It was almost a whole day since Scott’s party and he hadn’t called. I was busting to ask Trish about how I was going to get back with him, but work that night was mental-busy. The pavement tables at Temptations were teeming with stuck-up bitches wearing chunky silver fob-chains and Ray-Bans on their heads. They laughed way too loudly, sucking Corona through lime wedges and smoking 0.1mg Dunhills. Most of them were from law school. Kirstie waved at me from the sea of blonde bobs and orangey fake-tan faces but I snubbed her. She thought she was so cool in her hipster jeans and pink Lacoste with the collar turned up, but everyone knew Bomber screwed around behind her back.
It was past eleven before the madness died down. Trish called me over for a break. We sat outside, at the other end of the footpath from Kirstie and the law bitches.
Trish lit a fag. ‘So. Scott. Spill. Did you root?’
‘Ummm, sort of.’
Why not tell her the truth? You chundered then lay down in the middle of the road, pretending to be dead.
‘You sort of rooted?’ She exhaled into the mugginess. ‘What kind of root is that?’
‘You know, we had to be quick.’
She flicked ash on the pavement and grinned at me. ‘Was it ultra dirty?’
‘Yeah, well, we—’
‘Hey, Rosie.’ Kirstie’d come over. ‘You alright, sweetie?’ She touched my arm, acting all chummy like she wanted something.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Last night, at the party, you seemed pretty upset.’ Kirstie stood, hands on skinny hips.
‘I was fine.’ I knocked back the rest of my drink.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re OK, can we get another round?’ She did a cutesy circle hand gesture to show off her French-manicured nails.
‘Counter service only,’ I said. ‘Read the sign.’
‘But there’s no one at the counter.’ Kirstie smiled down at me and, lowering her voice, said, ‘I would have warned you but I thought you knew.’ Mock-concern creased her perfect brow. ‘He should have told you.’
‘Told me what?’
Trish interrupted. ‘We’re closing soon.’
‘What about our drinks?’
‘I’ll be over in a sec,’ I snapped.
‘Thanks, gorgeous. Same again. Don’t forget the lime.’ Kirstie clicked off in kitten heels.
‘How’d you know her?’ Trish scowled.
‘Bomber’s squeeze. We did first year together.’
‘I’ll sort her out.’ Trish stood up. ‘What does this Bomber guy look like?’
I filled her in and she went inside to get their beers.
Back at the table, Kirstie was whispering to the others. I watched them, my skin prickling with intense paranoia. She was slagging me off, telling them all how pathetic I’d been to wait for Scott when he’d been banging some other chick the whole time. Trish came back out with the Coronas on a tray. I followed her over.
‘On the pull tonight, girls?’ Trish set the tray down.
‘We’ve all got boyfriends,’ said Kirstie, real smug.
‘Where’re they now?’ Trish asked.
‘Boys’ night out,’ said Kirstie.
‘And you think, if some real bad pussy comes up and ask them for a root, they’re gonna say no?’ Trish winked at me. I was catching her drift. ‘Just the other week, I was out in the Valley and there was this guy. Fuck, what was his name? Dark hair. Big pecs. Cheeky grin. You know the type. So, I asked this guy, Bomber, that’s what he called himself, back to my joint.’ Trish paused for maximum effect. I looked across at Kirstie. Her face paled under the fake-tan. The others were glancing at her, sipping on their drinks, acting like they didn’t know Bomber fucked around on her. ‘Anyway,’ Trish continued, ‘we rooted like fucking psychos. He sucked me out like a fucking hoover. It was insane, you know, but then, in the morning, he tells me he’s got a girlfriend. Some blonde bimbo studying law… hey, you girls might know her.’
Kirstie jumped up and slapped me hard across the face. ‘You pathetic slut.’ She grabbed my arms and dug her acrylics into the skin. Trish pulled her off me, pinning her against the bricks. Kirstie thrashed and screamed and Trish kicked her in the shins. The bimbos looked on horrified. I stood back, wondering whether or not to get the dish-pig out to break it up. Part of me was pumped like I wanted Trish to cream her but I felt bad, too. A pack of long-haired bevans in a yellow Escort, Iron Maiden blaring out of the back-seat speakers, pulled up along the kerb and cheered. Trish let go of Kirstie’s wrist to give them the finger and in that second Kirstie bent down, grabbed an empty Corona bottle and hurled it at Trish. She ducked as the bottle flew through the air, smashing into the café wall. Shards of glass ricocheted across the pavement. The bevans went berko, mooning out the window. The bitches swooped on Kirstie, hugging her as they left the café. The Escort burned off from the lights, horn honking.
‘Fucking slags,’ Trish cursed.
‘They didn’t pay either,’ I said.
We sat down at an outside table and were silent for a while. I felt dazed and jittery.
Trish lit a fag. ‘Don’t you fucking hate working Saturday nights?’
‘Yeah, it’s shit.’
‘One of these days, when I’ve finishing ripping off the Slob, I’m gunna tell the bastard to shove this job up his slimy arse and I’m gunna piss off to southern India where they have those awesome outdoor raves and I’m gunna to rave my tits off and root heaps of sexy boys.’
‘Yeah, cool,’ I said, although fucking scrawny rave-heads wasn’t exactly my idea of heaven. ‘I meant to ask you.’ I leant forward. ‘Scott wants some drugs.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ She grinned. ‘What’s he want?’
I told her.
‘I’ll need the moula up front.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘No problems.’ I dashed across the road to the ATM.
‘Nice,’ she said, counting out the cash. ‘Hey, that reminds me, there’s this rave on in the Valley next Saturday night called Oblivion. It’s at The Arena. We can both swap for day shifts. How ’bout it? I’ll hook us up with some green elephants. Bit smacky but gets you rank as shit.’ Trish had asked me a million times before to go raving but I’d never been that keen. But if Scott was going to the same rave, no way was I missing out.
‘Yeah, alright then.’ It was the same night as Hollie’s memorial party for her mum, but I reckoned I could go for a bit then sneak off to the rave.
Trish picked a speck of tobacco off her pierced tongue. ‘So, what’s Scott like to root? He must be some kind of fuck-machine for you to wait all this time.’
‘Ask the Asian Bitch,’ I said, not meaning it to pop out like that.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ I gulped down my scotch. ‘There’s someone at the counter.’
‘Fat Helen can deal with it.’ Trish pointed her fag at me. ‘I’ll get us another round and then you’re telling me everything.’
So I told her everything, except the bit about pretending to be dead. I got in a real state, mascara everywhere, my nose all runny. Trish had to calm me down with two more scotches and a couple of drags on her cig. By then, it was nearly one and all of the customers had gone.
I turned to Trish. ‘So, how can I get him back?’
‘Too easy,’ she said. ‘With cocks it’s just too fucking easy.’