Low Expectations (22 page)

‘Have you and Alice ever been a couple?'

My stomach muscles, such as they are, clench tightly in response. I am disgusted with myself. Anything to do with Alice makes me immediately anxious, especially now that she is managing Beardy's band. I am torn between badly wanting to hear and never wanting to know.

Obviously the ideal answer to this question would be, ‘No, I've never been remotely attracted to her. Raving beauties repel me.'

Failing that, a no would suffice, though I would still always wonder if he carries a torch for her. If he says yes, I will also always wonder if he still carries a torch for her. Alice is the kind of girl you can imagine dozens of men reflecting on fondly in their dotage as the one who got away. At best, I fear
I'm more of the funny-story footnote: ‘The Girl Who Set Her Hair On Fire', ‘The Girl Who Spat Phlegm In My Pint', ‘The Girl Who Left A Tampon In The Toilet Cistern'. A trifecta of humiliation that will probably be etched on my tombstone by embittered grandchildren. At this rate, I am likely to leave them only a mountain of debt and thirty cats sporting hand-knitted turbans.

‘No, no. She and Jason were made for each other,' Scott says, a shadow crossing his face before his smile returns and he adds, ‘I was just third-wheeling it.'

Gah. What could that glimmer of sadness mean but that he has been secretly in love with her for years? She is a man-magnet, enticing men everywhere she goes. I stand no chance, particularly as she no longer seems to be with this Jason, whoever the hell he is. Fuck!

‘Oh, young love sort of thing? Were they together a long time?' Sarah continues her unwanted sleuthing on my behalf as I look about, pretending I am not interested.

‘Ten years … quite a while.' Scott is taciturn, but I decide to doggedly pursue him for information while I have the chance.

‘Why did they break up?'

‘He died,' Scott states shortly, hurriedly swallowing a gulp from his pint as Sarah and I stare at each other in cringing horror.

Oh God. A wave of guilt hits me. Poor, poor Alice. I am a
terrible person. I make the appropriate tragic noises, trying to quell my morbid curiosity over the circumstances of Jason's death. I am reminded of other moments in which my evil nature has by accident or design, though more likely through total self-absorption, missed a point and sailed on mercilessly past the point of no return. The time I kept talking about having ‘fingers in lots of pies', a phrase I almost never use, to a man missing most of his fingers. Another time I got into a drunken debate with an irritatingly devout young Christian about the unlikelihood of God or an afterlife, later finding out that he had just been diagnosed with ME. With the benefit of hindsight, it was like beating on Tiny Tim with his own crutch.

‘Wow, that's … so, so sad. And so young.'

‘It was crushing. And Alice was … in a bad way, for a long time. But, you know, life eventually goes on, trite as the saying is. Jason was a part of my life I'm hugely grateful for and now I just try to keep his memory alive by living it as best I can with the opportunities that are given to me, you know? Well, in my better moments that's what I try to do. But it's not something I like to talk about too much,' Scott says quietly, in the manner of someone who has given similar speeches before and does not want to be drawn further.

An uncomfortable silence descends. I reach over to pat him on the hand awkwardly, muttering something unintelligible
in tones of sympathy. The gesture seems to both rankle and exhaust him.

‘It's getting late, I'm going upstairs to get some kip. But it's been a pleasure. I'll be seeing you both for New Year's, right?' Scott abruptly stands up, taking his leave as we nod our assent.

‘See you in a few days, then,' I say softly.

‘Hey, don't give me those doe-eyes, Georgie. I'm fine. I've just had a long day.' Scott's warm gaze locks on mine and he gives a pained grin, before walking across the room to speak to Joy for a moment. As I stare at his receding figure, I catch her baleful glare.

‘Well, aside from the dead-friend bit, that went well! If it had ended differently, I reckon you would be upstairs for a nightcap right now,' Sarah says after a long silence, the most callous would-be matchmaker since Cinderella's stepmother.

‘Sarah,' I reprimand, somewhat weakly. Despite my best intentions at purity and selflessness (and my semi-boyfriend) I had been thinking along the same lines.

On the morning of New Year's Eve, I'm thinking about a different kind of line. For the most part, my drug-taking days are behind me, barring special occasions. They have become another phase in my short life, like acne and science fiction, which I have managed to grow out of unscathed. This is in part due to my memory erasing the more shameful lows that pop, unbidden, now and again into my mind, but they are easy to ignore. Anyway, why is it that horrible experiences that are inflicted on you by a fit of cosmic bad luck, like cancer, are character-building battles to be won while horrible experiences that you inflict on yourself are a source of disgrace and regret? Experience should be honoured in all its forms, once endured. And special occasions
are special occasions, New Year's Eve being the most special of them all.

Sarah is spending all day with Henry as he has other plans tonight, Beardy is more into drink than drugs and Rose is completely terrified of being on public transport when carrying. Thus, it has fallen to me to source the goods for this evening. There are sure to be bags of MDMA and ket going round that we can dab off of for a few quid or a smile, but for old times' sake, we are getting six grams of coke. One is usually fine for me, but as Sarah is a fiend, Rose will probably spill or misplace half her share and as I am uncharacteristically generous with near strangers when high, we've decided to err on the safe side.

My parents would be horrified and it's all terribly immoral of course, but the thing about morality is it's not very enticing when weighed up against a good time. The best argument for not doing drugs, to me, is not their illegality, health issues or the rate of addiction. They are consequences that you accept as part of the risk (safe in the secret conviction that they will never, ever happen to you). What is far worse is the unseen effect on the lives of other humans – those faceless people who bear the real cost of our casual, consumer involvement.

But of course, none of the unfun stuff is ever at the forefront of my mind when calling Dwayne, my friendly local dealer-man. His charming bedside manner, tight Fred Perry
shirt encasing ripped arm muscles, gang-related tattoos and gold teeth combined make a rather seductive whole. I've always fancied him, despite the atrocious spelling and grammar of his text messages.

As per usual, I'm chilling in a dodgy car park in Elephant & Castle, trying to look inconspicuous. Though I've streeted myself up in a hoody and combat boots, I feel that I stick out like a sore thumb. I while away the first fifteen minutes daydreaming about him forcefully taking me behind the council bins and throwing the drugs at my feet in payment when he finishes. As the hour drags on, with still no sign of Dwayne, my fantasies turn to laying into him for always keeping me waiting.

Unfortunately, when someone has a product of limited availability they are aware you really, really want, they can do pretty well what they please. He knows I will still smile with bourgeois supplication, hand him £50 a gram for something half cut with speed or drone and still come back for more. Finding a good dealer is something of a connoisseur's task in London. At any rate, I don't know how to go about it – the best stuff I've had has always been through the most arsehole-ish of people, who fiercely guard their contacts.

Finally, a red Smart Car whizzes in, chosen presumably for ease and discretion. I admit the first time I saw it I was terribly disappointed it wasn't a seventies pimp-mobile. They parallel park at a dangerous speed with élan.

Dwayne hops out, looking fit as usual, his smile glittering gold in the winter sun. He kisses me on both cheeks and gives me an appreciative once-over. I melt. We do the dreadfully obvious handshake exchange of money and goods. Pleasantries made, he tips his hat at me like a Victorian gent and leaps back into the car as his driver, a man always wearing a cap pulled down low over his face and whom I have never properly seen or spoken to, takes off.

Now for the long bus journey home. The most irritating thing about picking up is, if you are out of your way, you are limited to the slowest and shittest forms of public transportation for fear of sniffer dogs on the tube. I've seen a fair few people caught before (most wearing an expression that roughly translates to ‘Aw shit, man' but none, surprisingly, too upset) and though I haven't carried regularly in years, whenever I pass a police officer my heart still seizes up in fear. I endure the long slow chug of the 133 bus towards Liverpool Street Station, where I will have to change again. A taxi is obviously preferable, but having already spent £100 on the night to come and it not yet being one in the afternoon, this feels rather extravagant. Much better to sweat in paranoid fear, abnormally still, listening to the beat of my heart in my ears, irrationally convinced that something is going to go wrong, until I finally arrive at my stop. Murphy's Law has bypassed me and nothing has gone wrong, like usual, silly me.

Several hours later finds me drowning in a mound of discarded clothes, all of which I hate, all of which make me look fat. The Christmas gorge-athon has taken its toll and though I don't weigh myself on principle (the principle being ignorance is bliss) I reckon I might well have put on a stone in under two weeks. I finally manage to winch myself into a leather skirt that has corset-like properties and from which I may never escape. I team it with sucky-in black tights, a button down shirt knotted at the waist and six-inch black heels (the numbing properties of cocaine will make them bearable). I look at myself in the mirror and think, ‘You look as good as you can. Your clothes aren't making you look fat – your body is making you look fat. You may resemble a prostitute but this is the best you can do for the moment.'

I have never been able to master the hyperbole necessary to transform a straight-talk into a pep-talk. Like many women, if I try to tell myself I am beautiful, fabulous and worthy, it rings impossibly hollow much of the time. Still, I am satisfied, or least calmly resigned, having done what I can with what I have (cleavage). I pile on the slap with a trowel and make my hair as big as possible to balance out my chins. A white rabbit-fur coat, giant gold earrings and a gold-teeth mafia necklace complete the ensemble (if you're going to choose a theme, mine being Dallas Hooker In A New York Winter Circa 1987, you might as well adhere to it fully). I grab my clutch, armed with all the essentials and am good to go.

Tin Can Bang are playing tonight in a warehouse in Bow. It will have all the trappings of an illegal rave: geographically undesirable, limited alcoholic options, airy and freezing and equipped with only two sporadically flushing skanky toilets complete with festival-sized queues on the verge of pissing themselves. It is in fact legal and costs £35. I had hoped that my association with Beardy – as Pseudo-Girlfriend? Favoured Fuckbuddy? Preferred Penis-Pal? – might gain me free entry or at least some sort of discount. Either I have overrated the nature of our association or he is telling the truth and the large number of bands and DJs playing have scuppered my chances for the guestlist.

Rose, Sarah and I meet later than is planned and end up shouting along to the countdown on a street corner ten minutes away from the rave with a ragtag group of tramps who are sharing a bottle of JD. This is the fourth year running I've managed to miss being in an actual venue when the ball drops, but it adds to a rare feeling of London-all-together-ness that warms the cockles of the heart, particularly when shared with people you would normally avoid eye contact with at all costs.

When we finally arrive in front of the huge redbrick building, formerly an electricity factory, we are greeted with a queue in which we must shiver for forty-five minutes. To pass the time, we take nips of life's sweet nectar: a litre of vodka. Wisely, Rose suggests we decant a third into a flask
for later. We may be in our mid-twenties, but we still drink with the stinginess and enthusiasm we had at sixteen.

Though we are getting through the bottle at an alarming rate, the Charlie should take the edge off of our indulgence. To be honest, I've put myself in the way of physical harm far more often binge drinking than doing drugs. Being paranoid and loved-up but hyper-aware after a pill or a line makes you look after yourself far better than when half-blind with booze. In my teens I was a stumbling, horny wreck likely to eye up the unwashed denizens of the night bus for potential talent. The night wasn't over till I reached my front door.

Rose at least has benefited from the interminable wait. She is flirting outrageously with a tall Swede named Sven who is sporting a handlebar moustache, furry Russian hat and a neon-green Lycra catsuit under a Puffa jacket. We pass the bouncers without any problems and are finally greeted with what we've paid for – loud techno and swarms of bright-eyed clubkids chewing their faces off, illuminated by flashes of blue strobe through the smoky dimness.

It is far more practical to take pills or dab when you have the luxury of a quiet space with a flat surface to cut lines, but tonight we are equipped with pre-cut and decanted bullets. These handy little gram-sized glass jars have a screw top attached to a small spoon, so all we need is a minute in a toilet or a private corner to take a bump. Sarah, the most avid cokehead amongst my friends, is nonetheless the most
controlling and obsessive when it comes to how, when and where we can take it. She feels there is a delicate ratio of drunkness to highness that needs to be respected, otherwise one becomes either too out of it or too manic. She informs us, with the seriousness of an officer laying out military strategy, that we need precisely two more doubles to add to the vodka before we will be properly primed.

Sarah hadn't pissed in three hours in an attempt not to break the seal but even her well-trained bladder is not super-human; she has given in to the queue. So, we are taking advantage of the illegal element of the rave by chain-smoking in a filthy staircase nearby. Rose is otherwise occupied – Sven's huge blond moustache is consuming her milkmaid face.

Though I notice my words slurring alarmingly, I shout conversation at a random for whom I feel no sexual attraction whatsoever. Nonetheless, I allow him to touch up my arse as he pretends to care about whatever shit I'm talking. A little light gropage, I've decided, is a small price to pay for avoiding standing around like a mug next to the happy couple. Unfortunately, being across from them means I also have a very clear view of Sven's tightly showcased, shiny green erection.

‘It's like if a ninja turtle had a penis!' I say, pointing, as Sarah comes up the stairs.

‘It's time to sober you up with some hard drugs, doll. Rose? Let's go back out, yeah?'

With the casual cruelty of the uninterested female at the
beginning of a night that promises many more opportunities, Rose and I wordlessly break off from our respective beaux. They try to stop us, but we ignore them and are swallowed back into the heaving bosom of the warehouse, where our bodies reverberate with the bassline. We take shelter sitting cross-legged on a dirty table in a corner and take a few bumps. We needn't have worried about finding a subtle place to snort – it is busy, dark and none of the staff give a fuck – but Sarah is concerned about attracting hangers-on.

‘How many have you had?' Sarah asks me earnestly, her hand shooting out to grab my wrist.

‘Um … two on each side?' Actually, I took four on each side, but I need to be plucked out of my bleariness back into sharp, chemically induced reality.

‘Good. Me too.'

‘I wish I hadn't left Sven. He had a huge willy,' Rose says sadly.

‘His English wasn't very strong, though, was it?'

‘No. But the language of love is universal.'

‘More men should wear spandex trousers. It would save so much time and effort if you could see who was packing what. I once slept with a guy with a micro-penis and even though I didn't really like him that much, I felt obligated to shag him again so he wouldn't think it was due to his size.' Sarah sticks out her pinky finger, waggling it, before declaring shortly, ‘That would be a generous assessment.'

‘Sarah, that's so thoughtful of you,' Rose says gravely as she grips Sarah's upper arm.

‘I have hidden depths of altruism, what can I say.'

‘Doesn't surprise me,' I joke, humming the opening notes to ‘My Heart Will Go On', though she doesn't hear me over the music.

‘My first boyfriend had a tiny willy. I really thought we would be together for ever and sometimes when I thought about only ever experiencing his penis, I cried.' Rose shakes her head with rueful nostalgia.

‘This is why you have to ask men to send you dick pics beforehand! So useful.'

‘What, you just ask them to send one out of the blue?' I ask. It's hard for me to envision the appropriate conversational build-up that might precede such a request. But then, I am a terrible flirt. Really, really bad.

‘It only works when you've been sending saucy texts but most guys are very willing. The male ego is such that they really think it turns you on and they don't realize that you are just doing research.'