Sweet

by Julie Burchill

  He squirmed and sniggered as I groped him. ‘I didn’t want you to get wet,’ he said as he shoved the umbrella into my hand. His voice was all soft and concerned as he put his arm round me and we headed towards the airport.

  ‘That makes a change!’ I nudged him.

  He laughed. ‘There’s – what you’re saying? – method in my mania!’

  ‘Madness, you mean!’ You couldn’t but laugh at his pretty ways. AND he smelt of curry. I’m not saying that in a bad way – I totally heart curry. So that cheered me up too.

  ‘Because if you get wet,’ he went on, ‘you might get a cold. And if you get a cold –’ and now a deliciously lustful light danced in his eyes – ‘I won’t be able to do this . . .’ He pulled me up against him so I could feel just how pleased he was to see me; put it this way, it reminded me of when I was little and Suzy used to to put her arms as far apart as she could and go ‘I-LOVE-YOU-THIS-MUCH!’ in a slightly too intense way that used to make me scream like a girl and run off and hide in the dog’s basket.

  Not that I was going to run and hide this time! He gave me a long slow kiss, and looking up into his beautiful face I decided tonight might not be so bad after all. ‘Fancy a quickie in the supply cupboard later?’ I grinned and ran my hand over his bum as we dumped our coats and headed for the staffroom. But then I heard Kathleen’s voice come whining through the walls like Black & Decker’s finest, straight through my skull, and I realized I’d cheered up too soon. Ever since the rosary-munching drudge had clocked that there was something cooking between me and Asif, she’d done her worst to make sure we couldn’t get our paws on each other during working hours; he’d be banished to buff the floors in check-in and I’d be at the other end of the airport on loo duty. The glamorous life!

  13

  Sure enough I spent the next few hours as the Cif-spraying sidekick of the deranged old dwarf, listening to her rant on about how much of a burden it was being the only one who ever cleaned anything properly round here, and how the rest of them (meaning Kathryn, wild guess) never even did a half-decent job – I guess they’d forgotten to iron the bog roll, lick the urinals clean with their own tongues or something equally satanic. Course there was nothing the twisted troll loved more than finding a bin that hadn’t been emptied or a desk that had gone undusted; she became so excited by any evidence that everyone except her was total pants at their paid employment that she practically wet herself on the spot.

  I knew my routine off by heart by now; I did a bit of ‘innit!’ and threw in a few ‘lazy bastards!’ out of the goodness of my heart – my mum’s a Catholic and, believe me, I know how these broads get a rush from playing the hard-done-by martyr, all they need’s the audience to make it complete – but after a bit I’d had enough and let her rant off down to check-in while I flopped down on a seat and lit a fag. I sat there in a blue funk, smoking and watching holidaymakers till it was time for my break, when I dragged myself back to the staffroom.

  Kathleen looked up and gave me evils with knobs on as I threw myself over Asif. As if she’d say no if the Pope put her on a promise!

  ‘And where exactly did you disappear to, Maria! You can’t just go wandering off whenever you feel like it, you know – this airport isn’t going to clean itself! I had to do check-in all on my own – it’s a wonder I managed to get it done in time, though with my poor back giving me jip all the while it’s not something I can say I enjoyed, thank you very much!’

  Yeah, right – the old bag loved it! In fact she’d probably be happier if I skedaddled every night and left her to get on with it, she’s that into the feeling-good-feeling-bad shtick. Still, I couldn’t be arsed to argue, so I mumbled something about a kid projectile vomiting and diarrhoeaing – both ends burning! – in Arrivals. And I swear the mad cow looked jealous! – clearly she was well teed off that I might have stolen yet another tasty job from right under her nose, because after break she let me off the leash and sent me to clear up in the departure lounge while she hot-footed it over to Arrivals to see if any tiny speck of sick had survived to suffer her tender ministrations. Freak!

  At this time of night, Departures was usually rammed with 18–30s catching late flights to the party destinations of the world – and these happy holidaymakers had no intention of waiting till the plane touched down – or indeed, till it took off – to get the party started. Their final destination was alcoholic oblivion – and these were already well on the way to needing the brown paper bag in the seat pocket in front of them. The bar was full of hard-bodied girls and beer-bellied boys (ooh, there’s my inner lezzer raising its ugly head again! – OK, some of the boys were passing fit) knocking back the booze and already mistaking the fluorescent lighting of the airport for the shameless, blameless blaze of some sun-soaked, sin-soaked island; looking at them, I instantly recognized my people – the similarly shameless, blameless English youth, taking their leisure and pleasure with a savage innocence. I felt an almost painful pull towards them, and an equal revulsion towards the work world I was currently billeted in.

  Something in me snapped, and at the same time something pinged! back into place. I might have been watching the party from the wrong side of the rope, but what was to stop me from ducking under it and joining in for a while?

  A group of girls were shrieking and laughing and shouting over each other by the bar; they were wearing identical gear – cropped baby-pink Ts with FALLEN ANGEL scrawled across their tits in sparkling silver scrawl, tiny denim hot pants and cowboy boots. It was clear that this ensemble had been chosen by the size tens of the pack, cos when I say ‘identical’ the same outfit couldn’t have looked more different. Every size and shape of chick was either slipped into the clobber like it was a second skin or wedged into it like a hippo in a condom. A classic blonde Barbie Girl, all big tits, tiny waist and long baby-Bambi legs was leaning against the bar with one St Tropezed arm slung round a dark-eyed Natalie Portman looky-likey who was wearing a veil and a LEARNER plate. I’d bet my miserable week’s wages that Barbie had been in charge of picking out the outfits – not that I blamed her for showcasing her wares so wantonly. I’d once worn a skirt out to Creation that was so short some sarky student said to me, ‘That’s a nice belt – why don’t you get some more material like it and make a skirt as well!’

  Barbie Girl grabbed a tequila shot and a slice of lemon from a long line that were on the bar ready to go. ‘Shut up and get drinking,’ she shouted. ‘To Vic – the poor cow! I had him before she did, and let’s say I’m glad I only did him for the practice, because he was no damn use for anything else!’

  Vic started to object – ‘Sazza! You bitch! – but was drowned out by the chorus of “TO VIC!” followed by squeals of delight as they knocked back the shots.

  ‘Right, next one!’ commanded Blondie.

  The girls were being perved at by a bunch of lads that by the look of their well-stacked shoulders and broken noses might well have been a rugby team. I don’t usually go for rugby players – most of them seem to be posh twats who think you’re not worth talking to if you didn’t ‘school’ with the royals but yet still think it’s OK to grope your arse without asking. I mean, working-class boys are meant to be rough – but at least they’ve got an excuse. When someone’s had a fortune spent on their education though, isn’t it a bit weird that they communicate in grunts and lunges?

  But there was one of this lot I wouldn’t have minded getting in a scrum with. He was leaning against the bar lazily scratching his mid-section – an improvement on the Neanderthal nut-gathering I was used to, I suppose – lifting his T-shirt (which read GO HOME, YOUR VILLAGE IS MISSING ITS IDIOT: pot, kettle, wack!) to reveal not just a tantalizing glimpse of his Calvin Klein crackers but also a taut, toned stomach that made Gavin Henson look like he was letting himself go a bit. He was a flesh-and-bone cliché – tall, dark and doable – and better still while the rest of his teammates were drooling over the Fallen Angels he’d clocked my appreciative stare and was helping himself to a l
arge serving of perving as he ran his eyes all over me like a bad case of carpet burn. Workers’ playtime!

  Yeah, yeah – I hadn’t forgotten about my big-eyed buddy with the magical expanding umbrella. But what Asif didn’t see wasn’t going to upset him and it wasn’t like I was planning to actually DO anything. I just fancied having a little fun before I forgot what it was, is all.

  So I had only just decided to let Hooray Hottie buy me a drink when I realized that Barbie Girl was thinking along similar lines; she flicked back her hair, downed her tequila, winked at her mates and shimmied over to my prey. Well, I wasn’t about to let a little competition spoil my night, so checking that the poppers on my uniform – btw, NEVER underestimate the power of a uniform as boy-bait – had given up their futile attempts to keep my puppies under control, I unholstered my Mr Muscle and strutted into battle.

  Barbie Girl was teetering towards him, rolling her hips, batting her lashes and sticking out her tits so far I was surprised she hadn’t fallen over. I gently nudged her out of the way and took aim at my target totty. ‘Sorry to barge in, but it’s my job to keep things clean, see, and I was wondering if you had . . . ah . . . anything that needs polishing? Anything I could give a good rub?’ I let a slow grin slide across my face as I looked up at him and winked in slo-mo; OK, it wasn’t subtle, but it’s girl-meets-boy-meat we’re talking about here, not world peace.

  He gave me a big cheeky grin – gentlemen prefer blondes, my arse they do! – and leaned towards me, giving himself a good view down my carefully customized tunic. ‘Mmm . . . I can only see one thing round here that might be a bit dirty.’

  He looked up from my cleavage and we stared at each other for a couple of seconds, eyes sparkling, before we both cracked up laughing.

  ‘Maria Sweet – you can call me Sugar.’

  ‘Sweet to meet you, Sugar. I’m Cameron, but you can call me Cam. Or any time!’

  I groaned and stuck out my tongue.

  ‘Can I get you a drink – or are you going to get me one? That’s your job, after all, isn’t it . . . keeping the punters happy no matter what the cost . . .’

  I kicked him playfully and he yelped.

  ‘Oi, Cam,’ a voice boomed in our direction, rudely interrupting our romp. ‘You can’t have ’em both, mate – that’s just greedy. Share the wealth! ’Less of course you want to film a bit of girl-on-girl on your phone and show us all later . . .’

  That was when I realized that Barbie Girl was still standing behind me looking quite like she wanted to rip my eyes out and play ping-pong with ’em. I had a choice – I could come out with a poisonous put-down and completely annihilate her, or I could show mercy, save her from total humiliation and get girl-points. Nothing looks less attractive than competing over a man – about as sexy as squabbling about the last seat on a bus; like there won’t be another along in a minute! So more through vanity than virtue, I played nice.

  ‘’Ey, Barbie, what you drinking – something pink, I bet! Cam’s buyin’, so put your order in. And your mate about to go to the slaughter – sorry, altar. Love the T, by the way!’

  She looked at me coldly for a moment like she was about to open fire, but then she seemed to decide like it wasn’t worth it – sooo the right decision! – and gave me a wary smile. ‘Cheers – it’s for my mate’s hen do. We’ve all got one, see?’ She gestured in the direction of her friends.

  ‘Hey – you lot!’ I shouted over to them. ‘These kiddies are buying us all a drink. Get in there!’ Then I turned and flashed the lads my best I-Bet-It’s-Not-Butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and sat back to enjoy the party.

  An hour later and at least three hens had flown the coop, copping off in various dark corners with Cam’s lot while the rest of us shared bottles of Smirnoff Ice and our life stories. ‘So Vic’s the first one of us to get hitched,’ Barbie-Saz was telling me, all teary-eyed as she ruffled the bride-to-be’s hair, ‘but we’ve warned her that she’s definitely not allowed to turn into one of those boring bitches who’s never allowed off her leash to party with the girls. Like that saddo she’s marrying shows every sign of wanting her to.’

  ‘Do one!’ Vic advised her friend enthusiastically. ‘Like that’s ever gonna happen. No freakin’ way!’ Then her eyes went all soft and her voice all soppy. Sort of like a Bratz doll having the abdabs. ‘But he’s soooo lovely, isn’t he, Saz? He is, Sugar – he’s lovely, not just fit, he’s really sweet and funny too.’

  ‘You make him sound like one of those effing ice lollies with a joke inside!’ shrieked Saz, finding herself hilarious and not without reason, I thought.

  Vic shoved her. Clearly their relationship was based on shoving and sarcasm more than sugar and spice, and it made me think of me and Kim for a moment. I looked at Vic and Saz and I wondered if they’d ever snogged each other after a few WKD Blues too many, but if they had, it was long gone now as Vic continued bigging up her intended.

  ‘He’s so cool, you’d have to see him to believe him, Sugar – hey, you should come to the wedding! – shouldn’t she come to the wedding, Saz!’

  ‘Yeah, you should – as good an excuse to get trashed as any!’ She looked as if she was about to start welling up again – all very moving, but it was starting to get a bit wet and windy for me; we were meant to be having FUN, for fuck’s sake!

  ‘Cheers, chix, but wedding cake makes me feel like heaving – been there and done that before I can vote, and it didn’t exactly end happy ever after. Or even for six months, come to that!’ I snorted with disgust, thinking about Mark and Ren and the whole mess of it. Then I caught the look of alarm on Vic’s face and felt bad about raining on her poor misguided parade. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely marriage and that, but all I’m saying is that it wasn’t like that for me. Here, pass us that.’ I took a massive swig of Ice, drew a deep breath and then embarked on the edited highlights of the whole sorry saga. When I was done with my tale of woe the girls were momentarily mute with outrage. Then the slagging started!

  ‘Bastard!’ spat Saz, giving my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

  ‘Yeah, what a cold fucker!’ chorused the other Fallen Angels.

  ‘Yeah, fucking bastards, they’re all the bleeding same!’ shouted over one of the boys, and then we were back where I wanted us to be, falling and fooling around, laughing out loud at all the crap life kept throwing at you – always and forever, till death us do part – downing our drinks and not giving a damn about anything except right here, right now.

  ‘Could the last remaining passengers for flight BA1036 to Ibiza PLEASE make their way to GATE SIX IMMEDIATELY, where your plane is READY TO DEPART.’ Even though she said please, it was clear the tannoy voice meant, ‘The fucking idiots who are meant to be on flight BA1036 better get their friggin’ arses to gate six in the next fucking second or I’m going to make those drunken wasters regret it very bitterly indeed . . .’

  ‘Screw it!’ screeched Saz in my ear, spitting Smirnoff Ice down my neck. ‘That’s our sodding flight – MOVE!’

  My blissed-out voddy daze was interrupted by body after body, girls and guys, grabbing me in clumsy hugs and/or planting smackers on my face and swearing they’d call me when they got back and/or see me at the wedding. Then in a hustle of muscle and/or a posse of pink my new friends were gone, clattering their eager way to the departure gate and all points pleasure-bound.

  I stood there feeling miserable and/or manky, half-pissed in my polyester uniform, the skivvy who didn’t get to go to the ball after all because her fairy godmother had probably just got on an easyJet to Alicante. Staring out of the huge window on to the runway, I watched as plane after plane took off, the twinkling lights leading the way to some warm and wicked paradise island where the Slow Comfortable Screws never stopped – while all I had to look forward to was a bollocking from Kathleen and a cold, wet trudge back to ASBO Towers.

  For a minute I almost wished I was back inside – no work, three meals a day and drugs on tap. The good old days! But my brie
f pity party was suddenly gatecrashed by a pair of silky dark arms snaking round my neck and a voice so sincere it could strip both your teeth of their enamel and, if you were the soppy sort, your body of its kit in about five seconds flat.

  ‘You know,’ Asif whispered. ‘I know what you are thinking when you watch the planes. And sometimes England seems cold to me too. And it isn’t even my home, as it is yours. But just because the sun shines in a country doesn’t mean happiness can be found there, as my people know.’

  ‘And that was a broadcast of behalf of the Christians of Pakistan,’ I said tetchily, knowing I was being a bitch and not being able to help it. Come on, the way I did it, how long and how thoroughly, being a bitch was practically my religion by now!

  I felt him edge away from me, and I was sorry I’d added yet another injury to those he’d already suffered, and him so young and sweet. Still, he wasn’t giving up.

  ‘All I meant to say was that there is more to freedom than the sun shining, and more to sadness than the rain falling. It’s cold here yet you have warmth, with your family, as I do with mine.’ He turned me round to face him; I couldn’t meet his eyes. (So I stared at his crotch instead, to cheer me up.) ‘And I can honestly say, Sugar, even though I don’t speak English so good, that there really is nowhere in the world I’d rather be right now than here with you.’

  If I hadn’t swallowed the entire contents of the Smirnoff Ice bottle in my hand, I’d have spewed it all over him. ‘Bloody hell, Asif! Where the freak d’you learn a line like that?!’

  With this he looked so sad even I decided that it was time to clock off bitch-duty for the day. I’d had my fun and I’d have more. For now, I had my boy. He’d seen enough nastiness to last him a lifetime – and I never did like following the herd.

  I pulled him close. ‘You speak English great. Better than me and I was born here. Come on – let’s see what else you do good.’ And as I helped myself to one of his trademark long kisses – patent pending, probably, they were that good – I couldn’t help thinking that maybe Brighton in the rain wasn’t so bad after all.