by Andy Jones
‘Oh. Fancy . . . that.’
‘Is this Ethiopian?’ says Ben before taking another sip of coffee.
‘Oh shut up.’
All innocence: ‘What?’
‘Fine. Did Verity accept plonker’s ticket?’
‘Of course not; he’s a divvy. Give the girl some credit.’ And he says this last with a slightly pointed look.
‘Cool. I mean . . . you know, good.’
‘Don’t be too pleased with yourself, though,’ says Ben.
‘I’m not pleas— Why, what do you mean?’
‘Saw her yesterday to finalise the sets.’
‘And?’
Ben’s face softens. ‘You’ve missed the boat, mate.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Had a date on Tuesday. Cocktail-making course with a joiner – huh, there’s a joke in that, somewhere – anyway . . . rugged, charming, good with his hands, blah blah blah, second date next Tuesday.’
‘Oh. I mean . . . good for her, right?’
Ben pats me on the shoulder. ‘Yes, mate. Good for her. Come on, we don’t want to be late – Kaz has been spiky as a porcupine all sodding week.’
A joiner? I’ll bet he’s got a beard, muscular arms, smells of wood shavings. He sounds like a bit of a dick to me, but that’s Verity’s problem now. And what’s it to me, anyway?
I’ve met her three times and I know next to nothing about her – except that she’s smart, funny, unpredictable, can’t roller skate and looks fantastic in a pair of denim shorts.
According to the leopard-print wall clock, we’ve been sitting here for one hour, twenty-seven minutes and . . . thirty-six seconds. Every time I pass comment, Kaz pulls a face, makes a noise or just outright contradicts me. So I’ve stopped trying. I zone in briefly when the discussion turns to make-up. Everyone loves the Polaroids of Verity’s monsters. And why wouldn’t they? I zone out again.
When I started dating Sadie, she was seeing somebody else. So it does happen. People meet new people, leave old people. But where does that end? Pretty soon the new people are old people and it’s time to move on and give a co-worker a hand job. It’s almost definitely a good thing that nothing is going to happen between me and Verity.
I don’t know what the hell is going on in this meeting, but everyone is laughing.
I imagine the joiner is called Chris – a manly, no-nonsense name. I bet Chris rides a single-speed bike, he probably plays football on Sundays, I wonder if he can cook. I bet he can cook. If they buy a house together, Chris will fit new bookshelves, construct built-in wardrobes, a rocking chair. Maybe he’ll make a cot. Maybe the bastard will slip with his chisel and take his sodding thumb off.
As the meeting draws to a conclusion, talk turns – as it invariably does – to everyone’s plans for the weekend. Ben moans about having to attend a wedding, the creative is going to a festival, Kaz’s boyfriend is taking her to Paris. Verity isn’t here today, and for the first time since I met her, I’m glad – she’s probably going on a hot date with Chris the carpenter and if she is, I certainly don’t want to hear about it.
It’s Ben’s birthday on Sunday but he thinks we’ve all forgotten. And as our taxi approaches the office, he’s getting agitated. The weekend starts in ten minutes, and Ben is becoming increasingly concerned he’ll have to go home sober. His pride won’t allow him to mention his birthday but he’s been dropping hints all week. On Wednesday he asked Holly how old she was, then Rob, then Marlon. Everybody’s been briefed and nobody took the bait. Yesterday he read his horoscope out loud, but we all feigned indifference. This afternoon he suggested a few pints tonight, but the reaction ranged from lukewarm to non-committal. It’s cruel but hugely entertaining.
‘Swifty?’ he says offhandedly.
‘To be honest, mate, I’m knackered.’
Ben’s bottom lip rolls out like a sulky child’s. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing’s up with me,’ I say.
‘Sulking about Verity?’
Ouch.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But just a swifty. And I’ve got to pick up some stuff from the office first.’
Ben checks his watch. ‘I’ll see if there’s anyone still there.’
He calls the office, but no one answers.
‘Lazy fuckers,’ he says, snapping his phone closed.
The Blank Slate offices are on the third floor and I take the stairs two at a time while Ben waits for the lift. As I pass them, I hit the call buttons on every floor.
I texted ahead, and Holly, Rob and Marlon are standing by.
‘Light the candles,’ I say as soon as I’m through the door.
On Ben’s desk are a birthday cake, a bottle of champagne and a row of glasses. I grab the champagne and aim it at the ceiling above the door.
Ben arrives approximately thirty seconds later. And about three seconds after that he realises what he’s just walked into.
‘Happy Birthday,’ shouts Holly as the cork pings off the ceiling.
‘Bastards,’ says Ben, and his smile is childlike and absolute.
‘T.G.T.B.A.T.U.,’ says Holly.
Marlon puts his hand up.
‘One round handicap,’ Ben warns, pointing his glass at Marlon.
We moved on to the Goose several pints, one tequila and one sambuca ago. No one has work tomorrow, and we’re all making the most of it.
‘Say again?’ asks Rob.
Holly has made an effort for the occasion. Instead of the usual jeans and T-shirt, she is wearing a new skirt and a thin silk top that shows the outline of her bra and the protrusion of her nipples. She has retouched her make-up at least twice over the course of the evening. You could do a whole lot worse.
‘T.G.,’ she says, pausing, ‘T.B.’ – another pause – ‘A.T.U.’
‘Which one am I?’ I ask, smiling.
Holly pouts. ‘I thought that would take ages.’
‘Hello?’ says Ben.
‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,’ I tell him.
‘Well, you’re the ugly, obviously,’ he says.
‘Harsh,’ says Holly.
‘Good one, Holly,’ says Rob, ‘I’d never have got it,’ and Holly flashes him a coy smile.
The weekend is looming at the end of the night, and yet again I have nothing to do and no one to do it with. So Verity isn’t The One. But what if The One was under my nose all this time but I was too distracted to notice?
‘Okay,’ I say, glancing at Holly and holding eye contact for a second. ‘N.A.A.H.W.’
‘Saucy,’ says Marlon.
‘I’ve got a better one,’ says Ben. ‘T.I.Y.R.’
He picks up his glass, drains the remaining half-pint in one swallow and lowers the glass to the table, all without breaking eye contact with me.
‘N.A.A.H.W.’ I try again, apparently to no one.
‘T.I.Y.R.,’ Ben presses, his eyes boring into me. ‘Anyone? Tom?’
‘Haven’t got a clue,’ I say.
Ben taps his empty glass, ‘Tom . . . It’s . . . Your . . . Round.’
Everyone except me laughs.
‘Same again?’ I say to the table.
‘Same again!’ Ben slams the flat of his hand on the table. ‘And a round of tequilas.’
An hour later, Ben is sick in the Gents and we send him home in a cab. Two rounds after that, Marlon is passed out in the corner, Rob is in the toilets, and, for a couple of minutes, it’s just me and Holly. This could be awkward but I’m too drunk to care; also, Rob will be back any moment so I haven’t the time to be embarrassed.
‘God, I’m pissed,’ I say. ‘I should probably head off.’
‘Me too,’ says Holly. ‘I mean . . . you know,’ as she mimes downing a drink.
‘Listen,’ I say, putting my hand on her back. ‘Do you fancy sharing a cab?’
‘Ah thanks, Tom. But I’ll be okay on the tube.’
‘Well, I was sort of thinking we might . . . you know. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the fridge.’<
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Holly fidgets and takes a sip of her wine. ‘Actually, Tom, I’m . . .’ She removes my hand from her back, holds it in hers. ‘I’m going with Rob.’
‘Why? He doesn’t live anywhere near you. He’s in north Londo— Oh.’
Holly gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I should have said something sooner, but I didn’t want to embarrass you.’
‘No, no,’ I say, retrieving my hand. ‘No worries. It’s fine. Good. Absolutely for the best.’
‘I think so,’ says Holly. ‘Will you be okay?’
I nearly fall over the table as I try to stand and put my jacket on at the same time. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ I say, ‘I’m great. No, this is good. Give my love to Rob. I mean . . . you know what I mean.’ I back out of the door, waving.
The Goose has a midnight licence, and it’s not far off that as I veer through the backstreets towards Oxford Circus tube station. Goodge Street is closer but from Oxford Circus it’s a direct train home, and, considering the amount of beer and silly spirits I’ve consumed, the less time I spend in an enclosed space the better for everyone.
The tube is packed with returning theatregoers, workaholics and a party pack of boozed-up boys and girls. During daylight hours most commuters wouldn’t talk to you if you sat in their lap, but on the Pisshead Express everyone’s best friends – hanging off the overhead bars, singing, flirting and holding shouted cross-carriage conversations. There’s a woman passed out asleep in the next compartment along. Her head is rested against the glass partition, her curly hair flattened into a brown smear that obscures her face. A cheeky chappy caresses the glass so it looks like he’s stroking her hair, and a few people laugh.
It’s less than twenty minutes to the end of the line, and the last few drinks have caught up with me. When the train jolts to a stop, my stomach trips over and I already have the beginnings of what promises to be a spectacular hangover. The carriage empties out, but the curly-haired girl is still asleep and has folded in on herself so that her head hovers an inch above her lap.
‘It’s the end of the line,’ I say, tapping on the glass partition.
The girl doesn’t respond, and I’m apprehensive about touching her in case she wakes up and thinks she’s being molested.
I kick her on the foot.
‘Wh. . . ?’ Her hair is stuck to the side of her face, some of it in her mouth.
‘End of the line,’ I say.
‘Who, wha . . . ? What time is it?’
‘Twelve . . . thirty, almost,’ I say after some initial difficulty resolving my watch face into only two hands and twelve numbers.
A guard appears in the carriage doorway. ‘Everybody off.’
‘Not going back out?’ the girl asks.
‘Not for another five hours and fifteen minutes, love.’
‘I’ve got to get to Clapham Common,’ she says, as if the guard might change his mind and run her home.
‘Plenty of buses on the high street,’ says the guard with weary contempt, and he walks off up the platform looking for further stragglers.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘I’ll point you in the right direction.’
She’s steady enough on her feet, her speech is coherent, and she seems fully aware of where she is and where she’s going. But once we get outside the station, it’s raining and the LED information panel at the bus stop has been vandalised. The streets are relatively quiet but there are still enough dodgy lurkers to make it unsafe for a lone woman, particularly a drunk lone woman, to fall asleep at a bus stop – so I encourage this one to catch a cab.
We make small talk – her job, mine, where we’ve been, the cast of Celebrity Big Brother – while we wait. We’re just touching on the business of the weather – wet for the time of year – when a battered Ford somethingorother pulls up to the kerb. A guy who looks like an escaped serial killer winds down his window and asks ‘Verre to?’ in a thick Eastern European accent. The woman (Pamela? Penny?) opens the back door and is halfway in before I snatch the collar of her suit jacket and persuade her to wait for a licensed cab. The serial killer gives me the finger and speeds off.
Maybe it’s five minutes later, or maybe it’s ten, when this girl decides that she’s had enough and she’s getting in the next vehicle that stops.
‘You can call a cab from my place,’ I say. ‘It’s only up the road, and it’s dry. You can have a cup of tea while you wait.’
The flat can’t be half a mile away, but at this hour, in this weather, it feels four times further and it’s gone one when we clatter over the threshold. My guest doesn’t want tea, so I pour two glasses of wine and call a local taxi firm. The controller says the cab will be about thirty minutes. Two minutes later, me and this woman are fumbling with each other’s clothes. Five minutes later I cancel the cab. And six minutes later, sprawled half on and half off the sofa, clothes removed, unzipped, pulled aside, it’s fairly apparent that this encounter is going the distance. Little Tom, however, is being a little slow on the uptake, so to buy myself time – and because, hey, I’m a gentleman – I get down on my knees and go down on this (Petula?) lady. And I don’t know how long I’m down there before I fall asleep, but it’s a heck of a fright when she knuckle-raps me on the forehead and I wake up with pubic hair in my mouth, in my eyes and up my nose. It’s proper Mills and Boon stuff. My neck has seized, my mouth is cloyed and it tastes like vagina. The only liquid at hand is Chardonnay dregs, but the sight of it makes my gut juices curdle. I sway to my feet, apologising, muttering about water, and the room is on loose springs and my left leg is numb.
‘Don’t stop,’ she says. ‘Fuck me. Fuck my pussy.’
Ever the romantic, I extend my hand towards her. ‘Let’s go to the bedroom.’
How drunk are we? Not too drunk not to use a condom. But drunk enough that neither of us feels the sodding thing split open. I don’t discover that little surprise until I withdraw my limp and dripping penis. And I feel, all of a sudden, pretty fucking sober.
‘The condom broke,’ I say to the woman spreadeagled across half of my bed.
She sits up and puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I feel sick.’
And that’s Number 98.
It’s after two when the taxi honks its horn outside the flat. She’s still in the bathroom, naked, half sitting, half lying in front of the toilet, one hand pushing her hair out of her face, the other draped nonchalantly around the bowl. There’s something pre-Raphaelite about it. If the toilet were a fountain, and if she wasn’t connected to it via a string of saliva, it might make a rather charming fresco.
The cab sounds its horn again. Three blasts. Risking stating the obvious, I inform my houseguest that her carriage has arrived, and go to the bedroom to gather as many of her clothes as I can find. When I return to the bathroom the still life is moving, her back arching, her buttocks clenching into dimples as she retches silently into the fountain. ‘Cab’s here,’ I say, trying to imbue the two words with a sense of irresistible allure. My muse (Priscilla? Paris? Pearl?) waves me away with a glistening hand. She honks. The cab honks – three more blasts. I pull on a pair of jeans and go outside to tell the driver that his services will no longer be required. The Eastern European serial killer behind the wheel of the battered Ford doesn’t see the funny side, and even though I hand the square-headed bastard a tenner, he gives me the finger for the second time and sounds his horn in a continuous fifteen-second blast as he accelerates out of Chaucer Road.
I wake at five thirty-eight a.m., and my hangover has a hangover. My headache starts in the middle of my back, arcs over and through my head and into my eyes. I am nauseous from my testicles through to my lungs. At some point during the earlier hours of the morning, the woman must have returned to my bed. If I noticed, I don’t remember. She is snoring. Getting out of bed is a slow and agonising process; one thigh aches as if it’s been drained of blood and my brain is too large for my skull.
The poster on my wall says: Obstacles are what we see when we take our eyes off the goal.
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Probably I’m imagining it, but the water appears to undulate and I feel as if the floorboards are swaying beneath my feet. Bracing one hand against the wall, I creep through to the kitchen and drink half a litre of apple juice straight from the carton. Then immediately throw it back up into the sink.
It’s too early to be awake but I can’t face climbing back into bed next to Cinderella. The leather sofa is clammy beneath my bare torso, birds are tweeting, and a baseball bat-wide shaft of sunlight bludgeons me relentlessly across the side of my face.
When I was at university there was an infamous drinking game called Down 101, and El was adamant we were going to play. Some student with too much time on his hands had figured out that six cans of Special Brew broke down into 101 egg-cupfuls of nine per cent beer. The idea was to drink one a minute – six cans of extra-strength lager in one hour and forty-one minutes.
The first six are easy. You knock them back in a second and spend the next fifty-nine laughing and waiting for your next egg-cupful of fun. If anything, the pace feels too slow. Seven, eight, nine . . . ten. After only seventeen minutes you’ve consumed an entire can. And somewhere in the mid-twenties you begin to feel the effects. Your head is thickening, your belly bloats with gas and liquid, and the sickly taste coats your tongue. With a little over half an hour expired, you’ve finished two cans of nutter-strength booze and the next egg-cupful has become a thing of dread. By number fifty you’ve consumed the alcoholic equivalent of a bottle of sherry. You’re properly drunk. And you’re still only halfway there. It takes you maybe two or three sips now to finish each dose of Special Brew. The minutes are collapsing into each other and it’s shot after gulp after mouthful of syrupy lager. If you need a piss, you take your can and your egg cup with you. Seventy shots, eighty. You can’t watch a movie because all your focus is on that tick-tick-sip. You can’t hold a conversation because it’s interrupted every sixty seconds. Ninety minutes – an hour and half of your life – and all you have to show for it is blurred vision, a bad aftertaste and five empty tins on the table in front of you. The sight of them makes your guts twist. And you’re still not done. You’ve almost an entire can left, and it’s become very apparent that this was a very bad idea. But you’re too close to the finish to quit. So you press on, you drink on and you finish your six cans of horrible lager. You become a bona fide member of the 101 Club, and you spend the rest of the evening kneeling in front of the toilet, dripping tears and snot and vomit. Funny, the things you remember.
