‘Y’all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucy.’
‘You don’t want to ask me my name?’
‘No.’
‘Rude.’
‘Not really. I don’t care what your name is.’
‘It’s Craig.’
‘I said I don’t care.’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘A drink I’ll buy myself.’
‘Nah, seriously. I’ll get you a drink.’
‘Craig, thanks but no.’
‘Bitch.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I was just trying to be nice.’
‘Hold up.’ I pass my bag to my sister, Emma, who’s standing next to me and looking slightly ashen with nerves.
‘So you come up to me, Craig… a man coming up to a girl, in a club. I’ve not met you before and you expect me to be friendly and accept drinks off you? I want to be cautious and because I refuse, that makes me a bitch? What if I’d accepted the drink? Then you would have expected something from me. You’d have wanted payment for your niceness. Right? What would you have wanted in return? Or was this a purely altruistic act because I look thirsty?’
Craig’s mates behind him start to chuckle. Of all the girls to offer to buy a drink, Craig. Craig continues to stand there, wearing a dazed look but also my pet hate of midwash denim and a mint polo shirt.
‘So when a girl decides to buy her own drink and not engage with you, Craig, maybe she’s just looking out for herself and not wanting to get involved with someone who looks like his mum still cuts his hair,’ I finish.
Emma lets out a huge sigh of despair. Beth, our other sister at the bar, shakes her head and gets in between Craig and me.
‘Lads, she’s tanked up. You don’t want to go there,’ she says, putting a protective arm across me. Beth can talk. We’ve just been in the loos and she snogged a sink.
‘Not worth the drama,’ Craig retorts.
‘In your dreams, home haircut…’ I continue. He puts an anxious hand over his mop of hair. Emma is very close to clasping her hands over my mouth. My sisters put their bodies between me and the group of lads and we continue to lean over this bar, waiting to get noticed and served. I could have got a potato and made the vodka myself with how long I’ve had to wait. Am I tanked up? Hell, yes. We are in a nightclub. It’s the law. I let out a huge burp that tastes like mixed berries.
‘I need another drink!’ I cry out, exasperated.
‘But do you?’ Emma asks.
‘Beth, be a dear,’ I say, one leg in the air, my arm around her neck. She levers me onto the bar and I scramble to my feet. That group of fellas look on and I’m conscious they have a view right up my skirt. Emma tries to block that view with a coaster. Lordy, it’s high, I can see the world from up here. Emma’s hands are firmly around my ankles and I can’t tell if she’s pulling me down or keeping me upright but this will get us served. Or kicked out.
‘SERVICE, GARÇON! IF YOU PLEASE!’ I shriek in a posh voice, my arms rising to the air like a soprano’s.
A bartender looks over, laughing. ‘LUCY! Mate! Get down before you fall down!’
He saunters over and half the bar give me evils. Not my fault you lack my drunken creativity at the bar. I jump down a bit ungracefully and fall into Beth, who creases over in laughter.
‘Philip!’ I exclaim.
The bartender leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek while home haircut next to me flares his nostrils at having to wait longer. Well, I have good reason to go first: a) it’s my eighteenth birthday b) I aced my end of year exams and c) ladies first, lads. Have some manners. Lady Lucy, I like that. I can change my name to that now I’m of age. From this day forth, I’m a noble wench.
Philip, I know because I’ve seen him in this club, Oceana, since I was fifteen and I used to sneak in here with a fake ID under the name of Lavinia Limone and a picture of a forty-year-old woman. This is where all us sisters used to come so it makes sense that before I fly off to university, we all come together in this place of dancefloor worship to say an official goodbye to our youth and welcome me into the world of being a vibrant young adult person. Philip scans down and notices I’m wearing a giant badge that says ‘Birthday Bitch’.
‘Babes, that was today?’
‘Yes? You forgot? Get out! Seriously!’ My hand is pointed to the actual exit and Emma watches it, wondering how and why I’m insulting the staff.
Instead he knocks his head back in laughter. ‘What can I get you, Luce?’
‘Sambuca shots, eight of them, and two jugs of Sex on the Beach, many straws…’
‘Could I just have a Coke?’ Emma asks, her hand in the air. ‘I told Simon I was only going out for the one drink…’
‘No, ignore her,’ I tell Philip. ‘And don’t serve her if she asks for soft drinks or I’ll tell the manager that you’re stealing from the till.’
Again, he laughs but I am deadly serious. It took me several hundred phone calls, threats and messages of emotional blackmail to get her out and she’s not allowed to spoil my evening by being sober. Emma pulls down the short skirt we made her wear after she showed up at our house in bootcut jeans and a baggy hoodie.
‘I don’t think Meg is drinking either, Luce,’ Emma informs me but I turn and point to the dancefloor. Whatever. Meg and Grace, our other sister, are throwing shapes in the best possible way. Meg is a new mum and an ex-party-girl so today is about release, fun and shots. We should have just wired her up to an alcohol drip. Grace is here to dance but also supervise and ensure Meg doesn’t hurt people with flying limbs.
‘Come on, Ems,’ Beth says, sliding a shot in her direction. ‘Drink, drink, drink, drink…’ she starts chanting. I join in, as do the men standing next to us. The peer pressure works and she downs it in one.
‘If I fail my cardiac anatomy exam then it will be your fault,’ Emma says, her face wincing as the alcohol hits the back of her throat.
‘You won’t. You’re amazing.’
Emma gazes at me. I can’t quite tell if it’s in admiration or judgement but she grabs my face and kisses me on the forehead. ‘We’re not all like you, some of us have to actually study. How the hell did you get those results?’ she asks, referring to my four As.
‘Luck, genius and good looks,’ I say, dancing on the spot. And so this night is deserved. I will have a good time tonight, a truly excellent time. I look up at the ceiling, howling in delight. Philip notices and laughs as he takes Emma’s debit card to process the drinks order. I hand over shots to the other sisters.
‘To universi-titty,’ I say, slurring. I take a shot, down it and stare into space.
‘God help them,’ Emma says.
‘You OK, Luce? You going to vom?’ Beth asks, opening her clutch.
I shake my head. ‘No, I will not give him the satisfaction.’
Both sisters look at each other, in a slightly more sober state than me to handle this situation.
‘Him? Craig?’ Emma asks.
‘No, Josh,’ I inform them. My boyfriend. The sisters suddenly realise why I may have gone both barrels at poor Craig. ‘But we’re not calling him that any more. We’re calling him Dickface. We had a huge fight about me about going away to university. He said I’m not allowed because I’ll be leaving him and he was a proper king-sized dickhead. Like, I’m surprised he could fit in the room because of the size of the monumental bellend attached to his face…’
Both of them study me as I start to dance with even more animation but also sway like I’m at sea. It’s a lot of movement.
‘He did that on your birthday?’ Beth asks, horrified.
‘But he’s not going to crap all over my evening so shush…’ I say, putting my finger to my lips. ‘The plan is to drink it all away and dance with all my sisters and my mates and celebrate madly…’
Emma and Beth watch as anger and alcohol sweep my words out of me. They know to play along, and I refuse to let Dickface Josh get in the way of this night. I did my nails. I spent money on my nails. Contrary to what Emma said, I did work my arse off at school and I deserve to be able to celebrate without his insecurities getting in the way. The song suddenly changes and Beth screams, scaring a young man and making him pour a drink down himself.
‘TUUUUUUNNNNE!’ she yells.
TLC, ‘No Scrubs’. What an absolute banger. We all attempt to nestle as many drinks as we can into claw-like hands before going to meet Grace and Meg, who are in the middle of the dancefloor – now a huge, sticky, noisy mess of people and lights and alcohol-laced sweat seeping out of everyone’s pores.
Meg sees us and squeals. ‘He’s also known as a…?’
‘DUSTER!’ I squeal back and we all laugh, remembering how Emma misheard that lyric, and join in, singing along and grinding, shades of an old dance routine we learnt as kids being brought before the masses without shame or care. Grace throws her arms around me, Beth’s smile is as big as the moon, while Emma is tasked with holding Meg upright.
Oh my life, I love these girls. I love being the youngest and having this ready-made army of brilliant siblings. Look at Meg, she’s got a baby now, she has a proper little person. I’m an aunt. We’re all aunts. Emma’s a doctor, she’s so smart it hurts my heart, and soon, like Beth and Grace, I’m going to be at university too. We’re taking on the world, all of us. Like proper adults. And who knows where my little troop goes from here but the chapters are all unwritten. For now, I just want to forget about Dickface and dance to TLC, so wildly and loudly that the walls of this place shake. Grace gets a camera out and she turns it on us so we can take a picture. Click. The song changes and Meg breaks out another turbo-charged dance move.
‘I BLOODY ADORE THIS SONG!’
Because it’s Beyoncé. She’s our queen. Grace and Beth double over in laughter. You dance all those sleepless nights away, girl. I look at Emma and point disco fingers in her direction. You’re feeling it, too. Come on, Ems.
‘LUCYLUCYLUCY!’
The moment is, however, interrupted by a pair of hands on my waist. I turn sharply to see it’s one of my best mates, Farah. The bling and the eyeliner are both on point. Tonight, she wears a skirt that I think once had a past life as a belt.
‘Faraaahhhh! Where have you been?’ I throw my hands around her but she pushes me away.
‘Hun, you’ve got to come, yeah. You will not believe what I’ve just seen. Like properly, I can’t believe it. Oh my god…’
The way she shouts the words above the music sobers me up for a few seconds and the sisters turn to see what the commotion is about. Farah takes my hand and we all weave through the dancefloor towards the gents’ toilets.
‘We can’t go in there,’ Emma instructs us but Farah doesn’t care. Her hand wrapped around mine, she charges in, sisters in tow, as the men standing at the urinals all panic, trying to put their tackles away and inevitably peeing on their shoes.
‘Farah, what was it? What did you see?’ Grace asks, panicked.
Farah pushes at the stall doors to reveal one man with his trousers around his ankles, eyes wide open in shock. We go back outside and she scans the room until she finds what she’s looking for. They’re standing near a column by the cloakroom, half plunged in darkness, half illuminated by the lights of the club. Are you seriously joking me?
‘I am so sorry, babes,’ says Farah. ‘I’m not even joking. I was in the gents’ before, don’t ask, and he was there literally in one of the stalls with his hand in her pants, didn’t even close the door. It’s Chloe Hilton, she’s in the year below. I’m fuming for you,’ she says, not even stopping for air.
By the column is Josh, face attached to Chloe, plus the rest of his body too, from hips to legs to hands. We literally only had that fight half an hour ago. We’ve been dating for a year. We’re official on Facebook. You told me this was for keeps. Forever. Is this what this is then? You little piece of…
I don’t know this feeling. Is it heartbreak? I thought I would feel that more in my chest. This overtakes every cell, it simmers in my blood like some potent chemical reaction. And the tears form in my eyes and roll down my cheeks without ebb. It’s a horrific feeling. But oh my word, IT IS… ON. Like Donkey-effing-Kong. I storm over and grab at his shoulder.
‘JOSH! WHAT THE HELL!’
I don’t know where Farah is running to but I hope it’s to get me a big stick. The look Josh gives me in return is pure contempt. We fought, I hurt his little fragile male ego and now this is how he’s going to hurt me. Try harder, Dickface.
‘Excuse me?’ says Chloe, her hands in the air. I glare her down. Yeah, like don’t even try.
Josh’s face drains of colour. ‘Luce, chill. It’s nothing…’
‘So this is what you want?’
‘Yeah…’
‘You’re breaking up with me on my birthday?’
‘You’re selfish,’ he says. ‘You don’t love me, you don’t love anyone. All you love is yourself.’ He remains stony-faced, completely devoid of emotion.
Chloe laughs and, for one moment, I pause. Mainly because I’m summoning up enough vomit to projectile all over the both of them.
‘What the hell, you jumped-up little prick!’ The voice comes from behind me and the fire that radiates through it is big mama energy. Meg. She squares up to Josh and points a finger in his face. ‘Apologise to her now…’ she warns him.
‘Or what? You’re going to take me on with your nursing bra?’
He said that, didn’t he? Meg grabs a drink from someone next to us and throws it at both of them, cider dripping off their faces, hair and Chloe’s super-cheap plastic-looking handbag.
‘OH MY GOD! YOU BITCH!’
‘What did you call my sister?’
‘Are you replacing that drink?’
‘You tart.’
‘Calm down, bird!’
‘You pea-bollocked wanker.’
‘I’ve seen better fake tan on a garden fence.’
It’s a huge collection of voices and noise but all the while Josh stands there staring at me, sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. He’s smiling, isn’t he?
‘It’s none of your business anyway,’ Josh tells Meg.
Did he just shove my sister? MY. SISTER. Grace tries to get in between the two of them, another fella’s drink falls to the ground. Emma tries to pick it up and act as referee. I think she says sorry about five thousand times. Never apologise, Ems.
I storm over and slap Josh, hard. The crowd cheer.
‘Piss off, you are so dumped.’
‘I’m dumped?’
I find another drink to throw at him. The men next to us really need better reflexes. Meg is just ranting at this point, splinters of spit glowing in the lights of the club. You’re just a cocky, jumped-up little boy. Who are you, telling her what to do with her life? In ten years’ time, she’ll be flying and you’ll still be here with your dick in your hand. Chloe has a handful of Beth’s hair. Someone gets punched. Someone screams. A bouncer in black combat trousers and an earpiece comes storming over and he grabs at Meg. He’s got the wrong person.
And like some crazed jungle lynx, I launch myself at him, obtaining tremendous height to attach myself to his back. He spins to try and release me, getting gradually faster like I’m going to launch into the air like a discus. Nice try. I cling on, trying to pull him off Meg. The spinning isn’t great. The people and lights around me rotate like I’m at a fairground. Is this what it means to be an adult? Where will I land? I just need to hold on as hard as I can. But I taste sambuca in my throat, frothing up, in the roof of my nostrils. It’s going to happen, isn’t it? And with that, a loud, high-pitched scream comes from the bouncer, and the faces of dozens of people gurn in slow-motion disgust as I spray cocktail-coloured vomit all over everyone in the corner of the nightclub like a garden sprinkler. I release my grip as the bouncer realises it’s all down the back of his neck and I crumple to the floor where Emma catches me.
‘Lucy, Lucy…’ she says, wiping my chin down with the edge of her T-shirt.
Are you laughing? I clutch down at my chest and she panics, thinking I’m going to throw up again.
‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’ asks Emma.
‘Some shithead stole my Birthday Bitch badge…’ I say, pouting. I see relief in her face, which quickly switches to fear as the bouncer finds me. He has a stance like he’s about to rid this place of some strays.
‘One thing…’ Emma says.
I nod.
‘Happy eighteenth birthday, Lucy…’
I laugh. I then throw up again.