/Dave was Welsh and Wales had lost an important game against England earlier in the year. They were being quite mean to Pete/Dave and although he laughed along I sensed he wasn’t really enjoying being called Taffy. The girls were talking about how difficult it was to find a good flat-share in Brighton these days. I had nothing to add and wondered if I should ask if anyone had seen Rocky IV lately.
Dessert came without fanfare. It was sticky toffee pudding, but it was TINY. I frowned and scoffed it in three seconds flat before looking hopefully over at Sal. She had a couple of spoonfuls of hers then made a ‘do you want this?’ face. I nodded, deciding that I quite liked her after all.
‘Fleur,’ George said as Sal passed me her plate. ‘Are you sure?’
He was right, I suppose. I was probably being a bit full-on. I should have just waited and got George to get me a cheese toastie from room service later on at the hotel. But it seemed silly to waste all this good food. And I was hungry right now! Also, George and I embarrassing each other at the dinner table … well, that was our thing. So I took the plate from Sal and I got the biggest spoonful I could manage and ostentatiously shovelled it into my mouth while everyone watched.
I immediately realised I’d put too much in, but there was no turning back. I chewed and chewed, the toffee suddenly seeming slightly too sticky. Everyone carried on watching me, the rugby talk forgotten, no one caring about rent increases in Hove. It took a surprisingly long time, but eventually I finished the mouthful and slammed my spoon down on the table, lifting my arms in victory like Nicola Adams. Sal clapped and I got a grudging nod of admiration from Jar Jar Binks, but the rest of them just stared at me. Except George, who was looking away, toying with his wineglass. I sighed. So far the ev
ening wasn’t quite meeting my expectations.
After dinner there was dancing to a swing band. Most of the men seemed to know a few steps, and the girls were all pretty good. I had no clue, of course. George took control, seizing my right hand and putting an arm around my waist.
‘Follow my lead,’ he said, and yanked me away onto the dance floor. I had no idea what to do with my feet, so just trotted after him like a puppy. He quickly got frustrated. ‘Try to follow what I’m doing with my feet,’ he kept saying. ‘Feel the rhythm.’
I remembered the foot drills Ricky had shown me, and as we broke apart I practised what I’d learned. Forward, back, two-step, swivel. Right jab, left jab … George stopped. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Dancing like a butterfly,’ I replied, spinning around and punching imaginary attackers.
I sat out the rest of the swing dancing. George took turns dancing with the other girls and the Admiral’s wife. Sal came and sat with me for a bit. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘I think George is cross with me,’ I said. ‘I ate too much. And I’ve lost confidence in these boots.’
‘I’m sure he’s not,’ she replied. ‘I wish I had your metabolism. You’re so slim, how do you manage it?’
‘I’m in training,’ I said. ‘I’m actually trying to put on weight.’ I told her about the boxing and she seemed surprised at first but then nodded.
‘Good for you.’
‘I’m not sure George agrees,’ I said.
‘No, I think he probably doesn’t,’ Sal said. ‘He’s like Dave. They’re all the same type. They need things a certain way. They like to be in control. They don’t like change and they certainly don’t like girls who eat a lot and punch people.’
‘I’ve never actually punched anyone,’ I explained. ‘Except an octogenarian, and that was an accident.’ Sal and I carried on chatting for a while. It turned out she had practised ju-jitsu when she was younger and we compared notes. Eventually George reappeared. The swing band had finished and the DJ was just starting up.