I was touched. I liked my holiday life much better than my real life – not only did all these people think I was worth throwing a surprise party for, but I’d almost had truly excellent sex as well.
‘Sal, come and meet Harry,’ said Mike, waving me towards him. Harry appeared to be half man, half goat. His hair was wispy and grey, and his beard was so long it almost touched the barrage balloon that was his belly, barely covered by a Motörhead T-shirt.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, wiping his hand on Lemmy’s face before reaching out to shake. ‘What’ll it be – Guinness or Stella?’
‘Erm…do you have any white wine?’
‘No, never touch the stuff, love. You don’t get a figure like this by arsing round with spritzers, right, Mike?’ he said, while lovingly stroking his gut.
‘Have a lager – at least it’s fizzy,’ said Mike, ‘you can pretend it’s Bolly. And if you drink enough, it’ll taste like it as well. Harry and I go way back. This is where I come when Allie’s doing all that Pilates. He ran a boozer in Southampton for years before he got sick of the rain and traded up for the dolce vita.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ I said, feeling the heels of my shoes sink into the sticky goo that passed as the floor.
I took the lager, and downed half of it in one go. I’d grown up in Liverpool – and it was time to dump middle-class Oxford Sally, and get back in touch with the one who cut her drinking teeth in pubs round Anfield.
Everyone else seemed half cut already, and I was grateful that my birthday had given them a good excuse, as Allie had said.
As I looked around the pub, I saw that there was only one other group in, which was comprised of exactly the same clientele I suspect Harry had back in Blighty – loud, rough, and drunk as skunks. They’d all joined in with ‘Happy Birthday’, and were now singing along to ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’. Rick was dancing on the top of the bar, giving it some welly, urging the others to do the same.
Most of the Ugly Bunch were looking at him, which was understandable, but I noticed that one of them was instead eyeing up my daughter, and not being subtle about it. That was pretty much the last thing I noticed before all hell broke loose, and my very eventful fortieth birthday took another resplendent turn.
The bloke staggered to his feet, ambled towards Lucy, and went straight for an arse-grab. Nice. She whirled round, eyes blazing, looking intent on causing some serious physical harm. I knew that look – and it was likely to get her in a lot of trouble.
Some stupid mothering instinct kicked in, and I ran over, slamming the pointy heel of my sandal straight down into the instep of his foot. Girl power.
He fell to the floor, howling in pain, and Lucy turned her glare to me instead. Oops. I’d clearly breached Teenaged Goth Protocol. Again.
I started to stutter an apology for daring to intervene when one of his friends lumbered over, scattering half-empty pint glasses as he came. He ran towards us, and I watched him come in something like slow motion, with all the charm of a drooling bison.
Before he managed to get within arm’s reach, James landed him with an almighty left hook to the face.
The blow knocked him unsteady; he took a couple of steps back, tottered, and finally lost his balance. Landing right in the middle of my birthday cake.
‘Oh you arsehole!’ yelled Allie, grabbing hold of his head and twisting so he was face down, and threatened with death by icing sugar. He struggled free and looked up, dazed, pink sponge crusted to his eyelashes and white goo oozing out of his nose.
Rick was gesticulating from the top of the bar, his hands fluttering in placatory gestures, asking everyone to ‘calm down, please, this is a party!’
Sadly, one of the Ugly Bunch replied with a comment which, while understandable, had some pretty dire consequences for him: ‘Shut the fuck up, gay boy.’
Marcia was across the room in seconds, her six-foot Amazonian body speeding like a pissed-off leopard. She launched herself right at him with a flying tackle, growling and snarling as she pinned him to the floor, straddling him and punching him repeatedly in the face as he squealed like a girl.
Two of the others stood to intervene, but Jenny and Ian and Max lined up in front of them, looking as threatening as they could. Ollie stood next to them, gangling and skinny, whipping his hand through the air as though he was wielding some kind of sword – channelling Lords of Legend, I knew.
It had all happened so quickly, slipping from happy-happy to crazy town in a matter of minutes. The story of my life at the moment.
As I backed away from Lucy, and looked on as James took hold of Jake and lifted him over the bar to safety, the ridiculous goings-on were interrupted by the sound of a bell clanging.
‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ called Harry, in a town-crier voice. It had the desired effect, and everyone froze.
‘Come on now, lads, off you piss,’ continued Harry, making a hook-slinging gesture and pointing at the door. Covered in cake, blood, dirty footprints and clumps of Marcia’s hair, they staggered to the exit, looking downtrodden and defeated. We were a strange old bunch – but we stuck together. I felt a strange thrill at being part of it – this odd gang of mismatched souls who were all so loyal to each other.
I looked around. James might have sore knuckles. Allie was covered in icing. Jake had emerged from behind the bar, giggling and apparently not at all traumatised. Marcia had lost a few clumps of hair. But we were all in one piece – the cake was definitely the worst casualty of the night.
‘Well, that was entertaining,’ said Mike, ‘don’t you think so, Harry? Haven’t seen a good scrap like that for ages.’
Mike hadn’t budged during the whole fracas – choosing to look on and chuckle as he supped his ale.
‘You’re right, mate,’ answered Harry, ‘that was a laugh. A bit like one of them saloon fights in the old Westerns. Would’ve been better if the ladies were dressed up as tarts in frilly bloomers, though, wouldn’t it?’
As the dust settled, I saw Lucy gulping down someone else’s Guinness. She grimaced at the taste then stormed over to me.
‘What the fuck did you do that for? I’m not a baby. When are you going to get it into your tiny little brain that I can fight my own battles?’ she said, poking a finger at me.
I’d almost been attacked, had my birthday cake squashed, and my date-night make-up was in ruins. I wasn’t in the mood for Cruella de Vil.
‘And when are you going to get it into your tiny brain that I am your mother and you are only sixteen years old? I know you wish you were an orphan, and I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you by sticking around – but I’m here to stay, so tough. If it makes you feel better, tell everyone you’re adopted, I don’t give a shit!’
I thought it was a great speech and I felt much better after I made it. Lucy was so impressed she gave the Vs with two sets of digits instead of the usual one.
James came and put his arms around me. I sank into the embrace, sighing and rubbing my cheek against his chest. It was solid and warm and I could feel his heart beating fast.
‘Well,’ he said, kissing me on the head, ‘never a dull moment with you around, is there? Are you all right? You’re not upset or anything?’
‘You must be kidding,’ I answered. ‘They were a bunch of pricks and they got what they deserved. Thanks for being, you know, such a good friend. I didn’t even say yes to the sex, and you still got stuck in.’
‘Well, I live in hope – just put it on my account in the sex bank. Now let’s get home before anything else happens.’
Chapter 22
It was our last night at the Blue Bay Hotel. Lucy had spent most of the day weeping and wailing because she was about to be parted from the love of her life.
Pointing out that he only lived a few hours away in Brighton didn’t help. Trying to console her didn’t help. Calling her a moody cow and sticking my tongue out behind her back didn’t help either, but it made me feel better.
She’d locked herself in the bat
hroom again, where she was probably listening to suicide songs for beginners on her iPod.
Ollie was having a full day out with the Ginger Twins, neither of whom, he assured me, he fancied. I know one of them’s a boy, but I like to be inclusive in my prying.
Which left me, funnily enough, to do everybody’s packing. I stuffed everything randomly into whichever case was to hand. Folding is for losers when you’re on your way home.
Within a matter of days I’d be taking it all out again, shoving it into the washer, the smell of sun cream wafting around to remind me of paradise lost. Flip-flops with sand still in them. Random foreign coins left in pockets. And a camera full of memories. I understood exactly where Lucy was coming from: I suspected we were all heading for holiday blues that would make Ella Fitzgerald weep.
Plus back to reality for me was still a terrifying prospect: would Simon ever come back? Would he bugger off to Latvia to repair Russian mafia bosses’ hips instead? Would I honestly care if he did? I’d been devastated when he left. And I still was. Two weeks away wasn’t enough to cure a broken heart – but it had raised some questions. I’d been desperate for my old life back, the comfort and security of my life with Simon; but now, if I was honest, tiny doubts were creeping in.
There had been moments here – with James, with Allie, that night during the bar-room brawl with all of them – where I’d felt different. Almost happy. Where the pain that Simon’s absence had caused had flickered away, even if only for brief moments. I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure what I wanted any more.
There was too much to think about, especially while I was still on holiday.
And tonight, I was told by the experts, was the night to beat them all – everyone got very tarted up, including the staff, drank gallons of booze, and sang until the wee small hours.
Diane had called earlier to quiz me on how things had gone with James. When I told her we’d decided to be friends, she was disappointed. When I told her we ended the night in a knock-down fight in a fake English pub, she perked up a lot. Honestly. My family is ridiculous.
While she was on the phone she’d chosen my wardrobe for me long distance, erring very much on the side of slutty as it was time to go out ‘with a bang’. She’d said that with a nudge-nudge wink-wink that managed to travel all the way from Liverpool.
So here I was, tottering down to the bar in a killer red dress and equally killer heels. The dress had been an impulse buy the day before we left, and they usually work out as well as one of Joan Collins’s marriages. But this was a corker – a plunging neckline, fitted at the waist, then a gentle flare that covered a multitude of buttocks. Well, only the two that I know of, but both big enough to have their own parking spaces at the moment.
I found Allie, Mike and James deep in conversation about the Blue Bay nannies.
‘What I like about them is that they’re all so…perky,’ Mike said, with a snigger.
‘Oh shut up, Mike – we’re talking about their personalities, not their tits,’ said Allie, poking him in the gut so hard her finger half disappeared.
‘That’s unfair, wife! It’s not like I’m obsessed with them or anything—’
‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘When we’re out in the car you deliberately stop so pedestrians can run in front of you – but oddly enough only the girls with big boobs because you like watching them bounce as they go. Old men and children have to stand in the rain and eat your exhaust.’
‘Again, unfair – it’s not just the ones with the big boobs I let cross…I’m not prejudiced. Although,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I must say, Sally, that you have outdone yourself on the knockers front tonight. Don’t you think so, James, Allie?’
Allie shook her head in disgust and announced she was going to the bar for cocktails for the girls, and Mike could fetch his own. ‘I like to watch your belly bounce as you go,’ she added as she walked off.
I made eye contact with James and raised an eyebrow. I was feeling shockingly foxy and in the mood to flaunt it.
‘So? Anything to add?’ I said, wobbling my cleavage around like a TV stripper for comedy effect.
‘I don’t think I’m capable of speech. And stop doing that – you’re playing with fire.’
‘Oooh,’ said Mike, ‘big words from the big man in the corner. Still time for a last-night fling, kids!’
I smiled in what I hoped was a mysterious way. I probably just looked confused.
Allie returned with two huge cocktails, off-white in colour and decorated with what looked to be chopped-up parts of Jelly Baby massacred on a bed of fluffy cream. Jenny followed behind with her own.
‘Don’t ask,’ Jenny said, ‘just drink. I asked Mehmet to do them in brandy glasses so we could get more down our necks at once. I think we’re going to need them. It’s karaoke night.’
‘I don’t do karaoke,’ I said, which wasn’t strictly speaking true. In fact, if I’d had enough to drink, you couldn’t get me off the bloody thing. My brother Martin has a machine at home and I once woke up on his living-room floor at four in the morning, wearing his mother-in-law’s girdle and still clutching the microphone. One side of my face was glued to the carpet with drool and I had ‘Big Spender’ on repeat.
Miss McTavish arrived, dressed in a little black dress that was way too little for her body. It was covered in sequins and tassels and would have looked OTT on Strictly Come Dancing.
‘Oh, my dears!’ she said, climbing up on to a bar stool. Her tiny legs waved around in the air, not long enough to reach the footrest. ‘I’ve had such a day! I went off to the nudist beach – so very liberating! I felt like quite the prude putting clothes back on this evening, I really did – but I’m going commando to try and recapture the moment, if you get my drift!’
With the last sentence, she cocked her legs up so they were at right angles with her body, and did a little showgirl scissor kick. The men all averted their eyes so fast they probably got cricks in their necks.
I gulped down my drink and went in search of more.
I noticed Lucy and Max, draped around each other at their own table, gazing into each other’s eyes with the dumb adoration you only experience as a teenager. And, possibly, as a forty-year-old, almost-divorcée, confronted with a sexy blond Dubliner in a well-fitted pair of jeans. They were holding hands and sipping Cokes. No fags. No booze. No biting the heads off bats. He was a bloody good influence on her. Ollie was upstairs on the pool table with Carin and Christian and a ragtag of other teens, overdosing on Red Bull and tripping over their own baggy jeans.
I stood and watched as Mehmet made the next cocktail. It seemed to consist of about seventeen different shots of spirits and liqueurs, topped off with squirty cream and sweets for nutritional value. It was practically a meal in a glass. He called it his ‘wonky bonky tipsy special’.
The karaoke was starting, hosted by one of the boy-wonder reps. He kicked it off with a rousing rendition of ‘Billie Jean’, complete with moonwalking, followed by his colleagues, who set the tone for the rest of the night before the guests got into the swing of things. It was like an upscale version of the Pontins Bluecoats putting on a show.
Mehmet was doing his bit to help the party go with a bang, giving treble measures to everyone, including himself.
‘I want hear you sing tonight, Sally,’ he said with a wink as he mixed another cocktail for me, Allie and Jenny. He’d now graduated to pint glasses, which I was fairly sure should be illegal.
Next up on the karaoke stage of superstars was Rick. He was dressed, and I kid you not, in a sailor suit with a little white hat.
He looked cute as a button, and launched straight into a hypnotically bump-and-grind version of ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. His make-up was perfect. Marcia was tanked up but dignified, smoking a cigarette and applauding in support of her nautical beau.
I’d spent the afternoon with her the day before, learning more about her life and her marriage and her work as a university lecturer. She was scarily intelligent, as well
as scary in pretty much every other way. I was no closer to understanding her relationship with Rick, but I did know one thing: they loved each other completely.
‘Come on, we’re up,’ said Mike to Allie, who by this stage was so drunk she was ricocheting off the tables as they made their way up to the stage, apologising to invisible people as she went.
I almost choked laughing as I watched them do their very individual version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Mike was Freddie and Allie sang all the backing vocals, doing star jumps as she ‘Scaramouched’ and miming thunderbolts and lightning. Awesome. They got a huge round of applause, and Mike picked Allie up, threw her over his shoulder and did a lap of victory round the pool, his belly flapping away as he galloped.
James came and sat next to me, with yet another one of those wupsy wipsy specials, or whatever they were called.
‘You know, James,’ I said, toasting him with the glass, ‘you’re looking especially lovely tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man’s arse look quite as good in jeans as yours does.’
Jenny, sitting on Ian’s lap next to me, snorted with laughter and buried her face in her husband’s chest to try and drown out the sound.
‘You’re drunk,’ James answered, ‘and I like it. Feel free to touch my leg under the table.’
I obliged, and gave his thigh a good squeeze.
‘Oh, it’s like stone…how did you get so hard and muscly and firm?’
‘Good genes and sport. How did you get so curvy and soft?’
‘Bad genes and no sport,’ I said, running my hand up and down his thigh. Especially up.
He reached under the table and held my hand still in his.
‘Stop that. Or I won’t be able to get up without knocking the table over. And we’re just friends now, remember?’
I was pretty drunk by that stage, and I don’t recall it completely clearly, but I think I might have actually pouted. And possibly told him he was a cowardy-custard spoilsport, or words to that effect.
The Birthday That Changed Everything Page 12