Page 30 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘LUCY, THE CAT! THE CAT! THERE’S A REASON I NEVER HAD A CAT! SHE’S EATING A BOX OF PANTYLINERS! SHE’S A FUCKING ANIMAL!’ Mum’s shrieking rings through the house, and we all laugh. I remember this too.
7
I am trying to think about the last time we were all together like this. It may have been Christmas, it has to be. Being here in this living room, sitting around watching shite on the television covered in fleece blankets and throwing popcorn at each other, feels like a memory from way before Meg got married and settled. She used to come back home and bring bin bags full of her laundry because the washing machine in her flat share was a ‘shower of shit’ and then spend most of her time eating the contents of the fridge and using us as some sort of detox facility because she felt her liver was failing her and/or her heart had been broken. I remember one time she stole our kettle because some artsy knob she’d been dating had taken hers. If the stars aligned then Emma would be here too and we’d all be in some shared uniform of trackies and big socks, hair nested on top of our heads. We’d share blankets and chocolate on the sofa and watchGossip Girl. Someone would fart halfway and stink out the room and we’d all shriek like harpies but that memory is a comfort blanket to me. There are moments now when I feel completely lost and I zoom in on that like some magnetic north, hiding under that blanket, even enduring the smell of Grace’s farts. We always knew it was her.
The only thing about now is that things are a bit different. Mum and Dad are having a night out today, away from us kids, so they’ve left us to fend for ourselves. They did this a lot when we were teens, it was necessary for Dad to escape the faint radioactive glow of hormones in the air, but they used to buy us pizzas and bottles of Coke and remind us to lock the French doors because Mum was always paranoid (having watched too much crime drama from the nineties) that someone was going to kidnap one of us. I mean, that’s a brave bloody kidnapper who’d try that. Can you imagine that poor criminal? He’d leave this house without an abductee and most likely without a face.
Those nights would sing with joy, fun and laughter. Tonight though, they sing with the sound of Beth snoring. Like drooling levels. I swear if we turned off the TV then we’d hear the walls rattle lightly. Someone close that girl’s mouth. I guess she’s allowed because she’s a new mum. Emma hasn’t changed. We’re watching a quiz show and she still answers all the questions on the edge of her seat, competing with no one else but herself.
What has changed are the snacks. It used to be all about the pick ’n’ mix but now we drink wine and eat olives and posh crispbreads with dip that has pecorino in it. My sisters ask what they marinade the olives in.Is that thyme? It tastes woody. Are these Greek? They’re so plump.It’s oil and herbs, girls. Grace, you used to pick the olives off your pizza and say they were the devil’s grapes.
‘Who the hell doesn’t know who Anne Boleyn is? They’ve made about six BBC dramas about the bitch,’ screams Meg into the telly.
Meg’s animated critique of people on the television is a thing of legend.What the hell has he done to his house? I could sew a better dress like that if I was drunk and didn’t have hands. That chicken isn’t cooked, it’s so not cooked. He’s going home!Except back then it was just a loud young opinion. Now she’s drunk on the wine, it’s a bit lairy. If we were in public, she’d start on someone outside a kebab shop. I like that Meg so I won’t discourage her. It’s excellent value Meg.
‘I don’t get this show. They have to catch the things and then they win the money?’ I ask, my hand straight into the crisps.
‘But if he catches both balls then he wins the lot. If he drops it then he’s going home with nothing…’
I pretend to feign interest. For some reason, it seems to be essential primetime viewing to at least three people in this room, except for my girl, Beth. In fact, I lie. There is also another being in the room. Pussy graces us with her presence tonight. Pussy still has yet to endear herself to anyone in this house. She slept on Meg’s head the other night, attacks the washing machine when it’s on and smells like egg. There is a look about her that one would liken to some old lady who just wants to sit in her house, eat tinned goods all day and be left the hell alone.Don’t touch me, or I will seriously have your eyes.How did I pick her to be my pet companion in life?
‘I can’t believe he went for that answer. He’ll regret that… Use your lifeline,’ Grace yells, studying the screen and talking to Matt, Essex, like she knows him. Grace and I used to sneak down here at night with our duvets, camp on the floor when Mum and Dad had gone to bed and watch Channel 5 documentaries about sex toys and then laugh so much we wet ourselves.
The only thing that hasn’t changed here is the crisps. Thank you, Doritos, for still staying triangular and crispy and coated in good flavours that still stick to the roof of my mouth. I rake through the bowl with my hands.
‘You want some dip?’ Emma asks, handing over her posh cheesy stuff.
‘I’m good.’
She senses the sullen version of myself in the room. ‘You OK? You love cheesy dip.’
‘I do?’
We never had posh cheesy dip growing up. We had houmous and salsa out of a jar. Snacks in front of the television were microwave popcorn and big tubs of chocolates, which we’d physically wrestle each other for and pull hair over the toffee fingers. It was cheap crisps that felt like polystyrene in your mouth. Big mugs of tea. But my sisters all became posh grown-up bitches in the last decade with their wine and olives.
‘And the answer is Reese Witherspoon, not Judi Dench,’ I say.
They all turn to the television where Matt from Essex has lost his money. Bye, Matt. Have a good trip home with your zero pounds. Had I been in that studio, I’d have won £350,000. Grace slaps my arm.
‘How did you know that?’ she asks in disbelief.
‘Because that was in 2006 which to me was only a few years ago. I can’t remember who I’ve shagged in the past decade but I can tell you anyone who’s won an Oscar in the noughties.’
The sisters all go deathly quiet, bar Beth, who may as well be in a coma anyway.
‘Should we get a board game out?’ Emma asks.
‘Operation?’ I joke feebly. The sisters all side-eye each other, so much so that I feel I need to comment. ‘Like, when did you guys get so grown-up?’
Meg and Emma look at me, insulted.Yes, I’m calling you hags old.
‘Because wearegrown-ups,’ Emma protests. ‘We have families now.’
‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you had to get boring. Is this what you do on Saturdays now?’
The way they all shift looks to each other and then to the ceiling tells me yes.
‘And what is wrong with that?’ Grace asks. ‘We’re not party girls like you. I can’t do those sorts of nights any more. The last time we had a big night out, you jumped off a pirate ship.’
