Bars in the UK are odd beasts. Some are light, airy affairs with award-winning menus and organic ales on tap. Others are dingy holes with dartboards and sticky floors and a clientele seemingly made up of elderly sex offenders. Then there are the “family” ones, which sell generic beer and chicken nuggets and chips, with sad-looking “gardens” tacked to the back, filled with desperate smokers and a slightly terrified-looking family who actually took the sign at face value. There are also ones that look more like cottages, where everyone seems to own a Labrador called Jasper and they all drink expensive gin and tonics. And then there are the town pubs, catering mainly to students and people hoping to smash pint glasses into the aforementioned students’ faces.
Sanford’s is definitely the last one. No organic ales or canine Jaspers (although potentially quite a few sex offenders). The music is deafening as I enter, and despite knowing exactly where Amy is, I feel that familiar swell of panic rise within me. A few people turn and watch me come through the door, which doesn’t help. Just stop it. Stop it and go back to whatever you were doing. You don’t need to watch me. I’m nothing to you. Finally, as if hearing my silent entreats, they stare back at their phones.
Amy hares across the bar, a vision in chiffon and pink sparkles, looking like she’s raided the dress-up section of a toy store. Suddenly I don’t feel quite so self-conscious about the skull dress.
She flings her arms around my neck, squealing, “You’re here! I thought you might not come!” I awkwardly hug her back, hoping I don’t suffocate her with my arm flab.
“Everyone’s here,” she continues to squeal, and takes me by the hand to drag me over to the corner.
By everyone, she means three people from her halls. I recognize Paddington Patrick immediately. He grins widely at me as I approach the table. One of the others is Dizzy, who looks like she’s been forced to suck eighteen lemons off at once. Next to her is another stick insect—this one has painfully fashionable rainbow hair and a pierced lip. She doesn’t have to say anything. I already hate her. Amy introduces her as Indigo, because of course she’s fucking called Indigo. She sips on a straw and gives me a narrow-eyed smile that on the surface could look friendly if you scrunched your eyes up a bit, but we both know better. Indigo is a Beautiful Person, I am Fugly, and never the twain shall meet—well, until someone like Amy comes along, anyway.
I say a quiet “Hi.” Dizzy all but ignores me; Indigo mouths a tight “Hi” back. Patrick booms, “Big Bird!!” I know it’s coming, but my cheeks flame nonetheless. I wonder if I could fit under the table.
“Paddy,” Indigo says, with no small measure of contempt.
“Do you want a drink?” Amy says, breathless with excitement. “I like your dress. Very new-goth. You should have got some gauzy wings to go with it. Was the bus ride okay? I’m so glad you’re here. Shall I get you a drink? Yeah. I’ll get you one. They do two for one cocktails here. I’ll get us the same, and then we can be drink-sisters! How cool is that?” And before I can even begin to sort through what question I should answer first, she’s off, skipping up to the bar. It’s a miracle they’re serving her, to be honest. She looks about twelve.
Dizzy and Indigo share a look, and Patrick beams at me.
“Tinks said she’d invited you. Good job you could come. Might have someone with the poundage behind them to keep pace with me, huh? I like a bird who can drink.”
He winks at me, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I rarely drink, mainly because I don’t have anyone to drink with. I let the Big Bird stuff slide, too, even though it smarts like hell. It’s perfectly okay for fugly chicks to say they’re fugly, but for someone else—no, not cool, bro. Still, Patrick’s got this sort of full-on affability thing going on, and so I kind of forgive him. At last he’s willing to engage with me, unlike The Poison Twins who are busy muttering at each other and rolling their eyes. Yes, I’m so sorry that I’m somehow polluting your oh-so-perfect airspace with my fatness. How dare I even come within twenty feet of you, you stuck-up, skeletal bitches?
I wrap my arms around myself but then self-consciously unwrap them again when I remember how that makes me look like I’ve got an innertube. Oh, Christ, this is horrible.
“Anyone seen Bake Off?” I ask, desperate for common ground. “I’m team Fahmida, but I think Alison might win . . .”
The Poison Twins each give me a disdainful look, obviously wondering why I’m even bothering to speak to them. The go back to their own whispered conversation. I chew on the inside of my lips. Where is Amy? I know the bar is busy, but come on. I’m not sure how much of this I can put up with. I knew this was a bad idea. I just knew it.
“Oh yeah,” says Patrick, “that cooking thing with the weirdo in it? Had a banging little chickadee in it earlier—what was her name? Ruby? Robin?”
“Rachel,” I all but whisper.
“Oh, fucking hell, yes, Rachel! Amazing tits. When she bent down to open those ovens—woof woof!” He waggles his eyebrows, and I feel kind of sick.
Suddenly, like a tiny, sparkling angel, Amy appears, bearing two violently colored drinks, a straw stabbed in each.
“There you go!” she says triumphantly. “Cheers!” She grins at everyone. Patrick roars heartily in return and takes a massive gulp of his pint, draining it. Dizzy and Indigo sneer and continue sniping together. I take a tentative sip; it’s so sweet it almost tastes metallic, and the alcohol makes my cheeks burn immediately.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Amy says. “They call it the Attitude Changer. Dread to think what that means, huh?”
“I’ll tell you what it means,” Patrick beams. “One for the chicks, to get them ready for us fellas, hey, am I right, girls? Yeah!”
He nods to himself while the rest of us stare awkwardly at the table.
“Has he come out with us, or is he waiting for someone?” I whisper to Amy.
She shrugs and takes another long slurp of her drink.
“Indy and I are going off,” Dizzy says, standing up. “Petra is meeting us in Bombshell’s with McNeil and Pengy. See you later, Tink.”
They don’t even nod in my direction.
“Babes! What? What’s going on here? You can’t leave!” Patrick whines.
“We’re going, Paddy,” Indigo drawls with an unmistakable air of finality. “See you later.”
She doesn’t need to add on the don’t follow us—it’s obvious from the way she looks at us.
“Oh, bollocks, the totty has upped and left,” Patrick says. “Oh well!” To my shock, he slings his arms around me and Amy. “What do you say, ladies? Jägerbombs all round? I think so.” He winks at us again and then lopes off.
“Do you think we could just . . . go?” I stammer.
“Go? Why? We can’t leave Paddy here by himself.”
I hear a guffaw from the direction of the bar.
“I don’t think he’s going to find it too hard to find new friends,” I say. “I’m just finding him a little bit—you know.”
“Aww, he’s not that bad,” Amy says, but I can tell by the guarded way she stirs her drink with her straw that he is that bad and probably more besides. I stare into my drink for a bit and check my phone. No messages. I don’t know why I thought there would be. Then Amy nudges me.
“Okay, let’s split. Paddy’ll be okay. Let’s down these and go find some fun.”
***
Go find some fun translates to wandering around town for bit, trying to find a bar where the bouncers will let us in. Despite us completely adhering to all dress codes (if anything, Amy’s the one on shaky ground, wearing a hot-pink tutu), we’re turned away from three other pubs. The fact that two of them seemed quite happy to let Amy in when they thought she was a sole agent says it all, really.
In a way, I wish the last one we went to had sent us on our way, too. Then I’d have had the perfect excuse to go home and put all of this behind me. But no, this dive’s bouncer gives us a distasteful look but waves us in, and now we’re huddled in the corner, drinking bottles of cider, our voices drowned out by the music. I think they’re having a nineties rave night here. We try to talk, but it’s futile. Maybe we should have stayed at Sanford’s after all.
I steal a glance at my phone, mainly so I can see how late it is. 10:15. Blimey, I can’t remember the last time I was out this late. Usually I’m cruising the highways and byways of the internet now, surveying my domains, terrorizing the locals. Instead I’m cowering in a corner drinking something that might be apples dissolved in battery acid, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Finally Amy gestures that we should leave and all I can do is hold in a big sigh of relief. Now I just have to suffer a couple of hours in a student nightclub, and then I can go home.