Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  So, “pissed off” is in for a visit, and it’s time to let fly. “You don’t get to call me babe. Or sweetheart. Or darling. Not now. Not ever again. You don’t get to ask me questions about why I’m coming home to our house. What I’m doing in our bedroom. Not anymore. Try that shit out with Goldilocks there.”

  “Hey—”

  “This is our house. This is the bedroom we shared. The bed we shared for three years. Three years, Ruth! And this is what you do?” I point at Blondie, just to emphasize my point. “How long have you been screwing her?”

  “Genna, it’s not—”

  “Don’t even try and tell me it’s not what I think. Do I look blind? I walk in here to find you in full rut. It is exactly what I think. How long?”

  “Genna—”

  I just turn my head and stare at Blondie.

  “Six months,” Blondie says.

  “And your name?”

  “Paula.”

  “Paula. And where did you meet Ruth?”

  “In the Village—”

  “The gay village? In Manchester?”

  “Yeah. I went out with Claire a couple of times, but after I met Ruth—”

  “Claire Powell?” Blondie nods and Ruth cringes. “My supposed best friend Claire, who stopped coming around six months ago because she told me to split up with you and I didn’t? That Claire?”

  “Will you shut up—” Ruth begins.

  “Why?” Blondie asks.

  “Yeah, Ruth, why? Think you can talk your way out of this mess?” I look at her. I mean really look at her. And probably for the first time, I really see her. When you look at someone you love, or even just fancy, you see them differently, don’t you? Well, now I am really looking at her. I’ve got to say I’m not overly impressed. “There is no talking your way out of this.” I turn back to the dresser and throw more stuff into my bag. I try to hurry, because I know I won’t be able to hold back the tears for too much longer. When the bag’s full, one final question fills my mind. Well, actually, there are loads, but I know I need to ask this one.

  “How many were there?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How many women have you cheated on me with?” She’s picking at the bedclothes. I am so not going to like this answer, but my mouth has completely run away from me now. “Simple math, Ruth. Is Paula the first? Second? Third? How many?”

  “I don’t really know. I was pretty drunk most of the time.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I fasten up the bag, cursing again when the zip busts. “Were you at least safe, or do I need to get tested for anything?”

  “I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Clearly. Thanks for everything.” I turn and look at the shivering blond still in my bed. Or rather ex-bed now. “Paula, you might want to think about seeing a doctor. Who knows what Casanova there has treated you to!”

  “Genna, that’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it isn’t. What’s ridiculous is carrying on this conversation!”

  Mum arrives just in the nick of time. I stuff more clothes into one of the bin liners and pretty much run down the stairs, out of the house, and back to the car. Mum, bless her, is trying to keep up, but I am on an adrenaline high, and Usain Bolt would have trouble. I yank open the boot and throw my bag in. I slam it shut and practically throw myself into the passenger seat before Mum even gets there.

  “You want me to stop anywhere on the way back to mine?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “How much vodka do you have in?”

  “Full bottle and two bottles of that paint stripper your Gran Collins got me for Christmas.” The paint stripper was more commonly known as red wine, a rather nice merlot, to be exact. But it came to my mum via my dad’s mum. So paint stripper it now is.

  “That should cover it. Just the doctor’s, then.”

  “Why, are you sick?”

  “Don’t know. Need to find out what Dirty Harriet in there’s been passing on.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Blondie is neither the first nor the only extracurricular activity Ruth has been partaking in, and my whore of an ex was not practising safe sex. Just more sex!”

  “Right-o. Doctor’s it is.”

  “Shit!” Passport. Driver’s license. Bank details. Everything is still inside the house. I so do not want to go back in there. I wrap my little mitt around the ticket in my pocket. Screw it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to get my documents from the house. I need them for tomorrow.” Mum is looking at me with that sad, understanding, pitying smile. The one everyone tries on when they want to look compassionate, but it really makes them look like a target. For my fist.

  “Do you want me to go in and get them for you?”

  I seriously contemplate this, and then remember that I keep them in my underwear drawer. Funnily enough I forgot to go into that one when I was packing-slash-dumping my clothes into a bag. But fortunately I also remember that this is where I keep my vibrator and the fluffy pink handcuffs that started off as a joke. Then not so much of a joke. Surely I’ve been embarrassed enough today that I can avoid having my mother get a glimpse into this aspect of my psyche.

  “No, it’s fine. I know exactly where they all are, so it’ll be quicker if I go.”

  You know how I reckon I could’ve beat Usain Bolt on the way to the car? Well, on my way back to the house, I’m overtaken by a snail. I’m just getting to the door when it flies open and Blondie comes sauntering out. Short dress. Red. Shocking, I know. And a black bolero jacket, black, high-heeled come-fuck-me shoes. I’m guessing that Ruth wasn’t at work last night. On my birthday. Looks like she went celebrating on her own. At least Blondie looks a bit like shit. Her mascara is all smeared under her eyes, her lipstick is gone, only faint stains still on her lips, but smeary, greasy smudge marks across her cheeks attest to the siren-red colour she used. I’m really glad to see that she can’t look me in the eye. She just looks at her shoes as she tries to walk down the front steps without falling. I resist the urge to stick my foot out and help her down. Barely.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the shower running and wonder if Blondie is skipping out on Ruth following the awkward encounter or if Ruth is such a bitch that she left the woman to fend for herself regardless. I’m angry enough to pick option two. I make short work of the stairs and I’m in my bedroom—correction, ex-bedroom—and pull open my ex-underwear drawer. I have my documents in one hand and a fistful of knickers in the other when the shower’s turned off. The door from the en-suite bathroom opens and Ruth steps out. Naked. Oh goody. That was sarcastic, in case you missed it.

  She does have the decency to grab a towel, wrap it around her, and keep her gaze on the floor for the most part too.

  “Can we talk?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to say.” I shake out one of the bin liners Mum brought that’s now on top of the chest of drawers and start stuffing. That vibrator cost a small fortune, with a rotating head, beads for internal stimulation, and two rabbit ears for clitoral pleasure. I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave it here. With her! The thought arises that it would be just my luck if the black bag burst and my vibrator and underwear saw the light of day…on the street. Let’s face it, it’s turned out to be one of those days, hasn’t it? Then I have the genius idea of disguising my vibrator by putting it in one of my socks, the ones with Winnie the Pooh looking for his honey pot that Gran Bow got off a cheap market stall and given me at Christmas. There was no way I was going to explain the double entendre to my sixty-nine-year-old grandmother. So I wrap my vibrator in the sock; that way if the bag does burst, it was just a sock. I’m so busy wrapping my sex toy that I don’t see Ruth move across the room until she’s right next to me. She put her hand on my shoulder. I drop my sock and watch as it starts to vibrate. There’s something very disconcerting about a sock with Winnie the Pooh on it wriggling and squirming about my knicker drawer. Lo
oking for its honey pot.

  “Genna, please, I made a mistake.”

  “Yep. A big one. Huge. Gigantic. Total fuck-up of a mistake, Ruth. One you can’t take back.” I’m graceful as I stop the squirming sock and stuff it into the bag, along with my other knickers, socks, and documents. I think I’ll leave the furry handcuffs. Not much use on your own. Not unless you’re freakishly double jointed.

  “Please, this is three years, Genna. You can’t just throw that away—”

  “I didn’t. You did that.” I close up the bag and turn to look at her. I am actually amazed to realise that she looks every one of her thirty-five years at that moment. “You threw it away by screwing around. Not me. I didn’t do that. I didn’t do someone else. In our bed. Using our fucking strap-on!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not good enough.” I’m more upset than angry. I mean, I am angry, but I need to know why she did it. Did I do something wrong? Was I a shit lay? Was my body a turn-off? Was it the extra twenty…okay, maybe twenty-five…pounds I know I need to lose? I don’t really want to know. But I need to. I need the answers only she can give me. I know that I’ll regret it later, but hell…

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “No, why? Why did you do this?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Why did you cheat on me?”

  “Oh.” She looks down at the ground as she shrugs her shoulders like a sulky teenager. And I loved her?

  “Well? Do you have an answer?”

  “I don’t know. I just needed something a bit different—”

  “Like what?” Oh God, I’m a shit lay!

  “I don’t know—”

  “Was I not kinky enough?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant—”

  “Then what? Was there something you wanted me to do?”

  She shrugs. That bloody shrug. Again.

  “You’re thirty-five years old, Ruth. Suck it up and talk to me or I’m just going to leave right now.”

  “I just need more variety.”

  “In what, exactly?”

  “I don’t think human beings are supposed to be monogamous. I think it’s a redundant idea, and I just need more variety than that.”

  “So it wasn’t because I was shit in bed?” Oh God, I can’t believe I just actually asked that.

  “No, baby, not at all. You’re great. I just needed—”

  “Another body to fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what, Ruth? You’re so full of shit. Don’t believe in monogamy? Bullshit!” Anger is overtaking me again, and I know it’s time to go. I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the car. Mum has the engine ticking over and is ready to go as soon as I am in the seat.

  “Just so I know, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Mum asks.

  “Train leaves Stockport station at 9:23. Gets into Watford at eleven thirty, and then I taxi to the office.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Please.”

  “Have you booked tickets?”

  “Yeah. Well, Cathy did while I was catatonic earlier. She booked two. I thought shit-for-brains would be coming with me. We just have to pick them up at the station in the morning.”

  “Okay. Let’s go and get pissed, then. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

  “Winning the lottery?”

  “And getting rid of shit-for-brains.”

  “You never did like her, did you?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Why?”

  “Just thought she had shit for brains.”

  You know that feeling when you know there is more to something than you’re being told. I’m there. I also know my mother well enough to know that I’m probably never going to find out what that secret is. Hey ho. Bring on the vodka.

  CHAPTER 4

  GENNA

  Not only did I clear Mum out of vodka last night, but I saw off the two bottles of paint stripper too. Mum nursed one vodka and Coke till teatime, then one more after. Lightweight. However, this morning, I totally wish I was in her shoes. She woke me up about ten minutes ago and I just now manage to roll into the bathroom to assess the damage.

  Bloodshot eyes? Check. Pasty pallor? Check. Carpeted tongue? Check. Queasy stomach? Check. Elephants tapdancing on my head? Check. World spinning out of control? Check. Hangover is good to go.

  “Are you out of bed yet?” Mum asks me from the doorway.

  Now I’m at a loss. Talking would require more effort than I can actually manage right now. Nodding would be both painful and ineffectual. And a visit from my mother would be degrading. I draw in a big breath. Degrading is by far the better choice.

  “Oh good, you’re up. Do you need some help in the shower?”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

  Now her evil side really shows. She laughs. Well, sniggers would be more accurate, but whatever you call it, it hurts. A lot.

  “I think I’ll wait in your bedroom while you’re in the shower. Just to be safe.” I must look so much worse than I think. “Would you like me to set you out some clothes?”

  I manage to grunt assent to this generous offer, then promptly ignore her. She seems to take the hint and leaves me to try and steam some of the alcohol from my abused body in peace. Thirty minutes, one half bottle of apricot body scrub, two applications of kangaroo paw flower shampoo, and one scream when the hot water ran out later, I am staring at the bed with my best business suit all laid out and waiting for me. It’s charcoal grey with a very thin silver pinstripe, and a pale green blouse to go underneath it. It’s smart and elegant, elongating the legs and torso whilst hiding any unsightly bulges. Those were the exact words the saleswoman used. If she hadn’t been right, I might not have bought the damn suit. Obviously I’m out to make an impression today. Combined with the bloodshot eyes and pasty face, I’m not entirely sure what impression that is, but I will make an impression.

  By the time I’m dressed I can smell coffee from the kitchen and decide it’s essential to my continued existence that I get some. I step into the kitchen and Mum stares at me. I look behind me. No toilet roll stuck to the back of my shoe. My trousers are on—right way round—and fastened. Blouse is tucked in, jacket not inside out either. Hair brushed. Mascara on, for all the good that will do. Only one head on my shoulders.

  “Why are you staring at me?”

  “You look lovely in that suit.”

  Now I’m staring at her.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You do. It’s very flattering on you,” she says.

  See why I hate that saleswoman? “Thanks, Mum. I’ll have some money now so I might get another one.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll be able to get much nicer clothes. Then you’ll look lovely all the time.”

  I love my mum, I really do, but don’t you think comments like that would get me acquitted of her murder?

  “So when’s the taxi due?” I ask.

  “Five minutes, so we’ve no time for breakfast.”

  “Ok, I’ll see if the taxi driver will do the drive-through on the way to the station—”

  “Genesis Collins!”

  “I still haven’t forgiven you for letting him call me that. Maybe I’ll change my name now—”

  “It’s a lovely name.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a Bible basher—”

  “Do not disparage people with faith, Genna.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m a heathen, what can I say?”

  I guess this would be a good time to tell you that my mother actually hates my name nearly as much as I do. She and my Dad had a deal. She was convinced I was going to be a boy, and that Dad wanted to call me Phil. Well, that was a little too much for her, considering that she and my dad were already on the rocks when she found out she was pregnant. So the deal was struck that she’d name me if I was a boy and my dad would if I was a girl. She figured the worst he could come up with for a girl woul
d be Phillipa, and that we could both live with Pipa. After all, Phil Collins was his idol. So, along comes me. And Dad comes up with the genius idea that I should be named after his idol’s band. Genesis. Genesis Collins. I think in the end, even my dad hated it. He left when I was two, just as my brother Michael was born. Literally. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since. Thanks, Dad.

  “Do you want breakfast from the Golden Arches too, Mum?” She pretends to think about it. I already know she does. She already knows she does.

  “Only if I can get an extra hash brown.”

  “You can have mine. You know I don’t like them.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.” The taxi honks from outside.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I saw the indicator flashing as it pulled up.”

  “And I was thinking you were psychic.”

  The taxi driver has no problem with my drive-through proposal and gets himself a coffee for his trouble. Before we know it, we’re at the train station, eating McMuffins while we wait for the train to appear. Mum scoffs my hash brown along with her own, and my hangover is slowly tapering off under the onslaught of grease and coffee. I can’t help thinking about Ruth. The initial shock’s wearing off, and I’m actually starting to think about my life without her in it. The real shock is that I don’t think I’m going to miss her much at all. After three years of being with someone, living with someone, the idea of her not being in my life should be upsetting me. It should have me crying into my Egg McMuffin and wondering what the hell I’m going to do without her, right?

  But I’m not.

  Will I miss having her there when I come home at the end of a long day? No. She was rarely there anyway. I’d pick up the phone and talk to Claire. Or Mum. Or Abi. Mostly Abi, if I’m honest. I won’t miss sleeping next to her at night, because she was usually working. The more I think about it, the more I realise just how little we had of an actual relationship. We were roommates who shared a bed in shifts. We split the bills and spent the odd day together here and there. That isn’t what I want in a relationship. I’m twenty-four years old, I deserve better than settling for a roommate with the occasional benefit—and I do mean occasional—right?