by T. S. Easton
29th December
So my divorce from Gex lasted all of three days. I’m like Michael in The Godfather. I can’t escape the Family, no matter how hard I try; they just pull me back in. Joz and I were cycling through the park today and we saw Gex and Freddie, hanging out by the broken swings. They called us over. I could tell Gex had a plan as soon as I saw his face. He was looking all shifty and scanning the area constantly. He couldn’t have looked more suspicious if he’d had a twirly moustache, a cackling laugh and was standing over a screaming blonde he’d just tied to a railway track.
‘What?’ I asked guardedly.
‘What you doing for New Year’s?’ he asked us.
‘Nothing,’ Joz said immediately.
I hesitated. I had intended to spend New Year’s Eve with Mum before sneaking upstairs to get on with the knitting. I’m working on a particularly complex neckline pattern Mrs Hooper had told us about and that I was thinking of introducing into 2Patz, but I could hardly tell him that. In fact, I had recently made wholesale adjustments to the pattern and was no longer calling it 2Patz. It was now Patt3rn.
‘Good,’ Gex said. ‘You two is coming wiv us to Wicked.’
‘The musical?’ I asked. ‘I’ve seen it.’
They looked at me in contempt. ‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly getting it. ‘You mean the nightclub in Haslemere retail park, don’t you? Classy.’
‘Yep,’ Freddie said. ‘We’re going clubbing.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I hate clubs, and we’re under-age. I’d be breaching the terms of my prob—’
‘Stop crapping on about your probation,’ Gex said. ‘This place is wall-to-wall girls, innit?’
‘I’m supposed to be Giving Something Back,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, think of it as Giving Something Back to the ladies of Hampton,’ Joz said.
‘What am I giving back to them?’ I asked.
‘How about the knickers you stole off their washing lines?’ Gex suggested.
When everyone had stopped rolling around laughing, Freddie explained that his friend Baz works at Wicked and can help us get in.
‘New Year’s is free for girls, only guys have to pay, so he says they always end up with loads more girls than guys. The girls go a bit mad without so many blokes around. You know. Sexy dancing with each other, bit of girl-on-girl snogging and towards the end of the evening they’re ready to grab hold of anything in a pair of trousers. Even you won’t have any trouble, Bellend.’
‘Thanks for the ego boost,’ I said.
‘Baz tells me he gets fistfuls of phone numbers shoved in his pockets,’ Gex went on, eyes wide at the thought. ‘He gets felt up the whole time. He loves it.’
‘Gex,’ I said. ‘Baz is in that position because he works there and is over eighteen. How are you going to benefit from this, considering you won’t be allowed in? Are you going to wait outside with a sign?’
‘We’re going to dress up as bar staff,’ Gex said, his eye glinting at the sheer genius of his own plan. ‘No one’s going to be asking you for ID when you have a staff T-shirt.’
‘Where are you going to get the T-shirts from?’ I asked.
‘Baz grabbed me some old uniforms, said as long as we wash them and return them next week no one will miss them.’
‘Why would Baz do this?’ I asked, suspicious.
‘Because he got fired, innit?’ Gex said. ‘He doesn’t care any more.’
‘And why did he get fired?’
‘Got caught snogging a girl in the ladies’ loos.’
‘He’s a legend,’ Freddie said.
‘So, you in?’ Gex asked.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Why not?’ he asked, genuinely astonished.
‘Look, for a start, the plan is not going to work,’ I told him. ‘Even if we manage to sneak in without being caught and arrested, we’ll hardly be able to wander about the place chatting up girls. We’ll either be spotted and turfed out straight away, or else we’ll end up having to pour drinks all night.’
‘That place is dark,’ he said witheringly. ‘It’s noisy. On New Year’s Eve it’ll be heaving like a dieting ballerina. No one’s going to notice us, and even if they do, we’ll just say we didn’t know we weren’t supposed to be there.’
‘And how will we explain the uniforms?’
‘All you do is ask questions, Bellend,’ Gex said, exasperated. ‘Try not to see the problems, try to see the opportunities.’
‘You know who’s going to be there, Ben?’ Freddie asked, a sly look on his face.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘A teacher.’
‘Mr Grover?’ I asked. I knew perfectly well who he was thinking of.
‘A teacher who likes to shove big things into her hot oven.’
‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘Drop the double entendres, I get enough of those at home. So Miss Swallow’s going to be there. So what?’
And then Freddie dropped his bombshell. ‘So she’s single now. She’s split up with Joe, that’s what.’
Shut the front door.
30th December
Apparently it happened on Friday. Freddie says Joe came around to their house for some family do. He was all morose and told everyone about it then.
‘So why did they split up?’ I asked him.
‘I dunno,’ he said shrugging.
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘He did tell Mum,’ he said, bored with the conversation now. ‘But I was playing Xbox. I wasn’t really listening.’
‘Freddie old son, this is important information,’ I said, annoyed. ‘Did he cheat on her? Or did they just drift apart? Is she upset? Vulnerable? Does she hate all men? Is she looking for revenge or a rebound relationship?’
‘Come clubbing wiv us,’ Gex said, ‘and you might just find out … ’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I told him coolly.
Damn him. Damn him!
1st January
I don’t even know where to start about last night. First of all I had trouble getting out of the house. I was nervous about possibly seeing Miss Swallow in an erotically-charged situation and I spent ages getting ready. I put some aftershave on. Possibly too much, actually, I had a choking fit and can still feel it in the back of my throat nearly twenty-four hours later.
I’d dressed in a simple white T-shirt, skinny jeans and proper shoes, like Gex had instructed. Only problem was that the only proper shoes I have are the ones Mum got me for Gran’s funeral, which are a bit dressy for Wicked, I think. But Gex had said ‘no Converse’ and the only other shoes I have are my school shoes. So I borrowed a pair of my dad’s two-tone shoes, the ones he wears when he and Mum go to Back to School 80s Night in Guildford. I don’t know much about fashion but those are clearly dancing shoes. You do not want to hear what else they wear at these nights, but it includes leg-warmers and marble-wash jeans.
‘Where are you going with those shoes on?’ Mum asked as I clattered down the stairs.
‘Out, just over to Gex’s house.’ This was true, but only because we were meeting there before heading off to the club.
‘I thought we were having an evening in?’ she said. ‘I’m off on tour again tomorrow.’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said. ‘I arranged this ages ago.’
‘You said you were staying in.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. What are you doing at Gex’s?’
I thought furiously. Why hadn’t I prepared an answer?
‘Watching telly?’ she suggested. ‘Playing computer games? Studying? Shooting up?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All of those. Except for the shooting up.’
‘And the studying,’ Mum said.
‘Yes, that’s right, except for the shooting up and studying.’
‘You’re supposed to be doing AS levels this year,’ Mum reminded me.
‘I know, Mum, but it’s New Year’s Eve … ’
She frowned at me. ‘OK, off you go then, we’ll just sit h
ere and watch The End of the Year Quiz without you.’
‘Can you tape it?’ I asked.
‘Already am.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
She stood up and walked over to me. ‘I know you very well, Ben,’ she said, looking down at my shoes, then at my hair. I could see her nostrils flare as she sniffed my aftershave.
‘I know you do,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably.
She held out an empty hand, palm up.
‘Put your hand over mine,’ she said. I did so.
Mum pressed her palm against mine, and flipped our hands over, so mine was underneath, then she took her hand away, to reveal a twenty-pound note.
‘What’s that for?’
‘In case you want to buy your young lady friend a drink. Or a McFlurry. Or Talk Time, or whatever it is you teenagers buy each other to express affection.’
I grinned. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
I scarpered then, running down the hill and along Foster Street to Gex’s house. Gex lives in a manky old terrace. His dad hasn’t worked for a while. There’s always a mattress out in the front garden at Gex’s house. Oddly enough, it’s not always the same mattress. I’m curious what the situation is with the mattresses. Who puts them there? Who takes the old ones away? Who decides when all of this should happen? I’m always too scared to ask.
They were all waiting out the front when I arrived. Gex and Freddie were sitting on the bonnet of Gex’s Ford Fiesta while Joz sat on the low garden wall. Freddie was smoking.
‘Where you been, innit?’ Gex asked.
‘And why are you wearing bowling shoes?’ Joz added.
‘They’re dancing shoes,’ I replied.
‘Where do you usually go dancing?’ Freddie asked. ‘Bowl-a-Rama?’
‘It don’t matter,’ Gex said. ‘No one’s going to look at his shoes, come on, let’s go.’
He handed us all our golf-shirts, emblazoned with the Wicked logo. We put them on and got in his car. I was bricking it a bit, to be honest. I didn’t think it likely we were going to be arrested or anything, but we were certain to get caught and chucked out. What if someone saw us and word got around? What if Mum found out? She’d be disappointed in me. What if Mrs Hooper found out? That would almost be worse. What if Claudia Gunter found out? I’m supposed to be her model client? It was all right for the others. No one has any expectations of them. They’ve been written off by the world already. Or at least Gex has. Why can’t I be written off?
2nd January
Couldn’t finish the Club Night story yesterday. Found I was writing in more detail than I’d meant to. Mum interrupted me and reminded me I’ve got Maths mocks in three weeks. Did a bit of studying last night and will do some more tonight. But I wanted to get this down while it’s still fresh in my memory.
Freddie was doing his Deep Thought thing in the car. He goes quiet for ages, obviously concentrating on some big concept, then he suddenly comes out with it, slowly and portentously, and it’s always completely pointless. We were speeding, literally, along a country road, Gex having decided to avoid the motorways as he happened to know there weren’t any cameras along this particular route.
‘Is it OK? That you’re speeding?’ I asked, trying not to seem anxious even while clutching the door handle. ‘You’ve already lost your licence once.’ Gex is eighteen. He lost his licence three weeks after he got it, for six months. ‘Remember you had to do that safe driving course?’
‘Advanced Driving course, innit?’ he said. ‘Not Safe Driving. I got seventy-three per cent on Advanced Driving.’
‘What happens if you’re faced with a situation from the twenty-seven per cent you failed on?’ I asked, wincing at how close Gex had come to swiping a cyclist. I craned to watch the poor bloke shaking his fist at us in the rear-view mirror.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Because of you, we’re late. Our shift started ten minutes ago.’
‘We don’t have a shift,’ I pointed out. ‘We’re not actually employed by anyone. We can turn up whenever we like.’
‘Do you think mice who live in Legoland think they’re giants?’ Freddie said, apropos of nothing.
There was a silence in the car as we all thought this over.
‘Might do,’ Joz said eventually. It’s best just to go along with Freddie when he’s in this mood.
‘I think there are probably a lot of animals confused by Legoland,’ I added.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Freddie said. ‘Like birds flying overhead. They probably think “Whoa, I’m really high!”’
Gex shot through a red light, nearly knocking another man off his bike.
‘Another flipping cyclist,’ he spat. ‘They’re everywhere. It’s like Beijing round here.’
‘At least you saw him this time,’ I said.
Gex grunted.
‘So what’s your plan of attack with The Swallower?’ Joz asked.
‘I don’t have a plan,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask her if she wants to dance, and she’ll knock me back. Nothing is going to happen between us. Obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Freddie said.
We arrived twenty minutes late for our ‘shift’ but at least we were in one piece. Gex led us up to the door, where two bouncers were checking IDs. He unhooked the red rope, cool as you like and walked in. The bouncers looked up.
‘Who are you?’ one of them asked. He was huge, both tall and broad. Imagine if Peter Crouch and Shrek had got into a teleport machine together and ended up fused into one person. You might have got something that looked a bit like this bouncer.
‘Mike called us over from the other club,’ Gex said coolly. ‘Said you were short-staffed.’
‘News to me,’ said Peter Shrek.
The people in the crowd, mostly girls, true, were staring at us suspiciously. Did they sniff a fast one being pulled?
Gex shrugged and just stood there, looking at the man. I kind of admired his nerve. All I wanted to do was run.
Eventually the monster twitched his massive head towards the doorway. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Good luck with this lot.’
We were in. We headed straight for the loos and took off our shirts, then it was back out on to the dance floor. Now that we were inside, some of my fear fell away and I started to quite enjoy myself. The music was rubbish, of course, but it was so loud, and the dance floor was so crowded that it didn’t really matter. We surged into the gyrating mob, shouting at each other, jumping up and down, not caring how we looked. No one was looking at my shoes. No one was looking at me.
I was actually having fun.
Then a gap opened up in the crowd and, for a moment, I saw her. Miss Swallow, dancing, apparently alone, her eyes closed. Looking like class on a dance floor. Time slowed, I was deaf to the music, blind to everything but Miss Swallow. She wore a loose grey top, short, which showed off her midriff and, if I wasn’t mistaken, was made from angora wool. The stitches were loose, open, which made the top slightly see-through; she wore a black bra underneath and very, very tight white jeans.
Then she opened her eyes and saw me. She stopped dancing and came over. I stood, trying to keep my tongue in my mouth, trying to stop my eyes from popping out of my head.
‘What are you doing here?’ Miss Swallow shouted over the music. ‘You’re under-age.’
‘Not much,’ I protested. I was trying to avoid staring at her top. I was fascinated to know what yarn it was, but I was worried if I had a good old stare she might think I was looking at her boobs.
She looked doubtful. She also looked drunk. She shrugged and said, ‘Oh what the hell, come and dance with me.’
I wanted to move, but I was in a state of shock. And panic.
‘Come on,’ she persisted, grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me with impressive force. ‘Time to see what you’re made of, Fletcher.’
She did sound a bit ‘half cut’, as my grandma terms it, but this was a call to arms. It was now or never.
‘If you insist,’ I grinned.
Only p
roblem was, I have absolutely no idea how to dance. Not only that, but all that freedom I had felt, that confidence, the devil-may-care feeling when we’d first walked onto the dance floor? All gone. I was going to look like a total muppet in front of Miss Swallow.
I tried to dance, to follow what she was doing but my legs felt like planks. My arms wouldn’t bend properly, one of my hands felt incredibly heavy, the other one like it was full of helium. I must have looked like a malfunctioning Cyberman.
To her credit, Miss Swallow carried on dancing with me till the end of the song. I only caught her smirking at my shoes twice. After the dance, she leaned close to me and for a mad moment I thought she was going to kiss me, but of course she wasn’t.
‘Thanks for the dance,’ she shouted, her breath hot in my ear. ‘I have to go and find my friends.’
‘OK,’ I bellowed into her ear, causing her to wince. She was so close, I wanted to place my hand on her back, just to touch her. Just to have the pretence of intimacy, just to have a feel of that gorgeous yarn.
‘Be good,’ she mouthed as she disappeared off into the crowd.
‘Wait!’ I called. I couldn’t leave it there. I had to try, at least.
She turned and gave me that curious smile again.
‘I heard that you’d broken up with Joe, is that true?’ I asked.
She nodded. She didn’t look angry that I’d brought it up. Or even that upset.
‘Was it the tank top?’ I asked.
She looked at me for a long time as the new song thumped and blared and shining dancers swept around us.
Then Miss Swallow laughed and shook her head.
‘No, Ben, it had nothing to do with the tank top.’
I grinned. ‘Phew.’
She leaned in again and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’re very sweet, Ben Fletcher,’ she said. But before I could respond, she was gone, off into the crowd, lost from sight.
And that was that. My opportunity gone. Let down by my malcoordination and weak, knitting-based humour. Oh well. At least I tried, I thought. I drifted to the side and stood until the song was finished, lost in thought.
