for a chat. x
STRAWBERRIES
Ruth
Now
The Lolitas say that going out for cocktails is too simple. It wouldn’t look like we’d made enough effort. The Lolitas really want to make it extra special for Alanna, the most special night ever. I suggest paintballing. I’m not quite sure what it entails, but it seems that cocktails and paintballing are the most popular options for this kind of event, and cocktails are definitely a nightmare waiting to happen. The Lolitas look at me and at each other with faces that don’t exactly convey disgust but something quite similar.
‘Now look,’ they say. ‘Everyone knows how this works: champagne cocktails, with strawberries or cherries or raspberries, whatever, for the girly girls. It doesn’t really matter so long as it’s berries. Jungle face paint and camo for the tomboys.’ They giggle. ‘Come on! Don’t you know about this, Ruth? What type of girl do you think Alanna is, Ruth?’
They’ve started calling me by my name too, copying her. It grates.
I nod. Yes. A girly girl, I’m familiar with the notion of a girly girl. But a notion is one thing. It’s quite another to understand the inner workings of girliness. I never have. Which is why the Lolitas are supposed to be helping me. If anyone knows what a girl is, on an instinctive level, then it’s them. They are the experts. I go back to my spreadsheet and let them do their thing. They begin roaming the room, yapping ideas to one another from a distance. A mutual shriek marks a mutually exciting idea.
They reconvene at my office chair. They tell me about make-up sessions. Then about a trip to Ibiza that seems too costly. It has been tacitly established that I am in charge of the budget – an appropriate task that appropriately corners me in the role of the spoilsport. They suggest an Alice in Wonderland Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, a sleazy-sounding spa retreat and an Ann Summers get-together that seems too risqué for the range of ages and people involved. They bark suggestions at me until I can feel my throat beginning to close up and I have to fix my eyes on the screen as my vision blurs, and all I can see is a stifling sea of pink undertones, a bad feeling, a blown-out red nightmare ready to engulf our group, whatever we end up choosing.
Last night in my dream I was a strong swimmer, a member of an away delegation to a northern English beach, waiting to take part in some competitive outdoor swimming. I knew we were there for a marathon swim. It occurred to me that, despite being a semi-professional, I didn’t know what marathon swimming entailed. I was surprised to find out it was raced in lanes. A large portion of the coast was sectioned off by long stretches of white-and-red plastic floating dividers, marking a mandatory swimming course. A larger yellow buoy with a petite red flag on top signalled the start of the race, a few metres out into the water. The swimmers didn’t waste any time and waded into the sea. I began to swim after them, as we moved in a group towards the yellow buoy, the wobbling red stain. Because we were in the water, there was no way to mark a clear starting line, so there was no kick-off order: we all piled in at the mouth of the lane, and already I felt myself going under.
I nod. I nod again and inhale. Exhale.
‘So, Ruth?’
I inhale again and for a few moments relish the authority to say yes or no, as the Lolitas grow restless at my ankles. I exhale. ‘Fine.’
What do I care? It’s obvious that I’m going to say yes to the least ludicrous, most affordable entertainment plan they come up with. I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist: cold, wet. I know I’ve come too far to turn back. I hereby accept that this will be terrible whatever route we choose. I yield to it. ‘Your pick, girls, and I’ll see what we can do money-wise.’ Great job, Ruth Beadle, you’re the great mediator, the great judge, the expert nurse.
We’re settling for a manicure plus mug-painting plus barman lesson. I keep looking at my screen, waiting for my breathing to settle, for them to finally leave me alone.
‘Barwoman,’ screech the Lolitas.
‘Barman, OK,’ I say. ‘Same thing.’
‘No, that’s what it’s called; it’s the name of the course, “Man, I Feel Like a Barwoman”. Get it?’
‘Oh, OK, sure,’ I say. I don’t. ‘Barwoman,’ I say. They copy the activity code down on a post-it note.
I try to raise what seems like a fair point about the planned order for the day. Surely manicure before mug-painting is going to prove a hassle? What about leaving enough time in between to let the nail polish dry? I’m trying to remember what it was that Alanna said about manicures when we were washing the pans. What was it that was good? Gel or shellac? I should’ve listened. I voice another concern to the Lolitas. Surely both mug-painting and manicure would suffice for an exciting day out. There’s no need to pick a third activity. Shall we just have drinks afterwards? I could duck out early, I’m thinking. I am just desperate to give enough input so that I feel like I’ve done my part.
‘Do you know what? Mugs are lame, maybe,’ a Lolita pipes up.
‘Yeah, scrap that, we’ll do mani and cocktails,’ says the other.
‘We can do champers pre-drinks in the salon!’
They high five.
They wheel me on my chair to their shared laptop. These girls are so well practised in collective tasks, in pushing friends in shopping trolleys in empty car parks. These girls know how to keep themselves entertained. They don’t need a laptop for work, but one of them brings one in from home anyway, this thing they’ve covered in chubby Japanese stickers: yellow bears, white-and-pink cats, a sad-looking anthropomorphic egg. They watch videos on it, their pretty heads close together in the glow from the screen.
They want me to look at a photo of the bartending teacher. It is why we can’t possibly miss out on the bartending course, I infer. They point at it urgently, like it’s a mugshot. ‘Is this the man who attacked you, miss?’ ‘Look, look!’ they say. And I look. I concentrate on the black-and-white picture: his face a static composition of vertical and horizontal lines, his features meeting at ninety-degree angles in the centre of his face. A face of perpendiculars, perfectly designed: the strong brow crossing over the short nose, which runs along the middle of his face to meet the narrow lips, open in a wide, confident smile. Teeth strong, and regular like corn kernels; square jaw. His eyes incongruous; the kind you come across on boys twenty years younger, round and soft like those of a handsome young dog.
I paddled desperately, with both hands and feet, so that for a while I was so occupied that I didn’t pay attention to the arm closing around my neck. I couldn’t tell it apart from all the other limbs moving in the water. I was in a headlock. Then he pulled his elbow upwards and I was leashed, salt water pushing at my lips, my wet mouth parting.
‘Stuart Brandon Pierce,’ says the caption underneath. I blink. ‘Purveyor of the finest drinks for the finest ladies.’ The caption matches the smile but his eyes are speaking a different language, one I feel I understand, though not fully – a sort of tingling. Then the Lolitas go, ‘Aaaaaand,’ and they scroll down to a series of photos at the bottom of the web page. They take a moment to load; they are moving frames, GIFs of him whipping some pink stuff in a shaker, pouring it into a cocktail glass. The words ‘FROZEN DAIQUIRI!!!!’ flash intermittently across the last GIF. In the pictures, he is shirtless. The pixelated blur adds grace to his gestures. The Lolitas can no longer contain themselves. They do the girl equivalent of fist pumps and make the girl equivalent of bicep flexes. I roll my eyes and roll back to my desk.
‘If it’s less than five hundred,’ I say, wiggling the mouse to wake up the monitor.
£299 for three hours. The Lolitas are triumphant.
⋆
In bed, washed and in clean new pyjamas, I switch off the bedside lamp and I think about him again. Stuart Brandon Pierce. I say his name in the darkness: three words, like a magic spell. I think of the GIFs on the web page: his swimmer hips, twisting right to left along with the shaker, right to left. A strawberry, tossed, flying in a perfect parable over his head and diving into
a long-stemmed glass, again and again and again. His soft brown eyes coming into focus as the GIF zooms in and he holds out a FROZEN DAIQUIRI!!!! Pink cocktails for the ladies. How does one even get into that line of work? What kind of work does it qualify as and what are we even in for? I’m falling asleep. Strawberries, raspberries and cherries. I whisper his name again, Stuart Brandon Pierce, and as I do, my hand slides under the elastic of my underwear.
Flesh closes around my throat, rubber skin pulling my chin open, seawater in my mouth, as his knee snaps my spine backwards, as my body, released, floats downward, until it reaches the ocean’s bottom.
HONEY
Nearly Ten Years Earlier
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:21
are u awake
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:23
hey
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:25
i wasn’t sure ud be still
awake
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:26
i am now
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:26
sorry i didn’t mean
to wake u
did I wake u?
i hope not
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:29
nah’s cool
what is it?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:33
nothing u
said i could talk
to u
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:34
sure – i just didn’t
think in the middle
of the night,
it’s almost 1
out here
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:36
sure. sorry
just … why?
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:37
why what?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:39
i was just thinking
u said u wanted
to get to know
me for real
why?
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:40
what do you mean why?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:42
like you slept w
alanna already
why me?
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:48
because I like you,
and that’s got nothing
to do with alanna
like I told you
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:48
i liked you before
straightaway
when i met you
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:49
in the agency?
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:49
i like you now
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:50
she was here before
just now
though
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:52
i haven’t spoken to
her since you guys
were in Rome,
ruth, please
believe me
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:54
she just came here
called me names
and said i’m YOUR
little bitch now and
that’s what
u call me but 1/2
how
would she
know we talked
i haven’t told her
unless u have 2/2
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 00:56
and why would I do
something like that?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:00
i don’t know
for a laugh
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:03
well she’s making it up
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:03
oh honey
i’m sorry but
what kind of sick twisted
person does that?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:05
people do a lot of stuff
for a laugh
wouldn’t be the first
or the last
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:06
what, to laugh …
at you? baby …
i’m sorry
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:06
well yeah
i guess
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:06
ruth what happened
with alanna?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:10
nothing she just
sometimes
she makes me feel
like such a joke
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:11
it’s ok
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:11
shes my friend
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:11
what do you mean?
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:12
she said she told u
to leave me your number
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:12
well you know that’s not true.
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:13
but how do i know
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:13
she said u asked
her about me bc
u think i’m funny-looking
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:14
it’s true I asked about you.
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:15
she said u think
i’m like a little mouse
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:15
like u think
i’m funny-looking
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:17
you’re little
not like a mouse, maybe
like a little bird.
pretty little bird
a bluebird
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:17
pretty
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:18
that’s a really weird
thing to say
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:20
a bluebird
you can hold in
the palm of your
hand, feel its heart
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:21
bluebirds sing
beautifully
when they’re
alone
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:21
that’s even weirder
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:23
i can relate to that
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:25
look, no kidding,
it’s true, i asked alanna
about you
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:25
if you need to know
the reason why I asked
alanna out is you
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:26
why should i believe that
you slept with her
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:30
for two weeks in Rome
i’d seen you, i couldn’t
get you out of
my head 1/2
i was losing my mind 2/2
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:32
yeah right
u couldn’t keep it
in your pants
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:35
look it isn’t like that
she came
on to me
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:37
that’s not what she said
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:40
she talks a bunch doesn’t
she, don’t you wish
she’d ever shut up?
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:41
look I was just
in work and she
begged me
to take her out
she wanted to
have fun
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:42
she could’ve come out
with me in that case
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:45
she said she was
bored, she wanted to
go out, get pissed
have fun
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:46
i said tbh when
in Rome you should
make the best of it
FROM: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:48
… like sleep with you
TO: RUTH BEADLE
02/07/06 — 01:50
no silly. like go out
with you. i was trying
to convince her
i told her that.
but she made me 1/2
go to the shops she
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