by Laura Hird
‘Was efrything hokay?’
‘Mmh, yes, lovely,’ we say in one of our psychic duets as we stare up at his big dreamy eyes.
The snobby man at our side grabs him and starts moaning on about having to wait 20 minutes for his pudding. The waiter tries to explain but the snobby man won’t let him get a word in.
‘It’ll take even longer if that wanker keeps holding him up,’ says Rosie really loudly.
The waiter gives us both a smile. The snobby man turns to us, his face all purple and wrinkled with temper. ‘If I require a running commentary from a couple of inebriated Lolitas, I’ll bloody ask.’
It really gets us giggling again. What’s he on about? Then he’s back on the waiter. Eventually Cheesecake Man comes over with two absolutely enormous knickerbocker glory type creations, with sparklers showering out the top.
‘Wis are comblimends.’
‘Fucking hell, they’re giving him it for nothing,’ yells Rosie. ‘That’s no fair. Our things were rubbish but we didn’t go on about it and we have to pay.’
I pour her some more wine, to shut her up. I can’t understand the justice of it myself, but posh man looks like a bit of a nutter. We don’t need another radge chasing us about.
When they bring over our main courses, it silences us completely. Rosie’s ordered fish and chips. I was really embarrassed when she asked for it, y’know, it’s a bit insulting to the Italian guys to order the one Scottish thing on the menu. Now it’s arrived though, I’m sort of regretting getting a pizza ’cause, although mines looks great, there’s just one of it. Rosie’s got chips and salad and peas and bits of lemon. Desperate not to be outdone when I’m the one paying for it, I order a side portion of chips.
Oh, my God, it’s absolutely the best pizza I’ve ever tasted. It’s about twice the size of the family ones you get in Iceland. There’s tons of cheese and it’s really greasy and buttery on top. I see Rosie eyeing up my mozzarella a few times but since she doesn’t offer me a bit fish, I just ignore her.
By the time he brings my chips, I’m stuffed. I’ve only eaten the cheesy bits in the middle and left the crust, but I can hardly move. Rosie’s left her salad, peas, eaten the chips, and picked all the batter off the fish. It’s a waste but, to be honest, it’s the only bit I like myself. As soon as he realises we’ve finished, Cheesecake Man’s over, trying to entice us with his puddings. We both lean back in our chairs and rub our bellies, but he keeps trying to tempt us and eventually takes Rosie’s hand and pulls her over to the sweet trolley. She seems to be over there for ages. I finish the Leibfräumilch.
When the bitch finally comes back over, she’s beaming and looking really pleased with herself.
‘Did you give him a pull for a bit Black Forest Gateau?’ I mutter, emptying my glass before she has a chance to ask for some.
‘Be like that if you want. I’ve just arranged for us to meet them both outside when they go on their breaks in ten minutes. If you dinnae want to come, though, that’s fine by me.’
‘Who, the nice waiter as well?’
‘Uh huh,’ she grins, blowing on her nails, ‘… just call me the queen of lurve.’
God, I feel rotten for having drunk all the wine now, although they probably both fancy Rosie. The waiter’s the best-looking but I don’t know if I’d want to go out with someone as attractive as that. I could never trust him. Cheesecake Man’s a bit fat and baldy but he’s got a really kind, smiley face. He’d be much less likely to go with other women. And he’s older too, probably about 30.
‘Which one do you fancy?’
‘I don’t mind. Take your pick. It’s my thank-you to you for getting all the drinks tonight,’ she says magnanimously.
Handsome Boy brings over the bill. Fucking hell, it’s 32 pounds, for the middle of a pizza and some fish batter. I didn’t even touch my chips, they’ll probably just stick them in the microwave and give them to someone else. I count the money out onto the wee saucer. The last four pounds I have to give them in bronze and silver. Hopefully the two Tallies’ll buy us drink.
We go and stand outside. The street is absolutely teeming with people moving on to nightclubs, well-pissed – fighting, singing, peeing all over the place – nice. Fuck, why didn’t I steal more money? I want to go to a club. You have to pay to get in, so you maybe don’t get as many head-cases there.
‘So what did Cheesecake Man say? Did he mention me?’
‘Just that they wanted to meet us. He’s hardly going to say, oh, and by the way, I fancy your pal. They’re Italian, for God’s sake. They’re the most romantic men in the world. Shh, here they’re coming. Try not to seem desperate.’
‘Rosie, Rosie, I’ve only got 90 pence left. I can’t afford to get them a drink or anything.’
She looks annoyed.
‘Fuck, I don’t even have a bus fare. You should have said before we went for the meal.’
The restaurant door swings open. Cheesecake Man puts his arm round Rosie’s waist. Handsome Boy and me straggle nervously behind.
‘I Antonio,’ he announces as we turn into Morrison Street. He is so gorgeous.
‘I … I’m Jo … Joni,’ I stammer, pathetically.
‘Ah, Joni Forster, I see … Silence ov Lambs.’
What’s he on about?
‘Not Jodie, Joni, Joni.’
‘Ah Joni, Joni, OK, s’foney, you look juslike Joni Forster.’
Jesus, thanks a lot. He thinks I look like a 40-year-old lesbian with a face like a bag of spanners. Cheers, pal. I knew it. He does think I’m a dog.
Walking past the pub I’m expecting to go into, Cheesecake Man leads us into the car park. Brilliant. Most romantic men in the world, right enough. Then bloody Rosie and him get into a car and just leave me and Antonio standing there. He takes my hand.
‘We walk. The buildings all lit up. Ferry beautiful.’
Great, I’m going to get a boring lecture on Edinburgh architecture from a man who thinks I’m a pig while Rosie gets shagged by the bloke I fancy. What’s so fucking irresistible about her? Just ’cause she’s got blonde hair and a strong wrist.
We walk to the back of the car park and sit down on the grass verge.
‘How-long-do-you-get-for-your-break?’ I say very slowly so he’ll understand me.
‘Fefteen minute hoanly. Then we on till two. You wait till two?’
Fuck, I’ve only got 90 pence left and this stunning creature wants me to meet him after work. Maybe that’s why he’s not making a move now. We can’t possibly sit about for another two hours, though. It’s getting freezing.
‘We’re going home soon. I could give you my phone number.’
Antonio laughs and I feel really stupid. Then he pulls a huge joint from his inside jacket pocket, lights up, and I don’t feel quite so bad. Ha ha, spew Rosie. He takes ages in between tokes and has about six before he hands it to me. It smells really, really strong, like I’ve never smelt before. He maybe has Mafia connections. Lying back on the grass, he lets out a loud, smoky groan. I take three puffs, pausing in between each like he did, and feel really pleasantly numb. It’s nice to spend time with a guy who doesn’t jump on you right away. Maybe Rosie and me could go and sit in a bar till two and share a Diet Coke.
We have one more hit of the joint each, then walk back towards the car. The windows look a bit steamed up as we approach. That jammy bitch better not have done it. Antonio opens the driver’s door and there’s a bit of a scramble within. Cheesecake Man emerges, smiling, takes a few tokes on the joint and stands on it. Rosie comes out the other side with a big grin on her face. I’m so glad she missed the spliff.
Then, with a sudden, ‘See yiz later, girls,’ they walk quickly back towards the street, deserting us. Were they taking the piss out our accents? I’m absolutely gutted. Why didn’t I say I’d meet him? What a stupid bitch.
‘Well?’ asks Rosie as we walk through the maze of cars.
‘Well, what?’
‘Did anything happen? Where did youz g
o?’
‘We just had a joint. It was amazing stuff as well, I’m fucking wasted. He wants me to meet him later.’
She ignores the mention of my potential date.
‘You coulda kepties a bit. Specially since I got money for more drink.’ She produces a tenner from her cleavage.
‘Fuck, what did you do? Did you shag him?’
She looks offended.
‘What, for a tenner? Cheeky cow.’
‘Well, what then?’
‘You know.’
‘Know what?’ I’m starting to get annoyed now.
‘I gave him a gobble. I told him the meal cost more than we thought and we’d no money left and he said if I sucked him off he’d give me a fiver. I must’ve been good eh, he gave me twice that.’
I’m stunned with envy.
‘But that’s like being a tart.’
She grabs my arm and pulls me back towards Lothian Road.
‘Is it fuck. I didn’t shag him or anything. We needed money and I got us it.’
‘You should have shagged him. We could have gone to a club.’
‘I haven’t got any on my face, have I?’ she asks, dead cocky, as the green man beep-beep-beeps. I ignore her. I’m going to tell John she’s two-timing him, slag. Still, at least we can afford more drink now.
‘What about the Rutland? That’s pretty bag-offy, is it no?’
‘Aye, if you want to share a drink and walk home. It’s really dear. And folk steal your drinks as soon as you’ve bought them.’
‘And how are you such an expert?’
‘John sometimes goes there.’
Oh John, see, she’s rubbing it in again. How am I ever supposed to get a boyfriend when she’s got about two dozen?
‘Aw, come on, I just want to go somewhere and have a seat. I feel a bit funny.’
I am feeling a bit funny. Sort of dizzy and scared and really clammy.
‘Serves you right for not leaving me any.’
We stop outside Century 2000 and have a look at the posters to see what’s going on. There’s a huge queue outside, though, and it probably costs money. I try to look inside to see what it’s like, then the bouncer opens the door to let people out and suddenly Sean Hughes and the fat skinhead are in front of us again. I freeze for a second, as I don’t believe what I’m seeing. As soon as we make eye contact, though, it becomes very real. When I turn round, Rosie’s already bolting down past the queue. I look behind to see if they’re following us. They are, at speed.
When I get down to King Stables Road, Rosie’s vanished. I don’t have time to look for her as that pair are in hot pursuit. I just sprint through all the milling, drunken people, screaming. When I get to the bottom of Lothian Road, I look back. The fat guy is waiting for a car to go past, Sean is only a few feet away, but suddenly trips up and falls onto the pavement. He’s so pissed he keeps running. Nashing down some steps, I run away round the back of the church. I stand, panting, against the bricks for a minute, then hold my breath and listen for any sound. Nothing. Then it starts to register where I actually am – in a fucking graveyard. I’m alone, I’m wasted, it’s late on a Friday night and I’m in the middle of a fucking graveyard with two mad Irishmen chasing me. They could be murdering Rosie at this very moment. Where the fuck did she go? Fuck, she’s got all the money as well. I can’t even afford the night bus now.
Chapter Ten
VIC
THE PHONE RINGING wakes me at quarter to one. A bad feeling washes over me as I jump out the chair to answer it.
‘Dad … help me, Dad.’
‘Jesus, what it is, Jo? Are you OK?’
‘Aaaww, Dad, um scared. Come and get me, puleeease.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The phones outside the Caley Hotel. There’s a scary guy saying he’s got AIDS. Hurry.’
Think, think, where should I meet her?
‘Dad, please …’ and the line goes dead. I’m shaking as I dial 1471 and return the call. Christ, I can’t believe I fell asleep. It rings one … two … three times.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Joni, sweetheart, what happened?’
‘I was away to wait on you.’
‘OK, OK, just hang on. I’ll be there soon. Stand somewhere safe.’
‘Like where?’
‘I dunno. Find an adult … no … dinnae. Just stand next to the hotel. Dinnae speak to anyone.’
Putting down the receiver, I’m confronted by six empty Beck’s bottles. I’ll be way over the limit. It is my bloody daughter we’re talking about here, though. As long as they stop me on the way back.
Bursting into Jake’s room, I put the light on. There’s a frantic rustling and smoothing of the duvet.
‘Aw, Dad, knock first, eh?’
I switch it back off and look the other way.
‘Look, I’m sorry. Jo’s up the town bubbling and greeting. I’m just going out to get her. Is Mum back?’
‘She’s your wife,’ he whines.
Shutting the door, I check my reflection in the hall mirror. God, I look half-cut.
It’s hard not to speed. Once I’m onto the Western Approach Road, I take it up to eighty, but the steering goes to buggery. The lights at the junction with Lothian Road seem to have an aversion to turning green. I’ll end up getting there a minute too late. A purple-faced ox in a suede jacket bangs another man’s head against the Shakespeare. As the lights start to change, I go from 0 to 60 in about five seconds.
There’s crowds of people outside the hotel, but none of them is Joni. Deserting the car, I start pushing through them, staring at all these drunken mental faces in a complete panic. A couple of blokes get shirty because I’ve parked in the taxi lane but I don’t care, I just want to find my baby. If she’s not here, I’ll kill myself. Then, right at the back, from one of the benches, her eyes meet mine.
‘Aw, Dad, get back in the car. What an embarrassment,’ she wails, before turning to apologise for me to a black guy at her side. What the hell is this? He looks like her pimp. Her eyes are Jim-Morrison-droopy as she slurs at him. Joni – my baby, my angel – is out her bloody tree.
‘Come on love, come home,’ I say, extending my hand to her.
‘Stop it. I’m OK now. Just lend me money for a taxi?’
‘Jo, will you get in the bloody car, now.’
I grab her wrist, trying to get her away before I panel the bastard. I’m not racist, but the sight of my 15-year-old daughter throwing herself at some dodgy darkie is pretty hard to stomach. Pulling free, she launches herself through the crowd. I’m too old for this sort of shit.
By the time I catch up with her she’s, thankfully, already sulking in the back seat. One of the guys that moaned about my parking bangs his fists off the bonnet and screams abuse as we drive off. Taxi-rank rage, I assume.
‘Go on then, Joni, enlighten me. Was that the guy with AIDS?’
‘Eh?’
‘Lover-boy on the bench.’
‘Oh you would assume that, eh? He’s black, so he must have AIDS, charming.’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Who was he, then? What are you doing up town, dressed like that at one o’clock in the morning? You’re 15 years old.’
‘Use your imagination,’ she drawls, pretending to yawn.
‘You’ve been drinking, eh? Have you taken anything else? Jesus, Jo, you look like a junkie. Should I take you up the hospital and get you checked out?’
‘For God’s sake, Dad, chill out. I’m not exactly OD’ing, am I?’
‘Why, what’ve you taken?’
‘I was at the pictures.’
‘You don’t get in a state like that at the pictures. What did you go to see, like?’
‘Stop picking on me. You’re always picking on me.’
How come no matter how badly she behaves, I always end up feeling like the bastard of the piece?
We pass behind the Conference Centre. The whole road is lined with new buildings I didn’t even notice on the way along
.
‘Changed a fair bit round here, eh? See where that big mirrored building is now? We bought the living-room carpet there.’
For some unfathomable reason, this comment reduces her to tears.
‘Shut up about it. I saw it earlier. Can’t you just take me back there. I’m supposed to be meeting someone at two.’
‘Who? What sort of person arranges to meet a 15-year-old lassie at two in the morning?’
Another long silence. As I come off the motorway at the top of Ardmillan, an over-zealous old dear in a grey Volvo runs a red light and almost crashes into the side of us. Slamming on the brakes, I hear Joni let out a loud groan, followed by frantic retching sounds.
‘Aw, hang on, sweetheart, we’re nearly home. Not in the motor, please.’
Bleaugh! I grab a plastic bag out the glove compartment, but by then the horse has well and truly bolted.
Dropping her off at the flat, I open all the car windows and try to find a parking space. The powerful stench of garlic vomit is making my eyes nip. After a couple of minutes, I have to drive back to ours and double-park before I start hurling myself. As I climb the stair, I anticipate a massive scene with Angie and Jo. It’ll be all my fault, no doubt. There’s no sign of her. Jo has collapsed on her bed, still in her vomity prostitute outfit. What is it with women and drink?
‘C’mon, sweetheart. You cannae go to sleep like that.’
Groaning, she looks like she’s about to throw up again but has turned to rubber. I practically have to carry her to the toilet. God, the whole house’ll be stinking. Plopping a couple of Disprin into a glass, I wait for her to stop puking. They say you should drink plenty if you’ve taken ecstasy, so I make her swallow two pints of water, just in case.
I look at her semolina complexion and red zombie eyes as she washes crusted sick off her chin. She notices me in the mirror.
‘Stop staring at me like that. You’re giving me the creeps.’
‘Why do you hate me, Jo? I’m on your side.’
‘And other clichés.’
