by Becci Fox
I wore a brand new dress that night. Grey and off-the-shoulder with black jewels on the front. The skirt bit was all ruched up around the bum and hips, and two drapes of material hung down the back. And it was a low back, which showed off my favourite asset. Sorry to blow my own trumpet, but my sex was on fire. Oh, and these fab beige shoes from Kate Kuba that are suede with a snakeskin platform and heel. I think you’ll agree my look was classy, glamorous and very sexy. The only slutty thing was the tightness of the dress, although I would call that a silhouetting of the curves. It never fails to reel in the admirers.
Brooke went for a long orange-and-blue silk dress with a slit right up the leg. It sounds rank, but totally worked with a tan. Gemma kept it classic with a tight black sequinned dress, but it had a cut-out side panel on one side. Some people don’t have the figure for these dresses, and it makes me sick up in my mouth when I see flesh squeezing through these cut-outs. Why don’t people know that’s just nasty? But Gemma has the flattest stomach ever, so all you could see was her taut golden-brown skin. She looked one hundred per cent smoking hot.
Perhaps too hot, because it kicked off between Gem and Grant. If I remember rightly, it went something like this:
GRANT: ‘Darlin’, you’re not going anywhere looking like that without me.’
GEM: ‘Shut up, Grant. I’m not going to do anything, am I? I’ve only got eyes for you.’
GRANT: ‘Yeah, and they’ll all have their filthy eyes on you. Put a jacket on or go change.’
GEM: ‘What? We always go out like this. What do you want me to wear? A bin liner?’
GRANT: ‘Nah, because you’d get the bin liner and cut out some holes so your lils can poke out. That diamond ring you’re wearing is a symbol of . . . Oi, where’s the ring?’
GEM: ‘I don’t want to lose it, do I?’
GRANT: ‘I’ve heard it all now. You’re on the fucking pull.’
What happened next was something I’ve seen her do before, but it still fascinates me. Gemma just goes over to him, holds his face, strokes his hair and says something quietly. What does she say? She never tells me. She’s like the Boyfriend Whisperer. Thankfully, the taxi honked outside. ‘See you, Grant. Have a good night,’ we yelled as Gemma worked the final stages of her magic. When I made her tell me what was winding him up so much, she went, ‘I think he was just jealous because he wants a big night out. He’s not used to staying in.’
‘Guess he’s feeling old now. What with you both engaged and twenty-seven,’ Brooke said flippantly. Gem’s face was like thunder. She takes everything so personally and hates anybody even suggesting she’s getting on. Pretty much every time we’re on a dance floor, she’ll yell at me, ‘STILL GOT IT.’ And I just think, ‘Issues, hun.’ It’s probably because I’m still twenty-six and free and single that I can’t relate to this.
Course I’ve still got it. Where would it have gone?
I bloody love Nu Bar. I’d actually bullied the other two to go here before going to One9Five, even though it was a cab ride all the way back to Loughton, which is practically next door to my house. I’m not normally such a dictator, but I hadn’t been out for ages because of the shitty snow, so I was suffering from major cabin fever. I needed my Nu Bar fix to see who was out and about.
This place gets majorly rammed, but that makes it all the better for getting up close and personal. It’s got even crazier since TOWIE and queues are snaking round the corner by 10 p.m., so you’re an idiot if you don’t get there before then. And when I say it gets rammed, about eight hundred people go through their doors on Saturday nights though the place is only the size of my living room. The entrance is the only roomy part of the bar and we always bag the prime spot – to the right of the doors, by the window, perched on three white stools. It’s like holding court cos basically anyone we know will come to us as soon as they’ve come in, and that guarantees us a drink since they’re always en route to the bar. And if we clock a hottie we don’t know, we can keep tabs on them as soon as they walk in.
Essex is proudly sexist and ageist – to get into Nu Bar, girls have to be over eighteen, but the guys have to be over twenty-one. Young girls make a venue look hotter and men under twenty-one start fights. That’s just fact. You get a lot of Spurs players down here, but I’m still waiting for David Bentley to show up. And before you say anything, I know he’s on loan to West Ham. WEGs might not watch football, but we follow all the fit players.
It’s so easy to pull round here, so you can afford to be properly choosy. Some say I’m too picky, but I’m not going to go after any old bloke. Especially as you have to be careful of bullshitters. Pretty much every bloke says they’re a semi-pro sportsman. To me, that means they play golf at the weekend. Mark Wright used to be a semi-pro footballer. You see what I’m saying? A lot of people from school have stuck around the area, but there are a handful that moved to London, and they forget that West Essex is social central. For instance, the fourth member of our group, Cleo, lives in Camden with some girls she met at university. Whenever she comes back home, this is what she always says on a night out: ‘Oh my God, everyone’s so friendly in here. That girl at the bar just told me she’d give me a half-price manicure at her salon, that bloke over there bought me a drink, and that other bloke is married so he’s not on the pull, but he’s given me his business card . . .’ (Yeah, considering Cleo lives in London, she’s well green.) But anyway, my point is that London folk are deprived socially. When we go up west for a night out, our group is rarely infiltrated, and people don’t know what to do if you start talking to them. In Essex, I spend the night weaving in and out of people and conversations. If there’s someone you like, leave them hanging because there’s nothing like a bit of sexual tension and you can always seal the deal with a snog and a grope later. I think everyone’s a bit more uptight in London. Just saying. They’re all like, ‘Oh my God, I just spoke to a new person.’
Also, the quality of men in Essex is so much better. There are a lot of pretty boys who aren’t really my type, but there’s also a lot of manly men who seriously work out. Although I will say one negative thing. A lot of the guys here shave their chests. Hairy backs are just plain wrong, but I like a rug up front. Ryan always says if I was a gay man, I’d be into bears. Awww, bears! The gays are too cute.
Brooke got in the first round of drinks. Champagne, naturally. She’d done the barman at Christmas so she didn’t actually pay. To be honest, with us in the window, we were doing the business a favour. I guess you’re thinking we sell ourselves to get the perks, but I don’t think Brooke had a bad time when she was taking one for the team.
Just as we were clinking glasses, I felt the room go cold. Bloody Vicki P. had walked in. As expected, she gave us such evils. What I was saying earlier about people being more friendly here – I forgot to add that arch-enemies are the exception to the rule. But they do add a bit of drama to the night, so I guess they have their place.
Vicki P. is this tall, skinny bitch who went to Essex Hogwarts and she is a total Malfoy. She even has the bleach-blonde hair in a pixie-crop which she gels back when she’s feeling proper evil. Just because her dad’s in some ageing rock band that I’ve never heard of she reckons she’s the dog’s bollocks. She’s definitely a dick. She doesn’t even do a quick cutting glance at you. She’ll start the look with your hair, and then she’ll slowly work her way down your body, and her eyes look like they’re burning with disgust and her nose wrinkles like she’s just smelt something bad. It’s one hundred per cent chilling. They should take her out to Afghanistan and stick her in terrorist areas so she can glare out with a glass of rosé in one hand and a fag in the other. Those extremists would totally forget about the bombs strapped to their chests and just think, ‘Shit, why didn’t I trim my beard before I left the cave?’
So anyways, Vicki was managing to give us the look while talking to the doorman, who is a complete legend – I’ll call him Barry the Bouncer, otherwise all the other door guys will get jel if I single h
im out. Somehow she managed to give us evils while turning on the charm for him. I can’t even explain how that’s possible, but it’s multitasking in its nastiest sense.
‘She’s something else,’ said Brooke, returning the glare. Brooke’s spent years trying to dish the look back to Vicki, but it’s really difficult. West Essex is like the Wild West sometimes.
‘Such a boys’ girl,’ observed Gemma, and we all nodded our heads and looked away to express our contempt. In our group, there’s no worse insult than to be called that. A boys’ girl only livens up when there’s a bloke she can flirt with, but she has nothing to say to her own kind. In my mind, that means there’s something seriously wrong with her. Vicki P. had found one friend to come out with her that night (the mate wasn’t a looker, so not a threat), but you knew she’d be ditched as soon as Vicki had pulled. No loyalty. Although it’s no good being a girl’s girl either, before you start going the other way. You need to be multisex and give everyone your time. Unless they’re a complete loser.
By 9 p.m., the bar was a sea of tight dresses and even tighter shirts. When it comes to looking good in Essex, less is more: the less you wear, the more attention you get. There’s a shop in Loughton that has this written above the changing room in pink letters: ‘Fashion is all about eventually becoming naked.’ That pretty much says it all. If you’re not being noticed, why do you bother going out, huh?
We got approached by so many blokes that night that aren’t even worth mentioning, but I will tell you about the three blokes that made us want to run screaming. I forgot to mention a major problem with Essex men: they are vertically challenged. I don’t know what’s in the water round here, but five foot six is the average height of an Essex man. They try to make up for it by wearing Cuban heels, but seriously, mate, I can see you’re short. And these three munchkins were no exception.
‘Alright ladies,’ said one with tinted blond tips. He had so much self-assurance he made Simon Cowell look shy. That’s the thing – their shortfall makes them cockier. Blondie then takes the ice out of his drink and slams it on the table in front of us so we all jump.
‘What the fuck was that about?’ screeched Brooke.
‘I’m breaking the ice, aren’t I?’
How lame.
‘Have you been going round the bar all evening doing that?’ I asked.
‘Nah, you’re my first victims,’ he replied. The other two just stood there laughing at his every word. He was clearly the ringleader. Nice blue eyes, though.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Blondie goes to Brooke.
‘Nice one, babe. Do you just speak in chat-up lines?’
‘Nah, I do know you. Weren’t you the air hostess on the Malaga to Stansted flight last week?’
Brooke looked thoughtful, and then her face dropped.
‘Oh yeah, I remember you. You’re the bloke who’d just got off working on a yacht. You harassed me.’
‘Spot on, darling. I’m going back there in May if you want to join me on my yacht.’
Brooke turned to us and jabbed her thumb in his direction. ‘This one is a right wise guy – don’t you remember I told you about that nightmare flight?’
There are so many tools on Brooke’s flights that it’s really hard to keep up.
‘The first thing he says to me is, “Alright, love, wanna check me seat belt, do ya?”, and then he winks to the lads he’s with as he cups his balls. Then he turns round and says, “My mates are telling me to ask if you want to go to breakfast with me? You reckon that’s a good chat-up line?” So I say, “Nah, not really.” Then I give him his drink and he chucks something down his shirt and goes, “Let’s play a game: I’ve hidden an icecube on my body. You’ve got to find it.” You was nonstop for three bloody hours,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘And your obsession with ice is just weird, too.’
Blondie properly puffed his chest out with pride.
‘If I was a really ugly guy, I wouldn’t chat up girls, would I? Admit it, you enjoyed it. Who’s the gobbiest geezer you’ve ever had on a flight?’
‘You.’
‘And who’s the prettiest? And the fittest?’
Fuck, this guy was something else.
After a few minutes they realized they were getting nowhere, but as we said our goodbyes the bloody photographer came over. ‘Can I get a picture of you lot?’ he asked, already lifting up his camera. Every bar in Essex has a photographer. It’s like having to deal with the paps, which obviously everyone in this room wants. We didn’t make any effort to get out of our seats, so we looked like giants hanging out with Dopey, Sleepy and Sleazy. I was just freaking out about it going up on Nu Bar’s website. After the weekend, everyone scans the gallery to see who’s been there. I could see Vicki P. was bloody laughing it up, the bitch. I monitored the website for a month, but they must have thought the circus had come to town so it never got put up. How lucky was that?
As the tiny fellas walked away (obviously, Blondie couldn’t just say a simple ‘Bye’ and went, ‘Thank you. Good Night. Much love’ and so on), Brooke turned to us with wide eyes and a pursed mouth.
‘They didn’t even offer to get us a drink. After all I’ve had to put up with from that guy. Out-bloody-rageous.’
‘Yeah, but then we’d have owed them and they’d have followed us around,’ said Gemma.
‘Nah, that’s not true. We’re masters of shaking people off,’ Brooke replied. ‘Right, no more time-wasters, let’s get involved,’ and with that Brooke launched herself off the stool – but the back of her dress stayed on the seat, lifting up for all to see two peachy cheeks.
‘Whoaarrrrrr . . .’ went the crowd. Brooke just raised her arms like an actor lapping up a standing ovation. She’s good for getting us noticed like that. I was just relieved she’d worn a black thong. If there’s any risk of a VPL, she goes commando. The girl has no fear.
We weaved our way through the people and stood at the corner of the bar with the last few dregs of our drinks. It didn’t take long for some blokes to get the drinks in. Just as we were planning to make a strategic manoeuvre over to a couple of fitties by the DJ, I heard a familiar voice. ‘Becci, what you doing here?’ I turned around thinking what a dumb question, to find my cousin Russ stood there. Let’s just say the brains of the family don’t come from my mum’s side. Bless him, he reminds me of an excitable puppy sometimes. It’s the way he bounds up to you all wide-eyed, his tongue lolling to one side. He’s as skinny as a whippet too – it’s all that nervous energy. But what I wouldn’t do for Russ’ cheekbones.
‘Hun, why wouldn’t I be here?’ I reply.
‘I thought you were on holiday.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘That’s why you couldn’t come to my big club night up west. That’s what you said.’
I had been majorly busted, so I had to cover one lie with another. No other option.
‘Oh yeah, I was going on holiday, but then Tasha got ill so I had to run the shop this week.’
‘Shit, hope she’s OK.’
Lying to drunk people is ideal. If you’re caught out later, deny the conversation ever happened and make out they’re losing the plot.
‘Oh yeah, she’s fine now. She just had stuff coming out both ends so she couldn’t be near them wedding dresses.’
‘But then you still could have come last night.’
‘Yeah, but I thought I was going on holiday, didn’t I, so I didn’t put it my diary. Sorry, doll. But where’s your other half anyway?’ By this, I meant Rob. They do everything together. Apparently they’re not gays.
‘Rob’s having a slash.’
I was about to make some snide comment about cottaging (Ryan has taught me so much) when Brooke rocked up with a bottle of champagne and a well buff bloke in tow. Sweet as. She turned to my cousin and went, ‘Oi, Russ, you know The Only Way Is Essex?’
‘Know it, babe? I’m in it,’ said Russ smugly.
‘No way!’ gushed Brooke. Like we didn’t
know what with his hourly Facebook updates. ‘When were you in it?’
‘Last episode. Me and Rob were at the launch party at Minnie’s,’ he said proudly.
How many times have I heard this story? He claims he said a line which then got cut. How convenient. He probably thinks he’s the reason TOWIE got a BAFTA. Brooke’s hobby is winding up dickheads, so she couldn’t just leave it at that, could she?
‘Oh my God, Russ. So you going to be in it again?’
‘I should bloody hope so. It’s about who you know round here, ain’t it, and we’re like best mates with Kirk.’
‘Shuuuuut up!’ screamed Brooke. I spied Rob walking over really fast, which was quite something for him. He has this big, heavy body to haul around so speed is not his forte but he’s the most chilled-out bloke you’ll ever meet. He’s like the yin to Russ’ yang. Mentally, they’re a match made in heaven. And Rob’s had a thing for Brooke for ever. As if!
‘Alright, Brooke?’ he said, out of breath.
‘Hiya, Rob. Oh my God, Russ is just telling me about you two hitting the big time.’
‘Well, we don’t really like to talk about it, but yeah, and we got more coming up. Filming something for them on Monday.’
‘Fucking amazing, Rob. How do you guys fit it all in, acting and all your club nights?’
‘You got to take every opportunity thrown at you, ain’t ya?’
They were wearing matching checked shirts. You’d think they’d have consulted each other before leaving the house.
‘Oh fuck, it’s Bucket,’ Russ suddenly said, hiding behind me. I look over and clocked Vicki P. I had totally forgotten that was her nickname. How could I? Russ and her went out for about six months when we were nineteen, but she was very accommodating and would give anyone a ride who asked. Anyways, after they broke up, Russ bitterly started calling her Bucket. Turns out she has a cavernous organ. Not my words, his. It’s well empowering to find your nemesis’s secret shame. From then on, her death stare barely touched me because I’d remind myself that I wasn’t the one with a baggy noo noo. I get given a lot of dirt on people, but I also have a sieve for a memory. It’s such a cruel combination. I’m just glad I’ve had the chance to write the name down so it’s in black and white for eternity. Sweet justice.