K and Lil were best served separately. Every time Mary made the mistake of inviting them both to an event, which she did every six months or so, the night was a disaster. Mary couldn’t work out why. Lil had arrived first, bearing typically thoughtful gifts of wine, dairy milk, menthol cigarettes and a trash magazine called Wizz. ‘The woman on page thirteen has worse boob sweat than you.’ Lil always said the sweetest things.
K was panting when she reached the second landing because she was at least fifteen and a half stone. Fifteen and three-quarters, Lil reckoned. There was a spa day riding on who was right, if they could only get it out of her; but after the first attempt to be a girl group went sour (jeans shopping, oops), K advised them that if either skinny bitch ever talked about weight again she would cook them in a pit oven and eat them, bones and all.
They would never talk about weight again, not in front of K, anyhow, so not tonight. K had brought an agenda for tonight, in fact, which involved Mary having a large drink and letting it all out.
‘I should have checked about his meds,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t give a fuck about him. I screwed up. And now my little boy’s getting brainwashed.’
‘Shhh, honey. If anything, it’s my fault he didn’t have his meds,’ K said. ‘We let him out without, what with all that rigmarole around his book.’
‘Shoulda blah, blah,’ Lil said. ‘Typical female response. The man made his own decision, and we didn’t even know him. Lift your glasses and repeat after me: “It’s not my fault.”’
If Mary had to choose between the girls and Roddie, she’d buy Roddie some really nice luggage. He always loved travelling. Apart from anything, she’d have two friends not one, and two is better when your life’s being shot at, poom, poom, poom, and at 10.08 p.m. via email: POOM:
Dear Mary,
I have rewritten the first line of this email many times. Dear Mary sounds idiotic when it’s me, Roddie, writing to you, and just Mary comes over angry, which I am, but I don’t want to scare you.
I’m at Jack’s. I’m reading on Twitter that you slept with Macdowall. I’m looking at a screenshot of you chatting on FaceTime to him. You’re wearing my Add It Up t-shirt and your vibrator is on the bed.
I know we need to talk, but I’m not ready. Neither is Jack. He’s fine. Holly’s very upset, obviously, and helping her is helping him, I think. Anti-feminist girl, feminist boy – might work. Maybe they’ll listen to each other.
Looks like the body’s being released on Monday. Nothing suspicious, so you’re in the clear. Holly wants him cremated that same afternoon – think she’s organised it already. I suggest you steer clear of her for now, but my guess is she’s going to be around a while.
Roddie
PS: If you Google Cuck now, guess whose big, smiley face comes up?
Great friends aren’t the ones who are there for you when you’ve done something impressive – although Mary had never done anything impressive – they’re the ones who are there for you when you’ve done something crap. Lil and K hugged one side of her each and took turns to read the email out loud again, and again – because that’s what she needed – analysing punctuation, tone and intent, and deciding on a plan of action, which involved refraining from leaving him further messages and feeling much better after a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she’d find Roddie and Jack, and explain the truths, of which there were many, sadly, as well as the one very effective lie: a quote from Holly Macdowall on the trending The Lion’s Roar blog:
‘“She seduced Dad on Tuesday night,” says orphan Holly. “I visited the next morning and he told me they slept together. He was upset, he seemed scared.”’
How could Holly say that? She must have been pressured. Surely they didn’t believe this bullshit. To think her boys were both with Holly, listening to lies, and not at home supporting her.
Mary maintenance was a two-woman job, but Lil and K were up for it. Three bottles of Bella Brava later and they were watching Muriel’s Wedding again, all of them finally numbed.
Mary woke fully dressed and in the recovery position. She sighed. She was supposed to feel better this morning.
One of the many voicemail messages was from Fi, her stand-up teacher:
‘Hi Mary, got your message – no worries re missing this week. Attached are some notes on dealing with heckling. PS, I watched the practice set you emailed … I know I asked you to be bold, but we need a chat about How Far…’
Mary could hear the racket outside but decided not to look. She donned her best disguise – one of Jack’s hoodies – and put her enormous headphones on, choosing the tune most likely to get her out the door: The Who, ‘Red White and Blue’. In front of the full-length kitchen mirror, which she did not look good in for the first time in a while, Mary jumped up and down on the spot while singing ‘I love every minute of the day’ – tiny, mad-woman jumps, head hoodied, ears muffed, arms tight by her side. ‘I love every minute of the day.’ She grabbed her bag and headed downstairs.
‘This isn’t on, Mary.’ Nora from 1/1. ‘I’ve called the police three times. My bay window’s covered in tropical fruit.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll call again too.’ Mary pressed the headphones back against her ears and opened the front door. At least twenty people were protesting outside, and it took a moment for Mary to realise that at least half of them were women. Head down like John Paul exiting Glasgow Sheriff Court, she was thankful for the first time that she could never get a park on Mansion House Square.
She drove three blocks to millionaire’s row and sparked up Facebook, which was wild with comments regarding the practice comedy set she’d emailed her teacher. Someone had leaked it on social media, and it was everywhere. Mary rocked back and forth as she watched the home video of herself performing into the kitchen mirror with the kind of gusto she only ever had drunk and alone. Egg whisk in hand, Mary alternated between her own accent and – to create the illusion of an audience – a rougher version of the same.
MARY
Who’s from Glasgow?
AUDIENCE
Yes, aye, yes, aye, yes!
MARY
Me too! Me too (her lip was quivering). Sorry (she blew her nose), it’s the abuse flaring up again. (She paused for an awkward two seconds.) What a buzzkill that fucking me-too thing is though, no? Last night I had a party for my fifty-second – thank you, thank you very much, I am now officially off the market, no longer your competition, ladies, what a relief that is. If I seem interested in your man, it‘s cause he’s a plumber. Lovely evening at mine, seven of us. Hubby’s cooked chicken cacciatora, there’s polenta, wine, music, anecdotes, some of which were not related to the slow process of dying. It was perfect. That is till Sally pings her glass cos she has an announcement to make. Do you know what it is?
(Another two-second pause.)
Me too! (She put on a whiny voice.) Me too says Sally, and she’s crying and she needs a hug from every one of us, including the men, I’m just sayin’ – poor guys, they looked nervous. Everyone left after that.
(She paused, and looked at her notes.) Apparently if you send a note to school with your kid just saying ‘hashtag me too’ your kid’ll get away with pretty much anything. My friend Rhona’s kid killed a dog in the lane behind the school at lunchtime – he does that a bit – and he got away with it cos his mum wrote a note saying ‘hashtag me too’. There were no hashtags in my day. In my day, if you wound up naked on the floor of an old man’s bathroom, you kept it to yourself for the rest of your life out of courtesy to absolutely everyone.
(One final pause.)
I’m not saying child abuse is funny! Honey, my second abuser was a very successful comedian, and I still didn’t laugh.
Mary opened the car window, tossed her phone in a hedge, then spent five minutes looking for it. She rang K, who didn’t answer. She texted Lil, who didn’t reply.
They’d probably seen it already. They might hate her. If only they’d pick up. She could totally explain what she meant. She meant good feminist things, she had meant to say – what had she meant to say?
Everyone had started me-tooing. She was shocked by it, to be honest, as she thought she had a secret no-one else had. She thought she had a good reason to be crazy. Turns out every other woman she knew had the same secret, and that she therefore had no excuse for her behaviour. Turns out sex offenders were not ‘other’, but all around. Perhaps what she meant to say in her set was that they are in this room, they are here, they are us. Should we not let them speak before they act? Where are they to go? Who is a worried teenage boy to talk to? Should we not stop them from jumping off the bridge? That’s what she meant, maybe.
Still no reply from K and Lil.
She vomited in a millionaire’s hedge.