The Year of the Rat

by Clare Furniss

  We spot some chairs a bit out of the way and sit down.

  ‘Well done on your results,’ she says.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘We had such a great time in Spain.’ Her face falls a bit. ‘Just a shame to come back really.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh no!’ she says, taking my hand. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s great to see you of course. I really missed you. It’s just—’

  She stops.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, just a quick dance?’

  But just as she’s trying to pull me up Ravi appears.

  ‘Hi, Pearl,’ he says and kisses me on both cheeks. Then he stands there, looking awkward and tall. ‘Thanks so much for coming. Are you enjoying yourself? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ I mutter to his shoes, which look as though he’s probably polished them specially for the occasion.

  ‘Do you mind if I just steal Molly away a minute?’ He takes her hand. ‘My auntie is dying to meet you.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Molly looks shy but pleased. ‘Back in a minute, Pearl.’

  And they disappear into the crowd.

  After I’ve drunk a bit more of the vodka, I find it’s quite good fun talking to people who don’t know anything about me. One of Ravi’s great-aunties in a beautiful purple sari. His godfather. A cousin from Ealing. None of them feel sorry for me. None of them ask me how I’m feeling. I can just tell them anything that pops into my head. I’m a black belt in karate. I’m at finishing school in Switzerland. I play the ukulele. My dad’s a fighter pilot. Oh yes, my mum’s an opera singer actually.

  Oh no. No brothers and sisters. No, it’s just me.

  I nip off to the loo every now and then to drink some more vodka. There are copies of The Economist in there which makes me giggle for no good reason. As I stash the vodka bottle back in the bag, I notice that half of it has gone already.

  ‘You’re getting through that,’ Mum says from somewhere behind me. ‘Don’t you think that might be enough now? Have a glass or two of water. And I know you don’t really do much eating these days, but some food might not be a bad idea.’

  ‘You were the one who told me to enjoy myself,’ I say, accidentally squirting expensive hand lotion all over my shoes which sets the giggling off again.

  ‘Just promise me you’re not going to make a spectacle of yourself. No vomiting in the water feature or trying to snog an uncle. It can all get very messy very quickly, Pearl. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about here.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I’m just in the middle of telling someone who works with Ravi’s dad that I grew up in the Australian outback when I find the ground seems to be moving about a bit. Maybe Mum was right. I go to the bar and ask for a glass of water. Then I find a table out of the way of everyone where I can just sit on my own for a while and get my head straight.

  ‘Pearl?’

  I look round. Oh God. It’s Taz. Awful Taz, the ‘self-obsessed pillock’ who I sort of accidentally used to go out with. What the hell is he doing here? Drinking mainly, by the looks of it. Even I can tell he’s had way too much. He comes shambling up to the table, a bit unsteady on his feet, and sits down on the chair next to me.

  ‘Long time no see,’ he says, breathing alcohol fumes all over me. ‘How are you? You’re looking fantastic.’

  He leans in close and I remember how much I didn’t fancy him even when I was going out with him, which I never was really.

  ‘Taz,’ I say with as little enthusiasm as I can manage. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I play football with the Ravster.’

  Great.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he slurs.

  ‘Oh. You know.’

  ‘I heard about your mum.’ He tries to look all serious and sympathetic, but his eyes keep sliding down to where my cleavage would be if I still had one. He puts his hand on my hand. It’s warm and sweaty, and I carefully remove it with my other hand. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he slurs. ‘Really, really sorry.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘OK. Got it.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘Taz,’ I say, taking my hand away, ‘are you trying to be nice about my mum because you think it might get you into my knickers?’

  Even in his state he looks a bit taken aback.

  ‘No.’ There’s a pause and his head sways slightly. ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ I say. ‘Only a real arsehole would do something like that.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There’s another pause and this time he sways so much he almost falls off his chair.

  ‘I think I might go and get a drink,’ he says at last.

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘You want anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK then. See you later.’

  ‘I doubt it somehow,’ I say as he staggers off, almost knocking over one of Ravi’s fiercer aunties, who doesn’t look best pleased.

  The fairy lights are starting to swirl around a bit. I blink to get them to stay still. But everything’s just a bit hazy and it turns out I rather like it that way . . .

  ‘You’re Molly’s friend, aren’t you? I’m so sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  I look over to see who’s talking to me, but it takes me a moment to focus on her. Of course, it’s Ravi’s mum: sparkly, smiley Sarah.

  ‘Pearl,’ I mumble.

  ‘Such a lovely girl, Molly. She and Ravi seem very happy together.’

  ‘Don’t they just.’

  ‘It’s just a shame she’s having such a rotten time at the moment.’

  I look up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, with her parents.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You know. The trial separation.’

  I stare at her, thinking maybe she’s got muddled. She does look as though she’s been on the champagne for a while now: a bit less sparkly, a bit more shiny. But then I think of Molly and how sad she’d seemed earlier, and how she changed the subject instead of telling me what was wrong, and I know Sarah hasn’t got the wrong person. Molly just hasn’t told me.

  ‘Oh, that,’ I say.

  She hasn’t told me, but she has told Ravi.

  ‘It can be so hard on the children, even when they’re your age. Especially when there’s so much acrimony. And they’re using poor Molly like a pawn in their games. She was in tears the other day just talking about it. I told her she’s got nothing to feel guilty about: none of this is her fault. It’s selfish, it really is.’

  So not only has she told Ravi, but she’s told Ravi’s bloody mum.

  ‘I think our Spanish break really helped though,’ she says. ‘A chance to relax and forget about everything. We had such a wonderful time. But I expect she’s told you all about it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I just wonder how things will be when Ravi goes to university.’ She sips her champagne thoughtfully. ‘Hard to keep a relationship going. But some people do of course. I suppose if it’s a strong enough relationship it will last.’

  The lights are swirling again. I close my eyes. When I open them again, Ravi’s mum has gone. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here, but it’s quite cold and I’m definitely feeling quite dizzy now.

  There’s a slow dance playing and over on the dance floor I can see Molly and Ravi, arms wrapped round each other.

  It’s definitely time to go.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea to be walking home on your own, Pearl,’ Mum says, but I don’t look at her because I’m having to concentrate quite hard on walking in a straight line. ‘Couldn’t you and Molly have shared a taxi?’

  ‘Molly’s staying over at Ravi’s.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Why would it be a problem?’

  �
�You just sound as though you mind.’

  I attempt a disdainful shrug, but I’ve got hiccups which rather ruins the effect.

  ‘Molly can do whatever the hell she likes. It’s no duck off my back.’

  Mum sighs. ‘Pearl, how much exactly have you had to drink?’

  ‘If she wants to go out with the most boring boy in the entire history of the history of the entire universe, that’s up to her.’

  ‘I’m surprised she let you go home in this state.’ Mum takes my elbow and steers me out of the way of an oncoming pillar box.

  ‘I didn’t say goodbye. She was Otherwise Engaged.’ I try to do the air quotes thing with my fingers, but I just end up tipping vodka over my feet. ‘She probably hasn’t even noticed I’ve gone.’

  ‘She seems pretty serious about this Ravi. He can’t be that bad,’ Mum says.

  ‘Well, Molly obviously doesn’t think so. She’d much rather spend her time with him than me so that’s just fine.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t exactly been . . . sociable recently, have you?’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘She even likes his mum better than me. His mum.’

  ‘Should you be drinking that, do you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’ve decided I might as well finish the bottle of vodka.

  ‘It’s just you’re already a bit . . .’

  ‘What?’ I try to glare at her, but there seem to be two of her and I can’t work out which one to focus on.

  ‘Tipsy?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘OK. Well then, why do you keep walking into hedges?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  We walk on for a while and I concentrate very hard on walking in a straight line, but somehow the ground keeps tipping me off towards people’s gardens.

  ‘I’m doing it on purpose,’ I say.

  ‘Course you are.’

  ‘It’s finished now anyway.’ I put the bottle down ever so carefully by a lamp post. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Why are you talking to a lamp post?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’m laughing uncontrollably.

  ‘Oh, Pearl,’ she says. ‘Just concentrate on trying to get home, will you? Before you fall asleep or vomit.’

  ‘I feel absolutely fine,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not far.’

  My voice sounds loud and annoying so I stop talking. I just keep walking and walking. Walking and walking. It seems so much further than on the way here. It’s cold now, and dark, except it’s never really dark with the streetlights and car headlights and night buses thundering by. Dark enough though. I want to be home. I want to be in my bed. I’m still hiccuping and it’s starting to really get on my nerves. However hard I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, I keep veering off to the side, and concentrating on not falling over is giving me a headache.

  ‘You all right?’ asks Mum.

  I try to say yes, but it doesn’t come out.

  ‘It’s really not far now,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’

  My teeth are chattering like mad and my legs have pretty much stopped working. But I’m nearly there. So very nearly . . .

  ‘Just have a little rest,’ I mumble.

  I lie down on the pavement. It feels rough and cool under my cheek. Everything’s whirling like I’m on a fairground ride. But I like the cold stone against my cheek. It stops me feeling like I’m going to be sick. Oh. Yes. I really do feel sick. But if I fall asleep the sick feeling will go . . .

  ‘No, Pearl. Keep going. You’re nearly home. You can’t sleep here. Think how much more comfortable it will be in your bed.’

  ‘S’nice here.’

  I close my eyes and feel everything start to fade away.

  ‘No. It’s really not.’ Mum’s voice is sharp, bringing me back for a moment. ‘Think. Lovely soft pillow. Lovely safe house. No Bad People who might take advantage of vodka-filled teenagers. Come on, Pearl. You can do it.’

  I try to lift my head, but someone seems to have superglued my face to the pavement.

  ‘It’s a bit . . .’ I close my eyes. ‘Yeah. S’fine. Thanks.’

  ‘No! Keep your eyes open.’

  I try to, but it’s too much effort. Everything’s swimmy and then it fades until there’s just dark.

  Someone’s talking to me, but they’re a long way away and I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  Then there’s an arm round my middle and it’s lifting me up to a standing position.

  ‘No,’ I try to say, but it just comes out like a noise.

  ‘You’re all right,’ says the voice. ‘Just lean on me.’

  I do and they feel strong.

  ‘Just try to walk a bit. I’ll help.’

  We stagger along the road a bit and round a corner. I feel shivery.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re not Mum.’ But my mouth won’t work properly; it’s like trying to talk in a dream. Everything feels wrong.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ I say.

  ‘OK. Try and lean over the drain.’

  I lean forward and retch. There’s nothing in my stomach except the alcohol and some apple juice from earlier, but my body keeps convulsing until it’s all gone. Hands hold my hair out of my face. Liquid dribbles down my chin. I crouch down on my haunches and the wind cools my cheeks. Everything comes into focus a bit for a moment then fades again.

  ‘Come on.’

  The strong arms lift me again.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says the voice. ‘Not far to go.’

  Someone is crying. Noisy, horrible, empty crying.

  ‘It’s OK, Pearl,’ says the voice. ‘Don’t cry. We’re nearly home.’

  ‘You’re not Mum,’ I try to say.

  ‘Up the steps.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Course you can. I’ll help you . . . That’s it.’

  Then there’s a doorway and bright light and Dad’s voice says: ‘Oh God! Pearl! Christ. Is she OK?’

  And then—

  Nothing.

  I’m in bed. My head is wedged against something hard which turns out to be a washing-up bowl with sick in it. Sunlight’s streaming in through the gap in my curtains. I try to sit up, but my head pounds so hard I have to lie down again and pull the duvet up over my head and pretend to be dead.

  ‘You don’t need to speak, Pearl. I know exactly how you’re feeling.’ Mum’s voice sounds slightly muffled through the duvet. It also sounds indecently chirpy for someone who’s supposed to be concerned for my welfare.

  ‘No,’ I croak, pulling the duvet back so I can see her. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. I’ve had a lot of experience in this area, believe me.’ She’s sitting on my bed, watching me closely.

  ‘My head—’

  ‘Ah yes. Your head. It feels as though you’ve woken up mid-lobotomy. Am I right? Agonizing pain?’

  She looks at me eagerly, but I can’t speak or move my head.

  ‘Or is it more of a thudding? And it feels like someone’s pumping up your brain from within and it’s about to burst out of your skull?’

  I try to nod.

  ‘NO!’ she shouts. ‘Sorry!’ she whispers, grinning as I flinch. ‘Don’t under any circumstances move your head. The consequences could be catastrophic.’

  ‘I feel . . .’

  ‘As though the room’s spinning? Or perhaps rocking? Rising nausea?’

  ‘I didn’t. But now . . .’

  ‘It’ll pass. Probably. Eating’s the best thing. Complex carbohydrates. A fry-up is perfect if you can face it.’

  I grab the bowl and retch. When I’ve finished, I flop back, hot tears running sideways down into my ears.

  ‘Ah yes. The self-loathing. Tempered with a modicum of self-pity. Yes. The perfect hangover storm. I remember it well. The physical and mental misery.’

  ‘Can you please—’ I stop. The effort of speaking is too much. I close m
y eyes.

  ‘Yes? Anything. Just say it and I’ll do it.’

  ‘Please. Stop talking.’

  And, to be fair, she does, although she doesn’t go away. I can feel that she’s still there.

  ‘You seemed upset,’ she says tentatively after a while. ‘Last night.’

  I realize I have absolutely no idea how I got home. The last thing I remember is seeing Molly and Ravi on the dance floor and staggering off into the night. After that, it’s a complete blank. Except . . . now I think about it perhaps I do remember something. The sound of someone crying . . . And voices. Dad – was it? Granny? She won’t stop. Can you make out what she’s saying? I think it’s something about Stella. Pearl, it’s OK, love, we’re here . . .

  ‘Pearl?’ Mum says.

  ‘You’re talking,’ I say, keeping my eyes closed.

  As I lie there, it occurs to me that I’m in my nightie. Did I put it on? Or did Dad or Granny have to do it? I picture the scene. Oh God. I am beyond embarrassed. I am mortified.

  I roll over on to my side and I must fall asleep because the next thing I know I’m waking up again. I really need the loo, but I can’t face trying to get myself vertical again. So I just lie there, wondering if I’ll ever feel like a real, living person again, and also trying to piece together the hazy memories I have of last night.

  Eventually, I hear the door open.

  ‘Pearl?’

  It’s Dad.

  ‘Mmm,’ I groan from under the duvet.

  I hear him come over and put something down on the bedside table.

  ‘There’s a pint of water, a vitamin C tablet and some painkillers. How are you feeling?’ I can tell from his voice he can’t decide whether to be angry or sorry for me.

  ‘Bad.’

  He sits down on the bed. ‘You’re bloody lucky, Pearl. If Finn hadn’t found you—’

  ‘Finn?’

  ‘He found you lying on the pavement almost unconscious. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’ But of course. It would be him that found me. I know I should be glad it wasn’t a rapist or murderer or something, but why does Finn always have to turn up at the worst possible moment? Not that I care what he thinks of me. Obviously. It’s just I’d rather not develop a reputation for being a dangerous lunatic.

  ‘You could have got hypothermia. Or worse, someone else could have found you. Someone who didn’t have such good intentions. What were you thinking?’