Friday Night With The Girls: A tale that will make you laugh, cry and call your best friend!

by Shari Low

  ‘Bugger, these jeans must have shrunk in the bath.’

  Ginger and I both just stared at Lizzy, neither of us quite prepared to ask the obvious question.

  After a few moments she registered our confusion. ‘That’s how I got this design on them,’ she explained, gesturing downwards to the random white blotches in the denim. ‘You take normal jeans, twist them tightly, put them in the bath, pour bleach over them and leave them overnight. Next morning this is what you get. God, you two know nothing about fashion.’

  ‘Yeah, but at least my legs don’t look like they’ve got a fungal infection,’ Ginger replied.

  Lizzy ignored the dig. ‘Look, can you just come and pull this up for me?’ She was lying flat on her back on the floor now, with the hook of a coat hanger threaded through the little hole on the zipper of her apparently very-fashionable jeans.

  The exertion of trying to pull it up was turning her face pink and threatening to spoil the matt finish of her Revlon pressed powder foundation. Ginger and I took our positions – she fell to her knees and straddled Lizzy’s hips, grabbed both sides of the open zipper and prepared to pull them together, while I clenched the hanger and adopted a ‘tug of war’ stance for maximum leverage.

  ‘Pull!’ Ginger shouted, as she squeezed the denim together, giving me a small moment of opportunity to yank on the coat hanger. Success! The zip went up first time with only a small hesitation halfway. The two of us then got into our next position, one on either side of the prone Lizzy, took an arm each, and yanked her up to a standing position without bending her body in any direction.

  ‘A pound says that zip gives out before the end of the night,’ Ginger said.

  ‘Nope, I reckon it’ll be the buttock seam again,’ I replied.

  Lizzy groaned. Public humiliation number thirty-four of the year – shortly after the bollard situation and right before she set her hair on fire by forgetting to take a cigarette out of her mouth when she was spraying hairspray at the youth club disco – was when her new black cords split right up the back while she was dancing in her usual vigorous style to ‘Suspicious Minds’ by the Fine Young Cannibals. We called it the Flashdance incident.

  I checked my watch. ‘Right let’s get going. We don’t want to miss Harry’s tea break.’

  Harry was the owner of the local pub, called – in a moment of wild originality – Harry’s Bar. It was our regular Saturday night hang-out despite the fact that we were almost two years too young to be there. However, licensing laws didn’t take into account that when Harry took his 7 pm, 15-minute break from overseeing the door, we sprung into action. With the help of seven layers of Maybelline mascara (Lizzy), a cocky swagger (Ginger) and a padded bra (me), we could flirt our way past the leery bouncer and keep a low profile in the furthest corner from Harry’s eagle eye.

  One enhanced bosom and serious flirt later, we made our way into the smoke-filled bar. It was heaving as always, but my boyfriend alert was on full beam and it only took me a few seconds to spot him. There he was, leaning against a high table in the far corner, bottle of Grolsch in front of him, with a Haircut 100 jumper and a hair flick that was so sharp we could use it to cut a hole in the windows if we found ourselves in an emergency exit situation.

  That’s my boyfriend. Mine. I still can’t quite believe it. I’d have sworn he would have fancied Lizzy or Ginger, but no, he asked me out first. And when I say ‘out’, what I really mean is that he once volunteered to walk me home and I ended up kissing the face off him in a bus stop even though it was so cold I lost the feeling in my feet. Ever since, I’ve been madly in love with him and always pack a spare pair of socks when we go out. He’s the love of my life. Actually, the third one, but number one doesn’t count because I was twelve and number two doesn’t count because he chucked me first. Therefore, for the sake of self-preservation, I’ve deleted them from my romantic history.

  I did my very best strut over to the boyfriend and watched his face break into a grin when he saw me. ‘Hey babe,’ he drawled, tossing his arm around my shoulder and stooping down to kiss me. I ignored the sound of Ginger pretending to retch behind me. She dislikes public displays of affection even more than she dislikes double trigonometry and Hart To Hart.

  But back to the gorgeous bloke who was now slipping his hand up the back of my boob tube.

  Gary Collins. Pros: He’s nineteen, the best-looking guy in our whole town, he plays guitar, and he told me he loved me after our third date. Cons: Who cares? He’s nineteen and the best best-looking guy in our whole town.

  OK, so putting the fact that I’m madly in love with him to one side for a moment, if I had to highlight one slight blemish on his personality profile, I’d have to admit that he is partial to the odd liberty with the truth. Already this week he’s told me that he has an audition for a band, is getting his own car and is moving into a place of his own after Christmas. Firstly, there’s no way he’s auditioning for a band because he can only do four chords properly. I know he’s failed his driving test three times (I found this out because my Aunt Josie heard that on his last test he met with disaster when the old lady who lives at the end of Main Street let her Alsatian off the leash and it ran out in front of his car. The dog survived, but he took out a traffic island, and the driving examiner hasn’t been back in a car since). And he won’t be getting his own place because a) he can’t afford it and b) he knows he’s got a good thing going living at home with a mum and three sisters looking after him.

  Oh, and, incidentally, I know he only told me he loved me because he likes a bit of emotional drama and he’s also – as Ginger kindly pointed out – desperate to get into my knickers. So far, the combination of my iron will and strong pants elastic have been an impenetrable force. It’s not that I’m prudish, but . . . I don’t know. It’s kind of a big deal really, isn’t it? Ginger lost her virginity to one of Red’s mates six months ago and now he’s joined the army so she’ll probably never see him again. I’m not entirely sure whether having sex with Ginger had anything to do with him taking a job that involves leaving home and comes with the possibility of getting shot. But since I’d like Gary to stick around and avoid life-threatening situations for a while, I’ve decided it will take more than being able to sing ‘Holding Back the Years’ almost as good as Mick Hucknall to move from energetic groping to full-on penetration.

  Unfortunately, Gary doesn’t seem to appreciate my concern regarding his mortality. Last week he asked me if we’ll be dry humping until the end of time. Eurgh, even the thought of that makes my buttocks clench. I pointed out that there are other options (with my fingers crossed behind my back that he wouldn’t take the bait). Option number one: cold baths. Option number two: that whole masturbation thing. Aren’t teenage guys supposed to do that every ten minutes? Isn’t that what posters of Samantha Fox are for? That girl is so stunning she is definitely going to end up married to some famous movie star. As long as it isn’t my Tom. Although they would make a perfect couple. Anyway, back to option number three: Rosaline Harper. She has had sex with half of the boys in our year and the only reason she hasn’t satisfied the other half is because she’s been suspended for the last two months after she got caught giving Alfie McGuinness a blow job in the Home Economics store cupboard.

  Anyway, what it comes down to is that I’m not having sex with Gary yet. And it’s not just because my Auntie Josie thinks he’s a tit. Speaking of which . . . that hand up the back of my boob tube is starting to cause a reaction in the nipple area.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ he whispered. See what I mean about the lies? I’m not gorgeous. Maybe cute, possibly funny, but not gorgeous. I mean, come on – my hair is navy blue and styled like I’m the third member of the Thomson Twins. He, on the other hand, looks like a young Elvis – all black hair, chiselled cheekbones and piercing eyes. If you overlook the decidedly un-Elvis hair flick. I should really call him out on the bullshit but, hey, maybe love really is blind. Or at least capable of serious distortion.

&nbs
p; ‘So . . . my mum and sisters are out tonight – you wanna come back to mine?’

  I replied by kissing him again. Thank God Ginger had headed to the bar for drinks or she’d have taken me out with a flying beer mat for tonsil-wrestling in public. I was buying time while I weighed up my answer. I didn’t want to go home. Guaranteed, my mum would appear back from Edinburgh with the wandering arse, and at some point he’d sober up long enough to blame her for everything and she’d end up in floods of tears. Or else he’d fall asleep and snore so loudly that Mrs. Smith next door would batter on the wall with her Zimmer and threaten to report him to the council. Just another normal Saturday night. The thought made me shudder and suddenly a night at Gary’s had distinct appeal. I could just phone Mum and tell her that I’m staying the night at Lizzy’s – although I’d have to go outside to find a payphone because she thinks I’m at the chapel youth club and this pub does not sound like a meeting place for teenagers run by a group of guitar-playing nuns. On the other hand, did I really want yet another night of simulated sex on his single bed with ‘Fa-a-ntastic’ Day blaring in the background? I was wearing my new puffball, for God’s sake. Although . . . oh, he is so cool. And nineteen. And the best-looking guy in the town. And I love him. I might have mentioned these things before. Maybe I’d just go. Maybe I’d spend the night there. Hell, maybe the boob tube would come off and I’d let him graduate to dry humping with perks. It wasn’t like Tom Cruise/Val Kilmer was going to come and sweep me off to a life of glitz and glamour any time soon.

  ‘French Kissin’ in the USA’ came on and, at the sound of Debbie Harry’s voice, Lizzy jumped up and started dancing on the table. Great way to keep a low profile. Could she never just dance on the floor like normal people?

  ‘You didn’t answer me – are you coming home with me?’ He was nibbling my ear now, the sensation of his hot breath on my neck kicking the nipple-tingling up to pelvic-stirring lust. I’m sure I read that terminology in a magazine in the doctor’s surgery waiting room.

  ‘Urgh, if you lick her ear one more time I’m going to vomit,’ Ginger promised, as she returned clutching three drinks, all heavily adorned with paper umbrellas and swizzle sticks. The guy behind the bar thought she was nineteen and he’d been trying to get off with her for months. Nothing says ‘I fancy you’ more than a selection of paper and plastic cocktail tat.

  I leaned in close to his ear and whispered, ‘Sure.’ The hand that was up the back of my boob tube gave me a squeeze. To hell with it, why not? But if he crushed, mangled or pulled a thread in my puffball I might have to go into mourning.

  Despite the daggers that were boring into the back of my head from the ginger direction, we slipped into a long, slow kiss that had that lust ramping up with every passing second. Behind me, I was vaguely aware of an increase in the noise level. Then a few shouts and hollers. Nothing new there. It wasn’t a Saturday night in Harry’s Bar without a fight or six. Oh, this was nice. Really nice. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was time for me to start overlooking the fact that he was a compulsive exaggerator and my aunt thought he was a tit. Oooh, I could hear ‘Holding Back the Years’ . . . Get ye behind me, Mick Hucknall. I’m sixteen. It’s legal. And surely if you’re going to lose it to anyone then it should definitely be someone who looks like Gary and who is not – as far as I’m aware – planning to choose a career involving military weapons.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Another vague sound in the background, but I was too busy being surgically attached to my boyfriend’s lips to pay attention. Only when the music stopped, the lights came on and the sound level suddenly plunged, did I break off and pay any attention. The first thing I saw was a black shiny jacket with silver studs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an Adam and the Ants tribute act.

  ‘Miss, would you mind lining up against that wall.’ Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t a request.

  I unpuckered and did what he said, my heart beginning to thud in a way that not even kissing the best-looking boy in the town could achieve.

  Ginger and Lizzy were already there, Lizzy looking like she was about to cry, Ginger looking like she was about to punch someone. Hopefully not Shiny Buttons.

  ‘Right!’ another officer of the law bellowed. ‘In case you haven’t caught on yet, this is a police raid. We have reason to believe that underage drinking is occurring on these premises. Therefore we would like to see full identification from each of you, and anyone who doesn’t have ID with them will be getting a nice little ride in one of those white cars with the blue flashing lights down to the station.’

  Bloody hell, a comedian. We were being apprehended by a really bad Billy Connolly impersonator with a smug grin and a truncheon.

  In the next two hours, during our involuntary trip to our local police station, Ginger, Lizzy and I tried every excuse and tactic bar claiming we were undercover members of the A-Team. Actually we might have tried that too. In the end, they formally arrested us, then relented and let us off with a caution. The good news was that we wouldn’t be left with a criminal record. The bad news was that they phoned our parents to come collect us. The next morning my dad had the hypocrisy to go mental and accuse me of blackening the family name. This from the man who’d been drunk and disorderly while travelling through almost every city and town in Scotland – albeit without knowing where he was on at least ninety per cent of occasions.

  Arrested. In trouble. Lost out on a night at Gary’s house. Probably dumped in favour of Rosaline Harper. Fed up. Humiliated.

  And my parents are threatening to disown me.

  Well, every cloud . . .

  Three

  ‘Hey! It’s our very own answer to the Kray twins,’ came the greeting from my Aunt Josie. ‘I’ve spent the last week practising baking a Victoria sponge with a nail-file filling for next time you get banged up.’

  I rolled my eyes and tossed my denim jacket over one of her kitchen chairs. Auntie Josie’s house is only a few streets away from ours, but they are a million miles apart in every other way. In our new cul-de-sac semi, everything is perfectly in place. The floors are spotless, there isn’t so much as a crumb on the kitchen worktop and the toilets look like they’ve never been used. Even the cushions on the couch have to be kept at a particular angle, in case of such monumental occurrence like a visit from the local MP or Armageddon. Can’t have those Russians pressing that big red button and us being blown to smithereens with haphazard soft furnishings.

  Auntie Josie’s house, on the other hand, is an exercise in chaos. Every room is a mishmash of furniture. Nothing matches, everything is well used, and she has ducks on the wall of her kitchen. Ducks. In a diagonal row. As if nature intended them to be made in a Taiwanese factory, then nailed to a partition wall before soaring towards the sun. She says they match the ceramic hen she keeps her eggs in and the red china cock that sits on the windowsill. It’s a whole big nature-fest. But it’s also the most welcoming house you could ever encounter. It’s got that lived-in look that makes you want to kick off your shoes, curl up on a chair and dip digestives in your tea, which is why it’s the human equivalent of an animal rescue centre. Whenever anyone is in-between houses, has been thrown out by their partner, disowned by their parents, has burst pipes, is having their front room decorated or for some other miscellaneous reason has found themselves homeless, Auntie Josie takes them in. As well as my cousins, Avril, 8, and Michael, 16, who both have their own rooms, two of Michael’s friends have spent the last week on her brown Dralon couches and she has an Indian gentleman in the spare room who has come here with the intention of teaching yoga. Yeah, like all that bendy, chanting stuff will ever catch on. On top of that, whenever anyone within a two-mile radius has a problem, a dilemma or some gossip, this becomes the nerve centre of the situation, providing a shoulder to cry on, beverages and sustenance. Auntie Josie has three jobs and I’m fairly sure one of them is just to pay for her massive weekly bill for tea bags and biscuits.

  The real reason so many people come here though is that Auntie Josie ha
s a heart of gold, she’s funny and she’s always, always honest, even when the truth hurts . . . like right around now.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking? That was the most stupid thing to do!’

  However, her honesty invariably came with a slightly skewed perspective.

  ‘I can’t believe you would go into that pub without some decent fake ID.’

  And that, in a nutshell, is why I love Josie. She is all about enjoying life and getting away with it.

  ‘Right, here’s the kit and the kettle’s on. There are caramel wafers in the cupboard.’ Caramel wafers. The Scottish working-class antidepressant.

  I picked up the box containing the home perming kit and pulled out the contents. All through my childhood I’d watched Josie and her friends perming each other’s hair into tiny tight curls. The day she finally announced that my Saturday job in the hairdresser’s qualified me to take over the role felt like a rite of passage. Yes, that day I became a woman. One that smelled of really, really strong ammonia.

  I picked up a comb, laid out the tiny rollers and passed Josie the little pad of tissue papers, to be handed to me one at a time as I wound every individual curl. I had the whole process down pat now. Take small section of hair. Saturate with lotion. Wrap in tissue. Wind onto roller. Secure with band. Try to finish whole head before the fumes cause permanent damage to my lungs. Depending on luck, the result varied somewhere between Shirley Bassey (the intended outcome) and the weird science guy out of Back to the Future (a look we tried to avoid).

  ‘So what’s with the slumped shoulders? Oh dear God no. You’ve slept with him, haven’t you? You have. And now he’s done a runner. And you’re pregnant. I’ll kill that little fecker. Just wait till . . .’

  All that before I’d even wound the first curl. If I didn’t stop her she’d have continued to escalate the story until Gary had an amputated penis and she was doing time for grievous bodily harm.