‘Don’t be judgy.’
‘No, really, Becky. I was going to go home early but now I want to see you do the special MDMA dancing.’
‘Thank you for your support.’
‘Always.’
‘Do you want to do it with us?’
‘Obviously I’d join you if it didn’t mean associating myself with a group of people that look like a manufactured popular music band.’
‘Popular music? Your snobbery knows no bounds. Anyway, Brendan’s wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. You two might completely love each other if you got to know each other.’
‘That’s my greatest fear of doing pills.’
‘Not dehydrating and dying?’
‘That’d be fine. But, no, it’s telling Brendan he’s actually a really great guy. Chills me to the core.’
Becky laughs again. They smile at each other, Adam holding her gaze a split second too long. Not long enough to necessarily interpret as anything more than a minor rest in their conversation, but also not short enough to be entirely sure that this is what’s going on. It happens between them sometimes. But it’s OK. It’s acceptable. Largely ignorable.
He breaks the spell with a change in smile. ‘You’ll be fine. Just keep the ambulance on speed dial. Ciao and all that.’ He swings on his heel to leave her.
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘How about a movie night next week? Back to the Future, popcorn, I can smuggle some beers from my dad. My house?’
‘Sure,’ he says, without turning round. ‘That would be fine. Enjoy the party and … just be careful none of them miss their footing and fall on you. Those are some beefy public school types you’re hanging out with now. Scrum down, Shawcross.’
Becky finds some beers on a side table, gets drunk, and watches other people get drunk. She grasps her bottle and tells herself that she can see how alcohol floods the systems of the people around her, making their movements looser, sloppier and more animated. One girl slams her palms against the chest of a boy far taller than her and although she looks angry and sad, he is laughing as he tries to bring her round to his way of thinking. He draws her to him and she thumps his chest with her fists until she gives up and curls into him, laughing.
A girl with corkscrew hair sways and gyrates like no one is watching, or something like that. Becky feels both embarrassed and jealous, watching her dance like she is at a warehouse rave, weaving her arms in between strips of blue and green light.
Mary is talking to Brendan who is standing over her – his arm positioned in a way that makes it look like he is bolstering the wall, as if he is as essential as a ceiling joist. Mary is waving her hands, clearly telling a story that means absolutely everything to her, and she is delighted, in her element, because Brendan is looking at her and laughing and no doubt appreciating her pretty Irish eyes.
As if she hadn’t already known it, this confirms everything for Becky. Soon it is extremely unlikely that she will see Mary for the rest of the night. Despite all their promises it isn’t practical for them to do everything together. They are not Siamese twins. Mary is fun, which is why she is laughing with a boy she really likes. Becky is more introverted, harder to like, she thinks. It occurs to Becky that after tonight Mary may not in fact need her around any more. Having played her role as wingman she will be made redundant, a needless adjunct once Brendan is at the heart of Mary’s life. And then where will Becky belong?
It is no good for Becky to have these thoughts – not at this party, in this house where she doesn’t know anyone. But what can she do? She can’t afford a cab home on her own. Should she find a corner and try to sleep?
She lights another cigarette as Mary walks out of the room holding Brendan’s hand.
How embarrassing to feel so sad about something so small, a friend going off with a boy. Instead of what?
She wonders about the night bus. She can afford that. What’s the route? And can she bear it, drunk and alone and, yes, quite close to crying now?
She feels a hand at her back and a pathetic sense of gratitude rises in her that someone wants to talk.
‘Hey,’ Scott says.
He is tall, blond, good-looking. A friend of Brendan’s. Not quite in his group but not out of it either. One of those people who move around and seem to know how to get along with everyone.
‘There’s a game of Spin the Bottle going on upstairs. Mary and Brendan sent me to get you. We’ve got all the “stuff” up there.’
‘Spin the Bottle?’
‘Yeah, it’s retro. No obligations. You could just do a pill.’
‘What if the bottle says I have to do heroin?’
He doesn’t get her joke fast enough to laugh at it. She wishes she could take it back.
‘So do you want to come?’
Suddenly she knows that, more than anything, she is fed up with standing here with her thoughts. She wants to climb out of her head and have some fun.
This will fill some hours.
To think that she could have chosen the arduous night bus journey. The chances are she’d have made it home uncomfortable and tired, but safe and sound and awake enough the next day to enjoy her mum’s Sunday roast. But then again, she could also have fallen asleep on the top deck and found herself at the depot miles from anywhere, lost and vulnerable.
Followed home.
Or worse.
As it is, she stays at the party. She drains her beer bottle to its last tasteless drop, looks at Scott and tells him, ‘I’m game.’
Chapter 6
The sky is blue in Soho this morning, and the sun casts a clear clean light across a street lined with fabric shops, one after the other, their fronts thrown open and piled high with rolls of cotton and acrylic, satin and lace. The food stalls are
