What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  The whole thing is ripped straight out of Goop – fuck you, Gwyneth Paltrow – and I knew when I saw the itinerary that I’d be bloody starving by this point in the day. I have some strawberry Pop-Tarts in my bag and I had planned on fisting handfuls into my mouth during breaks in the tedium, but after three extra healthy, extra mandatory juices in quick succession – all featuring six different types of spinach and kale – I’m not sure my stomach can take anything else. It’s making some really disturbing noises, like a clogged swimming pool being drained. Actually, similar noises can be heard echoing around the room and everyone is beginning to turn the same colour as the smoothies. There better be a decent toilet in the next place we go to, that’s all I’m saying.

  OK, so yes. The big elephant in the room: Lauren and Joely are both here. Oh, wait, not that they’re elephants! Don’t tell Lauren I called her an elephant. Joely would be fine about it, but Lauren would kill me.

  We’re still not speaking and it is, as you can imagine, pretty awkward. We arrived at the same time earlier, all three of us twenty minutes late, and I could see they’d been thinking the same as me: get there late so you can slip into the crowd unnoticed. Lauren stopped short when she saw me and some unreadable expression flared up on her face. For a second – half a second – I thought maybe she’d smile and we could hug it out. Hug out the awkward. But she turned away instead and began stomping away in the direction of the crowd. It was just as Joely came in, so instead of making a dignified exit, Lauren almost barrelled into the only other person in the room that she desperately didn’t want to see. They glared at each other, clearly still just as furious as they’d been during their last encounter at Ravi’s wedding. And then all three of us splintered off in different directions to hide from each other and away from the bad feelings. It was a depressing start to a depressing day, capping off a truly depressing few weeks.

  We haven’t exchanged so much as a glance since then, and everyone else here has been too caught up in their own stuff (by ‘stuff’, I mean bowel movements, tbh) to notice that we three former best friends don’t appear to be talking. It’s awful and I have been mostly quietly playing Candy Crush on my phone and making small talk with this girl next to me called Flora, who keeps asking me if she should make her boyfriend spray-tan his balls.

  ‘Like, the rest of him is really tanned,’ she says now. ‘And it’s quite weird that his balls are so white. The only trouble is that they’re quite shrivelled, so we’d have to really stretch them out flat to get an even colour. Oh, and then we’d have to hold them in place while they dried off, and I’m not sure that would be very comfortable, or good for our relationship. What do you think?’

  I look thoughtful. ‘What colour is his anus?’ I say, reaching for a question that is equally as over-sharey, to prove I’m fine with this topic and that I care about this man’s shade.

  She nods enthusiastically. I’ve asked the right thing.

  ‘Yeah, see, that’s the other problem. He waxes and bleaches his anus, so that is actually super white and hairless.’ She looks worried. ‘Would that look weird, do you think? If he was that white at the back end but then really tanned at the front?’

  I make a face like I’m thinking about it some more. ‘You know, I reckon it’ll look fine,’ I say nicely. ‘Because not many people would see him naked anyway, would they? Unless you go to a nudist beach? Also, you’d really have to part his butt cheeks to see the difference, wouldn’t you?’ I pause before adding, ‘But I also don’t think you should worry too much. There’s too much pressure on men these days to be metrosexual and look a certain way. I think you should let him be however he is, and not worry about what society thinks of your boyfriend’s shrivelled balls.’

  She looks a little offended. ‘They’re only a bit shrivelled,’ she says primly.

  ‘Oh, God, yeah, sorry, I’m sure they’re lovely balls,’ I say emphatically. ‘And anyway, all men’s balls are shrivelled, aren’t they? I mean, my boyfriend . . .’ I trail off, feeling winded by a low punch somewhere deep in me.

  I haven’t got a boyfriend.

  Will hasn’t been in touch much at all since he moved out, and my few desperate messages about anything I could think of have only been curtly replied to, usually a full day later. I got a thumbs up emoji the other day, which is when I think I knew it was probably definitely over. He doesn’t usually use emojis, never mind a thumbs up.

  I’m finding it quite difficult. Very difficult, actually. My life is strange and different without him in it.

  There are so many things I want to tell him about – stupid, mundane, life things. How a woman outside the train station yesterday got her heel caught in the grate and then screamed and cried in the street about them costing £300. How Franny took me out for dinner the other night to cheer me up, and we accidentally ended up in a zombie-themed pop-up restaurant, where Franny attacked the waiter because she was convinced the apocalypse had genuinely arrived. I wanted to tell him how I’ve caught Sam with Jessica, one of the interns, twice now, snogging in a studio. I wanted to tell Will about all of it, and how I think they’re falling in love. How cute it is when children (I know they are both over twenty and fully-grown women, but still) fall in love.

  I haven’t really slept properly since he left. You get used to having someone there next to you, don’t you? The feel of someone shifting in their sleep, someone breathing hotly in your ear beside you. There were so many nights back when we were together that I would lie there, sweaty and uncomfortable, wishing I could sleep alone and really stretch out my limbs. I wanted to erase his big bigness taking over my side of the bed and stealing the duvet all the time. And now I have all the sides, and all the duvet, and all the space I could want, and there are moments I really don’t think I can stand it.

  I’m spending a lot of those hours in bed staring at our – my – ceiling. I’ve spent endless hours following the intricate, white floral pattern that trails across the ceiling of the whole room. It’s funny, I’d never really looked at it much before. There were always better things to do in bed.

  I’m talking about sleep, by the way, not sex. But sometimes sex too.

  When I close my eyes now, I can see the pattern. It’s imprinted on the back of my eyelids, like when a camera flash goes off in your face in a dark room.

  I’ve also been listening to a lot of music. I don’t think I’ve listened to this much music since I was a teenager. Actually, my neighbours on the left put a note through the door about all the Celine Dion. They were really nice about it, but they said could I at least play more than just ‘Think Twice’ on occasion. I can’t oblige them with that, so now I’m using headphones all the time instead.

  Flora leans in closer now and whispers in a desperate voice, ‘Do you think today is going to get any more fun? It’s quite dry so far, isn’t it? I mean, I love Millie and I know she’s into her healthy foods and fads, but I don’t think I can have any more of these juices. I thought I had a cast iron stomach until today. And what are we going to do about dinner later? No one likes cucumber, do they? Is there not going to be any booze at all? Do you think Millie is pregnant or something? Because I don’t think I can do yet another baby shower this year, they’re so dull.’

  ‘Probably,’ I agree sadly, eyeing the bride’s flat belly across the room. ‘Although, I heard a rumour in the loo earlier that the spa serves alcohol, and that the grandparents and in-laws are heading home about seven o’clock. You never know, things might get more interesting then.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ She nods, staring with haunted eyes at the green drink in her hand.

  Things definitely do get more interesting then. Four hours later and the baby boomers have left the building. The moment the door closed on them, all the bridesmaids pulled out hip flasks to the biggest cheer I’ve ever heard. And to make sure all alcohol bases were covered, we speedily ordered several bottles of eye-wateringly expensive
bottles of wine from the in-spa menu. And then we powered through all the booze with a determination never before seen.

  Obviously, we all got drunk incredibly quickly. We’ve had barely any food all day and I can personally attest to those juices passing straight through the human digestive system without touching the sides. Sorry to be so gross, but that loo experience is going to be with me a long time, and everyone says it’s important to share your trauma.

  Also, the cucumber-based dinner was left mostly untouched, which should surprise exactly no one. So now we have eleven women in a fancy spa, on a high from the departure of elderly supervision, drunkenly shouting at each other across a pool.

  We’re all spread out around the room, half lying across, half sitting on the loungers, with a couple of girls in the pool getting dangerously close to drowning.

  And I can’t believe how much more fun I’m having now! A spa hen do is a brilliant idea after all! A drunk spa hen do, I hasten to add. Obviously, I’m really, really wasted, and nothing I’m saying means anything at all, but it also means everything and I think that’s the important thing here. I really love it, and I really, really think Flora is my new soulmate. It was like we were meant to meet here today. She’s my new best friend, and she is just so great, even though I’m not sure we actually have anything in common. I don’t need Lauren and Joely because Flora is better than both of them combined. She even likes Sweet Valley and we had a big chat about how Todd is the dullest man who ever lived and how it’s mad that both Elizabeth and Jessica fought so hard over him.

  Actually, that chat made me a tiny bit sad because Sweet Valley is mine and Lauren’s thing.

  Anyway, Flora and I are best friends forever now (until I sober up), and we’ve told each other about our whole lives. She laughed loads about my dreadful parents and mostly AWOL brother named after Tom Jones. And she told me about her work as a jobbing actress and talked some more about her boyfriend – Pete – and his pale testicles. And I actually really like all the boyfriend ball chat! It’s SO interesting, y’know? So insightful. Like, we, as women, have all come so far in the last few years that we can discuss anything in public. We can even talk about our boyfriends’ testicles to strangers-turned-soulmates without fear of reprisal. Not so long ago, we were all trapped in a totalitarian theocracy, where women were treated as baby-makers with no rights – oh wait, that’s The Handmaid’s Tale, isn’t it? Close enough. And still, the ball chat is really what feminism is all about and I’m so so happy to be a part of it.

  Ooh, the room is spinning. Fun!

  I could really do with a nap, actually. God, I do so love a drunk nap. I do have the teeniest, tiniest, barely-worth-mentioning habit of passing out when I’m drunk. I have previously fallen asleep in multiple public toilets, four kitchens while cooking whatever form of pasta happens to be available, and one time, directly into my garlic dough balls at Pizza Express. The waitress was really nice, though, and didn’t even charge me for the dough balls, even though I’d apparently requested sixteen extra pots of garlic butter.

  For a moment I feel a lump in my throat. Lauren used to keep a count of these incidents. She said one day I would end up on one of those ITV2 docu-series about how Brits abroad are shaming the country. And then a picture of me collapsed in the street with my skirt over my head will appear splashed across the front page of the Daily Mail as an example of how Britain’s female population is going to hell and ruining everything. She used to say all that in a proud way, while she was posting the photos on Instagram. I’m proud too – @UnconsciousDelilah has nearly 3,000 followers and the garlic dough balls picture got 407 likes! I sneak a look across at her now, on a sun lounger chatting to the bride. She looks happy. She’s happier without me, I think, with a pang.

  I give myself a shake. No more self-pity. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime in the past few weeks. And anyway, I have whatshername here now, as my new best friend. I don’t need Lauren or Joely. Have I said that already?

  Oh hey, maybe if I have a power nap for ten minutes now, I’ll get a second wind when I wake up. Maybe I could even take a swim with those drowning girls. Wait – is that one actually dead? Oh, I’m sure she’ll be OK, there are probably lifeguards here somewhere, right? I look around, noticing through a wine fog that all the other non-hen guests around the pool have left. Do you think that was because of us? We are being quite loud, aren’t we? I feel bad for a second, but then everything is good again. I breathe the chlorine fumes in deeply and feel better than I have in ages. The ceiling pattern is gone from my eyelids.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a staff member approaching one of the hens a few pool loungers away. The hushed but tense back and forth conversation echoes around the large room.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ the staff lady says really nicely, ‘but I’m afraid we need you all to calm it down a little bit. Please could you stop shouting quite so much? We’ve had several complaints from other clients.’

  ‘Complaints about WHAT?’ slurs the hen. She might be the drunkest of all of us, which definitely makes her the wrong choice for the lady to speak to reasonably about this.

  The nice staff member clears her throat, pulling nervously at the collar of her soothing avocado-coloured polo shirt. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve been told to tell you that you’re making a lot of noise and this is a spa, not a pub. We are all about tranquillity and serenity here, and our other guests have reported that they don’t feel terribly tranquil and serene with you making so much noise. And I’m sorry, I’ll have to ask you to collect up those empty wine bottles floating about in the pool, please.’

  ‘That sounds like bollocks,’ shouts a familiar voice, and I hide a giggle when I realise it’s Joely. She’s wearing the tiniest bikini you can imagine and is rippling beautifully in every direction. I recognise her eyes as Drunk Eyes, and watch in amused horror as she staggers over to the lady.

  ‘Come on, Fiona, we’re just having FUN,’ she shouts at the confused-looking staff lady, who may or may not be called Fiona. I don’t know where Joely’s getting that from. She puts her arm around Fiona (TBC) and rests her head on her shoulder. ‘Fiona, you have no idea what today has been like. It’s been so fucking boring, I can’t even tell you. We weren’t allowed alcohol and there were cucumbers and everyone had the shits. But it’s fun now, at last! We’re finally letting loose and having a good time. Does your spa have a policy on people not having fun, Fiona? Because that would suck and my millions of follo-hiccup-wers would love to hear all about that. Sorry, I’m not taking it out on you, Fiona, babe. I know you’re just doing your job, but we should be able to have fun, y’know? This is meant to be a hen do, for god’s sake.’

  Fiona (TBC) looks even more alarmed. ‘A hen do? You’re a hen do? We weren’t informed that you were a hen do. We don’t allow hen dos in here. We have a level-one policy about it. I could get in so much trouble.’

  The original drunk girl pipes up again. ‘Well, Fiona, love, we’re not leaving. So off you pop, and bring us more wine, will you? We’re paying through the nose for it, so you might as well take advantage of our loose credit cards while you can.’ She waves an empty bottle in the air before lobbing it into the pool, narrowly missing the maybe drowned girl.

  Fiona (TBC) looks panicked, her brow furrowed. ‘I’ll have to get the manager,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to do. I might get sacked. I certainly can’t bring you any more alcohol. Stay here, I’m getting Darren. He’s right upstairs. He’ll know what to do.’

  She scurries away in a panicky blur of pale green and the hens all look at each other.

  ‘What shall we do?’ slurs Millie, the bride. ‘I don’t want to leave, I’m having too much of a laugh. We only just got rid of my stupid great aunts. I don’t want this to end. Can Fiona and Darren really make us leave, do you think, Joely?’

  Joely squints at her. ‘Who’s Fiona?’ she says, confused.

 
; ‘Shall we hide?’ shouts Lauren from the other side of the pool, and she’s laughing. I feel warm inside at the sight, it’s so nice to see. ‘Come on, let’s all hide!’ she roars, jumping delightedly up off her lounger. The whole room erupts with giggles as we all leap up and run in different directions. Even the drowned girl is alive again and running. Everyone is sprinting and shrieking and laughing. This is going to be hilarious and work out totally fine. There is no chance this won’t be fine.

  So we got arrested. The whole lot of us. They rounded us all up one by one – I was hiding in the showers with Flora – and marched us out. I passed out in the police van, and when I woke up we were in a drunk tank. I didn’t even know those things existed anymore, I thought it was just for TV shows. Maybe they don’t call it the drunk tank, but sure, everyone here is drunk. It’s a large, windowless room that works as a kind of cell, with a loo in the corner. We’re all crammed in here with a few other older women who may or may not be sex workers. That is not for me to say.

  A bunch of the hens are crying, but most of the party seem to be unconscious, sleeping off the intensive binge-drinking on the cold, cement floor. I feel surprisingly refreshed but I think it was the nap rather than the spa. I flash back to that awful never-ending ‘detox cellulite-buster seawood float wrap bath’ and my skin itches.

  I look blearily around until I spot Lauren and Joely. They’re a few feet apart, backs turned on each other, but they’re both wide awake. Lauren looks livid to be in this situation. Her arms are folded, and she has streaks of black mascara criss-crossing in every direction across her face. Joely is more joyous-looking, still head to toe soaking wet from when she jumped into the pool to escape the police officers.

  That was glorious, actually. Two of them had to go in there to fetch her out and the whole lot of us sang ‘Fuck Tha Police’ as she was escorted out, sopping, in handcuffs.