by Clare Fisher
I had a plan and it was going to work; it had to.
‘Where the fuck were you?’ Chantelle asked when I sat back down.
‘Oh, that was Phil,’ I said. At least they knew his real name. ‘He’s running a bit late. He said we should get pre-drinks, first.’
‘Ain’t you even gonna eat no ice cream?’ Chantelle nodded at a soupy brown mess in the sundae glass. A few specks of nut were floating on the surface; they made me want to throw up. ‘We saved some for you but you took so long to come back, it’s gone mank.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m not hungry. Let’s start on the drink.’
I slapped two twenties on the table and walked out. I felt Chantelle’s eyes on me but I didn’t look up. When we got outside, she grabbed my shoulder, held me back. ‘You’ve gone see-through,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come off it, Beth. You can tell me.’
But I couldn’t. Couldn’t couldn’t wouldn’t. Things had gone too far. ‘I’m just cold. A drink will sort me out, I’m sure.’
‘Where we going then?’ Lisa and Nicole hugged their own goose-pimpled arms.
‘Where do you lot wanna go?’ I asked.
‘You decide,’ said Chantelle. ‘Take us to one of these great places you’ve been with Phil.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘There’s a great place just down here.’ And I swaggered down the next side street like I 100% knew where I was going.
‘People say Central is all that,’ said Lisa, as we stopped by a display of huge rubbery pizza slices so Nicole could fiddle with the strap of her used-to-be-metallic-coated Primark wedges. ‘But the thing is,’ she went on, ‘it’s not. It’s exactly the same as Streatham or Walworth or anywhere normal, except the people didn’t just end up here – they’re here on purpose.’
Me and Chantelle shared a look, like, did Lisa just say something clever? I was about to link my arm in hers when, turning away to check herself out in a lingerie shop window, she said, ‘But are we here on purpose, though? Or is Beth just making it up as she goes along?’
Her words hit me hard. They rubbed up against all the other things I knew but was trying my best to pretend I didn’t know, and I had to stop walking. On one side of us was what looked like an old man pub, same as anywhere else. On the other, one of those shops so expensive they only display about four hangers per rail; the lights were still on and right at the back of the shop stood a woman with her arms crossed. She looked lonely and small and bored. No way could we go to either of these places.
‘I need a piss,’ said Nicole, again. ‘Does ice cream make you piss?’
At the end of the street, I spied a neon blue glow. Looping letters. I walk-ran towards it and it spelled out Billy’s Blues Bar. ‘This is it!’ There was a neon blue sign pointing down a narrow metal staircase. It looked like the entrance to a different world, which was exactly what I needed.
‘A Blues Bar?’ said Chantelle. ‘Sounds like a place to put old people.’
‘Blue’s my second favourite colour,’ said Lisa. Nicole said she didn’t care so long as there was a loo. And before Chantelle could say anything else, I walked down those stairs.
‘Sure you’re in the right place?’ the bouncer asked, looking us up and down, his eyes settling on Chantelle’s lime green arse.
‘Yep,’ I said, ready for a fight.
But he just laughed. ‘Go on then.’
The Blues Bar reminded me of black-and-white film clips from the cool kind of olden days; the Johnny Cash and Marilyn Monroe and whisky hip flask and cigarette holder kind of olden days; the kind of olden days that every other person in that bar besides us, with their suits and their flouncy dresses and their curled hair and their pencilled-on beauty spots, obviously reckoned they were part of.
The Chuckle Sisters were empty-faced as they waited to see what Chantelle said. Her face twisted from WTF to ooh to picking me up and spinning me around, declaring, ‘Fucking amazing!’ Declare’s an official word, the kind of word they use in courts; I used it here because Chantelle’s like that; she says something, and it’s 100% TM certified true.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I’ve been a few times and it’s pretty cool. Now, drinks on me.’
‘Whatever,’ said Chantelle, already pushing people aside so she could squeeze into the cave-like room where there was a live band. There were a lot of people crowded around the band, but they weren’t dancing so much as shuffling from side to side and jiggling their arms. There was a big empty space behind them and Chantelle stepped right into it and began dancing. The band were playing this song about a girl called Lola, and how great she was. Behind me, people grumbled that this wasn’t the Blues. But when Chantelle got going, they shut up. ‘She’s got balls, that one.’ ‘She’s got something, don’t know if it’s balls. Definitely something.’ She stretched out her arms, wiggled her arse, unafraid to take up that space. The band were grinning, angling their instruments towards her, as if she was the one they were singing about – she was Lola.
‘Ain’t you getting our drinks?’ Lisa yanked my top and shouted into my ear.
I watched Chantelle for a few seconds, trying to work out how she did it, how she became this Lola. But I couldn’t, and the Chuckle Sisters were panting for a drink, and so I set off towards the bar. Most of the time, I like being small; I like being able to squeeze myself into spaces where no one else can. But when you’re in a crowded bar and you and your mates are starving for a drink, it sucks. You say excuse me but no one hears. You shout; still no one hears. Then you try jutting your shoulders into other people’s backs the way tall people do; no one moves. Someone laughs and points at you, as if you’re a mouse, or some other dumb cute thing. Which meant it took forever to get to the bar, even longer to get four double vodka and Cokes and some tequila shots, and so by the time the barmaid told me all this came to sixty quid, I didn’t care that the last of your dad’s money had gone to Mr Häagen-Dazs; there was enough in my account if you included the overdraft. As for the things I needed it for – rent, Council tax, food, electric – they could wait. Right then, it was more important to get wasted. Anyway, how was I to know that I should have been saving for a whole new human, too?
Half of the vodka had slopped over my hands by the time I’d fought my way back to the dance cave, but the others didn’t notice: Chantelle was twerking all over the place, and wannabe olden days people were pressing up around her, clapping and swaying.
‘My girl!’ When she saw me, she motioned for the Chuckle Sisters to take custody of the drinks (which they did). Then she pulled me into the middle of the floor. I’d only had a few slurps of vodka-Coke and that was no way near enough to stop me noticing that the people round the edge of the dance floor, they were half laughing with us, half at us. But then Chantelle spun me round so hard and so fast, I had no choice but to stop caring. The Lola song was playing again, only its beat was all broken up, which somehow made it easier to dance to, and for a moment, I thought, maybe I can be Lola, too. Maybe I can be the woman who’s so special, she stars in songs.
As soon as the music stopped, all these big-bellied granddad types slimed out of the shadows, free drinks in hand. ‘For you two beautiful ladies.’ Thankfully, Chantelle just grabbed the drinks and whisked us away. She spoke right into my ear: ‘Try to look pale.’
‘My mate, she’s got a heart condition – that’s why she’s proper titchy – you got to let us sit down.’ This is how she got us a table. It was in a side-cave just off the dance-cave; the ceiling was close enough for a tall person to bash their head on and every few minutes it dripped sweat on to my head.
After the shots and the free Coke-whatevers, before the vodka or the possibility of silence or questions or thoughts like where are we going next, I said, ‘Truth or dare.’ I tried to say it the way Chantelle said things: like they were already true.
‘Yay!’ the Chuckle Sisters yelled.
Then Lisa wrinkled her brow and shouted into my ear
: ‘Not being rude but what did you say?’
This time, I shouted.
Chantelle made some kind of shape with her lips but seeing as the air was too crammed with music to carry words from one person’s mouth to another, I decided it meant ‘Great idea.’
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘I’ll go first. I’ll do a truth and what you should know is –’
But Chantelle yanked my ear to her mouth and shouted: ‘WE ALREADY KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT EACH OTHER.’
‘WE DO NOT.’
‘WE KNOW EVERYTHING WORTH KNOWING.’
‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT PROPER SCARES YOU.’
‘YOU DON’T WANNA KNOW THAT.’
‘I DO.’
‘YOU DON’T.’
‘I –’
‘FINE. BUT SHOTS FIRST. THEN ONE PERSON. AT. ONE. TIME.’
We downed our shots, and then she pulled me to the place which has the highest percentage of truth of any club, anywhere in the world: the women’s toilets.
The door flaps closed behind you, muting the music, filling your ears with sniffles and cries and laughs and words like what a fucking knob why don’t you leave him/oh but he’s good in bed, well, he’s not that good but he does change the duvet every week which is more than I can say for my ex oh and do my knees look ok in this I always feel self-conscious about my knees in this dress have we done all the coke?
The air was puke mixed with the slightly gone-off lollipops and bubble gum you could, if you were pissed/desperate/pitying enough, buy from the toilet attendant for £1.
Chantelle had a piss, then I squeezed against the cubicle wall so she could get up and I could sit down. Then we squeezed past each other again, and I was about to unlock the door, when she flipped down the toilet seat, sat on it, then pulled me down on to her lap. ‘Let’s chill here for a bit,’ she said, squeezing my waist. ‘You’re so light. You’re lucky.’
‘So? It’s not like it makes me happy.’
She twisted me around until we could see each other’s faces. ‘You’re not happy?’
‘No. Yeah. I don’t know. I was. For a while. It’s just, I’m small, yeah, but I feel like there are all these bricks inside me. Weighing me down. Some days I forget about them, other days they melt down into this, I don’t know, this muddy river. It spills out everywhere and makes a mess of everything and I spend all my time mopping it up. And then other times I feel like I’m not here at all. Like I’m not really here. I just want to feel normal.’ These weren’t the kinds of truths you were meant to share in ‘Truth or Dare’ but what did I care? The booze had smudged out that part of me that normally wagged its finger to stop. The booze plus something else. Some weird, wobbly thing.
Chantelle tightened her grip around my belly. Some girl outside the cubicle was asking some other girl if she thought Matt had been looking at her weird because she wasn’t being paranoid or anything but he was definitely looking at her weird.
‘My little weirdo,’ said Chantelle.
Instead of asking why I had to be hers, instead of asking why she liked me being little, I asked again what she was scared of.
‘I’m scared,’ she pulled me back tight against her boobs, ‘this is, like, it. Me, the flat, the Odeon, the kids. I’m scared I’m never gonna do nothing else with my life. Never gonna be the person I was meant to be – just this woman what stuff happens to and I don’t have no control over what that stuff is or when, it’s just, oh look, you’re pregnant, oh look, you need a job, oh look, there’s a special offer on washing-up liquid oh why don’t I try it . . . Know what I mean?’
‘I –’
‘Oh, but what am I on about? You got it going on with your big-shot boyfriend and stuff.’
Outside the cubicle, some girl was crying. Another girl was saying she should really be feeling happy right now because she’d worked hard to fit into that dress and she looked really, really good. And also, if they didn’t get back soon, the others would drink the rest of the whisky without them.
‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘He’s not such a big shot. And anyway, he hardly takes me out of the Holiday Inn. He’s got a wife and a kid and everything.’
Chantelle loosened her grip. ‘What?’
‘He moans about his wife and I kind of hate her even though I can tell she’s not a bad person. She’s just normal, you know? I think . . . I think I’m the one who’s a bad person.’
The cubicle was shaking but I couldn’t tell if the shaking began with me or with Chantelle or whether it had nothing to do with either of us. I felt ten times more drunk than I had when I’d sat down, even though we didn’t have any drink. I felt strange and wobbly and free.
‘Sometimes I feel like he knows me better than anyone in the world, other times, like he doesn’t know me at all. At first, he made me so happy it hurt, but now . . . Now I often feel sick when I’m around him and I don’t know why. I guess I just want us to get away from that Holiday Inn.’
‘Honey,’ said Chantelle. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought, if I didn’t tell you, if I didn’t tell myself, it wouldn’t be true.’
She laughed. ‘You really can be a retard, even if you are a brainbox.’
Every now and then some girl shouted through the cubicle at us.
‘You gonna make him leave his wife? Don’t let him make a slag out of you.’
‘She’s already a slag! My sister’s husband left her for some twenty-one-year-old. She’s alone with the kids and everything.’
‘Yeah, but it’s the guy’s responsibility.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that feminist bullshit.’
‘What’s wrong with being a feminist?’
‘Come on.’ Chantelle began to wriggle underneath me. ‘Let’s get out of here. Get up.’
Everything looked dark and blurry, like my eyes were grubby glass.
‘I can’t.’
‘Course you can.’ She stood up and I flopped against the door. Somehow, I moved one foot and then the other. I couldn’t feel them, though. I couldn’t feel my feet or see properly and I hadn’t even drunk much; something was happening with my body and it wasn’t good.
I remember Bella’s. I remember the word, and how Chantelle kept saying it, we were out in the street and she was shouting it at people, and people were pointing, and the Chuckle Sisters were dragging me along because I couldn’t feel my legs.
I remember the Chuckle Sisters, and how their faces were one orange blur. I remember Chantelle’s arse, always a few steps ahead of us like some wobbly, lime green beacon.
Jenny’s face: I remember that, too. It was the same as the one I’d memorized off Facebook, except it wasn’t smeared with chocolate or smiles; it was smeared with tears.
What I don’t remember is what I said to her, or how. Or what she said back.
*
Because the next thing I remember is waking up to the too-bright hospital lights.
‘SUP?’ yelled Chantelle. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. Bowed her head. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’
I waited to see whether I’d only woken up to a dream.
‘I shouldn’t have let you have that drink.’
But no. Here I was, in the real world. And Chantelle was saying sorry. And there were tubes coming in and out of my wrists. I didn’t even feel too bad.
‘What?’
She rubbed her forehead. ‘Those drinks. From those granddad sleazes. Yours must’ve been spiked. Spiked with some weird shit, that’s for sure.’
‘My legs disappeared.’ Jenny’s face swam into my vision; I pushed it away. ‘That’s all I remember; my legs disappeared.’
Chantelle groaned, still rubbing her head. Then she told me what happened; how all I would say was Bella’s, I was obviously too wasted and she kind of knew I should just go home but I wouldn’t shut up about it and neither would the Chuckle Sisters, they’d got it into their heads they’d see a celeb, or something, and then they asked a few people and it turned out it was just around the corner,
and so . . . ‘What? What happened next?’
She let go of her head. ‘Sorry. Just, I’ve got a banging head. Wasn’t lucky enough to get a stomach pump and a drip, not like you . . .’
‘Did I . . . DO something?’
For the first and last time, she made a face like she didn’t know the answer. ‘It was weird. We were almost at Bella’s, at least, I think we were, and there was this woman. She was all on her own, she didn’t have any mates with her or anything. She was crying her eyes out. I felt kind of sorry for her, even though her dress was FUG-LY. Then you started grabbing at her, she jumped away, I tried to hold you back but even though your legs were buckling, you were going mental with your arms, and then . . . Then you said you just wanted to be mates with her and you collapsed.’
‘Some night out.’
She sighed. ‘Yeah. Anyway, will you be all right now? Better get back to the kids or no one will ever look after them again.’
I nodded and she turned to go but just before she reached the door, I called her name.
‘What now?’
‘Thanks. For, you know, staying. For making sure I was all right.’
Another first: she hunched her shoulders like she was embarrassed. ‘No worries.’
And then she was gone. And I remembered that it was Saturday and I was meant to be making dinner for your dad. There were no nurses about so I yanked the tubes out of my hand and left, almost believing that I was cured; that they’d pumped all the bad things out.
13. A soft ear in hard times
Your dad texted me more in those twenty-four hours than ever before or since:
8 p.m.: What the hell are you playing at? We’re at the party and neither of us are wearing our rings and Jenny is going round telling everyone this ridiculous story.
8.20 p.m.: She keeps laughing too loudly and people are looking at her like she’s mad. If you’d just give me back the ring things could go back to normal.
8.45 p.m.: This isn’t a game, Bethany. This is my life. Our life. And I need it back now, thank you very much.