Lobsters

by Lucy Ivison

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ yelled Robin, bear hugging me.

  I couldn’t contain it any longer. My excitement at seeing Hannah and remembering how much I liked her got the better of me. I told him everything – about meeting her in the bathroom at Stella’s party, the double date, the fact that I was Toilet Boy.

  ‘Fuck. Ing. Hell,’ Robin yelled over the ear-splitting techno. ‘So that whole time at Westfield, that Ribena bloke Stella was talking about was you?’

  I nodded, managing to feel simultaneously proud and embarrassed.

  ‘No wonder Hannah was so weird. You just sat there in silence while Stella told us how much she loved you!’

  Hearing Robin say it made it suddenly seem real, and I felt a surge of excitement pulse through me.

  ‘What else could I do?’ I shouted. ‘I couldn’t have owned up while we were all sat round that table – it would have been even more embarrassing for Hannah if you and Stella had known the truth. And I was supposed to be on a date with Stella, anyway.’

  Robin shook his head. ‘You are never allowed to complain about girls not fancying you again.’

  We suddenly spotted Chris bounding towards us through the swaying crowd. He was wild-eyed, shirtless and sporting freshly-inked tribal-style henna tattoos on his arm.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, grinning madly. ‘I stayed with the conga line. We went to some weird places. I think I got married to a mannequin at one point.’

  ‘I love this tune!’ yelled Ben, as the DJ dropped an abrasive techno song that sounded exactly the same as every other abrasive techno song he’d played previously. We danced until we were too tired to stand up. Then we stomped back to the tents, muddy, drunk and happy.

  The next day, we awoke to throbbing hangovers and unbearable heat. The walls of the tent felt like they were on fire. Robin kicked himself out of his sleeping bag, gasping and holding his head in his hands.

  ‘Fresh air …’ he croaked. ‘Water …’

  I unzipped the door and squinted out into the blinding daylight. The previous night’s monsoon seemed to have washed the sky clean and the sun was blazing down intensely across the fields, baking the mud rock solid.

  Ben and Chris went to get bacon sandwiches to remedy our hangovers. Robin stretched himself out on the damp grass, clutching our two litre water bottle to his chest.

  ‘So, what’s the plan today?’ he yawned. ‘You’re going to see Hannah again, right?’

  ‘I hope so. I think I really like her.’

  Robin raised an eyebrow. ‘You thought you really liked Jo. And she turned out to be an absolute knob.’

  It was true. But something about Hannah felt different. Liking Jo had always come with nagging, unsettling doubts. I couldn’t think of one thing I disliked about Hannah. Except the fact she had a boyfriend, of course.

  ‘There’s one problem, though,’ I said. ‘She’s got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Fuck him. He’s probably an idiot’. He took a swig from the water bottle and dried his lips on the sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘Hang on – if she’s got a boyfriend, what was she doing on that double date?’

  ‘I guess she just came along to be Stella’s wingman.’

  ‘Wingwoman,’ Robin corrected.

  ‘Yeah, wingwoman. Or maybe she didn’t even know it was a date thing.’

  Robin frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that. That sounds a bit suspect. If you had a boyfriend, I don’t think you’d go out with your mate and two other blokes, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe her boyfriend’s just cool with that sort of thing. Maybe he’s a model or something, and he doesn’t need to worry about her going out with other blokes.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ said Robin, sitting up straight, his eyes twinkling, ‘she’s not that into him. And that’s why she got all hot and bothered about meeting a twat like you in a bathroom at a party!’

  I let this theory sink in for a moment. A huge grin spread across my face, and I felt my hangover dissolving. I wished I’d spoken to Robin about this whole Hannah thing earlier; it had all got so twisted and confused being cooped up on its own inside my head. Apparently, a problem shared really was a problem halved.

  ‘You might be right,’ I said, still grinning like a maniac. ‘But whatever the case, she’s still with this bloke. She told me so last night. Maybe it’s just too big an obstacle.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Robin. ‘The bigger the obstacles, the more you’re meant to be together, I reckon. Look at Ron and Hermione. Obstacles everywhere. But did Hermione give up on Ron when he was dating Lavender Brown? Did Ron give up on Hermione when she was knocking about with that Bulgarian Quidditch bloke? Did they let the pressure of tracking down the final few Horcruxes tear them apart? No. All the drama they went through made it all the more poignant when they finally got together.’

  He noticed me grinning and checked himself.

  ‘At least … I think that’s what happened. That’s what my sister said, anyway. I don’t know.’

  I laughed and grabbed the water bottle off him. ‘It feels stupid thinking about girls and stuff when we’ve got bigger things to worry about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Global warming? Because I reckon that’ll turn out all right. Fuss over nothing.’

  ‘No, I mean results. Uni. All that. I know I fucked up French.’

  Robin groaned. ‘You worry too much, Sam.’

  Ben and Chris returned with doorstop-sized bacon sandwiches, and the four of us ate, drank and played Frisbee as the afternoon sun beat down.

  At about 6 p.m. we started getting ready to head out into the main field for the evening. My contact lenses were itching, so I went off to the toilets to take them out. I was slightly pissed off that, if I bumped into Hannah again, I’d be wearing my glasses, which – as Robin likes to point out – make me look like ‘a crap hipster’.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ I yelled.

  11

  Hannah

  I haven’t seen a lot of willies. The list is:

  1. My brother’s (doesn’t count).

  2. Daniel Radcliffe’s in Equus at the Gielgud Theatre (a long way away and not aimed at me specifically, so also doesn’t count).

  3. Freddie Clemence’s at Alicia Miller’s sixteenth birthday party. (I tossed him off. Well sort of. I had no idea what I was doing so I just watched him do it himself really and occasionally touched it a bit. It was embarrassing. Definitely counts but isn’t exactly an impressive list for an eighteen-year-old who isn’t a Christian or some sort of freak.)

  Number four actual willy-sighting was at the festival. I saw a boy weeing into a plastic bottle.

  Waiting in line for the toilets I wished I could wee like that too. Waiting forty-five minutes to do something that you can do on demand at home is pretty depressing. By the time I got to the front I was crossing my legs and in moderate pain.

  I saw Sam before he saw me. He was trying to wash his glasses under a tap. When they were clean he tried to dry them on his jumper but it was muddy so just smeared them again. I didn’t know he wore glasses. He wasn’t wearing them at Stella’s house. Or at Westfield. In the end he put them on wet. And then just as I looked down, he saw me.

  It seemed to take him ages to decide what to do. And then he waved. The glands underneath my ears felt weird, like when you eat sour Haribo. My hair was so greasy. I couldn’t bear for him to see it up close so I put my hood up. I actually put my hood up like a rudeboy.

  Walking through mud takes about ten times as long as normal walking. How many times can you awkwardly smile at someone as they make their way over?

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  I thought he might lean in to kiss me, but he didn’t, thank god.

  ‘Hey,’ was all he said before a girl behind me tapped my shoulder.

  ‘Are you waiting?’ she asked. Which is a fucking stupid question when you’ve been standing in a line for longer than you
do for Air at Alton Towers.

  I nodded. And then I said to Sam, ‘Just a second.’

  And walked to the portaloo and opened the door.

  JUST. A. SECOND.

  I don’t know how that came out of my mouth or what I meant by it. I basically ordered him to wait. Like we were friends. Like I had something to say to him. Like when I’m telling my mum something and am texting at the same time. I just sat on the weird metal toilet with blue liquid in that stank and had no toilet paper and freaked out. I wanted to text Stella and say I had met Toilet Boy by the actual toilets and that she had to come NOW. But my phone had no reception.

  The hood was ridiculous. Even rudeboys must take their hoods down to wee.

  Sam was waiting by the taps when I came out. Whenever I am with boys I just end up saying the most boring Mum-ish things.

  ‘Are your glasses OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I really hate being blind.’

  ‘My nan always says I shouldn’t marry a man who wears brown suits, has facial hair or needs glasses.’

  He laughed. I’d basically told him he was a genetic failure. What I meant was, ‘You are so fit and I think you might be The One.’

  I told him about how long I’d been waiting for the toilet and about the boy weeing in the bottle.

  ‘What are you guys doing now?’ he asked.

  I felt put on the spot. I didn’t actually know. I didn’t have a cool plan to meet up with cool people like he probably did. We’d seen the acts. I guess we were just going to wander around and maybe dance a bit somewhere and then go back to the tent. We are a bit lame really.

  My nan always says fortune favours the brave. But I didn’t do the next thing out of courage. I did it so I didn’t have to share him with anyone else. ‘I’ve kind of lost the others.’

  ‘Oh shit, that sucks.’

  ‘Have you got reception?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  I felt like a lost child or something. I wondered if he felt compelled to stay with me. He probably wanted to get back to Yellow Hot Pants, who had impossibly perfect hair she didn’t need to cover with a hood, and somehow wasn’t splattered from head to toe with mud.

  I wanted to tell him it was OK for him to leave. I knew exactly where the girls were. Grace had told me ten times before I left that they would be by the Innocent smoothie stand.

  ‘Do you want to get some food?’ he said.

  I nodded and we wandered off. For a bit I triple-checked everything I said in my head first but then we just talked. Not like talking to a friend, but still talking. Still saying things you actually think. For a while we walked in silence and it wasn’t that weird.

  A man dressed all in yellow gave Sam a Happiness Token.

  ‘Hey man, get happy! Here’s a Happiness Token for you and your girl,’ he said.

  My stomach flipped because he had presumed we were together.

  Sam didn’t say, ‘She’s not my girl. My girl is currently taking cool Instagram pictures of her yellow hot pants because she is incredibly hot’. He just said, ‘I guess so, cheers’, and gave me the token.

  We walked to a field I had never been into and passed a tent with a sign outside that read, Silent Disco.

  So we went in and took some headphones and danced around. Not mental and pilled-up and crazy like the other people in there, but sort of like kids at a wedding. We just bopped about. Sam didn’t seem that bothered about being cool. At one point this crazy old hippie started waltzing with him and he just went along with it.

  Sam was awkward and gangly and sometimes he looked sort of anxious but he seemed really kind too. When we left there was a shoe on the ground and he picked it up and put it on a bench so the person who lost it might find it.

  We walked further as the sun started to go down. We bought some cider and talked about what might happen if you went to the end of the universe and what you would fall into if you fell off the edge. And then we talked about what duvet covers we had when we little and how mums always buy cheap biscuits so they last longer.

  We passed this opening where a pagan priestess was conducting non-legally binding marriage ceremonies and watched some crazy drunk people, mostly pissed best mates, pretend to get married and dance around runes.

  I could hear the soundtrack to Bugsy Malone playing. I love Bugsy. I’ve got the limited edition DVD.

  ‘I love Bugsy Malone.’

  It came out of my mouth before I could stop it. I made a mental note to say something effortlessly cool later to make up for it.

  We walked towards the tent – which had a sign saying ‘MAD HATTER’S TEA PARTY’ hanging above the entrance – and Sam grabbed my hand and pulled me in. Inside there was a band playing and a woman in a slinky dress and feather boa was singing Nina Simone songs.

  There were little round tables and people drinking out of tea cups. And a massive trunk that people were pulling clothes out of and dressing up in. When I looked over at the dance floor everyone was in fancy dress. I pulled a red satin floor length ball gown out, took off my hoodie and pulled it on over my vest and shorts. My wellies stuck out of the bottom. I knew my bra was showing but it felt stupid to put my hoodie back on.

  A girl trying on a tiara next me said, ‘You look amazing in that dress.’

  Sam nodded and smiled at me. ‘Yeah, you do. Although, you’ve somehow managed to get mud on your neck. That’s pretty impressive.’

  I had mud everywhere. Sam had put on a bowler hat and a black suit that was far too big for him.

  A man dressed as a white rabbit took our drinks orders. We both asked for gin and tonics and he served them to us from a teapot.

  We danced around some more and a woman in seamed tights with victory rolls in her hair took a Polaroid picture of us.

  We sat on velvet cushions and talked to the people around us while we drank our gin. Then we got up and tried to do the tango.

  Finally, the tent closed so we changed back into our clothes and walked out into the night. People were starting to make their way back to their tents.

  ‘Will Stella and the others be worried about you?’

  ‘Nah, we’re cool about stuff like that.’

  Grace had probably called the police and my mum, and the BBC for good measure.

  Because of the mud and everyone trampling I hadn’t sat down outside since we got here. But outside the costume tent the grass was still intact.

  Sitting down and looking around at how empty the field was made me realize how late it was.

  ‘I feel like a cup of tea.’

  ‘Or some hot Ribena.’

  It was the first time either of us had brought up that night. The night he had pulled Stella. I wanted to deflect from the memory of me wanting him.

  ‘Will your mates be worried?’ I asked him.

  ‘Nah, they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh, cool.’

  He stared down at his feet.

  ‘How come your boyfriend couldn’t make it?’

  ‘Erm … He had to work.’

  ‘That sucks. Where does he work?’

  ‘At Morrisons.’

  Even my fictional boyfriends are crap. Why didn’t I say he was on a gap year? Or that he worked in a club?

  We looked at the stars for a bit. If it was a film, he would have kissed me then. But if it was a film I would look like Yellow Hot Pants. And not invent fictitious shelf-stacking boyfriends.

  Sam

  I should probably have kissed her when we were lying under the stars. I kept thinking, ‘Now! Do it now!’ But it just seemed like such a cliché. Maybe girls are into clichés, though. Crap romantic comedies are full of them.

  Of course, the main reason I didn’t go in for the kiss was her boyfriend. I couldn’t figure it out. If she was really with him, what was she doing lying in a field with me? Maybe Robin had been right.

  I didn’t feel like I needed to impress her. With Panda and Erin and Jo and pretty much everyone else I’ve ever fancied, I was always
conscious of sounding like a dick. I couldn’t allow a single sentence to leave my mouth without first running a mental X-ray scan on it, in case there was something stupid or uncool concealed inside.

  It felt weird to think that me and Hannah had only really known each other for about seven hours. As we lay there I felt as comfortable with her as I do with Robin or Chris. More comfortable, actually.

  Neither of us knew anything about astronomy so we took it in turns to make up constellation names. She pointed out ‘Kim Kardashian’s Bum’. I pointed out ‘Simon Cowell’s Hair’.

  My phone had run out of battery so I couldn’t tell how long we stayed there, but by the time we finally stood up, the sun was rising.

  We walked back towards our tents through the main field. It was pretty much deserted compared to the previous night – just a few barely conscious bodies on the ground, most of them still clutching cider bottles or long-expired spliffs.

  We passed through a little encampment of unbearably twee stalls where dreadlocked students were flogging tarot cards and hand-crafted wind chimes.

  ‘Oh man, I can’t stand stuff like this,’ I said, pointing at a large display of crystal skulls and yin-yang symbol T-shirts.

  ‘Yeah, me neither,’ she nodded. ‘I actually stopped fancying Robert Pattinson in Year 9 when I found out that he owned a dreamcatcher.’

  ‘Very wise,’ I smiled. ‘At least he wasn’t into star signs. That stuff bugs me the most.’

  Hannah gasped in mock horror. ‘My nan would never forgive you if she heard you say that. She’s obsessed with star signs. She once told me the reason I messed up my Physics exam was because Capricorns have short attention spans.’

  I laughed. ‘I just think the idea that the month you were born in has any bearing on what kind of person you are is ridiculous.’

  ‘When’s your birthday?’ she asked.

  ‘Eighteenth of August.’

  ‘Typical Leo,’ she grinned. ‘Stubborn and hot-headed.’

  We both cracked up. I couldn’t get over how fun, easy and just plain good it felt to talk to her.

  ‘So, where are you going to uni?’ she asked, as we passed a little wooden booth covered with a thick velvet curtain bearing the words, ‘Fortune Teller’.