Lobsters (3 page)

‘So, what time are we off?' he asked, releasing me from the hug and slapping me hard on the back once more for good measure.

Robin wrinkled his forehead, disdainfully. ‘Chill out, mate. It's only half past five.'

‘Yeah, but we need to buy booze first.'

‘Yes,' said Robin, reaching into his wardrobe and flinging practically every T-shirt he owned on to his bed. ‘But before that, I need to decide what to wear.'

Chris exhaled loudly and collapsed into a nearby chair. Robin stood over the mountain of clothing with his hands on his hips, like a football manager about to pick his first eleven.

‘So, how we all doing, then?' said Chris, as I slumped down into the chair next to him.

‘I'm doing fine,' Robin replied, selecting a garish green polo shirt from the pile, and sniffing it gingerly before tossing it away. ‘But Sam's being a mardy-arsed knobhead.'

Chris frowned and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Oh dear. It's not Jo again, is it?'

I shook his hand off. ‘No, of course it's not Jo. I haven't talked about her in weeks.'

I saw Robin and Chris exchange raised eyebrows. I had talked about Jo almost all of yesterday. And the day before.

‘It's his fucking French exam,' said Robin.

Chris clicked his tongue against his teeth and turned to me. ‘Shit, man. What happened?'

‘I just screwed it up, that's all,' I shrugged. ‘Like I knew I would.'

‘Come on, man,' Chris smiled. ‘It can't have been that bad. And anyway, it's over now. Tonight, you need to forget about exams and Jo and
everything
, and actually try to enjoy yourself for once.'

‘Thank you,' said Robin, gesturing at Chris but looking at me. ‘That's what I've been trying to tell you, you grumpy twat. Now …' He held up a purple T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘THE LIVER IS EVIL AND MUST BE PUNISHED'. ‘Shall I stick this one on the “maybe” pile?'

‘If “maybe” is short for “maybe burn immediately”, then yes,' I muttered.

Robin sighed. ‘Christopher, perhaps you'd like to join me over
here by the wardrobe, and we can leave Sam to sulk in peace while we select an appropriate shirt.'

Chris laughed and slouched over, leaving me sat grumpily in the corner, trying, and failing, to forget about exams and Jo and
everything
.

Jo. I sometimes wonder if I actually liked Jo. I mean, obviously I liked her enough to talk about her a lot (probably too much, in hindsight), and write that poem (also, admittedly, a mistake), but I'm still not sure if I
liked her
liked her, you know?

Sometimes I think I was only obsessing about her because it's just nice to have some to obsess about. Every time I got the slightest suspicion that she might fancy me back, I started to focus on the things that made me question how much I liked her. Like the fact that she's ever so slightly cross-eyed, or that when I first asked what her name was short for, she looked confused and said, ‘So I can remember it, I suppose.'

Then, as soon as she lost interest in me and started flirting with Jeremy Marsh again, I was straight back to imagining what it would be like to wake up next to her. It's all a bit of a cliché, really. But then, I suppose clichés wouldn't be clichés if they weren't based on some sort of tediously predictable truth.

This was all academic now anyway, since she'd started going out with Toby McCourt from the year above.
Toby
McCourt.
Toby
.

Let's not beat around the bush: Toby is a dog's name. I've known at least three dogs called Toby. And not even proper dogs, either; I'm talking rubbish, ratty little Paris-Hilton-handbag ones. I don't think I'm overreacting when I say that kissing someone
with a dog's name is bordering on bestiality. It's only a short step from dating a boy called Toby to marrying a man called Fido.

Anyway, fuck it. It was only four months of my life wasted. Thank God I never showed her the poem. If Robin's reaction was anything to go by, she would have laughed Magners out of her nostrils and fallen on the floor.

On the other side of the room, the ‘maybe' pile was down to just two items: Chris's vote was for a plain white Lacoste polo shirt. Robin was gunning for an unspeakable turquoise T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an evil clown holding his middle finger aloft. And, since it was Robin who had the final say, the clown shirt won.

‘Why did you even ask for my advice if you weren't going to take it?' asked Chris, flopping back into the chair beside mine.

‘It's always useful to have a second opinion,' said Robin, hurling the nice, inoffensive Lacoste shirt back into his wardrobe. ‘Even if that second opinion happens to be totally wrong.'

Chris shot me a glance through narrowed eyes, which I duly returned as Robin unloaded half a can of Lynx Africa over his horrendous clown shirt. I don't really know why I listen to Robin sometimes. He's my best mate and everything, but he can be a bit of a twat. He applied to Loughborough Uni, but he doesn't seem to care whether he gets in because he's taking a year off to ‘focus on his beatboxing'.

I especially don't know why I listen to him about girls. He has some fairly odd theories. He's always banging on about ears, for some reason. He reckons ears are the best bits on a girl. He once
rejected Vicky Parker on the grounds that she had ‘shit ears'. His words, not mine. Her ears look all right to me, although I prefer her face and body and tits. Obviously her tits are part of her body, but I feel they deserve special mention. Vicky Parker is ridiculously hot. I told Robin he was talking bollocks about all this ears stuff, but he just laughed smugly, did a sort of faraway look, and told me I wouldn't understand.

When it comes down to it, that's the worst thing about not having done it yet. The fact that everyone who
has
done it suddenly thinks they're Russell fucking Brand. They think they can literally say
anything
about sex, and us wide-eyed virgins have to humour them because we can't even begin to imagine what it's like.

Robin shagged a French girl with a shaved head from the
lycée
round the corner from our school. He only did it once. He got a bit of stick for the shaved head thing, but he dealt with it quite well, I thought. I suppose he liked the confidence she showed in fully displaying her ears, rather than covering them up with hair like most girls. To be fair, she
did
have pretty amazing ears.

Chris has done it three times. With three different girls. But then, he is six weeks older than me. And about ten times better looking. I know for a fact he's known as Fit Chris among most of the girls in the neighbouring schools. Even my mum's friends giggle and go red when they see him. And they're in their forties. It's ridiculous. Before he lost his virginity, Chris was never bothered about it, though. Nothing bothers him really. He's the most laid-back person I know.

‘Right,' said Robin, pulling his triumphant T-shirt over his head, and checking his reflection in the mirror. ‘That's that sorted.'

‘Finally,' said Chris, springing back up. ‘Shall we go and get the booze now?'

‘Are you joking?' laughed Robin, reaching into his wardrobe and hurling two armfuls of trainers across his bed. ‘I've still got to decide on my shoes.'

Chris crumpled back down into the chair, head in his hands.

2

Hannah

We fantasized for so long about our exams being over. It was our drug. All we had in the no-man's-land between revising and feeling guilty because we weren't revising. We would sit in the library with our heads on the desks whispering about days we would waste rummaging for vintage clothes at markets, or not getting up at all and eating ice cream in bed all day. The post-exam world was hazy, idyllic and always sunny. We were going to step out of the school hall and into an American teen movie.

Except in reality, on the day they were finally over, we walked out on to the high street in the rain and Grace said she had to go to the optician. So instead of anarchic celebrations and mad dancing, we all just went with her and tried on glasses while she waited for her lens prescription.

Stella's party was a key player in the dream – it always had been. And now after three days in which all I had done was peel history revision maps off my wall and watch twenty-five episodes of
30 Rock
back-to-back, it was actually happening.

Just after six, Tilly and Grace got to Stella's. We put up bunting and made punch, and on Grace's orders cleared out everything really valuable, put it in the laundry room and locked
the door. Tilly had brought cupcakes but Stella said it wasn't Year 9 charity week so we ate most of them before it started. We talked about who we wanted to come and who we hoped wouldn't turn up.

Charlie definitely fell in the latter category for all of us except Stella.

‘Is Charlie back from uni?' Tilly said, whilst sitting on the kitchen counter, picking the icing off a cupcake. She tried to sound offhand. We all knew he was back, and Stella knew we knew.

Stella turned and grabbed a box of cereal out of the cupboard. Tilly shot a look at me and Grace.

‘Yeah, I think so,' Stella shrugged, shaking the box and picking out the chocolate bits.

‘Do you think he'll come later?' Tilly asked. The air tightened just a fraction.

‘I don't fucking know. I'm not his PA, Tills.'

This left the question of what exactly she
was
to him, but all of us knew the answer. It just annoyed me that she had to make out she was fine with it. If she just admitted she was in love with this twat who was using her, we could all be sympathetic, make her tea, watch
The Princess Diaries
and agree that boys are mean.

She shook the box again but couldn't find any more chocolate bits, so put it back. ‘As long as Carmen doesn't come.' The name ‘Carmen' came out of Stella's mouth as a long groan.

‘You always say that, but you invite her because you know she'll come and then you can bitch about her afterwards,' I laughed.

‘Yeah, I know. I'm kind of sad she's not coming to uni with me actually. I'll need to audition for a new nemesis.'

We went into the garden to take a picture of us all and Stella climbed on to the trampoline, held up the camera and screamed, ‘The last known picture of Hannah Audrey Brown as a virgin. May she rest in peace.'

Tilly and Grace bowed respectfully.

‘I'm not committing suicide, you freaks,' I shouted, climbing on to the trampoline and bouncing.

‘You sort of are,' Stella shouted between bounces. ‘Your youth will be over. You're killing your youth.'

‘Was that in
Breaking Amish
as well? Will you please stop taking life advice from that programme?' I said.

Stella is so overdramatic. She has to turn everything into a life-changing moment.

‘Anyway, it's about time I killed it off. I'm eighteen.' Saying it out loud felt odd.

We bounced in silence for a bit. Stella had been taking the piss but suddenly it did feel like
something
. I had been a virgin for eighteen years and later I would cross a line. Whatever
it
actually was, I wouldn't have it any more.

Just before seven, we went up to upstairs to get ready. When we were eleven I had been so jealous of Stella's room, with its purple princess canopy over the bed and lilac fairy lights around the window. Now, every wall and surface was covered with pictures and posters and make-up. Stella collected nail polish. She had so many bottles that they spanned the entire circumference of the room, lined up against the walls like dominoes.

In Year 10 at a sleepover we had painted the door with a little bit of every colour, and then painted the names of boys we fancied on to it. It had become a tradition. Stella called it the Lobster Door; an ever-growing record of every boy we'd ever considered The One. Once a name was up there, it could never be removed. I studied it for a second, picking out memories from the sprawling chaotic jumble of boys' names. Luke Adams from St Joseph's, who I fancied for three weeks in Year 11, because he had hair like Zac Efron. Below him Guillermo the super-hot Spanish boy we'd met on the ski trip who I pulled for five minutes even though I couldn't understand a single word he said, and to the right of him in huge, green sparkly capital letters …

Oh
shit
. Shit, shit, shit.

‘Stella!'

Stella was lying on her unmade bed beneath her princess canopy.

‘I'm asleep,' she replied.

‘Guys, come in here!' I shouted to Grace and Tilly who were getting ready in the spare room.

A minute later we were all staring at the door.

‘You can't really notice it,' Grace said.

Stella nodded. ‘Yeah, when Freddie and Hannah are doing it in here, Freddie
definitely
won't notice that his name is written in massive green letters on the door.'

‘Well, maybe he'll just think Stella wrote it, it is her room. It makes logical sense,' Tilly said.

‘Yeah, and Freddie did do Maths A level. So he's probably
really logical,' Grace said helpfully.

‘It doesn't matter who he thinks wrote it, it's still weird,' I said. ‘What if he sees it? What will I say?'

‘You could just tell the truth,' Grace said. Stella rolled her eyes.

‘Or we could prop the door open so he can't see it,' Tilly said.

‘What, so anyone walking past can see … you know …' I lowered my voice. ‘… me having sex.'

‘Why are you whispering?' asked Stella.

‘I don't know. Cos it feels weird saying it,' I said.

‘Well, get over it, cos in like two hours you'll be doing it,' she replied.

‘She's got a point,' Grace said.

Stella picked up a pot of white nail polish and opened it. ‘I've got an idea. Why don't we just paint over the F and the R?'

‘What?' I said. ‘So it'll say Eddie Clemence?'

‘Yeah,' beamed Stella. ‘Problem solved.'

‘How is that solving the problem? If anything it'll be weirder explaining why there is a very similar name to his on the door with two white blotches in front of it.'

Stella shrugged and put the lid back on the bottle.

‘Guys, I'm nervous enough already,' I said. ‘And my bikini line is bright red and now his name is written on the door. Maybe it's not meant to be?'

‘Trust me,' said Stella, ‘it always goes like that after you get it waxed … it'll be gone in like an hour and it
is
meant to be or his house wouldn't have got burgled and his name wouldn't be written on the door. His name is on the door, Hannah. How much more meant to be can it be?'

‘Yeah but
we
wrote it,' I said.

‘
You
wrote it.'

‘Like a premonition,' Grace said, looking upwards.

We finally decided that the only option was to paint over the whole name.

‘Isn't it weird that the only person we've ever erased from the Lobster Door is your
actual
lobster,' Tilly said.

‘He's not my lobster,' I laughed. ‘It's not like I'm going to marry him or anything.'

‘I dunno,' said Stella, shaking her head knowingly. ‘Maybe it'll be so good that tomorrow you'll want to.'

As we all worked away deleting different letters of Freddie's name I thought about how long I had liked him and how it felt right that it should be him. The person I had wanted for so long and then got with. And even if we never went out, and it wasn't some big Romeo and Juliet thing, it was the right time and he was a nice person.

‘I totally think it's good that you're getting it over with before Kavos,' Stella said.

‘Why? Do you think I'm going to go all sex crazed as soon as I've done it once?'

‘Probably,' she said. ‘Remember how you used to hate custard and then you had it that time at Grace's and now you love it?'

Stella spent ages doing my eyes and lent me her blue body-con dress. It was almost nine when she realized she hadn't got ready herself. I looked good, I thought. For me, anyway. Me and Tilly and Grace went downstairs to put the music on and make cocktails, and ten minutes later Stella appeared. She was in these
tight black trousers, flat, distressed boots and this baggy cream boy's T-shirt that she had cut across at the arms and stomach. You could see her black bra through it, and she was wearing bright-red lipstick. Next to her I just felt prim and boring and pale. Like the paintings of women you see in stately homes. All pink and chubby and wholesome. Not sexy. How can I have sex when I'm not in the least bit sexy? Aren't the two things related?

Sam

We played scissors-paper-stone to decide who would buy the booze. I lost. As usual.

‘Let's play again,' I said. ‘Best of three.'

Robin snorted. ‘Fuck off.'

Chris put his hand on my shoulder and pointed towards the offie. ‘The universe has decided that you'll be getting the alcohol tonight, Sam. You can't argue with the universe.'

I shrugged his hand off. ‘Yeah, but the universe should realize that I'm crap at buying booze. I hardly ever get served.'

Me, Robin and Chris are pretty much the youngest in our year. Chris doesn't turn eighteen until July, and Robin and me both have to wait until the end of August. Consequently, buying beer is still a major hassle. The trip to the offie can determine a night; if we don't get served, a black cloud hangs over the entire evening. If we do, it seems like a sign that anything is possible.

‘I look the youngest out of all of us,' I said, still trying to worm my way out.

‘Nah,' said Robin, sparking up a cigarette. ‘You're tall. Tall equals old.'

‘Yeah, but I've got shit facial hair. That always gives me away.'

‘Well, if the bloke in the offie asks about your facial hair, just tell him you got burnt in a fire. That's why it doesn't grow properly.'

‘Brilliant. He'll definitely believe that.'

‘He's not going to ask about his facial hair, Robin,' Chris sighed. ‘He's a bloke in an offie, not a fucking barber. Anyway, the trick to getting served is not worrying about getting served. Real adults don't worry about getting served, do they? You just have to inhabit a real adult frame of mind.'

‘What do real adults think about?'

We all considered this.