What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Across the room, Joely sighs with frustration as she takes another gulp of fizz. ‘How long before we can leave, do you think?’ she says, not waiting for an answer as I sit back down next to her. ‘I have a date tonight and I want to go get my vagina steamed before the place closes.’

  I give her a quizzical look and she nods – she’s serious.

  ‘Gwyneth Paltrow does it,’ she explains. ‘She’s been going on about it for years, about how it has healing and rejuvenating properties. Plus, I’m assuming, it makes your fanny way clean.’

  ‘What exactly needs healing and rejuvenating in your vagina?’ I say, genuinely curious.

  She shrugs. ‘I dunno. I get a lot of compliments, but it has had a rough ride of it over the years. Some rougher than others. I expect it could do with a spring clean.’ She laughs.

  ‘Do you think mine needs a spring clean?’ I say, worried.

  Joely laughs again and this time it’s more of a cackle. ‘I shouldn’t think so, babe. I imagine Will is very hygienic, isn’t he? I bet he uses a Dettol wipe on his penis before and after.’

  I giggle, but I feel a bit sad for Will. Even though I know Joely is only teasing, he would probably be upset. He can be sensitive. But the thing is, he is very clean. And I really like that about him! I can’t be the only woman left traumatised in the past by a cheesy blowjob. Surely it’s much better to taste Palmolive shower gel in your mouth than all-day sweaty pant odour?

  Oh – it occurs to me in a rush – what if my bits taste like all-day sweaty pant odour? I am suddenly afraid. I am not flexible enough to check, so how would I ever really know? I need to do more yoga so I can get my head down there.

  Or maybe less yoga, if that’s making me sweatier. What is the right answer?

  ‘Maybe I should get her steamed too, then?’ I say, gesturing down there, and Joely looks horrified.

  ‘Gross, gross, gross,’ she shouts, clearly very upset. ‘Please don’t refer to your vagina as her or she. That is so offensive. Don’t personify it like it’s a little girl or something. What is wrong with you? I had no idea you were one of those kinds of people. Jesus, Lilah.’

  I make a face, feeling ashamed. ‘Sorry, Joe, I promise I’ll never do it again.’

  Her shoulders relax and she slouches further into her seat, checking the time again. ‘Anyway, you can come with me to the beauty clinic if you like, but definitely don’t get the vag steaming actually done. It’s an absolute waste of money. All the experts say it’s nonsense pseudo-science and, from everything I’ve read, it’s actually probably quite bad for you. Your vagina is too precious to me to take any risks with, Lilah.’ She giggles again, adding, ‘But sod it. I’m going to write up the experience for my blog and it’s going to get so many accidental hits from dirty old men using vagina-y search terms. I can’t wait. Do you think I should include pictures or not? A before and after? Might be a bit much?’

  Our phones both vibrate. It’s another update from Lauren. She’s still stuck on the road and is at least another twenty minutes away. Bugger.

  A look suddenly crosses Joely’s face. She looks over at me and smiles one of her huge, worrying smiles.

  Uh-oh.

  ‘What?’ I whisper, a tiny bit scared. Her look reminds me of the time I told her I’d never shoplifted anything and so she took me into Superdrug where she forced an eyebrow pencil into my bag and then flashed the security guard so I could get out unnoticed. That was last year.

  Joely doesn’t answer me. Instead she jumps up and strides over to the furious-looking shop assistant, who stares at her, saying nothing and bristling with hostility.

  ‘We’ve decided not to wait for our bridesmaid anymore,’ she tells the woman loudly.

  Um, bridesmaid?

  ‘So we’re just going to start trying dresses on already.’

  WE?

  The shop assistant pauses for a moment, the silence dripping with her disdain. I feel myself pale. What is Joely doing?

  ‘Both of you?’ she says at last, her tone carefully studied boredom.

  Joely is nodding. ‘Yes, sweetie. Lilah and I are marrying each other, so we’re both going to be in wedding dresses for our big day this December. Is that OK with you or are you a filthy homophobe that needs exposing to my millions of followers?’

  The women stiffens, sensing the potential publicity crisis.

  ‘Fine,’ she snaps. ‘Pick a few dresses out.’ She waves at the curtained area. ‘You can both use the large changing room at the end.’

  Joely turns back to me, her face glowing. She is trying not to burst with excitement.

  ‘Come on then, my darling fiancée,’ she crows. ‘Let’s choose a few dresses to try on.’

  ‘You’re going to get us in so much trouble,’ I hiss. ‘And you can’t flash your tits to get out of this one.’

  She ignores me, grabbing my hand and dragging me over to the first row of elaborate dresses. Row after row of white, cream and ivory is laid out before us. Lace, satin, twinkling beads and raw silk dazzles me. They’re all so beautiful and expensive.

  ‘We shouldn’t be doing this!’ I whisper, my voice full of fear, fingering a fitted bodice with a mermaid skirt.

  ‘Shush.’ Joely isn’t listening. ‘Don’t be silly, this is going to be amazing. I’ve always wanted to try on a wedding dress. Haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I say truthfully, but now I’m thinking about it, white is such a good colour. I look really nice in white.

  We hang tags on several dresses at random and the shop assistant follows us around, picking them up passive-aggressively and escorting them reluctantly over to the changing area. Joely grabs my hand and I squeeze it as she leads me excitedly into the room, pulling the curtain across.

  ‘Let me know if you need any help,’ the woman says through gritted teeth, definitely not wanting to help.

  ‘More champagne please!’ Joely sings as she whips her top off in a single move with one hand. She’s clearly used to doing that.

  Oh, man, she gets naked with such ease. I am still plucking awkwardly at my t-shirt, wondering if I can subtly hide my boobs in the wide folds of the curtain somehow, meanwhile she is already taking her knickers off.

  Hold on, she’s what?

  ‘You know you probably definitely don’t need to take your knickers off, Joe,’ I say, trying not to be too obvious about admiring her downstairs natural look.

  ‘I know.’ She nods. ‘But they’re so rank, I feel like they shouldn’t be anywhere near this dress.’ She stops to stroke the glorious white satin of the nearest gown before continuing. ‘I’m hoping the steam cleaner place will steam my pants too. Like a two-for-one deal down there. They’re yesterday’s because I haven’t been home yet – I had a Bumble date last night. I thought he was going to be a really cool, sexy hippie type, because he had long hair and his name was Rayn. But it turned out his name’s Ryan and he just can’t fucking spell. He was so dumb, he doesn’t even know what bananas are. How do you not know what bananas are? He thought I meant bandanas, how weird is that? Anyway, his dumbness was just too cute – I had to sleep with him. I hadn’t shaved my legs, though, so I didn’t take my tights off during sex and just told him it was a medical condition.’

  ‘How do you . . . Did you cut a hole . . . ?’ I begin, but the mental image is too much, and I laugh instead.

  She laughs too and her whole big, beautiful, naked body jiggles happily. ‘What are you looking at?’ she says merrily, because I was totally staring. ‘Are you horrified by my left boob? I know it’s much bigger than the right, but the nipple is so much nicer, isn’t it?’

  I laugh again and turn back to the dresses. ‘Which one are you trying on?’ I say, not wishing to engage in that nipple chat. Not again. She always wants to know which nipple is better looking and we’ve told her a thousand times it’s the left one. Obviously. Duh.

&
nbsp; We pick out dresses and help each other climb in. It’s nothing like putting on any dress I’ve ever worn before. The closest comparison is like wrestling around inside a wet suit. Things have to be positioned and placed. My boobs have to be slotted into the right section. It feels like a filing system alphabetised with body parts. Joely is not even close to being able to get hers on properly, given they all come in a standard size 12–14, but the effect – at least from the front – is still dazzling. She’s going to make a really gorgeous bride one day. Maybe even to Rayn/Ryan? We could serve bananas after dinner as, like, an inside joke.

  My dress is an over-the-top meringue of a dress. I couldn’t have chosen more of a costume. It’s so not me, but it’s wonderful and dramatic. It’s too big for me and Joely pops her head out of the changing room to order the surly assistant to fetch some clamps that will hold it together at the back.

  Ready at last, we draw back the curtain and walk side by side towards the giant wall mirror. And there we stare, silent and united, at our reflection.

  ‘WE LOOK SO GOOD!’ shouts Joely at last, and I catch the assistant in the mirror, sneering and rolling her eyes.

  ‘We really do,’ I agree, nodding at myself happily. Not even the other woman’s obvious judgement can take away from how cool this is. I am fully in character now, swishing my enormous skirt around, feeling like Elizabeth Bennett, and enjoying the filmic feel and sound of it.

  ‘Er, Lilah?’ a nervous voice interrupts our giggling, and I turn around in slow-motion to see Will standing by the door, car keys in one hand.

  It’s Will. Will is here. Staring at me with an odd look on his face. Shit. I forgot I asked him to pick me up at five. I assumed we’d be done by now, and then I didn’t let him know we were running late.

  Will is here. And I am here. We are both here in a bridal boutique, where I am standing in a puffball white wedding dress staring at my suddenly very, very pale boyfriend.

  ‘This is not what it looks like,’ I say quickly, wondering what it looks like.

  There’s another moment of silence and then he goofily side-grins. ‘You look phenomenal,’ he says, and takes a step closer. He laughs as he circles me, admiring the dress from every angle. ‘White is so your colour!’

  (Told you.)

  I laugh too, relieved that he’s not freaked out.

  Wait, why isn’t he freaked out? He should definitely be freaked out.

  ‘That dress is just . . . it’s just . . .’ He trails off, looking lost and wide-eyed, exactly like a puppy.

  He’s not a puppy, I remind myself.

  ‘A silly meringue?’ I finish for him.

  ‘No, no, I love it!’ he says, emphatic now. ‘I think it’s beautiful and you look so . . . well, Lilah, you look so beautiful.’

  He looks misty-eyed at me and I suddenly really want to take the dress off and put my t-shirt back on. It’s hot in here. Isn’t it hot in here? Did they turn up the temperature? Why would they do that? Don’t they know sweating in a wedding dress is unbecoming?

  The shop assistant interrupts. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she says, using that extra unhelpful tone she’s a total expert in.

  He sneaks a look at me and Joely, who winks at him.

  ‘Er,’ he says, thinking on his feet, ‘no, thanks, I’m fine. I’m just the groom, having a sneaky peek at my bride’s dress.’

  Nope, wrong thing to say. Joely throws her hands up in the air, exasperated.

  ‘The groom?’ the woman says icily. ‘I thought you two –’ she jabs a long, thin finger at me and Joely in our wedding finery – ‘were marrying each other?’

  We exchange a look and my fake wife-to-be pipes up hotly, ‘Do you have some kind of a problem with a three-way marriage? Because that is straight-up prejudice and my millions of followers—’

  The woman interrupts. ‘Get out’.

  That’s more than fair.

  Back in our own clothes and in the car twenty minutes later, Joely asks to be dropped off at the steam-cleaning clinic. Will wisely asks no questions when the address doesn’t turn out to be a launderette and the two of us sit in companionable silence on the drive home.

  ‘You really did look amazing earlier,’ he says suddenly, turning off the radio.

  I feel myself blush beetroot. ‘Thank you. Er, you look, er, amazing today too, Will,’ I say awkwardly. It’s all I can think to say, and Franny taught me to always return a compliment. Even if it is incredibly confusing to do so.

  Will shakes his head, smiling. ‘Did you love it? Wearing the big dress? Pretending to be a bride? Imagining being the star of the show?’

  I look over at him but he’s staring straight ahead at the road, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Road safety matters to Will.

  ‘It was quite fun,’ I say carefully. I don’t know where he’s going with this. It’s as close as we’ve come to discussing the non-proposal, and I don’t know if I want it to get any closer.

  He hesitates and then adds, ‘Don’t you want that for yourself?’

  I clear my throat. ‘Hmm, maybe one day,’ I reply as nonchalantly as I can, thinking that playing dress-up today was probably enough for me. It was fun but didn’t feel right. The idea of wearing one of those for real – in front of hundreds of people – seems so far away and alien. And not in an exciting way.

  ‘But what about our future, Lilah?’ he says, a little impatiently, and I shift uncomfortably, aware of my seatbelt digging into my neck.

  I’ve never really heard Will be impatient before, certainly not with me. This is new.

  He goes on: ‘Don’t you want us to have our own lives too, Lilah? We had all these plans we made last year. I thought we were going to travel together around the States? Hire a car, take a backpack and road trip across the Midwest. What happened to that? Are you still saving any money towards it? Because I am. In fact, I have the money. I’m ready to go. I want to go.’

  Are we really so out of touch? Of course I’m not saving money. Everything I earn is going towards hen dos and travelling about to castles and new outfits and wedding presents. I’m barely covering my half of the rent, never mind saving anything. I am very much negative-saving. How has he not realised that?

  He sighs and continues: ‘If I’m being totally honest with you, Lilah, I feel very much second fiddle these days. Like our lives are on hold. I . . . I don’t want to be one of those couples who used to have plans, you know? Who used to do things together and used to have fun. We had such a great time at the hotel a few weeks ago, but then it just immediately went back to us having no time together at all. I don’t want to wait forever for our lives to move forward.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s not forever,’ I say simply, adding silently, It’s just this year. But I know that is too long for him to wait. I can’t ask him to wait. I know I have to find more room in my life for him now.

  ‘I’m sorry things have been so busy lately,’ I say, feeling awful. ‘It’s just that with Lauren and her hen do, and all the other weddings we’ve got happening this year, I’ve been run off my feet. Plus all that’s happening with Fuddy-Duddies United and the council now. Oh, and work as well, with the series finale approaching and the live celebrity special . . .’ I trail off. He knows all this. He knows my excuses are legitimate. He knows the last couple of weeks have been me chasing my tail with the council, leaving messages, writing emails, speaking to the rest of FU about what we can do. And so far getting nowhere.

  ‘But I promise I’m going to make more room for you,’ I say earnestly. ‘I still want to have adventures with you, Will, of course I do! Us travelling around the world might have to wait a little bit longer, because you’re right, I haven’t been putting much of my salary aside for it lately. But I will, and it will happen. I’m excited for that part of our lives. And I’ll tell Lauren she has to back off a bit, OK? Maybe we can make the wedding m
eetings every other week, instead of every week. I’ll ask her to stop sending me so many messages about everything and we’ll have more time just the two of us to talk. OK, Will? I’m sorry, I know this hasn’t been very fair on you. Don’t be cross with me. I’m sorry.’

  We pull into our driveway and he turns to me, smiling softly. ‘Of course I’m not cross with you,’ he says nicely, and then opens his mouth as if to say something more, but my phone vibrates, interrupting us. It’s Lauren. Of course it’s Lauren. He sees the name at the same time as I do, and climbs out of the car, striding for the door and heading straight inside, without looking back.

  I sit there, feeling a little bit shaky.

  Oh God. He seems really unhappy. He’s never stormed off before – even if that was a really quite tame sort of storming off, and actually possibly more of a going-inside-off. Still, though, it wasn’t good. But what else can I do? I’ve taken too much on, but I can’t just drop any of it. It’s all too important. Will just has to wait and be patient, it’s the only option.

  I sigh and open Lauren’s message.

  I’m here. Where are you guys? This shop assistant is a right smacked-arse-faced bitch.

  14

  Franny is glittering with excitement about something. She has been bursting to tell me all day about a kind of scheme or prank she’s got going on. She loves a scheme or a prank. She kept dropping hints at lunch, but now it’s the end of the day and she can wait no longer.

  ‘I’ve humiliated the shit out of stupid Andrea!’ she says, brimming with glee. We’ve been unloading one of the industrial dishwashers in the canteen kitchen together, and I pause in the act of shaking water off a colander.

  ‘You’ve . . . you’ve humiliated the . . . shit out of Andrea?’ I repeat slowly, waiting for the punchline.

  She takes the colander out of my hand, dumps it still wet on the side, and leads me to a seat out the front, bouncing from foot to foot. As Franny would say, no job is finished until it’s totally half-arsed and left undone. She sits down heavily at one of the tables and immediately lights up a cigarette.