Page 37 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘Use them tonight,’ said Astrid. ‘They give them out free at the hospital. And consider being a bit more discerning sexually.’
‘Astrid! I’m super picky.’
‘Please,’ said Astrid. ‘I swear I saw the one you shagged right after Monty onCrimewatchthe other week.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one with the creepy little ’tache.’
‘Freddie? The entertainment lawyer?Youset me up with him! He works in your firm. She’s being funny,’ I said to Ebba.
‘Not Freddie. And I didn’t set you up with him. I told you all about his girlfriend and you still went there. I’m talking about the oneyoufound. On Tinder. With no little finger.’
Oh Christ. I’d forgotten about him. Deliberately.
‘Yes, exactly,’ said Astrid, watching my reaction.
‘Piss off, Astrid.’ I firmly returned the condoms to her. ‘Sort out your own life.’ I pushed past her to the front door, careful not to look at Matthew Lloyd’s chest in passing.
‘Syphilis is on the rise,’ warned Astrid, as I stepped out into the cold December mist. ‘Could be your little finger next.’
‘She’d just manifest a new one, wouldn’t you, Alice?’ said Matthew.
TWAT.
THE CLUB (Saturday 31 December, 11pm)
So, despite expecting it to be good, supper at Aziz and Astrid’s turned out to be less than a fun start to New Year’s Eve. But, while I had been dreading the tube journey to Drunk Stephen’s friend’s thing in Stratford, it ended up being okay. There were a bunch of kids, hoods up, playing music on their phones super loudly at one end of the carriage and so most people had consciously chosen any other carriage; this meant I had my end pretty much to myself. Just how I liked it. I scrolled through my phone. Drunk Stephen had sent me a code I had to show at the door to get into this party. He also told me to make sure I posted photos of myself outside, tagging @LST-STP-NYE, before coming in, because the more of a story I put up, the more likely I was to get chosen the next time. He told me he was scouting the room already to find the most attractive people for us to dance near to increase our chances of social media exposure.
So I spent some time re-doing my make-up – I am bloody good at applying make-up on the tube. Never had an injury yet, unlike Annabel, who had blurry vision for a month after she accidentally jabbed herself in the eye whilst kohling on the Central line. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. I bet they weren’t doing anything as cool as going to Drunk Stephen’s friend’s thing tonight. They were probably at somemember’s club where the really fun men loosened their half-Windsor ties towards the end of the night. Thinking of Hugh and Annabel reminded me of Monty, who preferred a full Windsor himself. What would he have made of going off to an invite-only DJ set at a warehouse owned by an art collective?
It was about a ten-minute walk from the tube station and as I got closer towards the venue, it became the sort of journey that St Hilda’s pupils were educated about in terms of social awareness and understanding the wider world – a cracked-concrete wasteland with broken barriers, and the odd heap of what could have been rubbish. St Hilda’s were big on reminding us about why we needed to keep the perimeters in place. Anyway, I made it past the stacks of paving slabs to the warehouse alive, and dutifully took a couple of photos before posting, hoping no one would steal my iPhone because I couldn’t afford to insure it. My notifications pinged. It was a new post from Charlotte. She was forever posting evidence of herself at hot places, proving she was ahead of the curve and that she was living her best life. I wondered what she’d managed tonight – probably something a lot more desirable than a dysfunctional family dinner and an hour-long tube ride. I thought about not looking, but the temptation was too great: there she was, one threaded eyebrow arched, gracing some rooftop garden, fairy lights studded through the potted tree behind her, the London skyline a black frame so perfect it seemed the city itself had chosen to be her backdrop, the moon obediently hanging above. Hang on… Whose hand was that on Charlotte’s cut-out waist? I enlarged the second photo. Hmm, really hard to see, but definitely male and definitely hairy. There was every possibility she was welland truly dating Guy Carmichael. Charlotte was livingmyperfect life.
Still. It was banging inside and packed. The heat of so many bodies moving together was practically tropical and the atmosphere was wired – people were here to party. Drunk Stephen was already even more twatted than I was, and in full dance mode right in the centre of the floor.
‘If it’s like this with the warm-up,’ he bellowed across the pounding bass, ‘imagine what it’ll be like when he comes on!’
‘Yeah!’ I said, moving half-heartedly and wondering if Guy Carmichael was dancing with Charlotte on the picture-perfect rooftop.
‘Show me this photo Charlotte’s posted,’ he said, temporarily pausing his moves. ‘And then get in the moment. And start dancing properly.’
We scrutinised the photos the best we could whilst we were jostled from all sides by the dancing masses. ‘Meh,’ he said in my ear. ‘She’s at Poison Rose. Totally pedestrian. Tourists go there! Probably a tourist feeling her up right now. Look at where you are!’
He grabbed my hand and raised it in the air.
‘This is where it’s at,’ he yelled. ‘This is fun. You need to get into it.’
I looked around. The entire room was pumping. People were definitely loving it.
‘Dance!’ he commanded. ‘Go on! Dance!’
‘All right. You’re making me feel like Pinocchio.’
But I couldn’t help it – the bass was running through the floor, through me, and soon I was dancing.
‘Right,’ said Drunk Stephen a little while later when I’ddanced myself into a better mood. ‘You’ve got your glow on now. So let’s show Charlotte what the cool kids are up to with some counter posts from you. Lean back with me so that we’ve got that logo in shot, and that unbelievably hot guy too… ’
I did. And as Drunk Stephen held my phone aloft to capture us, the unbelievably hot guy noticed and put his intricately tattooed arms around us. Drunk Stephen looked heavenwards in thanks.
