‘I look shit, don’t I?’ I’m really pissed off I let Shannon talk me into this bloody dress. What the hell was I thinking?
Reeni goes to her wardrobe and flicks through the hangers. ‘What about wearing this over the top of it.’ She’s holding up her sleeveless black shirt with lace panelling across the shoulders. ‘We could pair it with that wide belt I was wearing the other day or knot it at the bottom. What do you think?’
‘Great idea,’ I say, reaching for the shirt. Anything that makes me feel less exposed is a win at the moment.
I put it on and Reeni walks around me pulling my clothes this way and that until she’s happy. She swings me around to face the full-length mirror stuck to the back of her bedroom door.
‘What do you think?’
I give a tentative smile. ‘I look OK, don’t I?’
‘I think you look fab.’ She squeezes my shoulders. ‘Are you still sure you want to go? You could stay here instead, you know.’
Twenty-four hours ago I was desperate to go. Now it’s here I’m not so sure, but the thought of being talked about for not turning up when Shannon went out of her way to help me spurs me on. And if Jackson is going out with his mates as if nothing is different, why shouldn’t I?
‘I’m all dressed up now. I’ll show my face and not stay long. I’ll be back here before you know it. Are you sure you won’t come?’
Reeni shakes her head. ‘I can’t think of anything worse. Sorry.’
Thankfully Shannon only lives about ten minutes’ walk away from Reeni because if I had to walk any further in these platform shoes, I don’t think I’d have made it. I knock on her door and fidget with the length of my clingy dress.
‘You came,’ screeches Shannon and she flings her arms around me as if I’m long-lost family.
‘Come in. We’ve the place to ourselves. Drinks are in the kitchen, music and everyone’s in there.’ She points to the left as we walk down the hallway.
I look into the lounge as we pass it. It has groups of girls all holding red plastic cups dotted about the room. The furniture has been pushed back leaving a space in the centre and there’s music coming from speakers in the corner. I carry on walking and follow Shannon into the kitchen. Three girls I don’t recognise leave the room as we enter. One mutters hello while eyeing me up and the other two just stare.
The kitchen is tiny, like my own at home, and crammed full of stuff. There’s barely any countertop visible as it’s covered in several cereal packets, a half-eaten loaf and a toastie maker among other things. There’s a radio blaring from the windowsill and a stack of plastic cups balancing precariously on a pile of read newspapers and magazines. Shannon reaches for the cups and takes two off the stack.
‘I’m having vodka and Coke or there’s rum punch that Taz made. What do you want?’
‘Oh.’ I think back to the midwife’s stern reeling off of all the things I shouldn’t be doing. Drinking alcohol was one of them. I glance down at the knot of my shirt covering my tummy. What the hell, one won’t hurt. ‘I’ll have a punch.’
‘Punch it is then.’
‘What’s in it?’ I say, peering at the large plastic mixing bowlin the sink filled with pinkish orange liquid and four floating quarters of an orange.
‘Fruit and shit.’
I take the filled plastic cup. It looks like a soft drink so it can’t be as potent as a vodka and Coke. The liquid is dripping down the side from the clumsy filling technique and I lick my fingers. It’s fruity and sweet but tart at the same time, and it tastes quite nice.
A song starts up in the other room and the beat clashes with the music coming from the radio.
‘Ooo. I love this one. Come in when you’re ready.’ And Shannon abandons me to go and dance.
I take a mouthful of punch. The acid hits my throat and burns as it goes down. I wonder how long I have to stay before I can get back to Reeni’s. I need more Dutch courage before facing everyone in the lounge and take another couple of gulps. It burns less this time as it slides down my throat.
I lean back against the countertop and knock a pile of folded washing sending boxer shorts, pjs, knickers and unmatched socks tumbling to the floor.
‘Crap,’ I say, and stoop to hurriedly pick everything back up.
Two girls come into the kitchen, they mumble hello then proceed to pour vodka and the local shop’s own brand cola into cups, giggling all the while. I take another sip of the pink liquid. It’s beginning to go down quite nicely now.
‘Are you coming?’ one of the girls ask, looking me up and down.
‘Be right there,’ I mutter, really hoping the heat I can feel in my face isn’t visible. I pour myself one more drink for good luck before following them.
The kitchen is flooded with harsh white light and in contrast the lounge is dim and poorly lit. Someone has turned on a tiny disco ball and it’s spraying wishy-washy spots of multicolouredlight around the room, and the only other light is coming from a lit lamp with a brown shade on the table at the far side of the settee.
