‘Can I have a go?’ he asks, half drunk but half trying to help me preserve some sense of dignity. I shrug. These boobs don’t belong to me anymore. Have a squeeze. I place my hand over his to provide instruction.
‘Like, fingers there and there and squeeze.’
A stream of milk trickles over his fingers.
He giggles. ‘It’s warm.’
‘It’s not come out of a fridge,’ I tell him.
We’re both in hysterics. This is the first time he’s been near my breast for a while, so there’s relief he’s not completely fearful of them. It feels like he’s dipping his toe in the waters again to check it’s safe.
‘You want me to milk you next?’ I ask.
He raises his eyebrows at me but we both keel over laughing. I remember a time when I gave him a blowie at a concert. We’re so far removed from that point. I poke at my breast, now softer to the touch and grab his hand, kissing the fingers. It’s not remotely sexual in any way but it’s a comfort. I wouldn’t want to be milked by anyone else. I want to ask if we can just stay in this cubicle for the rest of the evening, away from the rest of the world.
‘That better?’ Will asks.
‘I mean it’d be better if someone attached their mouth to it and drained it properly.’
‘That’s kinky. Are we ready for that?’
I laugh a little too loudly and Will hushes me as we hear the shuffle of feet waiting by the door. He pushes some hair away from my face as I re-adjust myself in the mirror. I smooth down the hair frizz and reapply Vaseline to my lips and the dry patch of skin that has formed on my chin like some hormonal soul patch. As I do so, Will opens the door and as joy and luck would dictate it, Sam stands there, beaming like she’s had too much of the organic wine. That doesn’t look suspicious, us hogging the loos together and me re-applying my lip balm. I wonder how much she may have heard of our conversation too.
‘Oh.’ I can’t tell if she’s disgusted or impressed. ‘How are you both enjoying the evening?’
‘It’s a really lovely pub. The food is great,’ I say, my face rising to an ever deeper blush.
‘What did you have? she asks.
‘I had the chicken,’ Will mumbles.
‘I had the burrata and the risotto, it was all a delight,’ she replies. ‘So fresh.’
I pause. Burrata is a food trend I’ve not caught up with in the past year. I think it’s cheese. It’s not a burrito. But I can’t look uncultured and ask. She grabs my hand which takes me by surprise.
‘It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m totally in love with your boy.’
With Joe? Oh. Will? Like literally? If she is then we need to have a fight in these loos, right now.
‘We’re headed on to another bar, you are coming… yes? You must, you must.’
I smile. Make your excuses, William. We have a twelve-pound baby at your sister’s house, he’s the best excuse we’ve ever had to get out of things. But then if we stay and laugh at his boss’s jokes and compliment her then will this help him be part of the gang? Might she give my boy a bit more money and shoo him out of the office at a reasonable hour to see his infant son?
‘Sure thing, sounds fun,’ I say.
Will looks mildly shocked at my acceptance of the invitation. She squeals and links arms with me like she’s known me forever. ‘I’m going to do some lines now and then I’ll be good to go. You two want any?’
We both shake our heads in firm unison. She closes the door as Will and I stand there, his hand reaching down to grab mine.
Track Six
‘Scooby Snacks’ – Fun Lovin’ Criminals (1996)
Will is drunk. Properly drunk. I know Will is drunk because he’s standing in the middle of a Tesco Metro stroking the biscuits.
‘There are so many biscuits!’ he says, in wonder.
I am not drunk. Nowhere near. Ever since my mother and sister told me Joe ingests everything that goes in my breast milk, I’ve been paranoid as hell. I’m staring at energy drinks, craving them but knowing I had a double espresso in the restaurant which means if I take in any more caffeine, next time I feed, it’ll be like giving Joe jet fuel. He might take off and shoot into space. I should drink a shedload of water and wash that coffee out of me. I’m also hungry. Why am I always so effing hungry? Will comes in for a hug. I’ve always liked that about him, that my boyfriend is a hugger. Though he really chooses his moments.
‘I’m drunk.’
‘I know.’ While I did espresso, Will did more wine at the restaurant before we left. I cup his face. His eyes are swirling in different directions.
‘Thank you for coming tonight. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to keep her onside.’
‘By showing her how well you can handle your alcohol?’
‘I thought the alcohol would give me a second wind. I am now completely wired. Why are we doing this?’ he asks me, knowing I accepted this invite.
‘Maybe we stay for the one drink then slink away? It’d get you in her good books. They’ll be so drunk and coked up by that point they might not notice we’re gone?’ I suggest.
Will’s eyes light up and he clicks both fingers into shooting signs in my direction. ‘This is why we’re together. I’ve done so much sucking up tonight. I feel sullied.’
‘Is it working?’ I ask.
‘Who knows? But Philip and I are apparently both up for associate and she’s playing us off against each other. It’s borderline evil.’
‘You never told me that?’
‘Extra three grand a year. It’d be awesome.’
He goes quiet for a moment to think about that. I always fear he focuses too much on the financials of his career now, but I hope he’s not selling his soul in the process. I hope he still enjoys and loves what he does. It’s not the time to question this though as he’s stroking a packet of Oreos.
‘Do you want to get some Oreos?’ I ask in maternal tones.
He nods and hugs me. This is what happens when Will gets drunk, he regresses and I have to mother him and make sure he feels safe. Many an evening has been spent feeding him a kebab on a bus or making sure he doesn’t jump off things under the illusion that alcohol has given him the power to morph into Spider-Man. Tonight, he flits in and out of being super distracted and then dancing on the spot, grinding his hips like he’s listening to reggae.
‘I want to dance, shall we dance?’ This is a mystery to me given that they’re playing Celine Dion through the speakers.
‘Or not?’ I say, laughing.
‘But this is great as well, you and me being out and feeling like us again?’
I pause when he says this. When it was him and me versus the world, it was all so simple and fun. I remember night-time visits to corner shops, leaving with armfuls of chocolate-covered pretzels, Peperami, bottles of Beck’s and a few random scratch cards, and we didn’t even baulk at handing over our debit cards. But the word ‘us’ involves someone else now and there’s guilt at leaving Joe out of the picture. I am not the same girl anymore. I see her in this aisle bulk-buying Snickers. She’s thinner, full of joy and believes sleep is for the weak. I’m not sure that I actually like her much.
Will wraps his arms around me, again. ‘Let’s have sex later!’
I love how he announced that to the lady picking up a multipack of baked beans.
‘You really must be drunk.’
He embraces me tightly and looks me in the eye.
‘I’ve milked your boobies, that was all the foreplay I needed.’
I think the lady with the baked beans heard that too.
‘I always want to have sex with you. I love having sex with you, it’s just we don’t do it so much anymore because you’re…’
Please don’t be so wasted that you’re going to say the next bit out loud.
‘A mum now. We’re old.’
I laugh. ‘I believe you can still have sex after you have children.’
‘But it won’t be like before…’
> I widen me eyes. ‘Because I’ve had a baby come through my lady parts?’
‘Because we have a baby… Oh my God, we’re parents. I’m a father. We need to have really crazy sex, like upside down and hanging off a wardrobe, hairy pits and everything.”
I laugh and hold him close to my chest. I mean sex would be nice, I guess. If I wasn’t so tired and if he follows through on the promise that I won’t have to do anything to my body hair, and we could keep the lights off and the covers on.
I study Will as he still stands there dancing. He’s broken out into some strange body-popping move but I am distracted by his eyes: wide like I’ve just hit him around the head with a saucepan. ‘Have you taken something…?’
He stares at me with big eyes, dilated pupils. I grab at his cheeks and look at him intently.
‘No…? I’m just drunk. I…’ He pauses for a moment then goes slightly pale. ‘Crap. But when I was in the loos, I told Philip I had a mild headache and he gave me a pill.’
‘A pill?’ I ask, my eyebrows raised high.
Both of us look at each other. Philip is not the sort of organised first-aid person to be carrying around painkillers, plasters and a pack of handy tissues.
‘Oh my Goddy God. He said this would do the trick… Has he drugged me?’ he says in a paranoid panic.
‘You didn’t question the fact he was offering you a tablet in a public toilet?’
‘No? That was a nice respectable establishment. They’re fully organic. I wasn’t at a rave. I didn’t even see if it was marked. What if it was ecstasy or Molly or LSD?’
Words trip out of him now as he stares maniacally at the biscuits that he was once in love with just moments ago, rubbing his temples like he’s trying to keep his brain inside his skin.
Will and I weren’t angels in our youth but I’m unsure how his thirty-year-old constitution can handle this. For now, he feels like a child who’s had too much sugar; this is not a Pulp Fiction moment. But on the tip of my tongue, what I really want to say is we’re parents now. We should know better. Don’t pass out on me either. At least I’m sober and carrying a bit more weight on my bones so it should be easier to carry him into an Uber. The CCTV will record the moment a woman with a giant rack and voluminous dress gave a grown man a piggyback and sent a display of Pilsner flying.
‘Philip didn’t give you any clue what the tablet was?’ I ask.
‘No. Isn’t that a funny name too, Philip. Philip.’ He repeats it in regal tones.
‘Yes, when said like that. He’s a bit try-hard.’
‘He’s very cool. I don’t think I’ve ever been that cool.’
‘Have you seen what he’s wearing? That’s an old man vest. My dad wears those vests. I hardly think he’s a barometer of what’s cool. He’s wearing a fucking monocle.’
‘I just wish I had that bravery to wear what I want, make a statement, be effortless and confident.’
I cup his sad face. Don’t we all? If you started wearing vests like that though, your nipples and chest hair would make you look like an Italian gangster. He stands there in his jeans and Converse, eyes glazed and doleful. ‘But you’re a beautiful butterfly, you don’t need to be like the others,’ I tell him.
He laughs and hugs me again.
‘What are we doing here?’ I ask.
‘Oreos and one drink at this trendy bar and then home, I promise.’
‘Promise?’
But before he has a chance to answer, he sprints towards the till in the style of an overexcited toddler.
‘BETH, THEY HAVE TIC TACS! CAN WE GET TIC TACS?!’
When we get to the bar, and are queuing up, the group has shrunk considerably. Magnus has had the good sense to return to his wife and child, and Joyce has also absconded so we are left with Sam, Philip, Will, myself and Kiki and Shu, who are originally from Hong Kong but work as designers. They smile a lot and have a quirky kawaii thing going on with their clothes that is both cute, cool and which makes me insanely jealous as I’d never be able to carry off cat ears unless it was Halloween. In the queue now, I’m standing next to Philip who is as much of a wanker as I anticipated. He’s standing there with a rollie and a hand on his hip harping on to the group about Grayson Perry. I’m almost disappointed that Will thought this douche had any positive qualities at all; he’s a million times better than Philip.
‘I mean the expression is either too graphic or too understated. There’s no happy medium. No one does diptychs anymore either. There’s no point,’ he says, posturing through his cigarette as he talks about the artist. I pause to hear the word diptych. You’re the diptych, Philip. The girls nod in agreement out of sheer manners. Will is finding it hard to focus; he keeps shifting his eyes side to side like he’s just working out how far his field of vision can stretch. Oh please, don’t, Philip.
‘I like Grayson Perry. I like the courage and the mixed media,’ I say.
Philip gives me a look that I can’t read. Was I not part of this discussion or were his opinions only meant for the architects? Will squeezes my hand. He looks more energised than me but we’ll blame the possibility that Philip may have spiked him. Do I ask Philip about the drugs? It would sound like I’m telling him off which would not be cool yet possibly quite parently. I wish Will would control his face a bit more as he’s showing us that he has Oreo crumbs lining his teeth like he’s been eating soil. Don’t smile too much, Will. Philip starts jabbering on at Kiki and Shu about Hockney. Sam is on her phone and seems to be inviting the world along to this bar.
‘Babes, it will be incredible. Jacques can get us in on the guest list. I have him on the other line too.’
Even from outside, the bass pulsates under my feet. Oh my geez, it’s going to be loud in there. Sam had better be buying the drinks too because this doesn’t look like the sort of joint that has 2-4-1 deals on the cocktails or dry-roasted nuts behind the bar. I actually used to queue outside these sorts of places; the queuing was the foreplay to the main event. We’d be chanting and dancing, half cut, dying to get inside, arguing with everyone that we should have got here sooner but using that time to catch up and take selfies before the bad lighting became the enemy. Philip suddenly turns to us, looking a bit panic stricken.
‘Shit. They’re checking people on the door.’
I arch my head around the queue of about ten people to see three burly security guards at the entrance. I glare at Philip, who is patting down the pockets of the baseball jacket that makes up his ensemble. Surely if you’re packing illegal substances then the best thing to do here is to just go home, Philip. I can lift up this barrier for him if it makes things easier.
‘Sam, babes. They’re checking bags.’ I look over. She’s complicit in this? I look to Will, imagining his office to look like something out of Breaking Bad.
‘It’s OK. I know these guys.’
Philip doesn’t look certain and I see him tuck something down the back of his waistband. In his pants? Definitely don’t be doing any more drugs from this one, Will. He then whacks out a small plastic bag of weed. He is a veritable pick ’n’ mix pharmacy tonight. Please don’t attempt to shove that up your bum in front of me. He looks at all of us. Will sets eyes on that bag like it’s a bomb. Damn it. I grab it. The queue before us creeps forward. I’m holding drugs. What if they tackle me to the ground, call the cops and I get arrested for possession? I have a baby. I can’t even put this in my bag because they’ll search it. I hate you all. I slip the plastic bag into my bra behind a breast pad. I will have to disinfect my tits before I give them to my infant son. I really hate you all.
‘Evening.’
The security guard is the sort with no neck who you feel has a poster of Jean-Claude Van Damme on his wall at home. I give him my bag and smile, gripping on to Will to help him stand a bit more upright. He removes half a packet of Oreos that I’ve twisted shut with an old hairband.
‘For if you get hungry later?’
I laugh unconvincingly. He digs through my handbag in t
he same way I look for my keys. I know my bag is cavernous and receipts line the bottom like bedding material. I also carry an assortment of pens, none of which would work. He then pulls out some small plastic-wrapped items. Please. Don’t.
‘What are these, madam?’
‘They’re breast pads.’
‘Like to pad your bra out?’
I feel the judgemental collective breath of the queue behind me.
‘I’m breastfeeding. It’s so my breasts don’t leak.’
‘Milk?’
I don’t know how to respond to that. We all wish they leaked gin but no one’s figured out how to do that yet.
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Oh.’ I just hope he doesn’t ask for a demonstration as an eighth of weed will fall out of my cleavage.
‘So you’re saying they’re like sanitary pads for your boobs?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then why aren’t you wearing them?’
‘They’re spares.’
I can’t tell if he thinks I’m lying. He puts them back. He then pulls out two double A batteries, some old hand cream I’ve never used and a charger cable. Mary Poppins ain’t got nothing on me. He gives me the look my mother has given me for years. You need to have a good clean-out, love. After scanning down to my shoes, he then looks at Will.
‘We don’t normally allow for trainers.’ Will and I watch as the others get ushered in. Sam waves to the bouncers like she’s their old friend but still caterwauls down her phone, not really bothered about us. Do I fight the trainer thing? I have in the past but inside me tonight there is also mild excitement brewing at knowing that Will’s battered Converse and my old Adidas Superstars may have saved us from this night out. ‘But I’ll let you in.’ Seriously? My shoulders slump. He scans us both again. I know Will looks completely wired but what else is he looking at? Do we not match this place? Does he really think those breast pads are hiding drugs? ‘Go on in, have fun.’
He says that last part like he’s allowed us to have our fun tonight, he’s enjoyed wielding that power. I grab Will’s arm and we proceed. His arm is hard like he’s tensing every muscle in his body. Chill, Will. Inside, it’s as I imagined: dim lighting, neon menus and searing drum and bass blasts out the speakers, so loudly it’s really just people standing around sipping drinks made by their ‘mixologists’ and nodding at others because conversation is near impossible. There’s a small dancefloor to the rear, queues to the bar, queues to the toilets and exposed light bulbs hanging from the ceilings. Will’s wide eyes now look like they’ve been caught in headlights so I back him into a quiet corner.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 8
