‘Do you want to see what they’ve done to YOU, though?’
He pushed the phone back and this time I picked it up.
The first picture showed my Princess dress on a mannequin. Only it wasn’t the Princess dress the way it had been described to me. It was still short and sleeveless but it wasn’t black silk – it was made out of a black rubbish sack, with glitter splashed randomly over it. And the label across the dummy’s face said, in big black capitals, WHITE-TRASH TINKERBELL.
I looked up at Duane. He may only have been fifteen, and a little prick of a bum-chum rent boy, but I suddenly wanted him to put his arms around me and tell me everything would be all right. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘I’m sorry, Shugs. But I just thought you should know –’
I nodded, and hit the button. Next up was my beautiful micro-mini skating skirt with attached knickers, which was meant to have been in lush red velvet – with matching muff! But now it was in a horrible check – even worse than Burberry! – and as for the muff . . . well, you can guess what that was made to resemble. The label on this one said PRAM-FACED PRICKTEASE. My sight was a bit blurry by this time, but I noted that the next dress had pregnancy tests hanging off the hem and was called LATE AGAIN! Then there was PIKEY PRINCESS – a princess at last! – and CHIPSHOP CHIC.
Then I came to the final shot. It was the culottes. I’ve always hated culottes anyway. But these – these were bright yellow, with gurgling babies printed all over them. And a trickle of blood running down from the crotch. It was called MUM’S ABORTION.
I couldn’t believe it. My friends. MY FRIENDS . . .
Duane took his phone back from me gently. ‘You didn’t know about none of this, did you.’
I shook my head, no.
‘But you were modelling for them for ages—’
‘They put these white material things on you – “toiles”, they’re called. They help them get the outline right – then they cut it on the proper material . . . that way there’s no waste . . .’ The fact that I knew this thing which I’d been perfectly OK not knowing seemed to sum up for some dumb freaking reason every dumb freaking thing I’d hoped for, and I suddenly saw how I’d been SO fooled by these bastards into believing that I could be something I wasn’t, when all I’d ever be was a chav. A chipshop-chic, pram-faced pricktease, white-trash, late-again CHAV – worrying about her mum’s abortion! They lied to me, and they gave me money, and they dressed me up and let me look into their mirrors – and I saw a princess. But those mirrors were evil fairground mirrors, it turned out, because where I saw a princess, the rest of the world just saw a pikey. And always would, because of everything about me, from my blood to my postcode.
I began to stuff cold chips into my mouth then, just more and more and more, until they started to fall out, because of course I couldn’t swallow because my throat had closed up, because I was crying.
‘Ria! RIA!’ Duane sounded really shocked. Yeah, I know – I never cried! But then, I’d never been made to look ten types of twat in one go by a pair of giggling paedos, had I! Through my veil of tears I saw him get up from his seat and then I felt his arms go round me and pull me gently up from my seat. I made a half-hearted attempt at shaking him off – it was all wrong, me being comforted by a boy.
‘Leave me ’lone – want my parfait!’ I protested.
‘No! – come on! – you’ve got a rep, you can’t be seen blubbing in here!’
I let him manhandle, or rather boyhandle, me out, and we walked without speaking up North Street to the corner of West Street, the long hill of clubs and pubs that leads to the seafront, often referred to by the local police as ‘Little Beirut’. As we walked past the scene of many a conquest and catfight, I couldn’t help thinking how bloody ‘ironic’ – thanks, Kim! – it was that I had had so many run-ins here with some of the toughest types in town, boys and girls both, yet in all that pushing and shoving I had never once been made to cry. And now I was in floods because of a pair of namby-pamby middle-aged frock-makers.
And it struck me that I’d been so much stronger before I knew what irony was. Maybe you’re just better off not knowing certain things.
‘It’s called “The Council Couture Collection”,’ Duane said apologetically after a few minutes. ‘I would have told you before. Only I thought at first you might have been in on the joke.’
‘No. I was just the punchline.’ A black rubbish bag taunted me with my dreams of glory and I kicked it viciously. It spilt its guts everywhere – a bit like I had with those bastards.
‘I heard them talking about it – they said they was sick of making frocks for thick rich footballers’ wives and this was their experimental collection,’ he said helpfully.
‘I’LL BLOODY EXPERIMENT ON THEM!’ I screeched, stopping dead still. ‘I’ll take a pair of their freaking huge pattern-cutting scissors and a tube of your superglue, and I’ll make them the first two-faced, two-headed gaylord on earth to have two crinkle-cut bum-holes, THAT’S what I’ll do –’
But then I realized that there was no point in making a minger-monster out of them – who’d notice the difference, for one? However, there was SOMETHING I could do with scissors and superglue that would make a LOT of difference to their lovely jubbly quality of life, the twisted trollops . . .
I grabbed Duane and shoved him against the glass front of the amusement arcade at the bottom of West Street. ‘You got a key to their place?’
‘I can nick one—’
‘You know what date they’re showing their crap collection?’
‘I can find out—’
‘Come on then!’ I grabbed his hand and pulled him across the road towards the sea. Car horns shrieked in protest, but I was used to that; I didn’t give a damn about the clamour or the anger that followed in my wake – bring it on! The thing was that I had a plan, and I was back on my feet, teetering down the shingle in high heels, dragging a laughing Duane after me. MY LIFE!
9
Well, it was a somewhat different Sugar who clocked in at Stanwick next day, Saturday, and while I can’t exactly claim that I embraced my mop and bucket as though they were him off of T4, or even my passport to a better life, I did look at them like there were a pair of old – what’s the word – adversaries, that’s right, who had to be faced before I could move on to anything else.
Another difference was that I was no longer looking down my nose at young Asif. Instead I was looking down my cleavage at him, grinning like a loon, while he failed to notice me and instead nodded seriously at what Navdeep was saying.
‘See, kid, what the English are only just starting to understand is that your extreme Muslim didn’t come here to get freedom from persecution – he came here to get the freedom to persecute everybody else! Now what were you telling me about your church in Pakistan—’
‘Ooh, are you religious?’ I asked brightly. ‘My –’ I was about to say, ‘My husband’s a Lutheran,’ but then I reckoned it probably wasn’t the greatest chat-up line in the world. ‘My, that’s good!’ I swerved.
‘My parents – we’re Christians,’ said Asif proudly.
‘Onward Christian soldiers!’ I said fiercely, giving a clenched fist salute.
Asif looked appalled.
‘I’ll leave you kids to your theological discussion,’ laughed Nav, getting up. ‘I dunno, Maria, though – you Brits and your precious multiculturalism. It’s all sweetness and light when it’s curry houses and late opening corner shops, but it’s not so much fun when it’s honour-killings and book-burning, is it! Or murdering the rest of us. Ask him!’ He inclined his head towards Asif. ‘I can’t help thinking about what my mum says when she sees ’em marching about, having the screaming abdabs – “I came here from the Punjab because I wanted to live in England – not because I want to live in a multicultural country. If I’d wanted to live in one of them, I’d have stayed in India!”.’ And with that he went to whup Nev’s aye-ss over a new Sudoku.
I looked at Asif. He was staring at me
with shining eyes, both eager and wary. I held his look, rolled it around a bit, and bounced it right back at him with bells on. ‘So, we on for this thea – thea – this logical discussion, then?’ I twinkled.
He nodded. ‘I am always free when not at work – apart from church, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed angelically. ‘Me too.’ I paused then, got right to the point. ‘So, like, you want to get some, ASAP?’
‘Absolutely.’ He took my hand in his, and as I looked down at it, I got this warm glow right in the core of my stomach. At first I thought it was because of the colour thing, the racial harmony thing, and I felt well proud of myself.
But then a split second later I realized it was because our hands, joined like that, looked like a Benetton ad. And that made me feel like a model – as near as I was ever gonna get to being one now. Which reminded me . . .
But pleasure before business! ‘So when you want to do it?’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Wahey! – you’re eager, aren’t you! Well, we’re not working till the evening – and I guess it would be sort of special not to do it here for the first time . . .’
‘Yes, I think so. Though of course, wherever there are two of one mind, it’s always appropriate.’
Boy, was he learning fast or what!
‘Though ideally there would be three or more of us –’ He caught me by the shoulders and stared at me full on, his eyes searching my face as though he thought he’d find the final rollover number there. Which in a way was the truth, I s’pose, if you want to be smutty about it.
‘Steady on, tiger!’ I was getting well hot and bothered now, as a vivid image of me, Asif and Dr Foxy rolling around under the Palace Pier came into my head. Bit parky for it, though – still, just have to stay extra-close for warmth!
‘You live in Brighton – would you like to do it there?’ He was well animated now, getting more excited by the minute!
‘Well – where do you live?’
‘Crawley.’
‘No, I definitely don’t want to do it there!’
We laughed, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like he was a foreigner.
‘Shall I come to your house at nine o’clock?’
‘Hang about!’ It’s not like Mum was a racist – I mean, look at me! It was a warm day in Sussex when I was born, obviously – you don’t get a black-haired, olive-skinned baby from sleeping with the boy next door, obviously. But there’s caffè latte and there’s double espresso, and these things can make all the difference when they’re banging on your front door – with a view to banging your daughter – at the crack of dawn. ‘Why don’t I meet you at the station? Then we can just stroll down and stop where the fancy takes us . . .’
‘What a lovely idea, Maria.’ He looked genuinely moved, which never hurts a girl’s ego, I find. I could have sworn there were actual tears in his eyes! ‘It should be spontaneous – as the spirit moves us!’
‘Couldn’t agree more!’ I stroked his lovely face and planted a light, teasing kiss on his lips, making him blush, bless him! Boy – isn’t it great when you find yourself singing from the same hymn sheet!
So that’s how come, at nine thirty next morning, I was sitting in a Baptist Church in Hove praising the Lord. To add insult to injury, I didn’t recognize one of the hymns – all intro, no tune! On the plus side, the vicar – or ‘pastor’ as they called him – was quite fit, as well as the congregation; lots of lush ethnics there, but no sign of the foxy Maxine. She struck me as the bolshy non-believer sort, anyway. And of course she was an abortionist!
I sneaked a sideways peek at the gorge God-botherer who’d got me into this as I mouthed the words to one of the tuneless wonders, and he shot me the sort of smile that made it all worthwhile. We finished the alleged hymn and sat down, and bugger me if the pastor didn’t start banging on about how much he ‘desired’ his wife! The irony! And here was I, heading for Nunsville on the No-Sex Express!
‘Stand up, Moira!’ yelled the pastor lustily. We all rubber-necked like crazy before our eyes came to rest on this pretty boring broad in that sorta late twenties–early thirties zone, where it’s all going pear-shaped, i.e. RIGHT ON TO THE HIPS! She was looking down at her feet – though with hips like that it’d be a wonder if she could see them, come to think of it. ‘Yes, that’s my wife – Moira!’
We made sort of approving noises – even me. Well, it seemed a bit bad to shout ‘Oi! – Cankles!’ in a church, which was the first thing that came into my mind to be honest.
‘Moira – tell the people – do I give you flowers?’
Moira mumbled something.
‘Speak up, Moira! – TELL the people!’
Moira cleared her throat. ‘Yes!’
‘And tell the people, Moira – do I give you flowers because I feel I SHOULD give you flowers?’ – dramatic pause! – ‘OR BECAUSE I DESIRE YOU?’
Moira mumbled something.
‘TELL THE PEOPLE, MOIRA! TELL ALL THE PEOPLE!’
‘BECAUSE YOU DESIRE ME!’ Moira yelled.
All around us people applauded. But Asif and I looked at each other amazed, then away to keep from choking with laughter. In that moment I became totally determined to have him. Even more determined than when I’d got a real close eyeful of the back of his neck once while we were queuing up to get our Toilet Duck. Or that time when I’d been pissed on gin miniatures the Dracule-Lambies had smuggled off a plane, given the lads in Security a quick flash of the puppies fighting to get out of their Wonderbra kennel and noticed that there was a lot more going on in young Asif’s trousers than his butter-wouldn’t-melt expression would imply. Forget butter, you could have melted brass down there from what I’d glimpsed before he scurried out of the rest-room. It’s funny how sharing a laugh, or better still suppressing one, can bring you closer to someone than a blow job will. Funny ha-ha, funny peculiar and funny quite-sad really, if you think about it.
But as I think I’ve said before, too much thinking’s well bad for the complexion. So I just squeezed Asif’s hand and relished the feeling of him squeezing back. An old disco song Mum used to play a lot came back to me –
‘There’ll be twenty minutes of squeezing
Twenty minutes of pleasing
TWENTY MINUTES OF BLOWING MY TOP!’
I went ‘Ooh . . .’ quite loud, without meaning to, just thinking about me and Asif eventually having our ‘Happy Hour’, so to speak, and wouldn’t you know it the pervy old pastor fixed me with a beady eye!
‘Miss!’ he only goes and yells. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘Um, yeah!’ I yelled back, hoping he’d leave me alone and pick on someone else if I agreed with him.
‘Listen! From the mouths of babes!’ he screeched – bit personal, I thought, drawing attention to my looks in church! ‘And this is what the Lord wants from us – not for us to worship Him through duty – BUT TO WORSHIP HIM THROUGH DESIRE! So now, let us SING to him our final hymn – with DESIRE!’
With this the congregation went ape, cheering and ‘Amen!’-ing like they’d just won the Cup. With the exception of Asif and me, that is – as one, we stood up and legged it out of there. Outside on the pavement we cracked up, hurrying down the hill to the seafront gasping for breath. It wasn’t till we were sitting on the beach looking out to sea that we spoke.
‘Well, that was a laugh and a half!’ I lit a gasper and offered him one. ‘Wunnit!’
He shook his head. ‘Yes, it was. But church is not the place for giggles. Joy, yes, of course. But not giggles.’
‘Well . . . I’m sorry,’ I offered. Any indignity for the chance of a decent beach-shag!
‘No . . . I don’t blame you – why should you not find fun in the foolishness of those who should know better?’ He picked up a pebble and tossed it out to sea. ‘All that talk of desire – I didn’t like that too much. We were meant to be worshipping God – not his wife, nice as she may be.’
‘Yeah – why don’t they get a
room!’ I agreed. And I meant it – but I also thought it was a good way to turn the talk from the holy to the hoochy, if you get my drift. I lay back on elbows and looked up at him from under my lashes. ‘Come to that . . . why don’t we . . .’
But old Asif wasn’t having none – and neither was I, by the looks of it. He picked up a handful of pebbles and let them fall through his fingers; I arched my back and imagined them as kisses falling on my body. He frowned at them as they fell; I imagined him frowning down at me as I went to work on him, before the downturned mouth turned first up in an incredulous smile, and then into a pure O of bliss . . .
‘I keep looking for the right church, but I cannot seem to find it. The other week, at an otherwise excellent Catholic church near Fulking, there was a sign up saying PLEASE MIND YOUR HANDBAGS!’
‘Bloody pikeys,’ I agreed. ‘My mum’s one,’ I added in case he thought I was prejudiced.
‘I am too impatient,’ – so am I, mate, so am I! – ‘where instead, I should be grateful for the opportunity just to worship in peace.’ He looked up at me, his eyes narrowed against the sun and something else. ‘You know what I mean?’
‘No – why don’t you tell me?’
‘Later.’ He laid back then, but he still wasn’t relaxed. Well, he was laying on pebbles. But you know, I just got the feeling he never would be, not even if he was laying back on a hammock made of hardcore cloud, hitched between two solid old stars.
Well, I knew he was stressing, and I felt for him – I really did. But, on the other hand, surely this was the moment when more than ever he needed to, um, empower himself. So, to help him, I straddled him in one smooth move.
AND HE PUSHED ME OFF!
‘Jeez, man! Don’t BE that guy!’ I sat up and rubbed my left elbow where it was skinned.
‘Maria! – SUGAR! – I am SO sorry!’ He grabbed my arm and stared at my elbow. He looked horrified. ‘WHAT HAVE I DONE!’
‘It’s no big –’ I started, then thought better of it. It wouldn’t hurt him to feel a bit guilty – I might even get a shag out of it, or even a bag of chips! ‘It HURRRTS!’ I howled.
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