Chapter 3 Fuko, are you blue soup?
Fuko, are you blue soup?
‘Happy Birthday, Fuko!’
‘Happy Birthday, employed Fuko!’
Three glasses of Prosecco clink against each other. Leon, Sashka, and I down them with a whistle.
It might be sad to have only two friends at my birthday party celebrating my 24th, the second return of my Chinese zodiac animal, the solidifying of my mid-twenties, my pre-silver anniversary, but they are the best.
We met at a secondary girls-only Catholic school, with none of us ending up being even remotely religious.
You would think that their luck was obvious, given that Leon was born in the wrong body and Sashka was a stunning daughter of a Ukrainian oligarch, but it was actually the opposite of what you’d expect.
Leon was born Clara, daughter of working-class parents.
Clara’s dad is a plumber, who loves beer, Tottenham games, and drinking beer at Tottenham games.
Clara’s mother is a hairdresser, who used to do intricate girly hairstyles to shame other mothers for not putting the same amount of effort into their girls.
When Clara came out as Leon, he had a bag with saved pocket money and documents ready, thinking he’d be kicked out of the house.
Instead, his dad had tears in his eyes, saying he had always wanted a son, and his mother went shopping the next day because ‘no son of hers will be seen in public in those horrible grey trackies’.
Not only are his parents supportive and display Save Trans Kids stickers on their work vans, Leon was extremely lucky in everything else in life.
His A-level grades were DDE (minimal requirement to most UK unis is CCC), yet, somehow, he swindled his way into the quite prestigious Durham Law School through clearing, by claiming ‘law is his true calling’.
He dropped out of law school because it wasn’t but had made so many connections that he was just given a job as a programme curator at the National Gallery, knowing only a few things about art from rare QI or University Challenge episodes.
Later, the art dealers’ team that specialises in selling authentic Banksy then snatched him up.
Leon also buys premium bonds and has won over ￡5000.
Because of his big luck, he is the mule that brings and delivers weed on those rare occasions that Sashka and I partake.
When she was 9, she walked in on her father having sex with her mother’s nail lady. Big bad luck. Her mother divorced her dad, taking Sashka (or Alexandra in full), half their money, and an apartment in Kyiv.
At 12, she was competing at the nationals for rhythmic gymnastics, but because of poor installation of the flooring needed for tumbling, the panelling caved when she landed a jump with her ribbon, causing a tear in her knee. Very unfortunate.
The biggest signifier of her great misfortune occurred when she travelled home from university for just a week.
On the day she was due to return to the UK, Russia attacked, cancelling all the flights.
Which was horrific by itself, but when she returned from the airport with her mother, their apartment was gone—the only apartment in the building and the only building on the street to be hit in one of the air raids, which she is still not fully recovered from, but forces herself to live happily out of spite.
Her father, still devastated because his wife divorced him after only a small affair, bought an apartment for them in London in hopes of rekindling the old flame.
They didn’t, because now he is on the run from six different governments.
The apartment is in Sashka’s name and is a stunning piece of architecture in Chelsea, but it had black mould, fleas, and mice, so even good things were followed by a series of bad things.
She was also passed over for promotion in her creative agency at least three times, and she is not brave enough to start her own.
Because of that, it’s best if she and I let Leon curate the blunt and light it up in his mouth. When the paper is burnt enough, it appears in my hands like a magic wand.
I am not a smoker of any plants, tobacco or otherwise, so the ash irritates my airways with a violent cough.
‘All right, fresher,’ Leon mocks.
‘This is so strong,’ I say, passing it to Sashka, feeling a sudden and complete shift in my cognitive abilities.
‘Leon, what the fuck is this? This hits immediately.’
‘Only the best for my girls. Wash it down, c’mon.’ He pours another glass of bubbly for each of us.
For a party of three, the alcohol stock feels excessive. The bottles usually live in the wine rack, but Leon, being an amazing host, likes to give his guests options, so the table looks more like a cry for help than a sophisticated gathering before a night of dancing.
‘They won’t let us in if we’re too off our tits,’ Sashka warns. Her eyes can’t seem to catch the man in their focus.
‘Oh, no, mine are off already.’ He brushes his fingers over his mesh shirt, just where the top surgery scars live, and pours a shot out. ‘Drink!’
We laugh. We are high, and drunk, and now fully employed for at least three months.
Everything is funnier when your life isn’t on a complete downward spiral.
It took them three months to convince me to go out clubbing, and finally, with the convergence of my birthday and employment, I caved.
Dressed in a short dress and wearing my hair and makeup as I did at uni, I’m ready to party.
Leon locks the door and orders a taxi. When a black Toyota arrives, he lets us in and squeezes behind us. Our eyes are mildly bloodshot, but Sashka brought eye drops. They sting for a moment but fix the doped-up look. We look presentable and so, so hot.
‘Can’t believe you fainted at the interview. It’s honestly more impressive than getting the job,’ says Sashka.
‘Ugh, today no talking about work or my embarrassments.’
‘Boo, those are, like, the best stories. It’s really movie magic that you ran into your naked man again,’ Leon says, raising an eyebrow, as if it’s a tool to test my patience.
‘There is no magic at play. It is all my bad luck. And he is definitely not my naked man. He is going to be my supervisor.’
‘Ugh, you and your luck.’ Sashka rolls her eyes. ‘There is no such thing as luck. You just have chaos following you.’
Sashka doesn’t believe my theories but loves to hear about people’s luck. Like someone who doesn’t believe in zodiac signs but reads their horoscope anyway. Still, she sometimes brings a boy round to meet me to determine his luck, and if it’s below small fortune, she’s cautious.
‘I’m telling you, we should have used the Tube to exhaust our misfortunes before the club. Bad things always happen on the Tube. Now who knows what is going to happen?’
‘Knowing us, we won’t even get in.’ Sashka snorts at the thought, and I guffaw with her.
We missed our flight to Ibiza once because Sashka got stuck in security for half an hour.
‘Keep your wits about you. It would be embarrassing to get turned away from Judgement on your birthday,’ Leon warns us over our giggling.
Judgement was known as the last resort club, but we liked it because the music was good and the people at the beginning of the night were always respectful.
And hot. Leon and Sashka want to pull. I do too, but because we haven’t exhausted my bad luck, that would be too risky.
I’d catch something uncomfortable but treatable. Maybe something like crabs. Again.
At the door, I try hard, really, really hard to appear sober, as fresh as a daisy, as erect as the Gherkin. I am staring the bag checkers down. No illegal substances in there, miss. They are in this body with a sexy dress on.
The bouncer at the door checks my driver’s licence with a red L on the side and nods. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘You too!’ I shout in relief at getting admitted as someone stamps my hand.
I realise what I said only when I hear a hysterical outburst from my friends, who now look as if they will have to crawl up the stairs on their hands and knees. Luckily, we are already through the gates of Judgement; it’s hard to get kicked out now.
‘You are so funny, Fuko. I love you. I am sorry I said you are chaos. You bring peace to my life.’ Sashka lays her head on my shoulder and accepts the barrage of kisses I plant on her forehead.
‘Too early for this. We’re going to dance to sober up.’ Leon tries to pull us together, ignoring the sidelong glances from the other club-goers. All so hot.
God, I could make out with any of them right now. If it were me from five years ago, I would’ve. As long as they weren’t under 20. If they were under 20, I’d call the police on myself.
‘Leon, I am worried I am too pissed for this.’ Sashka sways from side to side, forgetting about her mission to make out with an Australian man with a ‘stash and a mullet’.
‘I need you to focus.’ He lets people squeeze through on the stairs, quickly throwing in, ‘Love your dress.’ Before returning to us with a determined nod, he runs his fingers through his dark hair. ‘We are going to go up to the pop music floor, and we are going to have a boogie.’
‘I don’t think people call it a boogie anymore, love.’ Sashka giggles into my neck.
I respond by slapping her back with silent laughter. Anything anyone says right now is hilarious.
‘Sooka, keep your eyes on the prize.’ Leon pulls out the only swear word he knows. ‘Do you want to snog a lad today or not?’
His words work like a charm, as if she heard a call from the wheat fields of her motherland, leading the stride to the top floor.
When the doors open, lights flash in and out; lasers spin around the room; and music hits us like a wave, covering our bodies with its intensity. The beat is not heard as much as it is felt through the skin, giving the bones a massage all the way to the marrow.