by Laura Kemp
Then she did what he thought she would be incapable of – asking how come he’d done so well for himself in that tone, like he was scum. He couldn’t help but pass her the shitty stick – he’d worked hard, he hadn’t needed uni to make something of himself. Not that she had. She’d got in a right strop when he asked her if she had kids; what was wrong with assuming she had it all now? He was basically giving her the chance to bang on about how happy she was.
When she’d told him the state she was in, he was straight-up sorry. Her ex sounded a right wanker, she didn’t deserve that. His face had said it all, he thought, he’d gone serious and offered her commiserations but she’d took it all wrong. Couldn’t wait to tell him that the accumulation of stuff and success was false and he was in corporate chains. The little speech she did before she left about her freedom was as if she was trying to convince herself.
It was as if she was saying she saw right through him – that he had taken the capitalist coin in exchange for his soul. The nerve of it. Her disappointment was written all over her face. Her lovely face.
At three o’clock in the morning, shitted and miserable, he’d admitted that it had been like losing her all over again. To have had her there within touching distance and not been able to connect as they had done. The door was firmly closed on it now. He didn’t want anything to do with this Vicky. With her boho chic thing going on. She’d looked good, really good, not awkward and teenage but all woman and quirky.
But she hadn’t seemed to have grown up – who ran home to their mam and dad at their age? Maybe if you’d had a nice feathery nest of love and ironed uniforms then it made you a soft touch. No backbone, no standing on your own two feet.
That was what he’d held onto as he’d travelled back to London, happy as Larry to be in amongst it, away from the conservatories and front lawns. It hardened his belief that he was doing all right, the way he was living. That was why Shell had had to go.
‘Maybe she came back into your life for a reason?’ Orla said.
‘To show me how lucky I am to have made something of myself, yeah, I know.’
‘All right,’ she said, holding up her hands, ‘I was trying to do you a favour. That’s all. It’s just a massive shame. A waste. Because I’d love to see her. She was a really good part of growing up. I’d love to have had the chance to let her know that things have worked out for me. To say thank you.’
‘Whatever. Do it. You’ll just find out what I did: that she went all hippy in Brighton, lived in a bubble then it popped. Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.’
‘You have no compassion,’ Orla said.
He was no Mother Theresa, he knew that, but he did check up on Dad most days without Orla knowing, scrub his loo when he visited and pay for a cleaner – a service, he lied, provided by the sheltered flat complex. Yet he couldn’t tell Orla that.
She sniffed and began to look for a tissue up her sleeve. He picked a serviette from the holder in the middle of the table and handed it over. She gave him daggers as she said thank you.
‘This,’ she said, taking it with her fingertips to make a point, ‘is what is called accepting help. You should try it some time.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, picking up his man bag. ‘I need a fag. Thanks for breakfast. I’ve got to go, mortgage to pay and all that.’
Then he wanted to punch himself because she’d know by his sarcasm that she’d well and truly hit a nerve and he felt a total arse.
*
Koh Pha Ngan, Thailand, January 2008
Dancing ankle-deep in the sea which is as warm as a bath, Vicky reckons this night out is one of her best ever.
She’s in paradise, beneath a starry Thai sky on a beautiful beach with a bunch of brilliant people. Closer to dawn than midnight, the rabid techno has given way to blissed-out tunes. And, she feels the need to pinch herself, it looks as if she’s going to pull Conor. Gorgeous Conor, who is smiling at her, just her, after a week of flirting and getting to know one another after they met at the backpacker bungalows where they’re staying on the island of Koh Pha Ngan.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to girls like her – he’s actually interested in her: who she is, where she’s been. She didn’t believe it at first, but she reckons he’s manoeuvred the gang away from the heaving mass of thirty thousand ravers at the full moon party to the fringes of the water’s edge so he can talk to her rather than yell. As if the main event is happening between them; like the craziness of the people literally playing with fire, limboing under flaming poles and skipping with ropes set alight, is just a sideshow.
In that sexy Irish accent, he asks her if she wants a drink. She says no, because after two whisky buckets, she’s on the right side of pissed and she wants to be in control, to enjoy whatever’s coming rather than it happening in a blur. He gives her a hug which lingers. She can feel an electricity between them. Watching his broad back and neat bum weave their way to the bar, she feels her rude bits racing. How she’d love to go to bed with Conor. To put air between her and her Reading uni ex Pete, who was her last. And for once she’d like to be the one – not Kat – with a walk of shame story to tell over a very late breakfast.
Her skin goosebumping in the humid caress of a light breeze, Vicky thinks they came close to snogging earlier when the smoke machine fogged out everyone else: it felt like it was just the two of them, their eyes locked together, their bodies touching. But the magic was broken when the strobe lights crashed in. Then Kat fell sideways into some people and became The Annoying Pissed Person. If Conor wasn’t here, she would’ve dragged her back to the bungalows to sober up. But Vicky’s not going to miss her chance with him: he is just so good-looking, like Johnny Depp with that goatee, his chocolate eyes and brown wavy hair which hangs just above his shoulders. In an odd way, he reminds her of Mikey, he’s funny in a quirky way and sees things differently. He’s into culture and stuff, like her, rather than just the craic. He’s travelling in the opposite direction to her, so she’s been able to tell him what to expect in Australia and South America. He’s given her a load of cool tips for the rest of Asia too, recommending Cambodia because it’s less commercial. As much as Vicky likes Thailand for its temples, turquoise sea and tigers, it’s too druggy here. Why come all this way to neck some pills when you could do that at the Eclipse nightclub in Cardiff? She’d rather read the Lonely Planet than The Beach - and wherever you go, you always hear that Moby song from the soundtrack of the film. She’s going to ask Kat if she wants to go to Cambodia, but she doubts she will: Kat only started enjoying their trip when she got to party. And party and party as if the fun was about to run out. Or at least her drug supply. Desperate, how she looks now. As for Vicky, she just looks like she's having a blast. She tidies her frizzy hair back into a ponytail. She can’t do anything about her red face, that’s the sun and the dancing, that is. And her skin is slick with sweat. But, as she takes in everyone around her, they all look like that. And to her credit, she can still use both eyes simultaneously – the majority of them have collapsed faces. She feels good too in her cute black beach romper: it hides her tummy but makes the most of her arms and legs which no longer resemble the blotchy texture of corned beef because of her kind of tan and they're more sculptured from carrying her rucksack and loads of walking.
Christ, maybe for once, she is a catch!
But she still needs to check with Kat: there are some things you can only ask a bestie – whether you’ve got something in your teeth, there’s a spot that needs squeezing or if a boy fancies you.
She reaches for Kat, who’s being chatted up by a queue of blokes. She looks stunning in a bikini top and micro shorts with day-glo moons and stars accentuating the sinew of her skinny, tanned body. Vicky interrupts without any apology to Kat’s audience – she knows by the way their tongues are hanging out that they’ll wait for her attention.
‘I need to ask you something, Kat,’ she says into her ear. ‘Do you think Conor’s flirting with me?’
; Kat twirls round and gives her the biggest hug. ‘I love you, Vickster!’
‘Yeah, I love you too,’ Vicky says, laughing as Kat tries to lift her up. ‘Stop it! Put me down! Listen, listen! Conor’s gone to the bar. So quick before he gets back, do you think he’s into me?’
Kat starts whooping and clapping to the beat. Vicky grabs her wrists, trying to stop her moving because she needs to know. This is Kat’s job, to big her up and give her some confidence: Vicky needs encouragement because she’s no good at stuff like this.
‘Ow!’ Kat yelps and it’s then Vicky sees her face properly. Her pupils are the size of space and she’s chewing gum like a cheerleader.
‘Oh, fuck, Kat, not again. What have you taken?’
Vicky is really pissed off because three days ago, Kat went paranoid on a magic mushroom milkshake and Vicky spent five hours talking her through it. Then, until this morning, she was a wreck. Jumping at shadows, refusing to leave the bungalows, being really weepy and depressed. ‘Some people aren’t meant to take drugs, Kat, and you’re one of them,’ Vicky had said, hoping that’d be the end.
Vicky doesn’t bother with it – there are so many headcases here who’ve got caught up in the scene. You see them, dancing by themselves in fishermen’s trousers at midday on the beach, still up from the night before.
‘Just a pill. It’s fine, not strong at all. Chill out, Vicky. You sound like my mum.’
Vicky suddenly feels angry. She’s going to have to keep an eye on Kat now because she loses all her inhibitions and judgement when she’s like this.
‘Anyway, Conor, yeah?’ Kat says, her hands in the air. ‘Go for it!’
‘Well, I can’t now, because you look nutted…’
‘So?’
‘So, I’m not going to leave you.’
‘I can look after myself!’
‘Yeah, right. Look at you.’
Kat staggers and laughs, her body is wet with sweat.
‘You haven’t got any water. I’ll go and get you some, you need to keep hydrated.’
Kat rolls her eyes at her. Or perhaps she’s just rolling her eyes because she’s off her tits. Vicky tells her not to wander off – she’s heard of muggings and assaults on girls – and heads to the bar through the thickening crowd of idiots doing big fish, little fish, cardboard box with their hands. If she hurries up, she can reach Conor who is just being served. But no, he’s paid and he’s on his way back and he hasn’t seen her. There’s no point shouting because the music gets louder the closer you get to the bar and waving her arms will just make her look like she’s copying one of those dancers with UV wings.
Vicky feels her irritation building. She thought Kat would pull herself together after Australia, where she was pissed out of her skull the entire time. Vicky could understand that in a way because it had been a release from South America, which Kat had hated. By the end she was having weird breathing moments, which she tried to blame on the altitude but they'd been there too long for it still to affect her. Vicky suspected they were panic attacks but Kat wouldn't have it. The things that had made Kat unhappy were precisely the things Vicky had loved it: the proper foreignness of it. The massive differences between climates, when it would be freezing at altitude and baking at sea level; the extreme poverty and wealth; the vast emptiness of the Andes and the heaving bus stations where you could go anywhere for a few quid. Kat had either clung to Vicky or been snappy, claiming it was ‘so not what she’d signed up for’. Going to Oz, with its backpacker industry, happy hours and familiar Western food, was a dream for Kat by comparison. That's why she'd launched herself into the drink, it stopped the ‘funny spells’ she said.
But Kat had got into it alone. She’d been sort of cold, as if she was bored of Vicky, and at every opportunity she’d teased her in front of people, that she’d been forced to go on hikes, visit museums and look at monuments. Vicky had felt very small at times, just like at school – Kat knew she was sensitive about things like that. But she’d put it down to Kat trying to find herself after being so quiet in South America. Then Kat had fucked off with a bloke in Sydney, and again in Cape Tribulation, leaving Vicky to make her own way back to their hostels. Both times, she hadn’t seen Kat for a couple of days and she’d been so worried. When she turned up, dishevelled and touchy, Kat had accused her of being controlling and a square, that she didn’t know how to have a laugh. Vicky had sort of retreated then because she didn’t want to fall out with her: she had been frightened of being alone.
Then came Christmas Day, when Kat threw up for hours on Bondi beach from the mix of the booze and sun. And New Year’s Day, when they’d traipsed round the city to find a chemist so Kat could buy the morning-after pill.
Finally, on the flight to Bangkok, after staying up all night, Kat had apologized for everything. She said she’d get her act together, admitting she had been feeling anxious, and she did for a bit. Slowly though, she’d become undone again. Fed up of looking at statues of Buddha, she wanted to go island-hopping then stay somewhere for a couple of weeks or so in Thailand. Have a holiday was the way she’d put it, as if that wasn’t what they’d been doing already! Vicky had relented because it’d be nice to have the chance to wash all her clothes and read up on Vietnam, Laos and, fingers crossed, Cambodia. But Kat had just used the opportunity to take as many drugs as she could. It was like being with a stranger: Vicky had never known her to be so wild.
It’s really unsettled Vicky because she’s starting to think Kat is a bit selfish and not the person she once knew so well. But if she carries on down that path, it’ll lead somewhere really major and they only have six weeks left and Vicky doesn’t want to spoil it. Besides, Kat says she’s just making the most of things before she has to conform when she goes to work in the City.
With a bottle of water for Kat, Vicky heads back to find her. She didn’t notice it before but there’s a smell of BO and sour breath – she quickly checks it isn’t her, it’s not – and she feels sick as other people’s arms slime against her.
Where the hell is Kat, she thinks, because she’s not where she left her by that palm tree. Scanning the jumping heads, shading her eyes from the flashing lights atop towers of crates, her eyes go back and forth, and then thank God, Kat’s over there with Conor.
A girl accidentally jostles Vicky then and she drops the water. She bends down to get it then comes back up, ready to wave to them that she’s almost there. Then, the sound of the music drains from her ears, leaving just her roaring pulse, because she sees Kat hanging off Conor. He’s looking really awkward and trying to peel her arms off him, but she’s holding on tight. What the fuck is she doing? A strobe comes on and Vicky can only see chunks of action, as if she’s watching a slideshow of stills. Kat has her hands on his face. The strobe flickers then it goes black. Conor pulls his head back. Black. Kat’s mouth is on his. Black. Conor pushes her away. Black. Kat is on the floor. Black. Oh my God, what’s going on? Black. As the strobe lights the place up once more, Vicky legs it over to where Conor is standing – he’s got his palms up as if to say he didn’t touch her. ‘She’s fucking mental,’ he says to Vicky, who is groping to understand. ‘She just went for me. Tried to snog me, she’s off her rocker.’
Vicky is torn – should she help Kat up, because she’s clearly mashed, or should she take Conor’s side? Whatever she does, she knows she’s lost him because he’s backing off and shaking his head.
‘I really like you, Vicky, but… she’s a liability,’ he says and that’s it, he’s walking backwards, away from her, then he’s gone.
Kat is convulsing with laughter, still on the floor and Vicky is so cross, so sick of her.
‘What the fuck have you done?’ Vicky shouts, hating her for ruining her night and the thing with Conor when she expressly told her she liked him, and hating herself for not being able to desert Kat because what if something happened to her?
Vicky feels a storm of frustration and anger and hurt welling deep inside of her. Surely Kat sees she�
��s fucked up. But she’s on her feet now, looking the aggressor.
‘I was only dancing with him, what a freak,’ she says, as if she was the victim here, brushing the sand off her hands. She’s still moving to the beat, which tells Vicky that she doesn't care.
‘You tried to snog him. I saw you. Why would you do that?’ Vicky screams as people begin to move away from them.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Vicky, he wasn’t all that. He totally overreacted, I was only having a laugh.’
‘You could have anyone. Why would you go for the one I fancied?’
Kat looks hostile now, cornered, like a wild animal.
‘Get over yourself, Vicky,’ Kat sneers. ‘It’s not as though I’ve tried it on with Mikey, is it?’ Kat gives her a look as if she’s played some kind of trump card.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ Vicky doesn’t understand what she means. Why bring him into it? She feels her body stiffen, waiting for attack.
‘Oh, come on, Vicky, you never stop going on about him.’ And then in a whiny voice, she says: ‘Mikey would’ve loved this, Mikey would’ve hated that. Mikey, oh Mikey, I miss him so much.’
Vicky gasps: Kat’s impression is thick with contempt. She feels winded and then she’s burning with fury.
‘You total bitch,’ she says, swallowing hard, and then embarrassment, does she really sound so pathetic?
Vicky turns her back on Kat, suddenly the sand has lost its warmth. She feels her body wanting to run, needing to move. Her flip-flops, she sees them by the water and jogs over to the shore, still confused by Kat’s betrayal. Her octopus arms all over Conor were bad enough but the hateful edge in Kat’s voice is more troubling: Kat has gone for the jugular, her weakest, most sensitive spot. She bends over and retches, fighting to breathe. To think of all the times she’s protected Kat during this trip and she’s been mocking her behind her back.
Kat bounds up by her side, like a boxer waiting to pounce. She hasn’t had enough yet.