The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘They stick a camera up your bum hole,’ he says.

  ‘Are you not worried about it?’ I say.

  ‘As long as they take the tripod off, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Anyway, I need a night out,’ Julian says, ‘before I have to go into hospital. The Toon, baby. Tonight.’

  ‘Newcastle on any night is my idea of hell: Mexican mariachi bands, giant blow-up bananas and gaggles of girls dressed as Princess Leia.’

  ‘How can you refuse a friend who has…’

  ‘Has what?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know what.’

  ‘Has to have a camera shoved up his bum hole?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh, alright, but we eat first. Somewhere nice.’

  So, we’re sitting in McDonald’s in The Big Market, because somebody “forgot” to book the restaurant and the queues for Jamie Oliver’s and The Botanist were ridiculous, and who should walk in but Mick and all his work cronies.

  ‘Bob, fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘Fancy,’ I say.

  ‘Out on the town?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Join us,’ Julian says, and I could have punched him in the throat.

  ‘Don’t mind if we do,’ Mick says, smirking at me.

  ‘What a hottie,’ Julian says when Mick goes to order his food.

  ‘Are you freakin’ kidding me?’

  ‘No, he’s a bit tasty.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you like fast food, so there’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘I dunno, you’ll have to ask him. You have the worst gaydar of any gay man I’ve ever known.’

  ‘He married? Kids?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Not that that’s always an indicator, cos I’ve known plenty of married men who help out when we’re short. Be a good girl and put a word in for me.’

  ‘My friend thinks you’re cute,’ I say when Mick returns from the counter balancing a tray and fumbling to stuff his change into a trouser pocket.

  ‘Is this one of those things where people say their friend but really mean themselves?’ says Mick. Told you he was a dick.

  ‘Er, what do you think?’

  ‘I think you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me all evening.’

  ‘And I think you talk out of a hole in your head.’

  ‘Methinks you protesteth too much, Roberta dear.’

  ‘Get lost.’ I storm out, and Julian follows me.

  ‘What did he say? He interested?’

  ‘No, he’s straight.’

  ‘Damn. What a waste.’

  An Asian taxi driver pulls up beside us and winds down his window. ‘You want lift?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Get us out of here.’

  ‘We leaving your friends?’ Julian asks.

  ‘They’re not my friends.’ We jump in, and the driver pulls away.

  ‘Been busy?’ Julian asks him.

  ‘Your girlfriend is stunning,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s single.’

  I nudge him hard in the ribs, and he yelps.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Sinners,’ Julian says.

  ‘You’re joking,’ I say.

  ‘I thought we could hit the karaoke bar and then go to The Loft in the gay village.’

  ‘Sinners is the tackiest bar on the planet, and The Loft is the weirdest club in existence. Last time I went, I had my fanny bitten three times.’

  ‘Come on, Roberta, live a little.’

  When we get to Sinners, a sixty-year-old bald guy is singing “I Will Survive” while a stripper with bruises all over her thighs spins on a greasy pole.

  ‘He won’t survive for much longer if he doesn’t shut up,’ I say. ‘I’m ready to put him out of his misery.’

  ‘Killjoy,’ Julian says. ‘Come on, let’s get into the spirit of it.’ He orders a line of shots and downs them one after another. ‘Your turn.’

  Fifteen shots later and I’m on the mic with Julian singing, “I Am What I Am”. Two hours and a couple of lap dances later (one by me and one for me), we leave Sinners and stand in line for The Loft. A girl with a lobster tattooed on her nose and a mullet perched on her head stamps our hands as we pay to get in. They should be paying me.

  We’re ordering tequila when Mick the dick and co arrive.

  ‘Told you he was on my team,’ Julian says.

  ‘He isn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Then what’s he doing here?’

  ‘Er, excuse me, I’m here.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re with me and…’

  ‘And he might be with a gay friend.’

  ‘True, or he might be on the bi-bus.’ Julian waves, and they stagger over. ‘Roberta’s pulled,’ he says. Mick gives me a look of disgust. Where does he get off? ‘The taxi driver, no less.’

  ‘Great, you can blow him on the way home, so he’ll waive the fare,’ Mick says with ice in his voice.

  I decide against that suggestion and sneak away alone, leaving Julian to leer over Mick and the Foetus.

  #hangoverfromhell

  Today is a terrible day. Menopausal hangovers are the worst. The hot flushes are like forest fires, and my head pounds relentlessly. I am never speaking to Julian again. It’s all his fault.

  I got home at five and was woken at six by a blank text from Mick. I have no idea what that was about. Maybe it was to tell me he’s not speaking to me. He was particularly obnoxious last night. If he thinks I’m going back to work for him when he can’t even be civil, he’s got another think coming.

  I down four Nurofen and two Panadol with a glass of orange juice. I retch and bring them all back up. I retire to bed for the day with a cold cloth and a bucket.

  I eventually wake after a day of the DTs and have seven missed calls from Mick, two from Drew and one from Shoni. I’m too tired to ring people back. Julian sends a text to say, ‘Good night. Btw you were right about Mick.’

  Dear God, I hope this means he thinks I’m right about him being a dick and doesn’t mean he tried it on with him. I hope Mick doesn’t think I put him up to it. He probably does. That’s probably what the missed calls are about. I’ll just ignore them until he calms down.

  20

  #flippingburgers

  I lost two days of my life to a monumental hangover. Drew rings with a crisis and needs my help. He has an appointment with a supplier and needs me to man the van. Or woman the van, as the case may be. Me? Flipping burgers. Bloody Nora. So, it is my only son’s fault I suffer the biggest humiliation of my life to date. That might be an exaggeration – there have been many degradations – but my face is still burning.

  So, I’m there in the middle of Newcastle wearing a ketchup-stained white coat and hat, flipping burgers and smelling of onions. There is a queue from me to County Hall, and I am running out of white rolls. The heat is unbearable. A furnace. My face is lit up like a traffic light and sweat springs from every pore.

  ‘Nice buns,’ a voice says. Of course, who else but Mick the Dick?

  I want to tell him to piss off, but there is a line of customers, and it won’t look good. Drew will never forgive me if I ruin his big chance.

  ‘What do you want?’ I manage.

  ‘Nine burgers, four hotdogs, one without mustard, one without ketchup, two without onions, or mustard, two cheeseburgers, five diet Cokes, four regular, one Dr Pepper…’

  ‘Do you wanna say that again?’ I say grabbing a pen and writing on the corner of a paper bag. How does Drew remember it all?

  ‘Not really.’

  I throw him one of my best looks.

  ‘Oh, alright. Nine burgers, four hotdogs, one without mustard, one without ketchup, two without onions, or mustard, two cheeseburgers, five diet Cokes, four regular, one Dr Pepper, or was it four diet and five regular?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘The customer is always right, Bob.’

  ‘A h
undred and sixteen pounds and eighty-seven pence please.’ I’m reaching into the bag for his change when everything moves. I can feel myself falling in slow motion, but there is nothing I can do to stop it.

  When I wake up, I’m lying on the grass, my skirt past my knees and my blouse open. A man in green leans over me.

  ‘Hello, Roberta. Can you tell me what day it is? Who’s the prime minister?’ I can’t remember what day it is. They all roll into one when you’re not working. And I can’t remember the prime minister’s name. Ineffectual, stuck-up little shite who went to public school and thinks benefits are something Daddy gets from the board. Name escapes me. Terrible haircut. If they ask me who Peter Andre is shagging or who won Love Island, I could tell them. As it is, they think I have concussion from the fall.

  ‘She’s delirious,’ a voice says.

  ‘She’s sweating terribly.’ Obviously never heard of the menopause, these fuckers.

  ‘Better take her in. Would you like to come in the ambulance, sir?’

  So, I’m sitting in the ambulance, hooked up to a drip, with Mick mopping my sweaty brow.

  ‘Thought I was gonna have to give you the kiss of life there, Roberta.’

  ‘God forbid,’ I say.

  He puts on this pathetic wounded look. ‘Wouldn’t be that bad, would it?’ he says.

  ‘I’d rather pierce my own nipples with a fish fork.’

  ‘Normal Friday night for you, I should imagine.’

  ‘Ooh, call the tailor to stitch up my sides.’

  ‘Just relax,’ says the man in green who I learn is called Dave. ‘We’re nearly at the hospital.’

  ‘I really don’t need to go to hospital. What about Drew’s burger van?’

  ‘Drew?’ asks Mick.

  ‘My boy–’

  ‘Oh, your boyfriend. Just how many do you have, Roberta?’ There’s that fake wounded look again. I have one nerve left, and he’s swinging on it.

  ‘Hundreds,’ I say. ‘Not to mention the secret admirers.’

  ‘Don’t worry about your boyfriend’s catering van.’ I don’t correct him. I don’t want him to think I’m sad and single. ‘Tammy is looking after it. She quite fancies herself as a burger tosser or whatever they’re called. Have to say I thought you had more ambition than that.’

  ‘Should’ve been you. You’re an expert tosser,’ I say, and I’m about to put him right about a few things when the ambulance lurches to a stop, and the paramedic opens the back doors.

  ‘Right, you, let’s be having you.’ He drags me out, bumping me down a number of steps.

  ‘I bet you don’t get this if you go private. I bet Bupa doesn’t feel like the bumper cars,’ I say.

  Dave ignores my protestations and wheels me into the manic A&E, dumping me on a trolley in a corridor saying, ‘One more coming in, Barbara. This bitch bites.’

  I shall be writing to my MP.

  ‘I’m not lying here all day,’ I say to Mick. ‘If they haven’t seen to me in ten minutes, I’m leaving.’ I try to loosen the strap that has me shackled to the table. ‘I feel like I’m at an S and M convention.’

  ‘Damn, I left my gimp mask in the ambulance.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got things to do,’ I say.

  ‘Not especially,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of leaving you,’ he says. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ I say.

  ‘So bossy,’ he says.

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, no wonder you were in line for a management position.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, before you went shooting your mouth off and spitting your dummy out, they were going to offer you the job of office manager.’

  I’m speechless, which is obviously very unlike me. He’s probably lying to wind me up.

  ‘So, would you consider coming back to work?’

  ‘Why?’ This must be some kind of trap.

  ‘Just wondered. We miss you. I miss you,’ he says.

  ‘No one to take the piss out of?’ I say.

  ‘On the contrary, there’s lots of people, but none so much fun as you.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ I say.

  ‘How about coming back on Monday? If you’re up to it.’

  ‘Of course, I’m up to it. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You had a nasty fall this afternoon.’

  ‘Nonsense, I just fainted because of the heat. I didn’t even bang my head. I’m absolutely fine. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be helping Drew.’

  ‘So, you’ll come back Monday?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you take me home, right now.’

  I can’t even remember getting home. I wake alone to the beeping of my phone. I have a couple of abusive texts from Felicity which I delete and four missed calls from Mick. An insistent text tone reveals the message: ‘I know you’re there. Stop ignoring me. I have something to tell you.’

  I switch off the phone and fall back to sleep.

  I wake in a haze. When I switch on my phone, I have seven messages from Shoni. When I ring her, she’s crying. ‘He’s gone, Mum.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who’d you bloody think? Kevin.’

  I thought it would be all my fault. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s been acting strange, and when I woke up this morning, he’d gone. There was a note that said, “Don’t try to follow me.” Except I can’t follow him, because I don’t know where he’s gone.’ She wails, and I can hear her blowing her nose.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ I say.

  ‘How can it possibly be for the best?’ she screams at me. ‘You say the stupidest things. You have no understanding of anything. What kind of mother are you?’ I’m aware she must have been talking on the house phone as I hear a slam as she cuts me off. I’ll ring her later when she’s calmed down.

  Drew rings to ask if I’m ok, and when I say I’m fine, he berates me for leaving his beloved burger van.

  ‘Lucky that Tammy did an ok job of cooking and selling, so my reputation isn’t entirely ruined.’

  So, what are you complaining about? is what I want to say. Instead, I say, ‘Good. That’s good.’ I’m getting good at this biting my tongue lark.

  #stillbitingmytongue

  The receptionist from the doctor’s surgery calls today. She says the doctor wants me to make an appointment, so she’s made one for me for Monday. I’ve decided I’ll go back to work. I ring Mick, and he invites me for a back-to-work meeting on Monday, so I’ll have to cancel the doctor’s appointment. It can’t be anything important, or he’d have rung himself instead of getting the dragon to do it.

  The menopausal symptoms are no better. I have a horrible metallic taste in my mouth, and I’ve gone off coffee and mushrooms. Even the sight of them on MasterChef makes me want to barf. The night sweats are getting worse, and I’m suffering from terrible headaches. What we women have to put up with is nobody’s business. I wish I was through the other side. I must buy an electric razor.

  I text Mick to ask for the number for HR as the one I have is going straight to voicemail. ‘You don’t need an excuse to get in touch’ is his pathetic, juvenile response. Seriously, the man is a total douchebag.

  Shoni rings to say the druggie from Dagenham is back safe and sound. Well, safe. I’m not sure how sound he is. He’d been to buy her a present, a proper engagement ring, which was why he said not to follow. She wants to know what I meant by my “maybe it’s for the best” remark.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s just one of those things that people say.’

  ‘Maybe people should be more careful about the things they say in future,’ she says.

  ‘Believe me, I’m being very fucking careful.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks. That girl is always spoiling
for a fight.

  ‘Nothing, Shoni. I’ve got to go. There’s someone on the house phone.’

  That’s a lie, but then, the phone rings, and Carolyn say, ‘There’s a weird man keeps hanging round outside Grandma’s house.’

  I tell her to ring the police. You hear all sorts, don’t you, about stalkers and weirdos doing away with people in their sleep. I tell her to change the locks, and she says she rang me for reassurance, but she now feels terrified to go to sleep.

  ‘Thanks, Mother.’

  There’s no bloody pleasing some people.

  Shoni rings again all sweetness and light (bloody schitzo) to ask if I think it’s appropriate to ask Carolyn to be her bridesmaid. I say I think it’s a lovely idea.

  ‘You don’t think I should ask Lisa, do you?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know what the protocol is for lesbian partners,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a rule book.’

  ‘I know that, Mother, but what’s the done thing?’

  ‘I think people pretty much do as they please these days.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Because I don’t think she’d suit lemon Grecian.’

  I say nothing.

  The receptionist from the doctors’ surgery rings again. I can tell by her voice it’s Maria. Fat woman with a moustache and an arse that should have a “Danger wide load” sticker. I can’t stand her.

  ‘Mrs Gallbreath, Doctor Lambert…’

  ‘It’s Miss.’

  ‘…has been trying to get in touch with you. He’s rung you personally and left messages for you to get in touch.’

  ‘My answerphone is broken,’ I say.

  ‘He’s sent two letters.’

  ‘Post must’ve been delayed.’ I glance at the unopened mail on the hallstand.

  ‘It’s important that you make an appointment at antenatal.’

  ‘For who?’ Am I missing something? Is Shoni pregnant and didn’t tell me? Why would she give my number?

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Why on earth would I need to make an appointment at antenatal?’

  ‘Because your recent pregnancy test was positive,’ she snaps.

  ‘What pregnancy test? I haven’t had a…’ I remember the doctor asking for a urine sample. I can’t remember him saying he was doing a pregnancy test. He might have done but… ‘I can’t be pregnant. I’m menopausal.’