Getting Over Mr. Right

by Chrissie Manby

  Unable to find anything more appealing than a brain hemorrhage on the list, I had another two. Then we hens took to the dance floor en masse, creating a little circle around our bags and Karen’s shoes (a pair of high-heeled tranny platforms, which were killing her) like early settlers on the drive to conquer the American West. Though much, much, much drunker.

  “Like this,” said Karen, showing me how to grind. “You’re not doing the Locomotion now, Auntie Ashleigh.”

  “I am not old enough to have done the Locomotion!” I exclaimed. “And stop calling me auntie. I’m your cousin.”

  “I know, but I always thought of you as an auntie,” said Karen. “With you being so much older and really boring and that.”

  “You think I’m boring?”

  “Not anymore. You’re being a really good laugh tonight.”

  I thanked her for the compliment, but I was irked and the thought of being considered dull made me go back to the bar for another round of shooters. A neck full of undiluted spirits improved my grinding technique no end. So much so that a red-faced rugby player on a stag do was inspired to press his genitals to my buttocks. I should have been outraged but I wasn’t. I was that far gone. Karen whooped as I actually turned around and jiggled my breasts in the rugby player’s face.

  “They’re real,” I added. In case he hadn’t noticed. He nodded his appreciation and asked if he could have a feel. I said he couldn’t. He danced off elsewhere.

  Then at midnight the DJ interrupted the nonstop bump and grind to make a brief announcement.

  “It’s that time of the evening, boys and girls. Time for our weekly competition. Last week the boys had the chance to win a bottle of champagne by having their eyebrows shaved off. This week it’s the turn of the ladies, with an old classic … the most popular competition evah here at Histeria nightspot. Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. It is time”—he played the sound effect of Big Ben bonging twelve as he intoned very seriously over the top of it—“for the wet-T-shirt competition!”

  The crowd went wild. I whooped, too. It seemed appropriate.

  “Come on, ladies! Step on up!” He quickly had three contestants. “I need at least five more!”

  “Hey, Ashleigh,” said Lola, “it’s your turn to win us some drinks.”

  It was true. The other hens had been working very hard to keep alcohol consumption up and costs down. Lola and Daisy had already climbed onto a podium and French-kissed each other for a bottle of Lambrini. Anna—aka Plenty O’Toole—had shown a rugby player her “chicken fillets” in return for a round of drinks for the lot of us. She let him keep one of the chicken fillets for another round after that. I had been paying my way. I’d bought three ruinous rounds at Bolsheviks, but I sensed that Lola was more concerned about my getting into the spirit of things than merely flashing the cash.

  “You really think I should do the wet-T-shirt competition?”

  She nodded. The other girls agreed.

  “On behalf of the team,” said Lola. “I’d do it myself but you have by far the best gazungas.”

  What on earth were those?

  “I can’t get up there,” I said. “I’m thirty-two years old.”

  “So? That’s nowhere near retirement age.”

  “All the more reason to do it,” piped up Daisy. “Have you ever done it before?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you want to grow old without ever having gotten your boobs out in front of an appreciative crowd?”

  “That was my general plan,” I admitted.

  It was Karen who piled on the pressure. She grasped my arm and told me passionately, “Go for it, Ashleigh. We only regret the things we haven’t done.”

  She said it with such conviction. How could I possibly disagree? The stage was already filling with girls far less squeamish than me. I couldn’t help but cast an eye over the competition and wonder what my chances really were. Certainly, the only rack up there that looked any bigger than mine was definitely not a natural one. I’d get extra points for being 100 percent natural, Lola suggested.

  “Go on,” said Karen. “You’ve got better tits than any of them.”

  And so the combination of a skinful of spirits and the encouragement of my younger companions got the better of me at last. A switch flipped in my head and the sexist stupidity I would have run a mile from on any ordinary day suddenly seemed like an opportunity to strike a blow for real boobs and older women everywhere.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Go, Ashleigh!”

  With the cheers of my fellow partygoers ringing in my ears, I took my place in the lineup of hopefuls, while the compère of the evening’s festivities handed out buckets to an equal number of men. It goes without saying that there was no shortage of volunteers. He assigned one man to each of the girls before he donned a waterproof poncho and instructed, “Now I’m going to count to three, and when I have finished counting to three, you boys are going to—”

  My bucket holder—who looked overly keen to do his job, I thought—didn’t wait for three. I didn’t have time to close my eyes and brace myself for the gallon of cold water that he tipped over my head.

  “Not over her head, you doughnut!” the DJ shouted. “You’re only meant to get her T-shirt wet.”

  “Sorry,” my bucket boy said shamefacedly. He dug into his pocket and brought out a packet of tissues. “Will this help?”

  I dabbed at my eyes, in a pointless and futile attempt to keep my mascara from running down my face, while the other men did their duty, leaving ten girls shivering on the stage. The water was unnecessarily cold. Lola would later explain that that was all about the nipples. The DJ, still wearing his poncho, stepped out from his booth again to deliver his judgment. He walked the length of the line, pretending to scribble on his clipboard as he examined the boobs on display.

  “Nice rack,” he told girl number one.

  “Great uplift,” he said to the next.

  “Not bad for an old girl,” he said when he got to me. “Are they real?”

  “One hundred percent,” I assured him.

  “That gets extra points.” He put a tick next to my name.

  He continued on down the line, putting on a pair of comedy spectacles to examine one especially unfortunate flat-chested girl. To help him make his decision, he asked the audience to give their own opinion via a “clapometer.” I was astonished at the volume my friends managed to raise for me. They were unbelievably enthusiastic.

  Still, the top prize—an envelope containing a hundred pounds—went to an Australian girl called Hazel, who was working as a nanny in London while she saved to tour the rest of Europe. Second prize went to Emma, who also worked as a nanny, for a family in South Kensington. Emma offered to take her T-shirt right off in return for a free cocktail. I imagined that the yummy mummies who employed those girls would not have been impressed.

  I looked down at my gang, who had been whooping my name to no avail. I shrugged.

  “And a special prize,” said the DJ, “for tonight’s oldest contestant.”

  Another bottle of cava. I waved it above my head and stepped down to join the girls, who gathered me into their midst as though I were coming back to them with a bottle of Cristal. It was soon polished off.

  “You were amazing,” said Lola as she wrapped me in her cardigan.

  “I can’t believe I was the oldest contestant.”

  “That girl in the red top was totally the same age as you,” said Daisy. “Either that or she’s spent a lot of time on a sun bed.”

  “You were robbed,” said Karen.

  “Perhaps if you’d taken your bra off. You know, so your nipples really showed,” Daisy suggested.

  “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  We were interrupted by the boy who had thrown the bucket of water over my head.

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I got a bit overexcited. Threw a bit prematurely.”

  “Well, if you’re like that in the s
ack, you can piss off straightaway,” said Daisy.

  The boy looked hurt. He turned to me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Has someone dared you?” asked Karen. Rather thoughtlessly, since it seemed to me that the slur was less about his bravery than the improbability that he might just feel like treating me.

  “No,” he said. “I just want to. Really. I do.”

  “That’d be great,” I told him. “Make it a brain hemorrhage.” I had been developing quite a taste for them.

  The boy went off to the bar. I saw him counting out coins into the palm of his hand as he waited to be served.

  “That’s probably the last of his pocket money,” said Karen.

  “Don’t be so cruel,” I said.

  I was strangely touched by his insistence on buying me a drink. In the decade and a half since I’d been legally able to drink, I’d found that it was often easier to get a British man to spill a drink on you than to buy you one.

  The bucket boy came back with my shot.

  “Thanks,” I said. “My name’s Ashleigh.”

  “Jack,” he said.

  We shook hands in a somewhat formal fashion given that we’d met over my wet boobs.

  Karen and her friends had drawn themselves into a huddle, leaving me and my new friend alone. I could tell that they were talking about us—finding it all very funny—but I wasn’t about to send the poor lad away. He was very good looking.

  “Do you come here often?” he said.

  “Er … no. Not really. In fact,” I admitted, “I haven’t been clubbing since 2005.”

  “What?” He looked at me in surprise.

  I realized that he probably couldn’t have gotten into a club in 2005, on account of having to stay home and revise for his GCSEs, or whatever it is they take these days.

  “I come here every week,” he said. “It’s a great laugh.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I’ve had a good time.”

  “You were a good sport, getting up there like that.”

  “You mean at my age?” I filled in the gaps.

  “I wasn’t thinking anything about your age,” said Jack. Then he added, “What is it?”

  “I’m not telling you that.”

  Karen and her friends were getting restless. Lola was sent over to fill me in on their plans. Apparently there was a club on the industrial estate that started at three and ran through until nine and that was where they were going to head next. I had to bail out. I kissed my cousin good-bye and wished her well for her upcoming marriage. Her friends had certainly given her one hell of a send-off into married life.

  “How will you get home?” asked Karen.

  “I’ll get a cab,” I said.

  “I’ll wait with you if you like,” said Jack.

  Karen and her friends exited with much suggestive eyebrow raising.

  Outside the club, the pavement was busier than on the Saturday before Christmas. All the clubs were kicking their clients out at once and the street was just as buzzing as the dance floor had been. But it was raining now. The clouds that had been gathering as I arrived at Bolsheviks were really letting loose. The competition for a taxi was going to be intense.

  Jack was still beside me. He and I waited side by side on the pavement for fifteen minutes. No sign of a yellow cab light. I started to shiver. I had changed out of my hen-night outfit and back into my mum’s dress, but now the rain was soaking me through again. Jack offered me his bomber jacket.

  “You’ll freeze,” I said. He was wearing just a T-shirt beneath.

  “Not likely,” he said. “I’m covered in hair. And fat.”

  “You’re not fat,” I said.

  “I am. Look.” He lifted up his T-shirt to show me his tummy. Washboard abs, of course. I said, “Nice,” and quickly turned back to scan the street for a yellow light before I was overcome with the urge to touch his muscles.

  “Well, this is hopeless,” I said. “We’ll never get a cab.”

  “Can I walk you home?” Jack asked.

  Of course, it struck me that even compared with entering the wet-T-shirt competition, this was the stupidest thing I had done in years. Allowing a complete stranger to walk me home? I would have advised any other woman against it, but that night I rationalized it to myself. I told myself that the entire hen party had met Jack. The club probably had CCTV footage of him throwing his bucket over my boobs. He would have to be a pretty stupid serial killer to try anything dodgy with so much evidence that he and I had left the club together. I told myself that I wouldn’t let him in the house in any case. Not into my parents’ place. Mum would throw a fit. But as we walked, I began to feel a little more comfortable with my gallant companion. It turned out that he knew my cousin’s fiancé. They’d worked together in the compliance department of the bank that had recently made Karen’s husband-to-be redundant. Jack had lost his job, too, and was temping to tide himself over.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t have many expenses. I live in a shared flat.”

  “How horrible,” I said involuntarily. I could imagine nothing worse. There wasn’t enough money in the world to persuade me to go back to sharing fridge space with anyone else after my five years in the flat-share universe. It was bad enough having to go back to Mum and Dad’s temporarily. But Jack was much younger than me. How much younger I dared not ask, though I was guessing that he was twenty-six max. He looked as though he could grow a mustache, at least.

  It took us the best part of an hour to walk back to my parents’ house. As we turned into the street, Jack said, “I think I came to a party in this street once. About five years ago. It all got a little bit wild.”

  “Well,” I said, stopping outside the house, “nothing wild happening tonight. This is me. Thank you very much for walking me home.” I gave him back his jacket. We stood there awkwardly. “Er, good-bye,” I tried, just as Jack plucked up the courage to say, “I was wondering if perhaps I could see you again. I could take you out for a coffee or something. I mean, only if you want to. If you’d like …” His voice trailed away in expectation of rejection.

  My resolve finally melted like snow on a hot car bonnet. He looked so sweet and brave.

  “Come in and have a coffee now,” I suggested. It didn’t mean we had to do anything.

  “Really? Yes, please,” said Jack.

  But Jack didn’t ever get that coffee. Deciding that it was now or never and ignoring Ben the dog’s disapproving look, I took Jack straight into the sitting room and pulled him down on to the sofa beside me. He didn’t protest. Instead he started kissing me as though he hadn’t eaten in three and a half years.

  It had actually been well over three years since I’d last taken my clothes off in front of someone other than Michael. When Michael and I went to bed for the first time, I had been fairly sober by comparison, which seemed appropriate for the gravity of the moment. It was as though I had known very early on that Michael was going to be important in my life.

  When it came to taking my clothes off in front of Jack, however, there was altogether less ceremony. Any worries I had about revealing my Spanx were banished when I saw what he was wearing beneath his trousers. It was a pair of awful underpants—white running to gray—that only a mother could have bought. I could tell that he was so busy being ashamed about being caught in those scraggy old Y-fronts that he wouldn’t notice if I was wearing La Perla or a Tubigrip. He helped me roll the Spanx off, which was good, as it’s surprisingly hard work getting in and out of those things and, had he not helped me, I might have worn them all night.

  We rolled off the sofa and onto Mum’s prized rug (a gift from a trip to Istanbul), and as Ben looked on in doggy bewilderment, we got busy.

  The sex was energetic and over quickly. I think it lasted the length of one track of the latest Killers album. I thought that Jack would want to leave as soon as it was over, but he didn’t. Instead he snuggled into my side and said, “Do you mind if I stay the night?”

  I nodded mute
ly.

  He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down into my face.

  “You can stay,” I said, when it became clear that he’d missed the mute nod and was eager for reassurance. “Just promise you won’t puke in the bed.”

  “Oh, I never puke,” he said.

  “Great.” That was good enough for me. I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open in any case.

  So I took him upstairs to my room. If he was surprised that I slept in a single bed—I hadn’t told him this was my parents’ house after all—he didn’t show it. He just jumped in and rolled onto his back, looking as happy as Ben after a tummy rub.

  “It’s so nice to be in clean sheets,” he said. “I haven’t had clean sheets since the washing machine packed up.”

  I decided that it was probably for the best I didn’t ask him exactly when that was.

  Jack was soon asleep. He looked even younger as he drifted into a dream. I revised my estimate of his age down from twenty-six to twenty-four. Oh dear. I had shagged a man almost a decade younger than me. It crossed my mind that this made me a cougar, one of those women who prey on younger men for sex.

  I blamed it on the Baileys.

  The following day I woke with a headache and a dead arm. My single bed really wasn’t big enough for two, and I had spent most of the night squashed up against the wall. Realizing that I wasn’t alone, I gave a little start. It took awhile for my brain to catch up with the situation. The nightclub. The wet-T-shirt competition. The handsome young lad in the baggy gray underpants.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  As I inched my arm out from beneath his neck, the handsome young lad gave a little snort and another piece of the jigsaw fit into place.

  “Jack,” I whispered to myself. At least I remembered his name. But the question was, would he remember mine? I couldn’t remember how many shots I’d had, but I did recall having sunk the lioness’s share of at least two bottles of cava. Had Jack been similarly inebriated? My ego couldn’t take the risk that he would wake up, see what he had fallen asleep next to, and take fright. I edged my way out of the bed.