Good Me Bad Me(45)

He holds out his hand to me.

‘Matty.’

I shake it and say, hi, I’m Milly. I feel sick as he pulls open the door for us to walk in, music spills from the living room and as we enter I notice a table on the left. Bottles of spirits, a large glass bowl, some kind of punch.

‘It’s hardly very Halloween in here, is it, Matty?’

‘Fuck off, Phoebs, my folks only left a couple of hours ago, they made me and Thom promise not to have any parties while they’re away. Anyway, you’re gross enough for ten Halloweens, no décor required.’

He ends his sentence with a ghoulish ‘bahahaha’ laugh.

‘Shut up and get me a drink. So Thom’s back from uni then?’

‘Yep, supposed to be in charge but fucked off to catch up with his mates as soon as Mum and Dad left.’

‘Is he coming back?’

‘I see somebody’s still got a crush on my bro then.’

‘Hardly, just being friendly, that’s all. Anyway, I like someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Just some guy I met over the summer, he doesn’t live in London though.’

‘AKA doesn’t exist, you mean. Here, I’ve made you a voddy.’

She takes the plastic tumbler from him, sinks into a sofa beside two girls I’ve never seen before, starts chatting to them.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks.

I say yes please because everybody else is holding one. I won’t drink it though, wits, about me. I take a seat in the corner after he gives it to me. More and more people arrive. They all know somebody who knows somebody, the rich private school network spins a web, reaches far and wide. Phoebe’s on and off her phone, numerous calls. She kicks one of the boys at her feet, trying to distract her by doing a break-dancing move, the worm. Stop it, she mouths, and when she hangs up, the worm boy asks her, ‘When will we get them?’

‘When he comes, all right, knob-head.’

She kicks him again, although this time he grabs her leg, wrestles her to the floor. He sits astride her, hands round her throat. Everybody laughs but it doesn’t look funny or fun to me. Clondine arrives with two older boys. Phoebe goes over to them and one of the boys puts his arm round her waist, pulls her into his body, she pushes him away, laughing.

‘You’ll be begging for it later, trust me,’ he says.

She’s about to respond when her phone rings, the call is quick, finished in seconds. When she hangs up, she shouts.

‘Right, peeps, time to hand your cash over.’

Notes are gathered, passed round the room until they reach her, nobody asks what for.

‘You too, don’t think I don’t see you there.’

I look away, hold my drink up to my mouth, pretend to take a sip.

‘Maybe I’ll get you to help me, that way if we get caught we’re both in the shit.’

‘Yeah, you should,’ says one of the girls on the sofa.

Insignificant. Face like a hyena, laugh the same.

Phoebe looks at me and says, come on then, what you waiting for, don’t say I never include you in anything. When we get to the front door she pauses before she opens it, looks at me and says, ‘Tell Dad about this and I’ll mess you up, got it?’

Got it.

At the door is a man in a black padded suit, a motorbike helmet in one hand. She doesn’t kiss him but greets him by name, Tyson.

‘Shit, hang on, someone’s coming. Just say you’re delivering pizzas if anyone asks. Oh, fuck’s sake, it’s fine, it’s Joe.’

When he gets to the door, he says hi. Phoebe ignores him, he walks past us into the porch, smiles at me.

‘Hey, Milly.’

He remembers my name.

‘Hi.’

‘How many do you want?’ asks Tyson.

‘Thirty, if you have them.’

‘Thirty? Big night then.’

‘Just broken up for half-term, you know how it goes.’

He nods, takes one of his leather gloves off, holds out his hand. Phoebe places the money in it, rolled like a cigar. He trusts her enough not to count, a regular thing maybe, walks down the driveway to his bike, parked at the kerb. He looks around before opening the top of the seat, takes a minute or two, and comes back holding a large brown paper bag.

‘There’s thirty inside,’ he says as he approaches the door. ‘And these are on me,’ handing her a small bag of pills. ‘New shit, guaranteed to make you fly.’

She smiles, blows him a kiss, you’re the best, Tyson, totally the best. He looks pleased, I hear his bike before the door closes, a rev of the engine, long and sustained. We go back into the living room, the air hazy with smoke, ash being tapped into empty tumblers and bottles. Lazy drunk bodies, lying on chairs. Apathy revived by Phoebe’s announcement.

‘Party bags are here.’

I’m surprised to see she means it. She tips a load of children’s party bags on to the table, a clown on the front of each one.

‘Help yourselves, bitches.’

Like free bowls of sweets, nobody stays shy for long, the table of clowns demolished. A blink of an eye. Ever the drama queen, Phoebe clears her throat, waits for the full attention of the room, shakes the extra bag of pills Tyson gave her in the air. Rattles to babies, toothy, some adorned with brightly coloured metal braces. Whoop, double whoop, somebody says, time to get f-u-u-u-c-k-e-d up.