Chapter Twenty-Nine
The day we dissected frogs
As soon as Keith leaves, I call Channing. I know what the problem is now. I just haven’t found the right group of people yet. It’s like fresher’s week – you have to hang out with different groups before you find the one for you. At Birmingham Uni, I had a brief goth phase, trying to fit in with a girl in my halls of residence. I bought some stripy tights and aFields of the Nephilimalbum, but it just didn’t feel like me. For one thing, everyone drank Newcastle Brown Ale, which tastes like stew. I also briefly tried to fit in with a rugby crowd – someone from my school who had come to Birmingham like me had a cousin on the Welsh team, so I joined her in the pub to watch some matches. All the girls were wearing rugby shirts and velvet Alice bands, and were called things like Hattie and Cornelia. When I said I wasn’t going to Henley Regatta they gave my seat to someone called Lettice and I had to go and stand at the bar.
Channing is very excited to hear from me, and even more excited that I want to go out with him. ‘I thought you’d never ask, gurl,’ he says, laughing heartily when I ask him if he’s doing anything tonight. It’s Friday! He’s going to a pansexual night called ‘Ya Basic’ at a place in Dalston which apparently plays ‘Nineties Nasties’. There’s a lot here that I don’t fully understand but it sounds more fun than drinking Snakebite (I googled it in the end) and talking about radical self-acceptance, so I’m in. Although I’m not sure what ‘Core’ to wear, and I’m guessing that Urban Outfitters is not considered edgy by Michaela Mammary, who is DJing this evening.
An hour and a half later, we’re in a bar around the corner from the club and I feel like I need a soundtrack again. This is nothing like the scene inPretty Womanthough – it’s more along the lines of one of those montages in films likeThe Hangover, when everyone is doing shots in slow motion to Bruno Mars or similar. And despite Channing’s friend Baron eyeing my skirt and asking me who I ‘came as’, I’m having an excellent time. Let’s put it this way, Keith, it’s not the Old Vic.
As well as Baron – who is very small and wearing a peacock blue silk shirt tied in a knot in the middle of his hairy chest – there’s Angel, who is sporting a codpiece and a pair of red fishnet tights that encompass their whole body, and Riley, who’s in knee-length white socks and something similar to a school uniform. There’s also Milo, and the more prosaically named Melanie (who looks a bit like Miley Cyrus), and Carter (or maybe Carton but I’m erring on the side of normality) – all dressed like they’re from an upbeat version of a dystopian future. Or, less generously, as though they were given thirty seconds to grab something to wear at a church jumble sale, then had to put make-up on without a mirror. It’s weird and wonderful and feels like everyone and anyone is welcome. I’m pretty sure I like it.
Nobody’s drinking the same thing: caipirinhas are flying about, pints of Guinness, prosecco, martinis, and yes, I’m getting a little plastered. Channing is keeping an eye on me though – the others don’t know my ‘secret’ and he’s being very discreet, apart for announcing to the table after a round of flaming sambucas that ‘Erica and I know something you don’t’ and dissolving into hysterical giggles. But everyone’s too drunk to ask questions or care that much, which is fine by me.
Later, we stagger to the club. On the way, I look at my phone and notice that#whereswultyis trending. Channing and I are walking arm in arm, so I hold it up and show him.
‘Don’t get me started on Yuvana, gurl,’ he slurs.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Didn’t you know? They laid me off.’
I’m too drunk to process this.
We go into the club, which consists of two or three adjoining rooms in a basement and is full of people who look like Channing’s friends, only more so. It’s loud and busy and people are dancing and snogging and drinking.
Finally – some fun. I throw myself into it, dancing for the first time in twenty years, if you don’t count Josie’s wedding, which I don’t. Someone shouts ‘HAVIN’ IT’ at me in a fake Manchester accent, which I take to mean that I look like a raver. Who cares though? I’m dancing with drag queens, men in harnesses like that guy Chaz at theLusciousshoot, girls in lingerie… to anything from club classics to Right Said Fred or Whigfield. So that’s what they meant by ‘Nineties Nasties’. It’s brilliant.
An hour later and it’s all feeling a lot less brilliant. The sambuca is wearing off, so I take a break and lean against the bar with Channing, Melanie and Carter/Carton. I can’t really hear what they’re saying, and everyone just seems to be shouting about how they’re obsessed with him/her/them/her top/that song/this drink. I find myself staring out across the room, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu. It’s like that cheap, oaky chardonnay – when you drink it, you can already taste the impending hangover. And right now, that’s exactly how I feel – as though I’ve been here before, as though I already know how this nightwill end, and how I’ll feel the next day. I might be able to cope better physically, but it’s not really about that. There are no surprises for me here anymore. Why did I think I hadn’t done enough of all this – when perhaps I’ve done exactly the right amount? Maybe I just want to drink good wine, eat Ottolenghi food, belly laugh at jokes – and be home in bed watchingThe Good Placeby eleven p.m. Maybe, despite how I look, I’m too old for this.
I get a water from the barman and gulp it down. I know this sounds middle-aged, and I’m glad you can’t smoke indoors anymore – but I think it’s worth considering what it actually hid, in terms of ambience. And by ambience, I mean aroma. And by aroma, I mean stench. This place smells like a cross between the biology labs at school on the day we dissected frogs, and an unpasteurised chèvre log. As I begin to sober up, I also notice that everyone is glued to their phones, taking selfies and standing totally still, filming the crowd. It doesn’t feel quite as ‘in the moment’ as the clubbing I remember. And speaking of moments, this is the one for me to find the exit. They’re playing the ‘Macarena’, which isn’t nasty, it’s just plain crap.
I don’t say goodbye to anyone – I can’t even find them. It’s a balmy night so I decide to walk home, which takes me about an hour and a half, but I need to clear my head. Crossing Tower Bridge, I stop and lean on the railings. London is stretched out along the river – I can see the Walkie-Talkie, the Shard, the Gherkin (why do I always muddle them up?), much closer than I can from Devon’s. It’s not the city I remember from when I lived here before, but then I’m not the person I was then either. I’m wondering if I’ve become someone who prefers medium-sizing it to larging it. Someone who is very happy to meet up at a deli in Devizes. And at the same time, someone who also thinks that this is absolutely fine.
By the time I get back to Devon’s, I’ve pretty much sobered up, thanks to a bag of chips and a Lucozade en route. I let myself in and head out to the balcony to drink a cup of tea. It’s noisy up here at this time, and Keith was right, the deckchairs are bloody uncomfortable, middle-aged arse or not. Channing messages ‘Where r u gurl??’. I’m sure he’ll be fine without me, so I don’t reply. Then I remember what he told me about Yuvana – I wonder who will replace him. I’ll need to ask Merlyn. And while I’m at it, I can ask her what is going on with my payments…
It starts to spot with rain and I can hear thunder in the distance, so I head inside and shut the balcony doors. I’m just putting my cup in the sink when there’s a faint knocking sound. I go through to the hall and there it is again, and then a whisper. ‘Erica! Are you up?’
It’s Zoe. What the hell? It must be three in the morning.
I open the door. Zoe is standing in a pink unicorn onesie, holding one of the Saturday newspapers, a tabloid.
‘Jamal just went to the garage. He’s got insomnia,’ she says.
For a second I wonder how Jamal’s insomnia could possibly be a good reason to knock on my door at this time.
‘He saw this.’ She holds the newspaper up, and I read the front-page headline.
WE FOUND HER!
BEAUTY JOURNALIST ERICA PELLS, 48, UNMASKED AS ‘WULT WOMAN’ LIVING A SECRET ‘YOUNG’ LIFE IN SOUTH LONDON
Underneath, next to a picture of ‘new me’ (the meme of me dressed as ‘Where’s Wally?’) and a picture of ‘old me’ (an unflattering and particularly jowly screengrab of the lash lift reel I did last year) it says:
Shocking Revelation: Pells’ Deception of Gen Z Friends Revealed Amid Hi-Tech Treatment Controversy.
Oddly, my first thought is that there were so many opportunities for a pun here, and yet none were taken.
‘This is you, isn’t it?’ says Zoe. ‘Is this why you use those weird expressions and watch wildlife programmes? And have old people round to visit – the Asian woman and that guy hanging around outside yesterday in the ugly shirt?’
I’m offended on Keith’s behalf by this description of him. I thought his shirt was unusual, yes, but rather stylish. Also – ‘old people’? Is that how she sees us? Or seesthem, I suppose… And then it starts to sink in. This is a lot worse than Cassia’s 150K followers knowing: this is a public ‘outing’, presumably at the hands of Cassia. Which is not only completely messed up – I mean, how could anyone be that jealous? (Or is it envious? I can never remember.) But more importantly, it means the news could reach Mother Pells before I have a chance to tell her myself. Holy crap. Why did I leave it so long to go and see her? She doesn’t read this particular newspaper but someone in the town will. I can’t let her find out like this – it’s not fair on her.
Zoe is waiting for a response, but I’ve got more pressing things on my mind. I need to get some sleep – and then I need to get to Wiltshire.
