Page 25 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘What are they? Like, double G?’ I ask.
Darren laughs. Cass gives me a look like her boobs may have triggered a memory. They haven’t.
‘They are. You groped them all the time. You told me to go into porn…’
‘You’re in porn?’
‘No,’ she cackles, looking deeply into my eyes. ‘You’re still in there though, aren’t you?’
I never really left. I just don’t know who half of these people are and that’s starting to upset me because they look like fun and it feels like I’ve missed out.
‘Can we come see you at your mum’s house?’ Darren asks.
‘I’m sure Mum will be fine with it, especially if you bring mochi,’ Meg adds.
There are final hugs, thanks and exchanges of telephone numbers before they take their leave and I’m left staring at a bunch of tulips on my side table.
‘They’re your favourite flower,’ Meg tells me.
‘I have a favourite flower?’ I ask.
‘That’s something that seems to happen when you become older. I’m a fan of hydrangeas. You like the comedy element of tulips.’
I look at her blankly.
‘Two lips. Like a vagina,’ she says in embarrassed tones.
‘I’m glad I still remained mildly hilarious in the last ten years then?’ I mutter.
Meg smiles.
‘Sometimes the joke wears thin. But half the time, it’s actually needed. The funny. Especially in the last two or three years. Sometimes it’s been hard to find anything to smile about.’
This is something that’s also been drip-fed to me. Another thing I’ve erased from memory is that in the last couple of years, there were moments when the world shut down for a while, a time when we wore masks and kept a distance from each other.
‘You kept everything buoyant in that time, Lucy. You’d do family Zooms in fancy dress to entertain the kids. When Mum was crying at how much she missed us, you’d crack an inappropriate joke about flatulence. When I was exhausted and anxious, you told me I was dramatic and that I looked like shit and would distract me with stories about a man you’d met on Tinder who’d catfished you and told you he was Tom Hiddleston.’
‘I didn’t understand half of that last sentence. Tinder? Catfish? Tom who?’
Meg just laughs in reply and cradles my broken head in her hands. ‘We have so much to fill you in on.’
‘Did I sleep with that Darren guy?’
‘Most likely.’
‘Was that my bar? That feels like a semi-low bar.’
‘No comment. Open your gift and your letter.’
My fingers claw at the paper of the gift from the suspiciously named Dickweasel, which reveals itself to be old lady soaps. The envelope, however, is a lot classier. Inside is a thank you note unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It seems to be personalised and on weighted card like a wedding invitation.
Dear Lucy,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. It’s Ophelia and you were at my party a few weeks ago. I wanted to say thank you for helping me when I was upset. I don’t know what you told my mum but we don’t see the Stantons any more so something you did worked. Thank you for showing me how a princess should be and giving me all your good advice and a bit of your lip gloss. I think you’re awesome.
Ophelia xx
‘I wonder what advice I gave her,’ I say, looking down at the message, admiring the penmanship.
