Health Care
Chapter Ten
The girls gush and gape at me as I tell them, in short, the story of Sam and I. They insist on hearing the explicit details, but I giggle guiltily and say nothing.
“Okay, okay,” Katherine flaps. “Just answer me this: was he better than Christopher?” The girls collapse in a fit of flushed laughter and look at me eagerly. I hem and haw about her question, biting my lip. Sometimes I stop just to watch their faces and chuckle.
“They were both … good,” I say finally. “But for different reasons.” I didn’t feel much like going into these reasons. “I guess the good thing about Christopher is that my mum never knew.” The gasp at me, so I tell them what happened as I went downstairs this morning.
“That’s awful,” says Lucy. I shrug. Luckily my mum is fairly cool. If she wasn’t, Sam may never be allowed near me ever again.
We spend a total of four hours shopping, choosing outfits. In the end I pick a pink, white and purple patterned top with turned-up sleeves to wear with a pair of glossy black leggings and chunky heels. In order to show the girls the shoes Sam bought me, I show them the photo I took on my phone.
“I love them,” Louise swoons. “And your legs look really brown.” I’d taken the photo in the spare room mirror. The girls pick their outfits and Lucy drives us home. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day to properly read Sam’s replies. Since being home, he’s crawled straight into bed and doesn’t plan on moving until a decent hour tomorrow.
Alright for some, I type. Guess who’s been roped into spending another night in Ocean?
No way! Sam replies. You are gonna suffer badly! Who with?
Just the girls, I say. Is he paranoid or just curious? And I know! Kath and I have work tomorrow and everything, but it’ll be a laugh …
*
It’s only just gone midnight and Ocean is already thronging. The heavy bass from the music thumps through the floors and into your very core. A crowd of people already gathered on the dancefloor, girls are throwing provocative moves while boys grin triumphantly behind them. The bar is swamped by people hastily waving their bank notes, hoping to cash up on the cheap alcohol. Whether it is the price of the booze, but everyone in the club appears so much younger than usual. Boys who barely reach up to my chin while I’m wearing my heels; in too-big jeans and with barely any facial hair. I’m not the only one to notice.
“Jesus, it’s not a nappy night or anything, is it?” Louise yells over the thud of the music. Nappy nights are nights in which the clubs open to anyone under the age of eighteen, where the bar serves soft drinks instead of alcohol. Nappy nights were the place to be when you were twelve, when girls wore glitter eyeliner and kitten heels.
“No, maybe we’re just getting old,” I sigh thoughtfully, watching a girl I recognised from my secondary school. She would be eighteen now, while I was already pushing twenty-one. Weird. Her and her friends seem as immature as ever, clonking around in too-high heels and vampy make up. I stare incredulously at her bony ankles. She has no hope.
Surrounding the dance floor are a series of booths, decked out with soft blue mood lighting and circular leather sofas. In front of them stands a red velvet rope, ensuring these “VIP” spots were not just open to anyone. An elegant silver plaque was laid across the table inside one. I leant over to read it out of curiousity.
‘This VIP booth is reserved for Matthew Darling and his friends. Book your own VIP booth at OceanClubBristol.co.uk!’
I follow the wall around to the next one. Lucy and Louise were pushing their way to the front of the bar.
‘This VIP booth is reserved for Christopher Thompson and company. Book your own VIP booth at OceanClubBristol.co.uk!’
What. My stomach jumps into my mouth. I grab Katherine’s skinny arm. She follows my finger and reads the plaque for herself.
“And company?” she looks bewildered. “Who’s he bringing?”
“You don’t think he’s actually going to be here do you?” I ask her. She is my best friend, and therefore offers an objective view. “I mean, after everything he said about drinking and clubbing, and the way he had that go at you?” I know I’d strike a chord if I mention that to her.
“Yeah you’re right,” Katherine says, pinching her bottom lip as she thinks. “He wouldn’t come here of all places. That’s so not him. Besides, think of all the ‘Christopher Thompson’s there are gonna be in Bristol. His name is about as interesting as he is.” At this, I laugh. I enjoy Katherine’s bitterness. Unsurprisingly, maybe, she is still single. Boys do not interest her, at least, the ones that she knows don’t, and for that I don’t blame her.
Lucy and Louise return with drinks and we head for the dancefloor. The smoke machine is already fogging up our lungs, and the floor is slippery with dropped ice cubes and spilt drinks, however the atmosphere is intense. Dancing on my own has never been my speciality, but sure enough we get by sort of, jumping around. Our evening begins to follow a straightforward sequence: dancefloor, toilet, bar, dancefloor. By our fifth or sixth time around (I can’t remember), I can feel the familiar sensation turning my limbs to jelly. I feel like a puppet, staggering across the floor as my brain takes an extra millisecond to register where I’m walking. By this point, I’m grasping my heels tightly in my hands. I wiggle my hot toes along the carpet. It feels so nice.
Staggering back around to the bar, we order another round of drinks. This time, choosing a bar stool around the edge of the dancefloor, we give our aching ankles a rest. Sucking my apple schnapps furiously through my straw, I scan the crowd of people for anybody else I recognise. I see more girls that I remember from school: tight dresses, short skirts, leather shorts. Jesus when did they all get so old? One has her tongue down a boy’s throat, yet she’s grinning smugly at the same time. Must be someone else’s boyfriend, I think to myself, trying to explain her wry smile. Woah, girls can be such bitches.
Following the circle of VIP booths until we reach the gap in the railings where the step onto the dancefloor is, clearly labelled so drunkards like me do not miss it, I scan each one. They’re gradually starting to fill as the evening proceeds. There’s always more to see at one, two in the morning, when people start getting silly. Like me, for instance, who has since almost slipped on a stray ice cube. The water rushes around my toes; it’s a glorious relief. I wipe some sweat off my brow with the back of my hand, almost smashing the heel of my shoes into my nose.
Matthew Darling has already arrived. I see him knocking back violently coloured shots off a tray with two other guys. Maybe one is going through a break up, I think. Boys night out, perhaps they’re trying to grab him some skirt. I see Matthew Darling’s eye catch mine. Oh shit, he’s seen me stare. My brain delay moves my gaze away two seconds too late. I switch to the second booth. ‘Christopher Thompson’s’ booth. There’s a girl in there. Just one girl, sat by herself anxiously. Has she been stood up? She’s wearing a tight black dress with lacy sleeves; it’s almost Gothic, and matches her pale skin. Her short blonde hair is styled into bouncy 1960’s curls. She looks cute, really. Too cute to be stood up. However, not for long. A tall figure, dressed in a burgundy shirt makes his way to the booth. He’s carrying too drinks. A double-something-on-the-rocks, looking at the glass. Must be a classy guy. Obviously, if he’s booked himself a VIP booth. He sits down, so the eerie blue lighting casts across his face. He pushes the drink towards the girl and smiles.
Oh shit. My inner Super Bitch has reared her head. It’s Christopher.
“Okay, okay,” Katherine flaps. “Just answer me this: was he better than Christopher?” The girls collapse in a fit of flushed laughter and look at me eagerly. I hem and haw about her question, biting my lip. Sometimes I stop just to watch their faces and chuckle.
“They were both … good,” I say finally. “But for different reasons.” I didn’t feel much like going into these reasons. “I guess the good thing about Christopher is that my mum never knew.” The gasp at me, so I tell them what happened as I went downstairs this morning.
“That’s awful,” says Lucy. I shrug. Luckily my mum is fairly cool. If she wasn’t, Sam may never be allowed near me ever again.
We spend a total of four hours shopping, choosing outfits. In the end I pick a pink, white and purple patterned top with turned-up sleeves to wear with a pair of glossy black leggings and chunky heels. In order to show the girls the shoes Sam bought me, I show them the photo I took on my phone.
“I love them,” Louise swoons. “And your legs look really brown.” I’d taken the photo in the spare room mirror. The girls pick their outfits and Lucy drives us home. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day to properly read Sam’s replies. Since being home, he’s crawled straight into bed and doesn’t plan on moving until a decent hour tomorrow.
Alright for some, I type. Guess who’s been roped into spending another night in Ocean?
No way! Sam replies. You are gonna suffer badly! Who with?
Just the girls, I say. Is he paranoid or just curious? And I know! Kath and I have work tomorrow and everything, but it’ll be a laugh …
*
It’s only just gone midnight and Ocean is already thronging. The heavy bass from the music thumps through the floors and into your very core. A crowd of people already gathered on the dancefloor, girls are throwing provocative moves while boys grin triumphantly behind them. The bar is swamped by people hastily waving their bank notes, hoping to cash up on the cheap alcohol. Whether it is the price of the booze, but everyone in the club appears so much younger than usual. Boys who barely reach up to my chin while I’m wearing my heels; in too-big jeans and with barely any facial hair. I’m not the only one to notice.
“Jesus, it’s not a nappy night or anything, is it?” Louise yells over the thud of the music. Nappy nights are nights in which the clubs open to anyone under the age of eighteen, where the bar serves soft drinks instead of alcohol. Nappy nights were the place to be when you were twelve, when girls wore glitter eyeliner and kitten heels.
“No, maybe we’re just getting old,” I sigh thoughtfully, watching a girl I recognised from my secondary school. She would be eighteen now, while I was already pushing twenty-one. Weird. Her and her friends seem as immature as ever, clonking around in too-high heels and vampy make up. I stare incredulously at her bony ankles. She has no hope.
Surrounding the dance floor are a series of booths, decked out with soft blue mood lighting and circular leather sofas. In front of them stands a red velvet rope, ensuring these “VIP” spots were not just open to anyone. An elegant silver plaque was laid across the table inside one. I leant over to read it out of curiousity.
‘This VIP booth is reserved for Matthew Darling and his friends. Book your own VIP booth at OceanClubBristol.co.uk!’
I follow the wall around to the next one. Lucy and Louise were pushing their way to the front of the bar.
‘This VIP booth is reserved for Christopher Thompson and company. Book your own VIP booth at OceanClubBristol.co.uk!’
What. My stomach jumps into my mouth. I grab Katherine’s skinny arm. She follows my finger and reads the plaque for herself.
“And company?” she looks bewildered. “Who’s he bringing?”
“You don’t think he’s actually going to be here do you?” I ask her. She is my best friend, and therefore offers an objective view. “I mean, after everything he said about drinking and clubbing, and the way he had that go at you?” I know I’d strike a chord if I mention that to her.
“Yeah you’re right,” Katherine says, pinching her bottom lip as she thinks. “He wouldn’t come here of all places. That’s so not him. Besides, think of all the ‘Christopher Thompson’s there are gonna be in Bristol. His name is about as interesting as he is.” At this, I laugh. I enjoy Katherine’s bitterness. Unsurprisingly, maybe, she is still single. Boys do not interest her, at least, the ones that she knows don’t, and for that I don’t blame her.
Lucy and Louise return with drinks and we head for the dancefloor. The smoke machine is already fogging up our lungs, and the floor is slippery with dropped ice cubes and spilt drinks, however the atmosphere is intense. Dancing on my own has never been my speciality, but sure enough we get by sort of, jumping around. Our evening begins to follow a straightforward sequence: dancefloor, toilet, bar, dancefloor. By our fifth or sixth time around (I can’t remember), I can feel the familiar sensation turning my limbs to jelly. I feel like a puppet, staggering across the floor as my brain takes an extra millisecond to register where I’m walking. By this point, I’m grasping my heels tightly in my hands. I wiggle my hot toes along the carpet. It feels so nice.
Staggering back around to the bar, we order another round of drinks. This time, choosing a bar stool around the edge of the dancefloor, we give our aching ankles a rest. Sucking my apple schnapps furiously through my straw, I scan the crowd of people for anybody else I recognise. I see more girls that I remember from school: tight dresses, short skirts, leather shorts. Jesus when did they all get so old? One has her tongue down a boy’s throat, yet she’s grinning smugly at the same time. Must be someone else’s boyfriend, I think to myself, trying to explain her wry smile. Woah, girls can be such bitches.
Following the circle of VIP booths until we reach the gap in the railings where the step onto the dancefloor is, clearly labelled so drunkards like me do not miss it, I scan each one. They’re gradually starting to fill as the evening proceeds. There’s always more to see at one, two in the morning, when people start getting silly. Like me, for instance, who has since almost slipped on a stray ice cube. The water rushes around my toes; it’s a glorious relief. I wipe some sweat off my brow with the back of my hand, almost smashing the heel of my shoes into my nose.
Matthew Darling has already arrived. I see him knocking back violently coloured shots off a tray with two other guys. Maybe one is going through a break up, I think. Boys night out, perhaps they’re trying to grab him some skirt. I see Matthew Darling’s eye catch mine. Oh shit, he’s seen me stare. My brain delay moves my gaze away two seconds too late. I switch to the second booth. ‘Christopher Thompson’s’ booth. There’s a girl in there. Just one girl, sat by herself anxiously. Has she been stood up? She’s wearing a tight black dress with lacy sleeves; it’s almost Gothic, and matches her pale skin. Her short blonde hair is styled into bouncy 1960’s curls. She looks cute, really. Too cute to be stood up. However, not for long. A tall figure, dressed in a burgundy shirt makes his way to the booth. He’s carrying too drinks. A double-something-on-the-rocks, looking at the glass. Must be a classy guy. Obviously, if he’s booked himself a VIP booth. He sits down, so the eerie blue lighting casts across his face. He pushes the drink towards the girl and smiles.
Oh shit. My inner Super Bitch has reared her head. It’s Christopher.