#Toots

by Linh Le James

  Mobile still glued to her ear, Louise air kisses her sisters, spins on her Louboutin heels and strolls out of the bar. She leaves a lingering waft of Chanel No. 5 and her number to the guy on the next table who caught her eye.

  Dispirited, Jess cracks open the bottle of Bollinger.

  ‘Can’t believe Lou left already. The four of us haven’t gone out properly in ages!’

  ‘Stick around till closing time with me and Carla? After we shut, Mateo cranks up the tunes real loud and we do Jägermeister shots.’ Emily tempts her.

  ‘Appealing, but I must take the last train home. I can’t get obliterated. Mia’s French toddler class is at nine tomorrow and Scott has golf. It’s hard enough to face the perfect mummies with their immaculate hair and nails without a hangover.’ She polishes off her glass of bubbly. ‘Can I have my Jägermeister shots now as I’m not staying?’

  Two glasses of bubbly and three shots later, Jess staggers to her feet. She reminds the girls, ‘Don’t forget Molly’s christening on the twenty-seventh. All of Scott’s family including my lovely mother-in-law will be there.’

  ‘What about Auntie Gertrude? Please tell me she’s not coming with Cecilia.’ Emily pleads. ‘Mum keeps comparing us because we’re the same age. She’ll be telling me how I could get a nice boyfriend too if I started wearing yellow cardis.’

  ‘Ridiculous. You need to learn how not to take shit from Mum. And find yourself a date by then, to shut her up. You’ve got six weeks, that’s plenty of time. Anyway, this competition between cousins is stupid. The way I see it, Cecilia will be married and preggers by end of next year. I’m sure you have bigger ambition.’ Jess comments, slipping on her jacket.

  Carla whips out her phone. ‘Right, what about the evening of the twenty-fourth? A Skype call at 8pm? So we can show each other possible outfits for the christening? Let’s not ask Lou this time. She criticizes everybody else’s wardrobe but never listens to what we say.’

  Emily nods. ‘Hmm, is it too mean to leave her out? Although I do get your point. Whatever I’ll have on, she’ll say it doesn’t show enough cleavage. Jess?’

  ‘Yes, fine with me. No Lou, I agree. Whatever I’ll have on she’ll say I look fat and I don’t need reminding. Anyway, I only have two smart dresses that still fit, so you’ll have to tell me which one looks best.’

  With this, Jess, slightly wobbly on her feet, hugs the girls and sets off for the train station.

  Carla and Emily are left on their own. They giggle about nothings, just as they did when they were little girls, sharing secrets and planning pranks on their older sisters.

  As Mateo rings the last orders from the bar, Emily wraps her fingers around her cool glass and whispers, ‘It’s good Lou’s not here. I’m not telling her because she can never keep her mouth shut. Not a word to Mum either, obviously. I have a secret. I think Jess is having an affair.’

  Chapter 2

  Voodoo

  Voodoo

  Ingredients

  10 ml dark rum

  100 ml apple juice

  20 ml vermouth

  10 ml lime juice

  10 ml sugar syrup

  Ice cubes

  Combine ingredients and ice cubes in a shaker.

  Shake vigorously for 8 to 10 seconds.

  Strain into a highball glass using an ice strainer.

  Emily

  Sunday. My flat. 8 pm.

  Lola squeals excitedly, ‘Do it, Em! Stab it! Stab it!’

  I throw the nail file on the floor. ‘I can’t! It just feels wrong!’

  Lola, offended, grabs me by the shoulder and looks at me square in the eye. ‘It’s his dirty filthy cheating bastard cock! Of course, you can! Stab it! Now!’

  She shoves the nail file back in my hand.

  Lola has cut the index finger off an old wool glove, filled it with cotton and carefully superglued it between the voodoo doll’s legs to represent Leo’s penis. The doll now seems to have three legs, and Lola isn’t pleased with the size of the made-up appendage but explained we had to have enough work surface to stick as many pointy things in as possible.

  There is an assortment of torture instruments on the coffee table next to the voodoo doll: a burning candle, a fork, a metal nail file, a small pair of scissors, a corkscrew, a box of push pins.

  ‘Eye of the Tiger’ is booming in the background and Thelma and Louise playing on the TV. Lola has cooked two sweet chilli chicken pizzas – my favourite – and made a tray of cheddar cubes and pickled onions on a stick. There are two chilled bottles of rosé, and one of Southern Comfort with cans of Coke.

  Bowled over, I survey the lot. Lola is such a good friend.

  Lola has been my flatmate for the past two years. She’s bohemian and crazy. She adorns her hair with self-made accessories created from old shoelaces and beads. She reads Tarot cards. She’s a campaign manager for WWF and actually does care about the future of giant pandas and Amur leopards. She once stabbed an ex-boyfriend with a chopstick in the knee during an argument in a Korean restaurant in New Malden, giving him a permanent scar. She also sprayed all the windows of another unlucky ex’s flat with cooking oil and filled his bath with soiled cat litter. None of her exes ever pressed charges. Maybe they’re scared of the possible retributions. Lola’s an angel though. I just wouldn’t get on the wrong side of her if I was a guy.

  Lola has taped several sheets of A3 paper together to make a DUMPING CEREMONY banner for the wall, complete with enlarged photos of Leo with his eyes cut out.

  I remember the first time I saw Leo. He was on stage, like a semi-god, presiding over the dancing crowd, a dark shadow between the smoke and the laser beams. I fell for him the second our eyes met. Literally. I was so busy watching him that I tripped over the step coming off the stage and faceplanted. Bad. Skirt over head and pink tanga on display. Afterwards Leo said he would have helped me get up if he had not been so busy dj’ing and laughing his ass off.

  Leo warned me right from the start that he doesn’t do exclusive relationships. Some weeks he would ring me every day, saying he needed to hear my voice. Then he would stop calling and go AWOL for a month. One day he showed up at Chicago Bar after my shift and swept me away for the weekend to Munich, where he had a set at Pacha’s. I was overjoyed until I saw him snogging a girl in the VIP corner during his break, then he disappeared on the Sunday for four hours – I suspect for a lunch/shag date.

  He had other women. Lots of them. Leo is a DJ, and girls buzz around him like bees around honey. When I ask, he is always truthful. He’d say something like ‘Yes, I spent the night with a chick. It was just a one-off, nothing serious, she already has a boyfriend. No, I wasn’t at home the past week, I visited a “friend” in Paris. Relax, Em. Just a friend. OK, I did try it on with Carla, she’s beautiful, I’m only human. And yes, Jess is hot in a cougar kind of way. No, I wouldn’t turn down Lou, who could, with those boobs? Am I supposed to cover my eyes when your sisters are around? Take it as a compliment, good genes run in your family.’

  Somehow, I convinced myself none of these things mattered, and that I was happy with a casual relationship. After all, Leo told me he loved me.

  ‘Em! Why don’t you just get “doormat” tattooed on your forehead?’ Lola explodes. ‘Leo hasn’t returned any of your calls in months! He updates his Facebook status but ignores your messages! He’s shagging some eighteen-year-old blonde with fake tits! This is the Dumping Ceremony! You agreed!’

  I sigh, sit down on the settee in defeat, and inspect the voodoo doll with aversion, as if it was a frog I’m about to dissect in biology class.

  Lola climbs on a bar stool and removes the battery from the smoke alarm in the ceiling. She jumps down, agile as a bobcat, and fetches a wok from the kitchen.

  ‘Now. I’ve saved the best bit for last!’ Lola opens the lid with a flourish, revealing a stack of photos ripped to shreds. ‘Ta-da! All your photos with Leo. I picked them out of your album. I also went through your My Pictures folder on your laptop and deleted
the relevant ones.’

  She adds matter-of-factly, ‘I also detoxed your phone.’

  I pick up the torn pictures in disbelief. Frantically, I search for my iPhone, locate it on the console, and click on my gallery with trembling fingers. ‘Lola! The photos! They were memories!’

  ‘Who needs memories of a prick? Here.’ Lola lights a rolled-up spliff, takes a puff, and passes it to me. She hands me the box of matches.

  ‘Burn.’ Lola whispers like a Satanist priestess, her eyes narrowed.

  I down my glass of Soco, shudder, and seize the proffered matches.

  An hour later, Lola is as excited as if her favourite racehorse was about to cross the finish line first in the Grand National. She stands on the sofa, waving her fist in the air, shouting encouragement at me and hurling abuse at the voodoo doll.

  ‘Stab the bastard! Stab his dirty eyes! Stab his dirty mouth! Cut his dirty hands! Cut his dirty filthy cheating cock!’

  I’m in stitches. Clumsily, I jab the voodoo doll with the corkscrew.

  ‘Damn you, Leo, you prick!’ I struggle to cut the superglued penis with the blunt scissors. ‘Have some gonorrhoea! Ouch!’ I pour hot melted wax from the burning candle on the doll and accidentally scorch myself.

  ‘Spit on him!’ Lola orders in hysterics, between slugs of wine from her pint glass.

  I’m laughing so hard that I dribble saliva and bits of pizza down my chin.

  Lola stumbles back from the kitchen with new supplies – a pack of Jammie Dodgers and some port.

  ‘Wait, this is the white port Carla brought me back from Porto? We should save it—’ I object.

  ‘-For a special occasion?’ Lola interrupts. ‘Leo was a mistake. You were always way too gorgeous, too clever and too kind for him. You emasculated him with your superiority as a human being. If Beyoncé and Hillary Clinton had lesbian sex and produced a child, that’d be you.’

  ‘Biracial?’

  ‘No. You’re missing my point. Stunning and intelligent. That’s how amazing you are. You must start acting like Superwoman because you are Superwoman. You deserve the best. This is a very special moment. This is when your old life as a mug ends. And when your new life as a fierce bitch begins.’

  Lola solemnly adds, ‘Plus, we drank the house dry and there’s no way we can make it to Tesco Express before it shuts.’

  We tuck in to the luscious port and debate the pros and cons of me keeping in touch with Leo (if he ever contacts me again).

  Keeping in touch with Leo

  Cons (by Lola)

  Messes with your heart, head and self-confidence.

  Might give you an STD.

  Keeps you from meeting ‘The One’.

  Is bad for your figure. (Each Leo disappearance leads to intoxicated ice-cream binges listening to Nicky Minaj’s ‘The Boys’ on a loop.)

  Pros (by me)

  Getting laid (not often, but sometimes is better than never).

  Free entry + backstage pass to clubs and festivals where he DJ’s.

  Being told ‘I love you’ ==> crossed out by Lola, as it is nothing but a lie.

  As Lola has four cons and I only have two pros, we both decide on a total communication ban.

  ‘Em. Repeat after me. I am a fierce bitch.’

  ‘Yamma fierz bish,’ I slur as I try to pour myself more port from the bottle with the top still on.

  ‘Focus, Em! With conviction! Repeat after me! I am Khaleesi! I am the Unburnt!’ Lola shoves me, then steadies me as I lose my balance.

  ‘Yam Khalsi. Yam yunburt,’ I parrot with great effort.

  ‘Louder! Say it like you bloody mean it!’

  I scramble onto the coffee table, squashing a couple of Jammie Dodgers under my feet, but somehow manage to stand up, swaying, and shout, ‘YAM KHALSI! YAM ZEE UNBURNT!’

  Lola puts an ad up with Leo’s picture and contact number on several gay dating websites. She signs him up to support groups for men with erectile dysfunction. She orders a gerontophilia book and has it delivered to his neighbours with a gift note: To Leo, love Gerald xx. She changes his Netflix password to ‘AssholeLeo’ and emails him his new password. She makes me write down twenty times: Leo is a prick and I deserve better. She deletes Leo’s number from my mobile – I accidentally break her nail while trying to wrestle the phone away from her.

  The dumping ceremony concludes with me officially unfriending Leo on Facebook – albeit not without a struggle.

  Emily

  Monday. My flat. 8 am.

  I wake up to an empty flat and the remnants of our alcohol and female rebellion binge. There are pieces of food and wax stuck to the shaggy rug in the lounge. The voodoo doll is hanging from the light pendant. I can’t help but smile at a foggy memory of Lola wobbling as she threw an egg at its head. Damn, where did the egg go? I retrieve the egg shell and its insides, mashed into the sofa – thank God for the cleanability of leather.

  The port bottle is empty and there are leftover chips on the hob. I only have a vague recollection of cooking them. Do not mention driving under the influence. Eating under the influence is a much bigger issue about which governments should raise awareness. Drinking in the house is basically the equivalent of getting knocked out cold and being force-fed junk food. You gain a few pounds a couple days later and you have no idea where it’s come from.

  Lola has gone campaigning for CISTA like she usually does on Monday mornings. She left two jam doughnuts from Greggs on the kitchen counter with a note: Hey, duh-nut, hope your head isn’t too bad. Xx

  I have a lecture in an hour and there’s no way I’m going to make it with my sore head. Surely a cup of tea is in order on a morning like this. I have to help myself to Lola’s horrible soy milk for my tea as there is – strangely – no milk left in the fridge. I dread to think that we might have mixed it with the port in an attempt at cocktails. Stranger things have happened under our roof when we’ve been drunk.

  As I tuck into the doughnuts, I read the list Lola wrote last night and taped to the fridge.

  Emily’s ten commandments

  Thou shalt not text, call, email, Facebook, WhatsApp, Tweet or Snapchat Leo.

  Thou shalt ignore any communication attempt from the above-named prick.

  Thou shalt repeat this mantra whenever required: I am Khaleesi. I am the Unburnt.

  Thou shalt honour thy new title of ‘fierce bitch’.

  Thou shalt not dwell on past fucked-up relationships.

  Thou shalt only share thy body and mind with whoever is worthy of it.

  Thou shalt stop being under thy mother’s thumb.

  Thou shalt dress like the hot biatch thou art.

  Thou shalt keep up with the dishwashing for roommate to avoid running short of clean forks at crucial dining or snack moments.

  Thou shalt not finish the last of the butter without notifying roommate or purchasing some replenishment to allow uninterrupted supply.

  The doorbell rings. My first thought – could it be Leo? – is quickly dismissed when I open the door to Mrs. Wilson, the pensioner from the neighbouring flat.

  Mrs. Wilson has three cats, each one fatter than the other. They’re always pushing in whenever my front door is ajar and I’m trying to get the food shopping in. Mrs. Wilson is the nicest neighbour on the whole floor. Whenever she bakes an apple crumble for her sons visiting at the weekend, she always keeps a couple of generous slices for Lola and me.

  ‘Hello, Emily. How are you keeping? What is that funny smell?’ Mrs. Wilson sniffs then stares at Leo’s charred boxer shorts, lying discarded on the floor amid smashed records. ‘Here’s a parcel I took in for you yesterday. Is that Amazon shop good? They sell books, don’t they? I like to go to WH Smith and check out the bestsellers in true stories, I do. The weekend was very warm, wasn’t it? I hope you youngsters made the most of it. Us oldies prefer to stay in where it’s cooler.’

  My head is throbbing. I don’t feel like making conversation, however sweet Mrs. Wilson is.

  ‘Thank y
ou, Mrs. Wilson. I hope we weren’t making too much noise last night.’

  ‘Dear, I wouldn’t know. My hearing is not what it used to be. Besides, I’m always in bed by eight and dead to the world. I shall be on my way now. Do let me know if you ever need anything. Toodle pip!’

  I close the door and pick up my post. A couple of dreaded credit card bills, some takeaway leaflets, nothing from the Postcode Lottery. Rubbish.

  A warm bath with a Narcos episode would help my acidic head. I should work on my Economics for Leisure and Tourism assignment, though. Or at least call Tanya to pick her brain. Alternatively, I could do one of those YouTube fitness videos – a 30-minute stretching one would do. Never mind. Lycra shorts are in the laundry basket. Cannot exercise without Lycra shorts. Oh! Lola’s new Grazia!

  I’ve only had my feet up for a few seconds, luxuriating in the glossy’s summer fashion must-haves I’ll never have the guts to purchase, when the phone rings.

  ‘Emily, darling! Mum here! You’re not at uni? I was just calling on the off chance. Would you have a spare minute for your old mother? I’m in a bit of a pickle. I bought this juicer from eBay on the internet. It arrived yesterday but I’m not too fussed about it. It had no box and has a nasty scratch on the front bit. Daddy won’t help me – you know how he feels about eBay. Have you heard about AliExpress? Is that any good?’

  ‘Mum, what happened to your old juicer? Look, I don’t even want to know. Why don’t you just buy your juicer from Argos? With a warranty and return rights? Buying from eBay is like picking up electricals from a car boot sale. Not a good idea. You need to read all the description carefully, check how many stars the seller has, and if the reviews are for buying or selling. Did you?’ I chunter, dubiously skimming an article in the magazine claiming shoulder pads are back in this season.

  ‘The book club in work has eBay Peasay for a fiver. Hmm. I should buy it.’