by Amy Huberman
I raked through my wardrobe. I’d bought a top in All Saints on my lunch break: what could I wear it with? Rats! I’d forgotten to shave my legs in the shower even though I’d been in there for half an hour. The shampoo-rinse-conditioner-rinse-shower-gel-rinse routine had only taken about four minutes, so what had I been doing for the other twenty-six? Watching the mildew grow on the tiles? I’d been preoccupied over the last few days certainly, but a to-do list in the shower would be taking things too far. I stuck my head around the door to see if Susie was still in the bathroom. Plumes of steam were billowing out from under the door and there was chipmunk singing coming from inside.
I’m not sure why Susie morphed into a chipmunk in the shower. It was the strangest thing. She had a beautiful voice normally, but whenever she sang in the shower she sounded like a helium-sucking cartoon caricature.
By the time she’d finished I wouldn’t have time to shave my legs – it was already seven thirty and people would start arriving at eight. A skirt was out. I sauntered back to my wardrobe and sighed. I was in no mood to get dressed up and host a party. If someone had offered me the choice of hosting the party or working the late shift in that scary chipper on Pearse Street, I would have chosen the latter. At least then I wouldn’t have had to do the looking-nice thing and make small-talk with a collection of drunks. Instead I could have looked gross and basked in misery as I served battered burgers to battered people. At least you knew where you stood with battered drunks who loitered around Pearse Street: always be afraid. Happy drunks, on the other hand, were an entirely different matter. There was always one lunatic who’d seem to be having the time of their life, but would suddenly be bawling crying and accusing you of hating them, even though you’d never met them before in your life.
I still hadn’t told anyone about Cian. No one knew except him and me. And a snail on the wall outside the Lights! Camera! Action! office. I told it when I was on a cigarette break yesterday morning. It was sitting there beside me and I doubted it’d mention it to anyone else. It didn’t seem too bothered about my problems. I told it that Cian had called at least ten times a day since Monday, leaving the same message every time: ‘Izzy, don’t be scared of this. Please believe me. I love you.’ And every time he called I zoned out. And then I told the snail that the wall I’d built around my heart was being slowly taken down brick by brick by the man who had forced me to put it up in the first place. At this point the snail had had enough: it retracted its head into its shell as if to say, ‘At least you won’t get eaten by a blackbird.’
I stared into my wardrobe. What was I going to wear? Wedged between a pair of combats and a white linen skirt, a pair of jeans caught my eye. I fished them out, pulse quickening, and held them up in front of me.
My lovely skinny Citizen of Humanity jeans…
The ones that wouldn’t fit any more after I’d decided to go right ahead and put on fourteen stone. Okay, so it was more like a stone but, like one human year is to seven dog years, one actual stone is to fourteen mental ones. Some people call that dysmorphia. I call it rejection – the feeling that you’re now the ugliest, fattest, most unlovable blob of lard in the whole world.
I laid them out on my bed and twittered around them like a giddy budgie. I hadn’t been so excited in days. Not since before I’d decided to sleep with the man who’d made me mentally obese. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too far, though. My Wayne Rooney days were over, I had two eyebrows instead of one and you could no longer plait my leg hair – but had I lost the mayonnaise deposits around my belly? Would I get back into my Citizen of Humanity jeans?
I thought back to the chocolate chip muffin Geraldine had force-fed me yesterday morning and my heart sank. I hadn’t even wanted it. ‘Damn you to hell, Geraldine!’
‘What?’ Susie had poked a giant towel-wrapped head around the door.
‘Damn you to hell, Geraldine!’ I repeated.
‘I thought that was what you’d said. I have no idea what Geraldine’s done, but has anyone ever told you that you sound like Skeletor from He-Man when you’re pissed off?’
‘Never.’
I traipsed into her room to see what she was going to wear. She pulled out a pair of black trousers and a silvery-grey long-sleeved round-neck top.
‘Okay, I may sound like Skeletor but you dress like him. We should get together as a double act for Hallowe’en.’
‘Do you think it’s a bit… conservative?’
‘Yes,’ I replied bluntly. ‘How about this?’ I fished a beautiful blue and green sundress out of her wardrobe. ‘I haven’t seen you wear it in ages.’
‘I don’t know. I think it’s a bit tight.’
‘Try it on. Please.’ This dressing-down thing was all to do with Aidan – he was such a jealous idiot. He’d slowly picked away at her self-confidence because he knew only too well that she was far too good for him. And he thought that if he knocked her down a bit, he’d be the good guy in her eyes when he picked her up again.
She slipped into the dress. ‘Do you not think I look tarty in it?’ she said pulling at the neckline.
‘No. You look beautiful. It’s classy and elegant. And if you put your hair up like this…’
She brushed my hand away. ‘Izzy, stop. I don’t want to wear it.’
I watched her change into her safe clothes. The ones that hid every inch of her body so that Aidan wouldn’t get angry and accuse her of looking for attention.
I felt sad for the Susie I’d known nearly all my life. I missed her. The one who had shown me how to shave my legs and walk in high heels. The one who had lent me my first pushup bra for a school disco. The one who knew how to flirt without looking desperate (the only one, in fact). The Susie who on holiday three years ago had been so comfortable in her own skin she’d entered the Bikini Cowgirl Poolside Drinking Competition (long story) and won.
Now she was sliding into her grey, flat slip-ons. ‘What are you going to wear?’ she said, with a forced smile.
‘I dunno. Something.’ I headed back into my room to find out the answer to the ‘Are you still carrying too much chunk?’ challenge.
The first guests to arrive were Jackie, a friend of Keelin’s from college, and some bloke called Ian, who was even more orange than she was. I wondered if there was a fake tan out there labelled ‘Bright Orange’. There had to be. There were just so many orange humans around these days. I used to think they only lived behind the Brown Thomas counters, but you see them everywhere, travelling to work on buses, getting educations in universities, flocking around the shops during the day, going to house parties on Friday nights, living and breathing among us.
I looked at Orange Ian. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing tufts of black hair and a pair of dog-tags – even though, judging by his manicured hands and plucked eyebrows, I imagined the closest he’d ever got to the army was buying Ralph Lauren combats.
Was he gay?
No, apparently not. I watched him smack Jackie’s orange bottom as they headed into our living room. (I didn’t actually see the colour of her bum but an expert fake tanner like her would tan it to match the rest.)
‘What’s the storeeee?’ she shrieked, as she hugged the birthday girl.
I handed them both a cocktail as they headed into the living room. I hoped they wouldn’t leave giant orange outlines on our couch, like some CSI crime scene.
Susie and I were in the kitchen, shaking up Sea Breezes and quoting scenes from Cocktail when more people arrived. I was delighted that Marcus was among them as I was about to incorporate his surname into the Cocktail quote game. I’d been waiting patiently for his arrival.
‘Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, Flanagan!’ I called from the kitchen, and Susie burst out laughing behind me. I was so funny I was considering doing a circuit of Edinburgh this summer.
‘What?’ Marcus replied, a bit confused. ‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I just stubbed my toe on your porch step and it hurts a bit.’
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, go invent a floogilbinder,’ Susie retorted, and I collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles.
By ten thirty the house was rammed with people. I had been so busy making cocktails – and knocking back the end of each jug of Sea Breeze – that I hadn’t noticed the time flying by. I told myself that liquid diets were the only way forward. I told Susie as well, but she said she was too into bagels. I mean, I hadn’t given up entirely on the Liquorice Allsort Diet, but the Cocktail Diet seemed much more fun. All the goodness of fruit juice mixed with vodka to make you happy! Give it a week or two, and you’d be a skinny bitch. Or an alcoholic and unemployed but…
‘Cocktail sausage?’
‘Oooooh! Yes, please!’
Fuck!
Okay, liquid diets weren’t going to work out for me.
But they were cocktail sausages, so maybe they were allowed.
I followed Keelin and the cocktail sausages into the living room to mingle with our guests. Caroline took over the cocktail-making.
The party was in full swing and, as with any good party, a fight was going on over the music beside the CD player. Will was holding a Destiny’s Child album over Orla’s head, laughing as she tried to jump up to reach it.
‘Bully!’ I said, as I passed him. Then I wished I hadn’t because he wrangled me into a headlock. Which gave Orla an opportunity to grab the CD off him. After I’d wrestled my way out of Will’s armpit, we launched into a seizure-type dance, convinced we were ‘doing it just like Beyoncé’. A few songs later, with my lower back going into spasm, I decided to sit down. I needed to figure out how to get the heel of my shoe out from between two floorboards first, though…
By one o’clock, I was lying on the patio out the back with Keelin on one side and a guy called Ronan, who’d nicked my last fag, on the other. A little bit of heel was missing from my left shoe. I puffed on a Marlboro Red, and tried not to cough. I told Keelin that her shoes were lovely and sparkly. Grinning inanely, she told me Simon had brought them earlier. He’d bought them as a birthday present after he’d seen her ogle them on a website at work. And I told her that was the loveliest thing I’d ever heard.
‘Top-ups?’ Caroline called from the patio door, brandishing a jug in her left hand.
‘Yes, please!’ I purred, holding out my Granny Loves You Best mug. Some thief had stolen my tumbler earlier (knowing Ronan, it was probably him), so I’d resorted to my Easter egg mug from last year.
Caroline wobbled over to me and poured an uncoordinated splash of alcohol in the general direction of my mug. ‘No Sea Breeze left. Whiskey and orange juice.’ She plonked herself down between Keelin and me. ‘Are you having a good birthday?’
‘Yes,’ Keelin replied. ‘All of the party guests are charming.’ She took a glug out of the jug and winced as it slid down her throat.
‘Where’s Shymon? I wanna meet him!’
‘Me too, Keelin, get him!’
We’d started calling him ‘Shymon’ earlier that week because Keelin kept telling us he was shy and we’d have to make an effort with him.
‘He’s in talking to some of the boys.’ She sighed, all gooey. She was in love. I was going to have to find Shymon in a bit and hug it out.
‘I can’t believe I’ve spent the last God knows how long hung up on these oddballs only to fall for the most normal bloke I’ve ever met.’
‘One’s man’s meat…’
‘I know! Can you believe it? Have I ever been after one man’s meat for this long?’
Caroline shot me a look and we laughed.
Much later, on my way back from the bathroom, I let out a yelp when I saw what could only be described as a kaleidoscope of ginger shifting around at the bottom of the stairs holding up a plastic bag with a goldfish in it. I brought my whiskey-blurred vision into focus and saw that it was none other than…
‘Greg!’
‘Fish!’
‘Greg?’
‘Fish!’
‘What?’
‘Fish!’
Had he forgotten how to say any other word?
‘Fish!’
Yes, he had. And he wouldn’t remember any other until he’d hypnotized me into a ginger trance when I’d want to kill myself and go to ginger hell.
‘Nice to see you,’ I said. I didn’t sound convincing.
‘Caroline said over Sunday stew last week that you guys might be having a party tonight for Keelin’s birthday. I usually watch Pat Kenny on a Friday, but it’s the summer so he hasn’t been on. Who’s your favourite guest that Pat has ever interviewed? No, top five. No, top ten. No, top fifteen. No –’
‘What’s with the fish?’
‘Fish!’
Images of me dunking Caroline’s head down the loo for her Sunday-stew revelation flashed temptingly before me.
‘Well. So. There I was thinking, What should I get Keelin for her birthday? You know how you have to ask yourself that before you buy a birthday present for someone? So, I remembered you all love that bunny of yours. David?’
‘Dermot.’ I took a swig from my mug. They used whiskey to distract you from pain in the good old days and I hoped it still worked.
‘Dermot. Well, here’s to add to your brood! I thought you and Susie might get jealous so I bought you one each. I’ve already named them. I hope you don’t mind?’ He held out the bag to me. ‘This little creature of God’s is your one.’
I took it from him and studied the white sticker flattened onto the front. ‘Irene.’
‘I thought what with you all mad for calling animals human names… Case in point: Duncan.’
‘Dermot.’
I wobbled my way into the kitchen to fix Greg a ginger ale. Fitting. It was the least I could do since he’d been so kind as to bring Irene into my life.
‘Hey, Iz! Meet Grainne!’ Susie was standing beside the fridge holding up a plastic bag much like mine with a goldfish in it.
‘Hi, Grainne.’ I waved.
‘Keelin’s got Ursula outside.’ Susie was swaying and I feared for Grainne’s safety. ‘I’ll go and put them in a bowl,’ I said, and took Grainne from her.
‘Great party, Izzy. Careful, you can get salmon poisoning from handling fish. My brother nearly fuckin’ died after he cleared out his fish tank at home once, then ate a packet of Tayto straight afterwards without washin’ his hands first. He puked so much a bit of his stomach came out his nose.’
Euch. Aidan. I’d already been lynched by him earlier in the evening. He was on his best behaviour tonight, which was sickening, and he looked ridiculous. His attempt to prove to all of us that he had reformed was to wear a tie. But he was still wearing his usual Ireland tracksuit. He was attractive, though, so he could almost get away with it – but I couldn’t help laughing when I heard someone ask him if he’d been told the party was fancy dress.
I teetered back into the living room with the twins. Okay, I knew they were triplets, but I had yet to meet the elusive Ursula.
Everywhere was cluttered with bodies, lit by the fairy-lights hanging on the bookshelves. On the couch, a bevy of beauties were crooning along to some weepy Jeff Buckley number. A girl I’d never seen before sat in a crumpled heap in the corner, sobbing into her glass of chardonnay while two blokes over by the fireplace were chatting about ‘Riding’.
So, your typical house party when it’s three a.m. and everyone’s locked. I’d have to keep my eye on the emotional wreck in the corner, though – at any moment I might be accused of hating her. And, before I knew it, I’d have agreed to go for lunch with her next week and make her godmother to my firstborn.
Gavin was by the CD player, chatting about some new band to a workmate of Susie’s. Thankfully, Eve and the others weren’t here. Gavin knew Will through some other friends, so he usually turned up when we were having a major get-together.
‘You guys still going on about cords?’ I called over. ‘It’s the summer, for heaven’s sake. You’ll be in heavy trousers long enough over the winter months.’
Susie’s workmate threw me his best you’re-such-a-pathetic-girl look, which I accepted graciously and smiled back at him sweetly. He turned to Gavin and said, ‘Later, man,’ then went to join the ‘Riding’ discussion.
‘You trying to start fights, young lady?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Get things going a bit. You should go over to your one having the breakdown in the corner there and tell her she’ll probably never meet a man. That’ll spice things up nicely.’
‘Good advice,’ I said, and turned to head over to her.
He grabbed my arm. ‘Izzy, I was kidding.’
‘Me too.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Well, I’m glad you were. I think she’s crying because her boyfriend, Mr Sensitive over there in the yellow T-shirt, is discussing their sex life with the pervy-looking one in the white jumper.’
‘What a prick.’ The emotional wreck in the corner had sunk into the foetal position on the floor, and her boyfriend was gesticulating all sorts of crudities. ‘Nice guy. When I grow up, I want a boyfriend just like him.’
‘What’s going on with Irene and Grainne?’ he asked, studying the names on the plastic bags I was holding.
‘Bizarre gift from Caroline’s brother. I’m gonna put them in a bowl before some sushi-loving genius eats one.’
I tried to reach for the glass bowl on the top shelf, but it was too high so I turned to ask Gavin if he could reach it for me. I found him staring at my arse. ‘What?’ I asked, straining around to get a look. ‘Have I sat in rabbit shite?’
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘I was admiring your jeans. They look great. Are they new? I’m now grossly aware that I sound gay. To correct that, may I add that you look fit in them?’
‘I love you!’ I gushed, jumping on him and knocking him back against the wall. He struggled to keep hold of me, Irene and Grainne. ‘They’re my lovely posh jeans, but Cian made me physically chubby and mentally obese so I haven’t been able to fit into them in ages, but I tried them on tonight and now they fit. I’m so glad you noticed because no one else has.’