Page 4 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘OH MY GOD! YOU BITCH!’
‘What did you call my sister?’
‘Are you replacing that drink?’
‘You tart.’
‘Calm down, bird!’
‘You pea-bollocked wanker.’
‘I’ve seen better fake tan on a garden fence.’
It’s a huge collection of voices and noise but all the while Josh stands there staring at me, sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. He’s smiling, isn’t he?
‘It’s none of your business anyway,’ Josh tells Meg.
Did he just shove my sister? MY. SISTER. Grace tries to get in between the two of them, another fella’s drink falls to the ground. Emma tries to pick it up and act as referee. I think she says sorry about five thousand times. Never apologise, Ems.
I storm over and slap Josh, hard. The crowd cheer.
‘Piss off, you are so dumped.’
‘I’m dumped?’
I find another drink to throw at him. The men next to us really need better reflexes. Meg is just ranting at this point, splinters of spit glowing in the lights of the club.You’re just a cocky, jumped-up little boy. Who are you, telling her what to do with her life? In ten years’ time, she’ll be flying and you’ll still be here with your dick in your hand.Chloe has a handful of Beth’s hair. Someone gets punched. Someone screams. A bouncer in black combat trousers and an earpiece comes storming over and he grabs at Meg. He’s got the wrong person.
And like some crazed jungle lynx, I launch myself at him, obtaining tremendous height to attach myself to his back. He spins to try and release me, getting gradually faster like I’m going to launch into the air like a discus. Nice try. I cling on, trying to pull him off Meg. The spinning isn’t great. The people and lights around me rotate like I’m at a fairground. Is this what it means to be an adult? Where will I land? I just need to hold on as hard as I can. But I taste sambuca in my throat, frothing up, in the roof of my nostrils. It’s going to happen, isn’t it? And with that, a loud, high-pitched scream comes from the bouncer, and the faces of dozens of people gurn in slow-motion disgust as I spray cocktail-coloured vomit all over everyone in the corner of the nightclub like a garden sprinkler. I release my grip as the bouncer realises it’s all down the back of his neck and I crumple to the floor where Emma catches me.
‘Lucy, Lucy…’ she says, wiping my chin down with the edge of her T-shirt.
Are you laughing?I clutch down at my chest and she panics, thinking I’m going to throw up again.
‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’ asks Emma.
‘Some shithead stole my Birthday Bitch badge…’ I say, pouting. I see relief in her face, which quickly switches to fear as the bouncer finds me. He has a stance like he’s about to rid this place of some strays.
‘One thing…’ Emma says.
I nod.
‘Happy eighteenth birthday, Lucy…’
I laugh. I then throw up again.
1
Over ten years later
‘Stickers are for babies! I don’t want your stickers.’
When is it acceptable to drop kick a child? This one is about eight. I don’t think I’d be able to kick him very far but he stands in front of me, pigeon puff to his chest, hands on his hips and a look on his face that you know he’s had since birth. I don’t understand why I’m on this planet? It’s cold. It was warmer in my mum, put me back.I bet he stares at broccoli like this or when he opens a Christmas present with the wrong price tag.This isn’t real Lego, Mother!You can tell he’s a reluctant party guest too.This woman before me is also not a real princess. She is an imposter. She told me her dress was sewn by woodland creatures and fairyland magic. It’s quite blatantly from Amazon.His mum is the slim one in the sports gear and the Louis Vuitton tote bag who showed up with a green smoothie. Look at her, waving her arms about, animatedly talking about their next trip to Mustique, and how they had to fire the nanny because they caught her drinking the San Pellegrino when she should have been drinking water from the tap. I hope that smoothie gives her the squits.
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all I have. Stickers or fairy dust…’ I say, throwing a handful of glitter into the air. I use the glitter because it will make the clear-up harder and that’s not in my job description.
‘That’s rubbish. Where are the sweets?’ the kid asks. ‘You lot always have sweets.’
‘There are no sweets, little boy. Now jog on to the face painting,’ I say, breaking with character, my tone loaded with a bit too much sarcasm.
