Chapter 2 #2
And as I click the button to confirm, a tear curves down my cheek ever so slowly.
Because cancelling a reservation is not a hugely gangsta move.
But also, because in all that paperwork, I also see a receipt.
￡725. For an engagement ring he bought in early December.
Lovely. I hope someone found that ring. Hopefully that old lady who wears the orange beanie and a thick tweed skirt and spends a lot of time walking between Lidl and the bus stop on our street.
I hope she pawns it in and buys herself the biggest fucking turkey you’ve ever seen.
Why do we give each other rings? These small, metallic circles that are supposed to cement a relationship, that are supposed to be lifelong symbols of commitment.
I’d have worn that ring. I’d have worn it with pride, with hope, and all of it would have meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing. I have nothing. So, I cry, desperately wanting to hold back the tears but it’s like someone’s turned on a tap.
Flashbacks flooding into view of moments, words, promises that really amounted to nothing.
I’m just here, alone at Christmas. I don’t even have a bed anymore because I dismantled that.
And through my tears, in the corner of the room, I see a red velvet ring box from Caspar & Sons on the floor where I threw it.
Solitaire, round cut, gold ring, low clarity.
At least he went to my place of work to buy that ring.
I glance down at the empty box. I need to get out of this flat. I need answers. I need to go there.
Joe
‘I’M GETTING MARRIED, BITCHES!’ our future bride shouts at the top of her lungs across this crowded bar, at a volume usually reserved for people stuck at sea trying to flag down help.
The bride’s name is Tiffany and I reckon she might be eighty percent alcohol at the moment.
Whoever she is marrying will need both luck and carbs to sober her up ever again.
A group of her friends squeal in reply, and they all gather in a collective twerk around Tiffany to Destiny’s Child’s Eight Days of Christmas so even though it borders on obscene, it is at least festive.
A Christmas twerky, one could say. One of them twerks with such velocity that she actually loses a chicken fillet from her bra, so one half of her bosom looks slightly deflated.
There is no way I can fix this situation, can I?
I stare at the fillet on the floor as someone steps on it. Too late.
‘Do you want to see her ring?’ one of her friends shrieks at me, staggering, slurring her words, her hand on my chest. Another friend cackles in reply at the euphemism.
I’m fine with seeing neither but I smile because that’s part of the job and the tips are what will keep me going today.
‘I’m sure it’s a beautiful ring,’ I reply and one of them falls off the velvet banquette she was sitting on.
I offer her an arm so she can rejoin us at the table.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks me.
I never give my real name. I learned this the hard way when I was stalked online a year ago by a bride’s mother who sent me unsolicited pictures of her breasts.
‘Douglas.’
‘Hi, Douglas, I’m Bianca,’ she says flirtily, a penis straw in between her lips.
The maid of honour (the bride’s sister, who has already visited the bathroom five times since we’ve been here) has gone hard on the penis motif this evening: there are penis games, penis drinks accessories, the bride even had an inflatable one on her head before, like a hen unicorn, and people threw rings at it and cheered every time she caught one.
Willy hoop-la. Bianca does not seem undeterred that I have a very unsexy, imaginary name.
It was the name of one of my uncles who ate a lot of meat that came in tins. I think he died of gout.
‘Are you single, Douglas?’ she says, uncrossing her legs and pushing her chest forward. Bianca is classically beautiful but there’s a ferocity to her that scares me, and that’s just in her eyebrows.
‘I am an elf, so we have a very strict non-dating policy in the North Pole. Santa doesn’t allow it.’
Bianca cackles so hard, a bit of cocktail shoots out of her nose, not that she’d notice it. ‘Oooh, roleplay. Well, you’re down south now, Douglas. I won’t tell Santa if you want to be a bit naughty.’
‘But Santa will know,’ I reply, diplomatically. ‘I like my job.’
‘Do you make toys?’ another one of the hens asks.
‘I do.’
‘I have some toys I’d love to show you…’ replies Bianca.
I try not to think about where that woman’s toys have been.
This is not my first hen do. If we’re keeping a tally, then we’re on about twenty-five.
I have had women eat sushi off my naked body (someone tried to pick up my penis with chopsticks…), women have painted me in the nude, I’ve roleplayed all sorts from firemen to Vikings (which I don’t mind as the fake fur keeps me warm at least).
I went to a tennis hen do once and had to wear a sweatband and there were many jokes about the bounce of my balls.
Is this a forever job? No. Just a little side career that keeps me afloat and pays the bills whilst I meander through my mid-twenties thinking about what I really should be doing with my life.
For now, I am here for the cold hard cash, my dignity parked outside with my battered old Mini.
‘Shots, shots, shots, shots,’ one of the hens starts to chant and they all join in.
That’s the problem with hen dos. If my dignity is outside, then so are their inhibitions.
I reckon Bianca is a respectable primary school teacher in the day but here, with her tribe, she just wants to roar into the night, expressing an appetite for alcohol, and, well, penis.
I get it. I have three older sisters so sometimes you do have to own the night, you need to gather your womenfolk, dance to absolutely any damn thing by Beyoncé all in the name of saying down with the patriarchy.
They’re still chanting about shots. That’s my job.
This is a bottomless brunch. I’d rather they got their money’s worth with the food, but I think salad bars and sliders are the last thing on their minds.
I grab at bottles of vodka and cranberry and put a boot to the table, refilling the sea of shot glasses, aware of someone’s hand grabbing one of my butt cheeks.
I think that’s an aunt who was initially told that today was going to be a nice Mexican meal.
Yes, Aunty Celeste – that’s a different sort of burrito you’re trying to grab.
She told me something about her South Pole a while ago that may scar me forever.
‘Dance, dance, dance, dance!’
This is not usually part of my job description.
You have to pay extra for the dancing and even then, it’s not really dancing.
These ladies have all seen Channing Tatum, and they expect full on thrusting gymnastics.
We have a grinding expert at the agency called Julius who is known for his flexibility, even though I know that he bulks his pants out with socks.
I look over at Tiffany who puts her hands together in a prayer position, possibly begging.
‘But it’s Christmas!’ one of them squeals.
That it is. I hope Aunty Celeste is carrying cash.
I try to just think of the debt this will pay off, the gifts I can buy all my nieces and nephews.
I can upgrade their chocolates to Lindt, actually put things in a savings account.
I start to shimmy which is a pleasing advancement to proceedings for all of them as it also makes the bells on my shorts ring.
I’ll just shimmy and thrust then. Aunty Celeste puts a tenner in my arse crack. I should keep going.
‘Tiffany, get a picture next to his schlong!’ Bianca screams, like it might be on view.
It won’t be on view because this isn’t that sort of club and that sort of behaviour will get us thrown out.
Tiffany bends over in a fit of giggles. ‘Like you’re sucking him off!
’ I fake a smile, inwardly begging them not to simulate that sort of action, here, now.
People are eating. Tiffany looks less keen as well, but Bianca reaches over and pushes her head towards me.
‘Bianca! Piss off!’ she shrieks back at her.
Looks like we’re at that part of the brunch already.
There’s usually a fight at these things, usually over cliques, past beef, laced with jealousy, and the girls bare their nails at each other.
I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
Tiffany’s head bounces off my thigh but as she pulls her head away, there’s a scream that echoes through this place.
I mean, I work on my thighs at the gym, but I hope they haven’t given her concussion.
It’s only then that I see it. A chunk of her hair, stuck in one of my bells.
‘Hold up, don’t yank it!’ I tell her, trying to detangle her, putting a hand to the top of her head as she panics, moving her head back and forth. Bianca is in hysterics and snaps away on her phone.
‘You stupid bitch… Stop taking photos!’ Tiffany says, a perfectly manicured taupe nail pointing in her direction. Someone tries to stop Tiffany as another girl comes over, her face in my crotch trying to free her friend. ‘Has anyone got any scissors?’
I flinch for a moment at the thought of something that sharp down there.
‘How are these bells attached?’ Tiffany squeals at me.
‘I don’t know, I didn’t sew them myself…’ I reply, apologetically.
‘You call yourself family. You’ve always been jealous of Tiffany and now it shows…’ Tiffany swings her head around and my crotch goes with her to hear Aunty Celeste having a pop.
‘Oh, shut up, Aunty Celeste. You’re only here because we mixed up the invites. Dried up old—’