The Gherkin #2
Everyone here looks like they could be a fashion influencer.
A woman is rocking some yellow leather trousers, whilst a man is in a Spice Girls crop-top with his skinny, hairy midriff on display.
I want to say they all look ridiculous, but they don’t.
The most creative I’ve been with an outfit was my one-hour emo stage when I was 14.
I wore a skull t-shirt, black drainpipes, a studded belt and a fake nose ring.
I came downstairs with my new look, and Dad immediately told me to go back upstairs and take it off. That was the end of the emo stage.
‘If you could be any dinosaur in the world, which one would you be?’ A man appears close to my face. He could be good-looking, but he needs some sleep. ‘I think you would make a wonderful Dilophosaurus. They’re the ones with . . .’ He uses his hands to gesture the neck frills.
‘Yeah, I know the one,’ I say.
He stands back, surprised. ‘Do you?’ he slurs. ‘My old lover didn’t know anything about dinosaurs.’ He leans in. I lean out. ‘She was a real . . . real . . . heart cracker.’ He puts his hand on his heart and appears comically sad like a clown, and then whispers, ‘We shall kill her.’
I step back, frightened.
‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I say and dash out of the living room.
It’s not a lie. After sinking three sangrias, I need the bathroom quite badly.
I’ve been too nervous to leave my spot, but now it’s been invaded by a whisky-stinking-murderer, I have no choice.
I pass a small huddle of people in the corridor.
A woman with red hair and a matching red kimono is talking loudly at a group of eccentrically-styled women.
Her mouth expands across her face with every word.
‘I literally found my identity at Everest Base Camp. Seriously, I came down from that mountain a very different lady. You – in the purple hoodie.’ I’m wearing a purple hoodie.
That’s me. The red kimono woman is talking to me.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ She’s smiling with her big mouth.
Everyone is waiting for me to say something.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘You have this look on your face. I’m intrigued to know what’s in your mind. Please share.’ She seems sincere, so I go ahead.
‘I’ve just always wanted to go to Everest Base Camp. Either that or go see the Northern Lights in Iceland. A lot less climbing involved.’
‘You could literally do both,’ Kimono girl says, and all her friends nod at me.
‘Ha! How much do you think teachers earn?’ I blurt out.
She narrows her eyes. ‘I don’t think I know any teachers.’
Yes. That’s right. I’m not meant to be at this party.
‘I need to pee,’ I say and run away.
I find a very pink bathroom, lock the door, and pinch a spray of Chanel No. 5 perfume. I’m not sure if it’s me wobbling or the room. I listen to the party. The muffled beat of the music and the confident laughter of the guests; one man has a particularly distinctive laugh, like a hiccuping sheep.
Wera’s sangria has got me good.
There’s a knock on the door. ‘In a minute,’ I yell, splashing my face with water. When I woke up this morning, I would never have predicted I would be here. Drunk, and locked in a pink bathroom next to The Gherkin.
I should probably call my soon-to-be-husband and tell him where I am.
You would think he’d be slightly concerned, considering I left the house nine hours ago for my wedding dress fitting, but there are no missed calls or messages.
I ring him. It rings and rings and rings .
. . voicemail. I call him again. Voicemail.
We have always taken pride in how chilled we are about each other going out.
Rebecca doesn’t get it, because Tim is constantly ringing and texting her.
I would find that annoying. Josh and I were like that at the start, but now we’re secure.
We’re sensible adults, after all. And it’s not like I’m a woman who needs saving.
But right now, I wish more than anything he would text me in a panic, asking where I am, and then come charging across the city to get me – Disney prince style.
I ring again. Voicemail. I scrunch my face, trying not to cry.
Don’t cry at a party, Amy. I ring again.
Voicemail. I’m weeks away from my wedding day, and I’m drunk at a party with a bunch of strangers. And my fiancé has no clue where I am. Maybe it’s not about us being secure, maybe the man I’m going to marry just doesn’t care. No, Amy, that’s the sangria talking. The door knocks again.
‘Hurry the fuck up,’ someone yells from the other side.
I take a tissue from a mirrored tissue box and wipe my eyes. ‘I’m coming,’ I say as I unlock it. I didn’t think I had been long, so it’s surprising to see the queue outside. A man pushes past and slams the door. The queue is booing me.
‘Sissy it was you hogging the bathroom.’ Woodstock comes out of nowhere.
‘Guys, it’s my baby sister.’ The booing turns into cheering.
Despite his out-there leather outfit, I’ve never been so happy to see him.
In fact, in the whole time he’s been my step-brother, I’ve never been so delighted to see him.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
‘No, why are you here?’
He has a point. These are probably his friends.
*
We’re dancing to ‘Toxic’ in the middle of the living room. We’ve had a shot of vodka and now back on the sangria. Woodstock is the coolest person ever. I can’t believe I’ve never given him a chance. He’s going to take me shopping soon, because my H&M wardrobe makes him depressed, apparently.
‘Slut drop,’ he shouts. We drop down and come back up. ‘Where’s Josh?’ he asks again. I do a little twirl. I feel like I’m dancing really well.
‘I told you, he’s at home, getting an early night for his gym session tomorrow.’
‘Ew. Why is he so boring?’
‘Hey!’ I hit his arm. ‘He’s not boring. He’s disciplined,’ I say. Even though I do agree, the gym routine is boring as hell.
‘You’re both a yawn. You’re living like you’re 49.’
‘I’m not a yawn!’
He mimics my voice. ‘We have to save money for the countryside.’
I laugh, even though I’m marginally offended. ‘It’s called growing up, Woody!’
‘You should explore the world, be naughty for once. You shouldn’t be saving pennies and counting press-ups. Shit. Aren’t you scared life is just fluttering away?’
I pause. ‘Um, geez. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Well think about it! Slut drop!’ We’re down and up again. The music changes to a Miley Cyrus song. He stops dancing.
‘Come on,’ I shout, swinging his arms from side to side. He backs away.
‘I need to find my lover now, Sissy. You keep dancing. I’ll be back.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Be free, my H&M bird.’
‘Woody, you can’t leave. Woody!’ He’s gone.
Whatever. I can dance alone. I see a group of women twerking, so I try to twerk but instantly realise that I can’t, so instead wander off to look for Lace.
I find the kitchen and plonk myself on a spinning stool at the marble island.
There is a pile of self-help books and a bunch of candles in front of me.
I open one of the books titled, How to Glow for the Rest of Your Life.
The page has a photo of a green smoothie with a recipe next to it.
‘What a load of shit,’ I say and push it away. I’ll never be one of life’s glowers, no matter how many green smoothies I consume. You’re either born to glow, or you are dim so others can glow. Lace, she glows. Where is Lace?
‘Sissy, there you are.’ Woody is in the kitchen.
He grabs my face with his hands and looks me in the eye.
‘Good God, Dr Daddy would be mad if he saw you now.’ He goes to the fridge and takes out a bunch of food and starts making something on the chopping board.
The next thing I know, he’s placing a giant baguette in front of me and demanding that I eat it. I pick it up and inspect it.
‘You haven’t put something in here, have you? You know, like when you’re hiding medicine from a dog,’ I ask.
‘I’m not trying to date rape you, Sissy, if that’s what you’re implying.’ He sits down next to me with a bright red drink. I take a big bite. It’s the best thing I have ever tasted.
‘I didn’t know you could cook,’ I say with a mouthful.
‘It’s a baguette. Any idiot can stuff something inside something.’ It makes me laugh so hard that I have to find a gap to be able to breathe. Woody is so funny.
‘Did you find your lover?’ I ask.
He lets out a sigh and leans his head on his palm. ‘Yes, Moon, he’s sleeping. He’s adorable.’
‘And Lace? Where is she?’
‘Doing her thing, I suppose.’
‘What if someone has done something to her?’
‘Do you know who is at this party?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘Right. Let’s see. The founder of Shop-Ship, Lady Stanley, some Liverpool football player. Sorry to break it to you, but the most suspicious person in this place is you.’
‘Me?’ I say, and a bit of bread flies out of my mouth.Woody grimaces.
‘Yes, you, spitty.’
‘A man asked if I could kill his ex-girlfriend with him. He’s the most aggressive person here.’
‘Charles is the biggest joke that has ever left a man’s sack. He is harmless. You, on the other hand, ran away from the host of the party.’ I scrunch my face. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘I heard someone say something about a mystery girl in a purple hoodie.’ He tilts his head and looks me up and down.
‘Oh no!’ I said, covering my mouth. ‘Was that Wera, the Everest Base Camp girl?’
‘Can’t take you anywhere.’ He takes a mouthful of my baguette and leans in. ‘Riddle me this. Why did you agree to this bizarre wedding plan?’
I take the baguette back and have another mouthful.
‘So Josh’s grandad could remember it.’
‘Aaah, that’s right. The Notebook grandad thing.’
‘Woody! He has dementia!’
Woody shrugs. ‘Look, I will never get married, but fuck me, if I did, it would be on my own terms. I don’t care how deep the man’s dimples are.’
‘Josh does have great dimples . . .’
‘He does, but you have great things too. Don’t forget that.’
‘Aww, Woody. That’s so kind.’
‘I mean it. Don’t let him have it all his way.’
‘It’s not him, it’s his mum. She is surprisingly forceful behind that floral, Great British Bake Off persona of hers.’ I then quickly add, ‘Besides, I want to get married.’
Woody raises his hand. ‘Sissy, this man should be putting you before his mama. No excuses.’
I pick off a piece of crust and play with it as I think of a response.
I can see where Woody is coming from, but he has no idea what it’s like to be in a serious, long-term relationship.
There are compromises and sacrifices, and, sure, I am doing this for Josh, like he’s done stuff for me – like support me through my parents’ divorce. I steer the conversation away from us.
‘Why don’t you want to get married?’
‘Sixty years of the same person. Passionless sex. Irritating habits. Chained to somebody’s mistakes. Even when you’re dead, you have to share your grave. No, thank you.’ He rips off another bit of my baguette.
‘There’s nice stuff too,’ I say. ‘Like . . . cuddling on the sofa on boring Sundays, travelling to places, sharing secrets. And yeah, you may have to live with their mistakes, but there is someone there for you when you screw up too.’ I look down at my wedding ring.
‘Frankie doesn’t like my ring. Do you like it? ’
‘God no,’ he says. ‘It should be six feet under with his grandma.’ We’re laughing so much that we don’t notice Lace until she stands in front of us. She looks, well, she’s glowing.
‘Lace, you’re glowing.’ I am still giggling. She doesn’t look amused.
‘I’m going to leave the party,’ she says.
I stand. ‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going too.’
Woody stands. ‘I’m going too, but before we go, a toast to moi.’ He raises his glass. ‘For it was I who found the wonderful Lace amongst the gays in Brighton that day, which means my Sissy will be wearing a spectacular dress, when she’s making a spectacular mistake. Cheers.’
I raise the remains of my baguette, laughing. My ribs hurt. This has been a great night.