by Austin, Lucy
‘I don’t know what happened, I freaked out,’ he stuttered. ‘You don’t want to date someone like me. The way I see it, if we stay friends we’ll still know each other in ten years.’ If we stay friends, we might not know each other in ten days.
At that moment I truly resented Stan – for making me feel like I’d already been dumped when I had plucked up courage to let go of Joe and take a chance on the unknown; for implying that moving forward like this had to be a mistake; for putting a stop to ‘something’ that might be ‘everything’. Most of all, I resented him for making me feel below par, as though I didn’t possess the right qualities for a girlfriend. I had never properly entertained the idea before until he kissed me, and now he had made me feel like I’d failed to make the grade.
Only now do I realise that by putting ourselves so firmly in the platonic category from the very beginning, we might have preserved our friendship over the years, but it had simply gone on to define all my experiences with men. After all, if compatible qualities and a degree of attraction don’t guarantee falling in love, then what criteria could I go on – and when would I ever be able to count on my instincts? Perhaps, if Stan and I had had that slow burner of a love story at school, I would never have looked twice at Joe in Oz and misinterpreted the ‘thing’ we had for something real. Who knows? Most importantly, how on earth do you go forward in a friendship when this happens, when to all intents and purposes you really are going backwards? However, instead of saying any of this to Stan, I let my autopilot take over as my fear of losing him as a friend was far greater than venting my frustrations.
‘Listen,’ I said in a rather perky fashion. ‘Why don’t we chalk this down to us both being single? Let’s leave it as it is. Let’s put it down to far too much holiday sun and sangria.’
Seeming openly relieved at my breezy dismissal, he amicably signed off and the next time I saw him was at my birthday. By then, I had come round to the conclusion that any notions of us having fallen in love seemed ridiculous, as it had to be understood in a wider context. That night he took a real shine to Anna as though she was proper girlfriend material. So I put my heart back on the shelf to do what I do best, resuming my friend role as though I had never questioned it.
Having tried on a number of outfits, none of which comes close to entering into the spirit of things, I’m going with my original idea and putting on my navy blue dress. If money was no object, I’d hire an enormous period costume like they wore in Dangerous Liaisons, but alas, I’m going to have to think cheap. I chuck a load of glitter dust over my skin and smudge a bit of toothpaste onto the front. Squaring my shoulders, I then go in search of Claire to help me do my zip. I find her in the lounge, dressed in a red and gold bustier with blue shorts – and several colourful hair feathers chucked in for good measure.
‘That was Dan at the door. He’s going to see you at the party,’ she says, applying her lipstick in the reflection of the window. ‘He’s picking someone up.’ Claire then turns around and looks me up and down with such a puzzled expression that I’m obliged to explain who I’ve decided to go as. ‘Haven’t a clue who this Monica Lewinsky is but you look great – well, apart from the mark down your front,’ she says, looking nonplussed.
‘Like your outfit Kate,’ says Wayne, greeting us at the front door, wearing only red boxer shorts and layers of fake tan for coverage, accessorised with goose bumps and those odd shaped toes that I can now pick out from a line-up.
‘Like your outfit too, Wayne, you look a little chilly though,’ I say, unable to avoid staring at his purple nipples. I’m a little perplexed as to why he’s dressed as Mitch Buchannon from Baywatch, when he has neither the physique nor the skin tone to pull it off.
‘Who are you supposed to be?’ he asks and I look at him with a puzzled expression, just as some girl dressed as Pocahontas takes my bottle of wine from me and disappears into the front room.
‘Monica Lewinsky?’ I sigh, thinking this is going to be a long night if nobody knows any current affairs beyond what happened in Big Brother. Wayne and Claire truly are soul mates. ‘Wayne, I have to ask why’s that girl taken my wine off me and gone into the front room?’ I say, gingerly tapping his very oily chest.
‘Take no notice of Carmella. My workmate is a little crazy,’ Wayne says tapping the side of his brain. He then halts what he’s doing to take in his girlfriend’s outfit. ‘Wow,’ he mutters under his breath and goes in for a very long kiss.
‘You two, get a room. Or pay me more rent! Your choice,’ I groan and wander off in search of Carmella and my wine.
You know those parties you see in Brat Pack movies – with cool people wearing tops that fall off their shoulders while they roller-skate backwards, drinking cocktails and slurping on curly straws while some guy break-dances in front of them. Well, this isn’t one of them. This is a party that has far too many family photos lying around and could do with a few more people to create an atmosphere. Wayne has opened up the entire house like it’s the Playboy Mansion.
‘People seem to be having a good time,’ Wayne shivers, looking like he’s in need of a fur gilet. ‘Thankfully, no-one has touched my Mum’s Lilliput Lane Collectibles yet,’ he says solemnly, pointing to an elaborately lit glass cabinet housing miniature cottages depicting a perfect life. ‘Touching wood. So far so good.’ Wayne crosses his fingers at me and leads me through two rooms containing a skeletal number of partygoers, including one poor man who clearly wishes he hadn’t dressed up as a condom, with no hands available to hold a drink, or a way of scratching his nose.
‘Wayne, lover, where did you go?’ says Claire in this really annoying baby voice that she’s been perfecting over the last few weeks, putting her arms round him just as Stan appears in a tuxedo dressed as James Bond, clearly having too decided to work the fancy-dress theme to his advantage.
‘What the hell have we done coming here?’ he whispers to me, gently resting his hand in the small of my back.
I’m thinking of something witty to say in response when I hear a familiar voice behind me. ‘Hey everybody!’ I turn around and there stands Anna, looking surprisingly self-conscious in a head-to-toe PVC catsuit, clearly out of her comfort zone. She looks pointedly at Stan, who responds by immediately asking everyone if they need a drink, before removing himself from the scene.
Earlier today, I got a text from Stan to inform me that Anna was also coming down for the party, news that threw me a little. Now that they are over, it does seem a little odd for her to want to come onto his patch. Perhaps, she wants to say goodbye to us all as she’s off to California again to do another round of auditions, but knowing that my friend gets a nosebleed if she so much as heads out of London, she must have an ulterior motive. I am a little suspicious.
I haven’t spoken to Anna very much of late, unless you count her ‘doing’ friendship on Facebook and the odd text telling me she’s ‘crazy busy’. I haven’t quite got round to telling her about being a fully paid up member of the Globe café community, as it’s finally dawned on me that there is a direct correlation between me moving forward and not seeing her. And as I’m still trying this new me on for size, I don’t want the likes of her raining on my parade.
Wayne walks over and gives Anna a peck on the cheek. ‘Who have you come as?’ My culturally ignorant friend has clearly spent too much time tickling Claire’s tonsils of late and needs to get onto Wikipedia fast.
‘Cat woman you fool,’ I say on Anna’s behalf, laughing despite myself as she leans into air kiss me. The ice has been broken.
‘We have too much to discuss,’ she says to me, ignoring Claire and Wayne who are now snogging each other with the enthusiasm normally reserved for a cinema showing. ‘I hear you’ve been working full-time in that caff!’
Like a record needle being scratched on the player, any good feeling from my end promptly disappears.
‘Anna, leave it out. Now,’ I interrupt, to which she looks a bit shocked.
‘I can’t believe you’re ha
ppy to be a waitress!’ she exclaims. ‘All those admin jobs and you’re a waitress!’ Her tone is so patronizing, it sends me into a tailspin of protectiveness over everything I now hold dear.
‘Anna, stop. Just stop!’ I snap, to which she shrugs by way of saying she doesn’t care. ‘I need the loo.’ I then walk away, only to bump into a very bored looking Dan, dressed as Batman stifling a yawn.
Next to him stands a rather beautiful Liv who’s channelling the Marilyn Monroe subway grate scene really well and flashing her knickers periodically. Dan and I know all about parties in suburbia, having spent our formative years holed up in the TV room flicking through four channels of rubbish telly while our parents had lots of dinner parties involving melon boats and steak. This one’s a first.
‘What’s the theme again?’ he asks me. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any consistency. It’s all a bit random isn’t it?’
Liv, dressed in her white halter-neck dress does a twirl. ‘Who cares huh! I’m up for a partayyyy. Mr Happy has got Rory overnight for the first time,’ she grins, looking across at Dan who purposely blinks twice at her in that way you do when you know someone well enough to communicate without using words.
‘Well, if it isn’t the single mother!’ sneers Anna, clearly having decided to abandon any pretence to like Liv. ‘How’s watching your life going down the pan?’ she says.
Just as Dan steps in to say something, Liv puts her hand up in Anna’s face. ‘You’ve clearly not met my son. He’s worth more than a million shitty TV auditions,’ she says. ‘You know what’s sad though Anna? You will never ever change. You will always be the mean girl.’ I take a deep breath, humbled to be witness to Liv’s perfectly timed rhetoric that only ever happens to me after the person has been and gone. As she walks away, closely shadowed by Dan who’s tailgating her like a car that’s run out of gas, Anna just looks after her with her mouth open. How do you top that?
Stan then pops his head round the door, his gaze drifting towards me, only to then see Anna and disappear again. Thankfully, she has now apologised for her disparaging comments and dropped the subject of the café, in preference for talking about herself.
‘Stan is totally avoiding me isn’t he?’ she sighs and downs her glass of wine. ‘He’s bound to be messed up though,’ somehow implying that the natural reaction to being rejected by her would be to put one’s head in a gas oven.
Once again, I say nothing and just stick to safer territory, by way of commenting on our fellow partygoers and guessing the outfits that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. Whereas I used to feel obliged to share with her every conversation I ever had with Stan for fear I would look like I had an ulterior motive, now there’s no pressure to give her updates or issue her with thanks, or amuse her with disastrous anecdotes at my expense. I can’t tell you how good it feels.
However, minutes later I can’t help myself from going there. ‘I have to ask, why did you finish it?’ I say. ‘I thought you and Stan were happy.’ Up until now, I’ve never had much confrontation with Anna as I am normally too keen to fit in with her but I’m too curious.
‘Okay, I might have told a little white lie,’ she says, not looking at me and studying her glass. ‘He finished things with me actually.’ Before I have time to respond, she then wanders off in the direction of the kitchen.
I’m shocked. All along, I thought that Anna was the one to walk away and that Stan merely resurrected our friendship, as it was the default thing to do. What’s stranger still is that she just doesn’t appear that bothered either – not even a bit – which again begs the question as to why she is here, a hundred miles from home at a dodgy fancy dress party?
Coming out of the bathroom where I’ve given myself a good talking to in the mirror – finished off with a shooting gun gesture like Claire would do – the entire party is now flocking into the kitchen, as is always the way. There is Anna again, fishing what looks like a very nice bottle of wine out of the back of the fridge while I make casual enquiries to the annoying Pocahontas girl as to where the remainder of mine is.
‘There’s no way the host is going to give me the paint stripper when I’ve brought my favourite,’ Anna says, pouring herself a glass then squirreling it away again.
‘Punch anyone?’ Wayne offers, walking past Anna who’s sipping her wine and now in search of the bathroom. Judging by the snugness of her catsuit, she may be some time.
‘You not sore Wayno, with that thing strangling you?’ I say, tugging on the professional buoyancy aid around his chest that looks really uncomfortable.
‘Yes, it chafes but Claire thinks people won’t know who I am unless I wear it,’ he says grimly, as though there is no such thing as free will.
I take one of the vile looking glow-in-the-dark drinks off him, before chucking it into a pot plant when his back is turned. Not Claire, no, she gulps back hers, a silly move seeing as Wayne’s punches are infamous for consisting of wine and spirits all uncomfortably mixed together, with an old trainer thrown in for good measure.
Anna then wanders back into the kitchen and dims the lighting. ‘We are not in a Chinese takeaway Wayne. Ambience darling,’ to which Wayne gestures us to follow him, a welcome distraction as after her little bombshell, I’m now stuck for something to say that is light-hearted and breezy and away from the subject of her failed relationship.
‘You want to see ambience? Right this way ladies,’ he says, promptly shooing us into the main bathroom.
‘What’s the green?’ I ask, not really wanting to know.
‘Vodka Jelly,’ he booms in a deep voice like a proud scientist. At the sight of a bath crammed with little pouches of slime, if Wayne truly thinks I’ll be eating anything that’s been near the vicinity of his bottom, he can think again. What with the numerous tea lights accompanying the jellies, the scene is all looking a little hazardous, like a partygoer could actually catch on fire while they were having a pee.
‘Wow,’ I say under my breath as I’m truly stuck for words.
Finally, with Wayne having got the memo about shutting off the rest of the house to create an atmosphere, the lounge is filling up with people. With Stan, Dan and Liv nowhere to be found, I make a boredom pit stop by the buffet again which is looking more than a little sad for itself.
‘Why did you get Scotch Eggs Wayne?’ I ask, before having to repeat this casual comment at least three more times due to the fact that Claire is nibbling near his ear canal.
‘It wasn’t my idea it was Claire’s. She made me them. They’re gluten and meat free.’ Heart sinking, I stuff one in my face. It actually tastes quite nice.
‘Where’s Linda?’ I say through my mouthful to Claire, just as the lady herself walks in, holding her fiancé by the wrist as though he were a naughty child. Dressed up like Bono to Linda’s Cher, a moustached Dave wearing a poncho and flairs looks like he wants to be elsewhere.
‘Dave said he loves a fancy dress party and insisted on coming,’ Scary Linda announces and I study him closely trying to imagine him uttering those words.
Looking them both up and down with a puzzled expression, Wayne sighs. ‘Who did you come as?’
A little while later, I’m back at the buffet, piling a bendy plate high with random food, only to be cornered by Scary Linda who’s decided that she must verbally give me a revised to-do list for the engagement party. Tuning in and out of her detailed breakdown and nodding at key moments so it looks like I’m fully engaged, I start working out how to extract myself. It’s official. I want to go home.
‘Hi Kate!’ booms a loud voice, making me swallow the last mouthful of Scotch Egg down the wrong way. It would appear that Mabel Bunce, through sheer force of will has taken the open invite on Facebook as gold and has shown up to this party, all the way from London. Having been befriended by her on social media recently, our very own resident Marilyn, who is standing next to me doesn’t bother to disguise her bemusement at her being here either.
‘Mabel, what are you doing here?’ Liv
says, looking her up and down as I cough for England. ‘I hope you’ve not come to piss off Kate,’ she warns, before making some excuse about needing to check her wig.
‘Did I say something?’ Mabel looks after her, almost in admiration. ‘It’s Liv isn’t it? Apparently, she knew my brother too.’ Oh, the joys of tenuous links on Facebook.
‘How are you Kate?’ she says slowly, as though she were asking an elderly person if they’d like a cup of tea.
Such is her attempt to sound genuine it only serves to make me downright suspicious.
‘I’m fine, how are you?’ I say lightly, to which Mabel then proceeds to tell me that she has now quit Jam Jam and is freelancing as a virtual PA. Quite frankly, I don’t buy into any of it, as she was a lifer if ever there was one. Something doesn’t ring true.
‘Okay, what happened?’ I sigh. ‘C’mon, spill.’
‘Mabel got caught shagging her colleague on the photocopier, didn’t you sis?’
I look up and there is Joe.
CHAPTER 34 - THE TRUTH COMES OUT
Standing in the doorway wearing the full Gladiator costume is Joe, now being thumped by a rather annoyed Mabel. My first impressions are that firstly, his outfit looks exceedingly homemade and secondly, that he doesn’t have the thunderous thighs or height to carry it off. But saying all of that, my heart still skips a beat, as though my tired autopilot is giving itself a little rev as it’s been programmed to do so for so long. The brain clearly hasn’t caught up with the heart yet but it will, it will. Walking past, Wayne stops for a minute and looks at Joe, as though mentally trying to place him.
‘Hi Wayne,’ says Joe, punching him on the arm like he’s an old friend. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
