Confidence

by Rowland Manthorpe

  ‘Derek loves bush, don’t you, mate?’ Bradder rammed his way through the queue, yelling back towards the ladz’ booth. ‘He went out with a French bird! Ladz, do we want two rounds?’

  ‘Brazilian, ladies.’ Tom Race strolled up the path Bradder had cleared. ‘It’s all about the Brazilian.’

  Tim caught a sigh at the back of his throat and rolled his eyes at Charlie.

  ‘Why are they pissing on our night with their fucking hairy-muffed protest anyway?’ Bradder boomed. ‘What’s their problem?’

  Charlie held up an imaginary mic. ‘Let’s turn to our female correspondent. Views on pubes?’

  ‘It’s pathetic,’ said Christie, into the mic. ‘Cringing about pubes – I mean, get over it.’

  ‘I like ’em pre-pubes,’ leered Bradder.

  ‘Personally, I like to experiment,’ said Charlie. ‘Weaves, extensions – I’ve got a French pleat in tonight.’

  ‘Oi.’ Lucas arrived, shouldering aside a couple of second-year Vikings. Say what you like about the ladz, but at least they got things done. By falling in behind Bradder and Race, Charlie was almost at the bar.

  ‘You seen Sasha?’ he asked Lucas.

  ‘No, but I have seen Estelle Mohammed’s arse. Pint?’

  ‘I’ll take a vodka tonic,’ said Charlie, thinking of his mankini silhouette.

  ‘Pint it is.’

  While Ben ferried a gin and tonic back to Clare, Charlie went on a lap of honour with Lucas, circling the room, dropping in on girls they knew – or rather, girls Lucas knew. Charlie found it slightly tricky to interact with a girl in suspenders: were you supposed to ignore it, mention it, say ‘Phwoar’? Being shitfaced would have made things easier, but he was pacing himself; he didn’t want to ruin his night. But then they bumped into Louise and Jess who’d lived on Charlie’s landing – ‘I’m Lucas’s body double,’ he joked, ‘I do the scenes with clothes’ – and by the time the buses arrived, Charlie realised he hadn’t checked the door for a good half-hour.

  On the roof of the Scott building, it was still warm. A few alternative-type first years had colonised the other end, perching on the railings, smoking and defiantly not attending SSB. Far below, in Mandela Square, students trailed from the Union to the road where the coaches were parked, a straggling procession of luminous pouches and fake tan, ruffled basques and thigh-high boots.

  A cheer went up from the Square, as some rugby twat streaked across the grass. They watched a smurf with a homemade erection receive a round of applause for dry-humping a French maid on the lawn. Hanging over the Union entrance was an enormous version of the SSB poster, staring out with a sexy pout, inviting everyone to ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Ellie stuck out her tongue.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Nadine lay back. ‘People did suggest picketing and stuff. But I mean.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s impossible, isn’t it. I’m not going to stand down there watching a load of first years toddling in in their hold-ups saying “You’re objectifying yourself.” I’d feel like—’

  ‘A fanny?’

  ‘Yeah. Like Mary . . . What’s her name who hated sex and TV?’

  Ellie nodded. ‘Plus there’s all the guys in g-strings and what are we saying to them?’ She delved into the plastic bag and opened another can. ‘And it’s not quite the same. It looks the same, but that’s how they get you. “It’s not sexist ’cause we’re all doing it.”’

  ‘And then you feel like an arsehole ’cause it sounds like you don’t think women can wear what they want or whatever.’ Nadine shook her head blearily. ‘There’s this one girl in the group who honest to God wants to ban pictures of women like full stop. And tell you what else.’ She raised a pointed, silver-ringed finger. ‘Running a campaign is like having a job, like, a real one.’

  ‘I know! They asked me to write a column for The Badger, “Is Campus Sexist?”’

  ‘Yeah?’ Nadine missed her mouth and poured beer down her top. ‘Ah, shit the bed.’

  ‘I thought about it loads. I mean, worried about it without doing anything. But I don’t think I even replied to the email in the end. It’s like, I do think this stuff is true, but the minute I say anything, put my name on it and put it in the world, it sounds wrong.’ In a sudden burst of clarity, Ellie clapped her hands. ‘Actually. Do you know what? Campaigning is shit. I hate campaigning.’

  ‘Oh my God, me too!’ cried Nadine, crunching herself up to face Ellie. ‘It is shit! Plus so many of the people that do it are dicks.’

  ‘Exactly! It’s like—’

  ‘Oh my . . .’ Nadine pointed down. ‘Look!’

  They watched a group of girls clipping towards the buses in long, handmade T-shirts declaring in thick black letters ‘Women Have Pubes’. A guy in a sheer body stocking held up a hand to high-five one of them.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Ellie frowned. There was a pause. ‘They can’t do that, can they? I mean, that’s our campaign.’

  Nadine burst into laughter. ‘But we were just saying we’re too lazy to do anything!’

  ‘I know but—’

  ‘Ellie Taber, Selfish Feminist.’ Nadine shook her head. ‘“I like feminism, but only when I’m doing it.”’

  ‘But wouldn’t you ask the people—’

  ‘“I’m into women’s rights, but I’m definitely the rightest woman.”’

  ‘Who started the bloody thing?’

  ‘“All women are equal, but I’m the most equal.”’

  ‘It’s just good manners—’

  ‘That’s awareness, isn’t it?’ Nadine spread her hands. ‘That’s what we want. It’s great!’

  ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘You’re outrageous.’ Nadine lay back again. ‘I’m going to have to report you to the campaign committee.’

  ‘Not those twats!’

  ‘Lucky for you, one of the members is totally corrupt. I’m not saying she’s bribe-able, but her favourite cocktail at Frankie’s is a Prohibition Black.’

  Lucas was heavily involved in a plan to strip Bradder and throw his clothes out of the bus window, Ben was sitting next to Clare, and Charlie’s housemates had decided to cut the bus and cab it. The seat in front of Ben had one occupant.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Penny Austin squealed her customary greeting, waving a blue pompom. ‘I heard about you and Sara.’ Her head dropped to the right, an expression of pain seizing her tiny face. ‘That’s so sad. You were perfect together.’

  Charlie shivered under a blast of AC. ‘Yeah, so perfect we split up,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Penny brushed down her cheerleading outfit. ‘So what happened?’

  Penny was a vampire who fed on others’ misery. Many were the poor souls that destroyed their nights by becoming embroiled in her blood-sucking heart-to-hearts. She batted empathetic eyes at him. ‘If you ever need to talk . . .’

  No chance, Charlie thought. Not if we were the last two members of the human species.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Looking out of the window as the coach rolled through campus, Charlie sorely wished he was drunker – he knew from bitter experience that the journey to Court, a massive club on the edge of town, was surprisingly long.

  ‘You must be feeling terrible.’ Penny had several ways of wheedling information from you: extreme empathy, emotional flashing and statements about your life that were so misguided, you had to disagree. ‘Sara’s practically had a breakdown. The other day I found her sitting in the bath and crying.’

  Charlie doubted this was true, but it stirred his guilt nonetheless.

  ‘She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’ Penny went on. ‘And so lovely.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Charlie took the chance to reply to something sane. He shot an SOS back to Ben, but Ben was leaning his forehead against Clare’s shoulder, deep-breathing his way through travel sickness.

  ‘You must be missing her. It’s so tough being on your own when you’re used to someone being there, isn’t it? I mean,’ she gestured under her chin, ‘I know yo
u get those ingrowing hairs.’

  Charlie blanched. What else had Sara decided to share – his medical records, bank balance, penis size?!

  ‘I get them too.’ Penny smiled confidentially. ‘On my bikini line. They’re terrible, aren’t they? So itchy!’

  Charlie shook his head. Intimate details about Sara were on the tip of his tongue, but he knew sharing them would only make him look like a dick. Instead, mustering all of his conversational energy, he launched into an in-depth analysis of ingrown hairs, a filibuster that lasted almost the entire journey (To Tweeze Or Not To Tweeze?; When Squeezing Becomes Gouging; When Infection Strikes), all the while composing an imaginary text to Sara that began: ‘Um . . . you what?’

  Charlie was so relieved to see the concrete walls of Court, he almost didn’t mind the queue stretching right down to the industrial bins.

  ‘Oscar’s the one Ellie wants to bang!’ Nadine shouted at Rose over ‘Eternal Flame’. Rose had turned up at Frankie’s dressed like they did back when they were trying to get into bars at fifteen, in a miniskirt and sparkly vest top. After two cocktails, they were taking full advantage of the Eighties hits and half-empty dance floor.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Rose yelled back. ‘Drug addict? Uglier than sin? Gay? Catholic priest?’

  Ellie’s enthusiastic spin sent her tumbling into Rose. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘What a lightweight.’ Rose righted Ellie, teetered, and wafted into Nadine. ‘Alchies! She likes them too.’

  ‘He’s a sort of androgynous hippy-who-can-build-shit type.’ Nadine paused for the chorus, hugging herself and swaying. ‘Lives on a boat by the Hope and Anchor!’

  ‘Perfect.’ Rose gave a sardonic thumbs up. ‘First boyfriend Craig – literally becoming a priest. Second, Dennis, the ugliest man I ever, I mean ever—’ A man in a denim shirt approached Nadine, and Rose broke off to raise Carry On eyebrows at Ellie and blare, ‘A grown-up!’

  Ellie assessed this closely shaven, short-haired, über-straight individual. ‘He looks like a policeman on the telly. How old d’you reckon?’

  ‘’Tween . . .’ Rose gave him a thorough inspection. ‘Twenty-five and forty.’

  The policeman turned a questioning glance out to Ellie and Rose, and gestured a drink.

  ‘Double gin and shimline tonic, if you’re buying,’ yelled Rose.

  ‘Whatever you’re having,’ added Ellie. ‘Thanks.’

  As Kate Bush kicked in, Rose threw back her arms, nearly scratching someone’s eye out. School disco lights refracted through the chandeliers, and a group of hipster second years crashed onto the dance floor, ruffling their hairstyles in faux-faux-passion. Way ahead of the music, Rose charged into her own rendition of the chorus; Ellie joined in anyway.

  When Nadine returned, she brought three more police officers. One of them started grinding with Rose, eyes locked on the ceiling as if he were undergoing a medical procedure. Ellie scrutinised him for any obvious sign of being a sex criminal (result: indeterminate). A short black guy in a tight designer T-shirt tried the same thing with Ellie.

  ‘Sorry – boyfriend,’ she shouted politely.

  ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Lucky man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ellie, not sure what to say. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had tried to chat her up. The uni method entailed admiring and ignoring someone from a distance, maybe stretching to a bit of irony-laden banter over some bureaucratic procedure, then embarking on an almost imperceptible courtship ritual that involved going to the same club you always went to, drinking six Jägerbombs without so much as making eye contact, staggering outside and eventually, as if by accident, getting it on in an alley on the walk home.

  ‘I just finished my dissertation,’ she added, feeling she ought to say something.

  ‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Psychokiller’ rescued them both from her answer. They sang–danced in a circle, the fourth man trying to insert himself between Nadine and Rose.

  ‘Have that!’ Rose pushed a drink into Ellie’s hand, and fell back against the guy’s shoulder, eyes closed. Nadine and her bloke turned face to face, his hands on her waist. Ellie drained the glass and let it fall, rolling between dancers’ feet, spilling ice cubes onto the floor. Over, over, over, her heart sang. She turned away from the others, creating her own circle of movement. ‘Blue Monday’ brought a whoop of recognition from the crowd and she raised her hands above her head and clapped in rhythm, tapping out a message of elation to anyone who would hear.

  —

  ‘Get in a photo with us!’ Romilly called to Charlie. She was in red underwear and devil’s horns, draped over Katie in stripy bikini and sailor cap. They pouted at the camera. Romilly stuck out her tongue and mimed licking Katie’s face.

  The lobby was a photo-op bottleneck, as everybody stripped off and revealed their outfits. Sexy angels posed with half-naked workmen, groups of cheerleaders shook their bums for the camera, goths in thigh-high boots clawed at the chests of vampires.

  ‘Get in here!’ Romilly dragged Charlie over and pushed him into the middle. ‘Look hot!’

  ‘Hold on.’ The moment to strip off his shorts had arrived, but in this crowded, fluorescent foyer, and without any further encouragement, Charlie couldn’t quite muster the energy to do it.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ shouted Romilly.

  ‘Oh . . . nothing. Just take it.’

  Bradder charged past, naked apart from a purple helium balloon tied to his cock.

  ‘Come on, mate!’ Lucas beckoned Charlie. ‘Let’s get this night started.’ They headed into the main arena. ‘So remember, yeah, spread your net.’

  As they passed the bucking bronco penis, the first competitor was getting up, a tall, brunette athlete with a cardboard medal round her neck, reading ‘Number 1 Shag’. Two dancers in snakeskin body suits were up on a podium, waggling forked tongues. Way over in the far corner, beyond the dance pit, a drag queen was kicking off a stand-up show.

  ‘Aftershock?’ Charlie needed to get drunk.

  ‘Ah, look who it is!’ Lucas rounded on a firewoman in a rubber dress, standing at the bar. ‘The girl who lives in my old room.’

  ‘Not any more,’ she replied. ‘I’ve flown the nest – got my own flat now.’

  ‘So actually it’s lucky we met you.’ Lucas kicked off his laddish skit. ‘We’re about to play “I have never”.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I see you’ve got a drink.’

  ‘Yeah, but me and Tina are going to watch the stand-up.’

  ‘Come on, Natasha, this night is for AIDS. Show some respect, okay?’ Lucas grinned, mocking himself. That was how this patter worked for him, Charlie thought – Lucas was good cop and bad cop at the same time. It didn’t leave much room for collaboration. ‘I’ll kick off. I have never . . . dressed as a firewoman.’ Natasha rolled her eyes and drank. ‘I win. My turn again—’

  ‘That is not the rules.’

  ‘Didn’t I specify before we began?’

  Charlie scoured the dark, laser-lit arena for any sign of Sasha.

  ‘Okay, let’s start again then. I have never slept in the same room as Lucas.’ Natasha reluctantly sipped her Bacardi Breezer. Lucas leaned closer, a parody of a leer. ‘And I have definitely never considered doing it again.’

  Tina arrived, a hot secretary with a dark bob, horn-rimmed glasses and fishnets. ‘Aren’t we going to the stand-up?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Natasha firmly.

  ‘Ah.’ Lucas held up a finger. ‘The game’s not over yet. My turn again.’

  Charlie knew he ought to say something to Tina. Unable to summon anything amusing, he opted for, ‘SSB’s kind of weird, isn’t it, everyone standing about in thongs? It’s not really my thing.’

  Tina’s wide, green and utterly bored eyes alighted on Charlie, took in all he had to offer, then flitted back to Natasha.

  Brilliant, Charlie thought – the only role Lucas left open was Sideline Hater, and nobody l
iked that. Charlie knew he should get the night going by changing out of his shorts, but couldn’t help but be discouraged by the prospect of facing Tina with only a neon sheath cupping his balls.

  ‘Hey, mate.’ Ben laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Hey.’ Charlie turned to him with immense relief.

  ‘Thought you’d want to know – Sara’s here.’

  Charlie fought the temptation to spin round immediately and pinpoint her whereabouts. ‘Who did she arrive—’

  ‘Er, Charlie?’ Lucas butted in. ‘I think we both know you’ve thought about sucking my cock, so drink up, mate.’

  ‘He seems a tee-e-eny bit sleazy.’ Ellie held up a lobster claw of sleaziness.

  Rose rolled her eyes, taking her whole upper body with her. Using Ellie’s shoulder for support, she pushed herself up off the kerb. Once erect, she anchored her burning eyes somewhere on Ellie’s face. ‘’Cause you’ve got a boyfriend doesn’t make you the sex police!’ she blared.

  ‘I know, I’m jus’ saying—’ Ellie was cut off by a blundering slap to the face. Rose’s open right palm caught her chin with an ineffectual thump rather than a smack, sending Ellie into a comedy, slow-motion fall into the gutter. Once down there, Ellie couldn’t get up – she’d left her feet behind on the pavement, her legs were tangled in an unpickable granny knot. The whole thing was utterly ridiculous. She hiccuped, and started to laugh. Body shaking, she peered up through a horizontal curtain of hair – at a livid Rose, looming over her in her fifteen-year-old’s outfit – at Nadine’s ringed fingers feeling that grown-up policeman’s arse – at Rose’s gormless bloke peeing against the wall – and it all made her laugh more, and hiccup more, until she could barely breathe.

  ‘Hello, lady.’ Nadine grabbed her arms and pulled her up. ‘Enjoying yourself down there?’

  Ellie hiccuped painfully. ‘Rose slapped me,’ she giggled.

  ‘No way!’ Nadine set Ellie back on the kerb. ‘She’s so lairy!’

  ‘She’s jus’ hungry. That’s the thing, she’s jus’ unbelievably hungry.’ Ellie shook her head. ‘I’m hungry. D’you wanna get chips?’

  Nadine pushed Ellie’s hair back and whispered, ‘I think I’m going back to Mark’s.’