19. Guns of Tequila Nightclub

I give Jade a sweet-bitch wave as I’m led away towards a man with his back facing us. I know this can only be the famous Thomas Davison in fitness, whom I have fated myself into having to like, no matter what. He turns around and I’m immediately disappointed.

Of fucking course.

First impression: Too short. For me at least. Which is anything under six foot…nine.

Second impression: Wearing a pink sweater-vest over a white polo and khaki trousers—a combo that indicates there is now a naked manikin standing in the window of Polo Ralph Lauren.

Third impression: Not the best teeth. Something I never realised I noticed in men until just now. I blame America and their obsession with babies in braces. I never knew teeth could be so straight and white and gleaming, or used as mirrors in the same way we use other people’s sunglasses when they’re talking to us, until I went to New York. And now I apparently have a teeth standard. And I live in England. Perfect.

Fourth impression: Possibly Jewish.

Fifth impression: Do I detect a hint of unwarranted smugness in that off-white grin?

Sixth impression: Definitely Jewish.

I should have seen this coming. Becca so WOULD try to hook me up with a Jewish guy. She has a weird thing for Jewish guys. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of her future soul mates is a Menorah, which she will buy, and then cradle in her arms while singing it the dreidel song. Once, she bought a calendar called Nice Jewish Guys as a white elephant gift, acted like it was a joke, and then cheated in the number drawings so she could be the first person to pick a gift. Then she chose her own. She also has an inflatable dreidel with a smiling face on it, which she brings to every holiday party she’s invited to. Every single year. I know what she’s doing too. She’s using the dreidel with the face to lure out any Jewish guys within radar by giving them a very big conversation opener. And since she’s stuck with Connor, who is definitely not Jewish, I see that she’s willing to use whatever means necessary to have a Jewish guy in her life. Even if it means setting me up with someone who is two inches too short and grinning at me as if to say, ‘no, darling, you’re not dreaming. I am real. Jumped right off the page.’ ...Of the Old Navy catalogue.

Eye roll.

I smile and shake his hand. ‘Thomas in fitness I gather.’

‘That’s me,’ he replies, ‘But I used to be a bobby, you know. Hasn’t always been about fitness.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, trying to seem interested, ‘What changed then?’

‘Long story,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘Got dismissed. Wasn’t my fault though. You see my ex-girlfriend…’

Oh God. Really? Ex-girlfriends already?

He hasn’t even offered me a drink yet.

He keeps talking like he’s taking me on a magic carpet ride through the whole-new-world-of-interesting that is his life. I just stare at his face and begin to think that it might be a problem how unattractive I find him.

I realise I’m going to need gallons and gallons of alcohol for this one.

I’m not saying that he’s ugly or anything; he’s just…not my type AT ALL. For one thing, I think we might wear the same dress size. And I know he probably doesn’t wear dresses, but it’s just awkward to know, in the back of your mind, that if your boyfriend wanted to wear a dress one day, he could just borrow one of yours, and it would fit perfectly. Maybe even better.

For fuck’s sake, I thought this guy was in fitness. Where’s the Terminator? Where’s the flexzone-knob-head?

Way to fucking go, Becca. I know she knows he’s isn’t my type too. He’s her type. Well, just the Jewish part. I can’t believe she’s using me to second-hand date a Jew.

He’s still talking. Apparently he’s also a photographer. Undiscovered. With work mainly stemming from a photography elective he took for university credit.

‘...mainly black and white shots...things like urban buildings and graffiti on my way to work...but with a moody tone to convey...the urban mood...’

I have a feeling that I might end up going into full 18-year-old-club-rat mode and mindset by the end of the night.

It’s that situation where you’re just a little tipsy and some slimy guy at the bar slithers over to you, ready to harass you with some sort of cheesy pickup line. Typically, this guy will either be a sweaty, middle-aged accountant wearing too much aftershave and the only suit he owns (his accountant outfit), or an over-tanned, thirty-year-old, club promoter, wearing a v-neck down to his bellybutton and a rosary as a necklace. So, after he dishes out his oh-so-creative one liner of ‘you must be a model…how did you get to be so beautiful?’ it’s pretty tempting to just groan and say, ‘I must have been given your share,’ but you hold back.

You hold back because you’re waiting for the second, more important question: ‘can I buy you a drink?’ which will almost certainly follow, since you’re dolled up like a fluffy little tramp but, let’s be honest, looking good as fuck. And of course, you want the free drink.

The problem is…do you want it badly enough to accept it from John Goodman or The Situation? Soon enough you’ve decided: yes, you’re willing to trade an hour of your night with John to get drunk for free. So you take a few Buttery Nipple tequila shots with John, down a few vodka sodas, and head out to the dance floor. John’s grinding. You’re fluttering around in your lacy dress (ahem...shirt), and all of a sudden, the liquor hits you. Everything’s amazing. Look at all of the flashing lights! There’s yellow diamonds in the sky! You turn around and…hold on, John isn’t John anymore. He’s Johnny.

Depp.

He’s Johnny Depp now. And you’re dancing—sexy as Beyonce. And the yellow diamonds are falling all around. And everything is so fucking wonderful.

Then you wake up.

It’s the next day and you feel like you died by decapitation and then someone glued your head back on and said, ‘no…you deal with it, you slorey fuck.’ If you’re lucky, you’re in your own bed. If you’re REALLY lucky, you’re alone in your own bed. If you’re not alone, then be damn sure that the person with you is not Johnny. It’s John.

And suddenly decapitation doesn’t seem so bad.

Okay, now I’m being dramatic. I would never do that.

Well, probably never.

He’s not even that bad.

‘...urban music to the slide shows...by typing “indie music” into Google...to capture the urban setting and mood...’

But he’s really not that great either.

I blame David for this. If David hadn’t put me on the spot, I wouldn’t have had to blurt out the first sodding name that popped into my sodding head. I suppose, I also blame Becca for this, for putting that sodding name into my sodding head to begin with.

I also blame fitness—for all the times it’s made me feel guilty for ordering the brunch burger, and for the eleven minutes I can’t stay on the treadmill for. And now, for Thomas Davison.

Stupid fitness.

‘Shall I get the first round and you get the second?’ he asks, when he finally takes a breather from his humble-bragging.

‘Wouldn’t that work out the same as us both just opening our own tabs right now?’ I reply. Truthfully, this would work out better for me, because as long as I’m paying for my own drinks, I don’t have to worry about limiting myself on what and how many I order.

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ he says with a shrug.

I manoeuvre him over to the bar, careful to avoid a collision with my parents, and we sit down. After I order a gin and tonic out loud, and then secretly motion to the bartender to make it a double, I turn to Thomas Davison with a big, phony smile.

‘So what got you into fitness?’ I ask, attempting to look earnest in my interest.

‘Well, like I mentioned before, I used to be a bobby. Then, there was a mix-up and I had to be let go.’

‘A mix-up?’ I ask.

But I shouldn’t have. What follows is the longest sob story in the history of the universe and I learn all about Thomas Davison’s ex-girlfriend, Megan, who ruined his entire life by influencing him to drink one beer with total strangers that they met on the beach, beers which were conveniently laced and therefore, caused him to crash his car when they were driving back. Honestly, it sounds to me like Thomas had one too many beers of his own free will, not because he was seduced into it by the evil temptress, Megan. Then I’m told the fascinating tale of how Megan dumped him soon afterwards and went on to become a star in a steamy western drama called Guns of Applewood.

I figure star is a bit of a stretch. Another humble-brag on his part, probably. She can’t be that famous since I’ve never heard of her. Or her program for that matter.

And on that note, what were the television studios doing casting British actors in a western themed television program? Like when they cast American actors in films set in seventeenth century England, or Camelot, and then the actors don’t even bother concealing their American accents. Do they really think we don’t notice? Are they just lazy? Are there not enough British people in the world to play British people and American people to play American people? I'm not trying to limit an actors range of roles here...but if you're playing a lead role in a film about the Alamo and you don't even try to hide the fact that you're speaking with an accent straight out of Sussex...I could kill you.

Hopefully, Megan attempted an American accent. Unless of course the Wild West in Guns of Applewood is Bristol, or some applewood cheese factory in Gloucestershire. 

I wish I were in an applewood cheese factory in Gloucestershire.

With John Wayne. Or pretty much anyone other than Thomas Davison.

And a hell of a lot of cheese.

©Natalie Cawthorne

18. Cirque du Spectacular Soulmate Psychology

Jade Platt was my best friend as a child. She was the only person my age that lived anywhere near me during primary school, so it’s not like I had much choice. Once I got to secondary school, I met Becca and realised friendships could be likeable things, rather than something you forced yourself to endure to seem like a normal entity within society. 

We stayed friends with Jade, but at a distance. She barely noticed anyway, since she was busy being class president by day, and college-party-slag by night. I always found her double life to seem so exhausting. But honestly, props to her for being able to maintain it. Either one of those lives on its own would have me mental. And she managed both. I mean, seriously, when did she even sleep? There’s no way she’s actually human. 

In addition to her non-human ability to lead a double life, Jade Platt is beautiful. She has long, dark hair, bright blue eyes, and perfect skin. Let’s just say, if Megan Fox and Evangeline Lilly had a baby, it would be Jade Platt. Every day she goes to things like spin class and bar aerobics, yet she manages to eat like a proper human instead of starving herself, like some fitness freaks, and therefore, has a banging body rather than a hat rack. She claims that not being hungry makes her less of a bitch. But I think she’s a massive bitch, so I dread to think what she would be like if she were hungry.

On top of her looks, Jade Platt has a brain. This means none of us can make ourselves feel better about how beautiful she is by clinging onto the idea that she’s brainless.

Nope.

Jade is both beautiful and brain-full. Last year she published her first book, which is called Breaking the Barrier of Standard: Reliablism in Femininity, and she’s doing a PhD in Philosophy at Oxford on something called Social Epistemology. She never lets us forget it either. Sometimes I think she goes on dictionary.com before she leaves the house to meet up with us, and memorizes at least ten clever words that she must find a way to include in our conversation or her day is a failure. And even if she does have that vast of a vocabulary, she should save it for the scholars. When I’m on my third pint at the pub, I really don’t need you waltzing in and sighing about ‘what a lugubrious day we’re having’ or how your ‘mendacious classmate actually attempted to peculate your cognition of the concept,’ and now you are in ‘dire need to estivate.’ 

No bitch. The weather is bad. Your classmate tried to steal your idea. And now you need a holiday.

I mean, seriously...there’s a time and a place for everything and the pub is never the place for jargon. It would be great if, for a change, that’s what she left at home, instead of her social skills. I just really shouldn’t have to go on my Webster’s app every time you open your mouth, because by the time my app is open, you’ve already said twenty more words, and I’m just out of the game for good. And anyway, if you’re born and bred in London and fucking speaking English, I shouldn’t need to hit the closed captioning button on my human remote to have a conversation with you. I could just as easily hit mute. Or widescreen. So there. 

But I suppose, aside from her incomprehensible scholar accent, she’s decent enough to put up with. For a few minutes.  

Per year.

‘I can’t believe it’s been a year since I’ve seen you!’ she cries as I turn around, ‘You look absolutely picturesque!’

Wait a minute. Picturesque? Like a nice landscape or a cosy cottage? That’s good, right?

Of course it’s good. It’s not like someone’s going to walk up to me at my own party and excitedly gush that I look like ‘absolute fucking crap!’ Like a picturesque sewage drain. ‘I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen that shithole you call your face! I’m so glad that it’s back!’ C’mon Natasha, don’t be a moron. 

‘Awh thanks!’ I reply, with a burst of pretend enthusiasm, ‘And you look…’

Jade watches me expectantly and I burrow around in my brain for a good description.

Stuck up?

Pretentious?

Pedantic?

Like a skinny little wasp in a butterfly costume?

‘…spectacular!’ I eventually say.

Oh look at that. By deciding to try too hard and not go with “good” or “great” like a normal person, I have now ended up over-complimenting her as though she’s a sodding Cirque du Soleil show. I’ve also most likely set the stage for a soliloquy on how she got to be so spectacular.

‘Well I’ve been so good about my bar aerobics sessions lately that Dominic’s moved me up…’

I chug my champagne instead of listening to the end of that thrilling tale. Then she wraps her arms around me and I’m overwhelmed by the smell of her Victoria’s Secret Day-Slut scented hairspray. I bet she didn’t even have to get anyone to put her hair up in Victoria’s Secret rollers for it to look like that. I bet she did it herself. Actually, I bet she got out of the shower and let her cat sleep in it, and it still dried like that. Then she put scented hairspray in it for effect. Whatever. 

‘It’s such a lamentable denouement that I wasn’t able to visit you in New York!’ she cries, ‘I just got so busy with the book publication and everything. I barely had a moment to breathe!’ She gives an airy laugh as she lets go of me. 

‘Yes, so denouement,’ I agree, even though I’m not sure what I’m saying or agreeing with.

She shoots me a strange look before turning to Becca and saying, ‘so where is that divine boyfriend of yours? I feel like I haven’t seen any of you in forever!’

Becca moves her eyes over to the place where Connor is still watching Alistair jump around like a caveman, and suddenly Jade purses her lips and pushes back her jacket to reveal more of her chest. Sex game: on.

 ‘Alistair!’ she calls, fluttering her hand at him like a butterfly wing, the same way my mother flutters her hand at me when she wants me to stop talking about things she doesn’t find interesting. So basically, anytime I’m not talking about wine, modern art, her dress shop, or Dad.

‘PLATTTT!’ Alistair yells in response, and gives her a punch-in-the-arm greeting, like he did with me. I don’t know why this pisses me off, but it does. What is Alistair doing punching Jade's arm anyway? I thought he only punched people he liked. Maybe he likes everyone after four pints…or, by now, six. Yeah, that must be it. He doesn't even know who he's punching anymore.

Jade starts yapping about how beneficial pole dance aerobics classes are for flexibility, while shooting me a smug-pie glance as though she's somehow winning an imaginary Alistair competition. I don't care though. He punched me while he was still coherent enough to know whom he was punching. I've already won. Plus, I got a punch without showing my boobs and without being tan or "smoking hot like Rihanna." Still winning...err. 
Anyway.

I'm fortunate not to have to endure much more of Jade and her contortionist-yoga-juice banter, because Connor moves toward Becca, excitedly grabs her arm, and whispers, ‘he’s here.’ Then, they both giggle like two 13-year-old winners of a One Direction meet n’ greet competition.They really are meant for each other.

‘Come, Natasha,’ Becca says, and pulls my arm, ‘It's time to meet your new boyfriend.’

‘Calm down,’ I say, holding up a hand.

'Hey, you never know,' she replies, beaming, 'This could be the weekend you meet your soul mate!'

Ugh. Becca and her soul mates. I think she currently has like twenty. And Connor's the only one of them that's actually alive. The rest are either old guys that have been dead for centuries, like John Adams or French King Louis the something, or they're random inanimate objects that she believes were made to be hers. And this is the reason why she and Connor's flat is decorated with the dirty old grandfather clock called Henry, that she found on Portobello Road, and decided was worth 640£. It doesn't matter that Henry can't even tell the proper time and only chimes when he feels like it. And then, when he does chime, it's as though the weeks and weeks of silence were spent building up the strength to produce a sound so colossal, it could rival the cries of Godzilla. You might as well have your head inside a cathedral bell as Quasimodo bangs them with a forklift. 

Once I was staying at their flat while they were away, babysitting Connor's plant jungle, and Henry decided it was midnight at 2:14, and then again at 2:33, and then again at 2:46. It took all of my will power not to smack him in the face with a frying pan. Henry literally has one job and he can't even bloody get that right. He's seriously lucky that he's among my best friend's soul mates, or believe you me, he would not be getting away with that sort of cheek.  

‘If I meet my soul mate this weekend, you can have my Princess bear Beanie Baby,' I respond. Becca's wanted this Beanie Baby since the day she first set eyes on it because Dad spilled bleach all over it and the stain ended up looking eerily like it spelled the word "Bec." She thinks this means the Beanie Baby is one of her soul mates and that fate will bring them together eventually. Makes total sense.

'And actually, he’s only my new boyfriend if I like him. Otherwise, he’s my pretend new boyfriend. But that will remain between you and me.’

‘And Connor,’ Becca points out.

Connor’s frowning at me. ‘You can’t do that,’ he says, ‘Thomas is a friend and I can’t let you use him in your twisted David Phillips game. Plus, what kind of psychologist would I be if I just stood by and watched as you manipulated another human being for your own pathological purposes?’

‘A really cool one,’ I respond, and then I flash Becca a face, indicating that it’s time for her to step in.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says to Connor, ‘Nat will like him. And if she doesn’t, she won’t use him for any games.’

‘Thank you,’ Connor replies with a grateful nod.

‘Because David Phillips revenge is not a game,’ she goes on, ‘It is a serious situation of psychological warfare that Natasha must be on the winning side of. For the sake of her sanity. And all those around her. Observe in the name of research, Dr. Atholl.’

Connor stares at her, blinking, and then says, ‘Quite right, yeah. Okay, then. For the sake of research. And sanity.’

'And being called Dr. Atholl,' I say under my breath.

Cool. Achieved doctor's note granting permission to be an ath-hole from Dr. Atholl. Onward for the sake of sanity, successful-psychological-warfare, and soul mates. All I can say is, this weekend better deliver me at least one of those.

© Natalie Cawthorne

17. Mating Season in the Animorph Kingdom

Patrice comes over to my flat before the party to make my hair look large by putting it up in big rollers, like the Victoria’s Secret models before a fashion show. The only thing London has to do for me now is not rain and I can make myself feel better all night by thinking, ‘hey, at least you have good hair.’ My dress, however, is black and boring. I gave up trying to be creative after I failed to maintain my hiding spot in the River Island rack of jumpers. I don’t really care though. Black is more for protective purposes anyway, since black is the best guard against spills.

Unless the spill is semen, of course. Then black is really the worst colour to be wearing. So hopefully no one spills their semen on me tonight. Fingers crossed.

When Patrice shows up at my door, he’s wearing a red fascinator with a long, skinny red feather waving out from the top of it and I get the feeling he and Mum will have a lot to talk about. On the train to Richmond, I’m forced to bat it out of the way a few times after it starts slithering over to me and attacking.

As we get closer to the Barley Arms, I recognise a few people standing outside in the illuminated beer garden, which is actually really lovely and has a view of the Thames. And now that I think about it, this really was a nice thing for Becca to organize. I don’t know why I was so antsy about it before. Probably because I hadn’t chugged half the flask of vodka tonic that Patrice brought on the train yet. Oops.

I’m barely through the door before I witness Becca’s animal transformations, which she tends to go through when she’s in one of her stressy moods. Tonight, it seems she is beginning as a meerkat, perched upright next to the bar and looking around anxiously, presumably for me. As soon as she spots me, she animorphs into a gazelle and practically gallops over to me, disregarding all other creatures in her path. When she reaches me, she starts tittering away about this person and that person, and I think I’d be correct in identifying her as a sparrow, busily pecking away at seeds. Somewhere between all the flitting, I manage to introduce her to Patrice, before he quickly slips away to get us some drinks. And then I’m left, trying to keep up with Becca’s overflow of information, when I hear the loud cry of another member of our animal kingdom, the baboon.

‘BERN-EEE-AYYYY,’ booms the voice of Alistair Reynolds. He is the only straight male whom I would actually consider a friend (besides Connor) and don’t have to worry about accidentally hooking up with when I’m drunk. It’s not because he’s ugly or anything—far from it actually, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a body that boasts daily gym trips, protein powder, and rugby practice. And I suppose I can’t fault the women who are drawn to loud-rugby-playing manliness, because I once was one of them. That's the reason I’m safe from an accidental hook up with Alistair, because we sort of already tried it.

It was at a party during my first year of Uni. Some other rugby baboon had knocked into me and spilled my plastic cup of beer, so Alistair shouted at him to sod off, and took me to the keg where he refilled my cup for me. I was starry eyed. So towards the end of the night, we obviously attempted to make out.

What a fail.

Not in an epic fail sort of way—no one vomited on anyone’s shirt or fell into the bonfire or broke out in hives or anything. It just...failed. I’m not even sure how to explain it. It was like our mouths didn’t fit. Neither did our noses, or our heads. And our tongues couldn’t coordinate. When mine was going in, his mouth was half closed, and I would get the side of his face. Basically, it was a disgusting mess and after about five minutes, we kind of just stared at each other in accepted defeat and agreed to abort mission. And to be honest, I really didn’t expect to see him again after that. What did I have in common with a loud, pint-drinking, rugby-playing bro, who probably hash tagged things like #flexzone and #50shadesofWhey? Well, surprisingly more than I thought, and we’ve been unlikely friends ever since. Take that, universe.

‘You doin’ alright, yeh?’ he says and basically punches me in the arm, ‘didn’t get much of a tan over there in America, did you? I was expecting you to come back looking good like Rihanna.’

‘First of all, Rihanna’s from Barbados,’ I reply, ‘And trust me, you can’t tan your way to looking like that.’

‘Right, you gotta be born looking that smoking hot,’ Alistair says with a grin.

I’m about to point out that you have to be born with a number of qualities that I wasn’t born with to look like Rihanna, but then Patrice returns. ‘And who might this be?’ he asks, gliding over to us and holding his hand out to Alistair like he’s a duchess in a Jane Austen novel. Clearly oblivious to the regency decorum of bowing and hand kissing when meeting a beautiful lady, Alistair takes Patrice’s hand and shakes it roughly while introducing himself.

‘Charmed,’ Patrice says, recoiling his hand and nursing it like a wounded puppy.

Alistair turns to Connor and starts ranting about the latest rugby, and Patrice flashes me a sly grin.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘I’m going to convert him,’ he sings. But then the grin is quickly gone from his face and he gives himself a small smack on the wrist. ‘No absolutely not, there is no converted. Baby, I was born this way!’ He does a wild shimmy that ends with his hands above his head like a can-can dancer. ‘But there’s a chance that he was too and just doesn’t know it yet. Perhaps, a push in the right direction toward self-discovery is all he needs.’

I look over at Alistair, who is currently making some sort of dinosaur noise while stomping his feet around like an orangutan during mating season. Ah, the sexual prowess of a rugby player after four pints...does it know no bounds?

‘Really?’ I say to Patrice and he claps his hands excitedly.  I return my eyes to Alistair and he’s still jumping around, performing his instant replay dance. ‘Well, it definitely seems like he could be overcompensating for something,’ I say and motion to his...ahem, ‘but I think you should set your sights on higher targets.’

‘What, like Veroné?’ Patrice scoffs, rolling his eyes with distress.

‘What’s Veroné?’

Patrice grasps my arms and looks me dead in the eye. He’s wearing his crazy I Know What You Did Last Summer face, which I’ve started to gather means serious business in the world of Queen Patrice. ‘Veroné is not a what, he is a who. The third most perfect who alive, and the most perfect man creature alive that I’ve ever seen in the flesh. Clothed flesh, mind you,’ he adds with a sigh. ‘He’s an artist from Berlin...an actual artist. Twice, the gallery has had a stroke of genius and hosted exhibitions of his work. Twice, he’s come full force into my presence, like a Fabio-Ken-doll, riding shirtless on an ebony Pegasus, to rescue me from my dismal reality of emptiness without him.’ Patrice looks over at me. ‘That was a dream I once had, it didn’t actually happen.’

‘Now that's disappointing,' I respond, 'What's his actual name?’

‘Vero-nayyyy,’ Patrice replies, with dramatic emphasis, ‘that is all I ever want to hear him called. I am nothing more than a lonely gargoyle made of stone, perched atop Notre Dame, watching the world go by me in a blur, until the day the gallery will wake it’s sodding arse up and return him to us.’

‘So, let me get this straight,’ I say, and Patrice nods earnestly as though he wants nothing more than for me to be perfectly clear on the matter, ‘you’re waiting in France, for a German artist, whose name is the Italian for Verona, to return to London?’

Patrice thinks about it and then nods again. ‘Yes, exactly.’

‘Okay, another question. If the third most perfect person is Verone,’ I purposely pronounce it “veroni” which earns me a smack, ‘who are the first and second?’

‘Meryl and GaGa, of course,’ he says, looking forward and studying Alistair again, ‘I need to find myself some proper champagne. What do you think Alistair drinks?’

‘Ale.’

Patrice frowns. ‘Hmm...I don’t really know how to order that. I think I'll stick with champagne.’

‘My parents are over there,’ I reply, pointing to where Mum and Dad are fluttering about with their friends' Ted and Ruth, ‘find them, and the champagne won’t be too far.’

As Patrice hurries off on his champagne mission, I hear someone squeal ‘Natasha!’ behind me, and my insides do a lurch.

And now for Jade fucking Platt.