Page 33 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Did I teach them the TLC one?’
‘No, I don’t believe you have,’ Grace says.
Meg expels a laugh in exasperation. ‘You don’t remember anything but you remember that routine?’
We used to do that here, in this living room, all lined up like we were the best girl band you’d ever seen. We’d tie knots in the bases of our T-shirts and tuck them up and over the necklines, wearing big baggy combats and jeans perched on our hips. I was nine years old and Meg was eighteen and there’s an image so sharp in my brain of me perched on the edge of the sofa and her asking me to purse my lips so she could apply some of her Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick. There was a point where Grace released a limb into Beth and they both threw cushions at each other and broke a picture frame that we hid to escape our mother’s wrath.
‘I remember that routine…’ whispers Sleepy in the corner, rousing from her slumber. That’s what music does to Beth, it speaks to her soul; everything has a theme and a melody. With one eye open, she accesses some magic on her phone and the TV stops and starts playing the song. The technology still blows my mind. Meg is shaking her head as both my fingers are pointed at her.
‘You made up the routine,’ I say. ‘You loved TLC. You wore an eye patch for a while.’
‘Shush now, I am not dancing. I will pull something…’
‘You used to pull fellas with those moves.’
‘No, I pulled them because of my sparkling wit and great boobs.’
I jump to my feet, as does Beth, who starts with some gentle swaying. ‘It’s a banger, ladies. Remember when Emma didn’t understand why you’d call a man a duster.’
Instantly insulted, Emma rises to her feet, looking over at Grace. Lucy got hit by a bus. Maybe the music and the attempts to dance will mean she gets better, it will access something within the labyrinth that’s her brain and she’ll be Lucy again. Grace removes the old lady blanket from her knees. She may be lunging. Meg is still the one who remains seated, watching me closely as I go through the moves. Left to right shuffle, knee up and down, hanging out the passenger side, lean with attitude and booty pop. The accuracy with which I deliver the moves makes it seem like I’ve been practising them every day since 2001.
Grace shakes her head. ‘I’m pretty sure it was lean and click and then the thing with the head.’ Beth cheers as we both booty pop together.
Emma glances at both her hands to try and work out what to do with her arms.C’mon, Ems, you’re a surgeon. Co-ordination is key.She senses I’m looking at her. ‘You forget you trained as a dancer, it’s all in your muscle memory,’ she lectures me, whilst also mouthing all the words.
Meg suddenly stands to attention. ‘It’s like you cows can’t do anything right without me. It’s like in the video. But the arms – NO – SCRUBS. Cross the arms.’
Grace does her best not to stifle her giggles to see Meg spring into action and Meg throws one of those woody olives at her.
‘Come on then, line up properly. And phones down, I don’t want this on TikTok. Beth, don’t freestyle.’
I can’t stop smiling and that’s because this is what I’m here for. This is what’s familiar. Let’s dance this out, bitches, but maybe not do that thing with our T-shirts any more mainly because I think Meg isn’t wearing a bra.
‘This better make your memory come back,’ Grace adds, grinning. She’s loving it too.
We all know the words, all of them. Every inflection and scaling of the notes, the little rap parts, the echoes of Lisa ‘Left Eye’ Lopes. Pussy the cat looks over but her face creases into shock as Meg tries to hit a high note, belting out the lyrics. And all of us descend into giggles but sing right back to her. It’s a girl band of sorts but one that looks like they took advantage of the free alcohol before they went on stage and maybe forgot their costumes, and their make-up, and their goddamn minds. Meg puts a knee up and I hear a click of something, Emma hits Grace in the face with a hand. Beth looks at me and we sing the lyrics to each other, bodies rolling in opposite directions. We danced to this song like this before. Somewhere else? I’m sure of it. In a club, or was it at a wedding? I stop for a moment to try and remember. I was in a bandeau top. I was wearing a badge.
‘You’ll hurt yourself, Meg,’ says a voice from the hallway.
Mum stands there leaning against the doorframe. There’s a look there I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know if she’s reminiscing or grateful that the years of us trashing her front room and creating this wall of noise are gone. I’d hope somewhere she might miss it, just a fraction.
‘Why is there an olive on my rug?’ she asks.
‘IT WAS MEG!’ Grace squeals, regressing to her ten-year-old self.
‘YOU MADE ME DO IT!’ Meg throws another and it bounces off Beth’s forehead.
‘GIRLS! Pick it up. Are you all having fun?’ Mum asks. I’m not sure if anyone answers as the scene has descended into raucous madness. To my left, Grace and Beth cradle each other in laughter trying to prop each other up. This is what I remember, so very well.
‘Nice night out, Mum?’ I ask her.
‘Very nice. We went for a Greek meal. Are you OK?’ she asks me, catching my gaze. She does this a lot now and I suspect she did it less before. She gives me long lingering looks as if she has a world of things to say to me but also wants to check that I’m just alive, functioning.This girl band wouldn’t work without you, Lucy.Look at what happened when Geri left. It was never quite the same, eh?
‘Well, your father and I are off to bed, now,’ she announces to the room. ‘Lucy, tell them to stop throwing olives.’
‘Make sure you tell Dad to use a condom,’ I joke.
She pauses. Old Mother would have hated the crudeness. She’d have answered with a tut and a scowl. But instead she smiles, which makes me think they had the good wine with dinner.
