Boy Parts(18)

‘I’M GOOD,’ I say. He either mishears me, or wilfully ignores me, and he hands a shot to me, which he watches me drink very, very closely (white sambuca, cheap) and then he indicates that he’d like to high five me when I’m done. I leave him hanging. His pupils are enormous – but aren’t all of our pupils enormous?

‘I’LL FIND YOU LATER. I’LL FIND YOU IN THE SMOKING AREA, OKAY? I’LL GIVE YOU MY NUMBER. IMAGINE HOW TALL THE KIDS WOULD BE! RUGBY PLAYERS, MODELS, THEY’D BE. I LOVE THIS SONG.’ The Cure is playing now. He scampers off, a lightness to his feet despite his size. I watch him swing around to ‘Just Like Heaven’ as if it was techno. Still no sign of my quote-unquote friends, who I assume are in the smoking area. I finally get a drink. A string of texts from Will on my phone, and one from Flo, which simply reads SMOJKING OUTSDIE, and I’m delighted, because they just started playing the Weezer cover of ‘Africa’, like, as if it wasn’t lame enough in here already? As if the vibe couldn’t get any whiter? And like I said, I’m aware I’m adding to this deluge of whiteness, but at least I’m local, and I’m not from the Home Counties, which is the whitest kind of white. Geordie girls are up there with Irish girls and Scottish girls; the black women of white women, you know?

I’m outside. Strange mix of cigarette smoke and fresh air. Quote-unquote friends huddled in a corner, Finch smoking and rolling at the same time, standing awkwardly beside Flo while two studenty-looking blokes chat her up. Beta males, the pair of them, but the alpha betas, the most confident of their jittery, sweaty friends who like Star Wars and think that that’s a personality trait. That’s not even a guess – there are three more lads stood to the side of this interaction, and two of them are wearing Star Wars shirts. A Darth Vader design, and one simply reading ‘Han Shot First’.

‘Hi,’ I say. I point at Flo, ‘She has a boyfriend.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’m with him,’ I say, pointing at Finch. He glares at me. ‘Watch out, he’s very jealous. He’ll kick the shit out of you.’ Finch is 5’6, and skinny, and the idea of him kicking the shit out of any one is laughable. So laughable that I snort, my hand beneath my nose to cover it.

‘Shut up, Irina,’ says Finch. ‘She obviously isn’t my girlfriend, and I’m obviously not going to fight anyone.’

‘Can you believe what I have to put up with?’ I pout and walk over to Finch. I pluck a recently rolled cigarette from his fingers and wrap my arm around his shoulder. ‘Light me up, babe.’ Finch lights the cigarette, still frowning at me. ‘Go on, shoo,’ I say to the Star Wars boys. They scuttle back to the club, their obedience to being shooed like dogs, proving both their weakness and my alpha beta hypothesis. Beta male in any form fucks off when I tell him to. Finch gives me a look. I say, ‘Well, I got them to leave, didn’t I?’

‘You’re so awful on coke. I’m going for a piss.’ He rolls his eyes at me.

‘Don’t fucking roll your eyes at me,’ I snap after him. He just ignores me. ‘Hey!’ And then he spins on his heels, with a clenched jaw and a scowl. He takes a deep breath, then seems to decompress.

‘You know what? Never mind,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t matter. They left. Well done.’

‘That was quite mean, Rini,’ says Flo. ‘You know how insecure he is.’ I roll my eyes at her.

‘Oh, come on, I was complimenting him. It’s not my fault he’s never had a girlfriend, is it? There are some men who’d literally snap their fingers off to pretend to be my boyfriend in front of some other blokes,’ I suck on my beer and my cigarette. ‘He’s so fucking overly sensitive.’

He’ll be back. I down my drink.

I drag Flo back inside, where they hoot and clap, because David Bowie is playing; the DJ knows his audience very well. I scowl.

‘YOU’VE GOT A FACE LIKE A SMACKED ARSE, RINI.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I SAID, YOU’VE GOT A FACE LIKE A SMACKED ARSE.’

‘THERE’S A LOT OF WHITE PEOPLE IN HERE, ACTING LIKE THEY DON’T KNOW THAT THEY’RE WHITE PEOPLE, BUT THEY ARE AND THEY LOOK STUPID.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I’M GOING FOR A PISS.’

Flo follows me. She makes a beeline for her own stall, but I grab her by the wrist.

‘Flo,’ I say. ‘Hey, Flo.’ And I beckon her into the stall. ‘Step into my office.’

‘What?’

‘Step into my office. Business meeting,’ I say. She comes in and I slam the door shut behind her and lock it. ‘You’ll be wanting a line, then?’

It’s a tight squeeze; there’s a lot of woman for such a small space. I’m crouched by the toilet – the floor is a bit wet – and sprinkling coke on the seat, chopping and pushing and fixing it into lines with my National Insurance card, which is always my card of choice. My mam found it once, on the floor of my house, and said, why’s your NI card here? And there’s no explanation for that really, no legitimate reason it could possibly be there. Like, yeah I just leave it on the floor. That’s just where it lives, Mam. On the floor. Put it back. I’ll lose it.

‘Aye, go on,’ says Flo. Flo wants a line of coke. Of fucking course Flo wants a line.