The Bad Girls' Club (2 page)

I
’d always been the girl who did the right thing; the voice of reason. Sensible, boring, stick-in-the-mud Juliette. The last girl you’d ever expect to be part of the Bad Girls’ Club. But there comes a time in life when you have to take risks.

On the morning of Poppy
’s wedding, the most exciting thing in my life was that Craig had agreed to go with me. I bet most girls expected their boyfriends to accompany them to a wedding without question – but not for me; not with Craig. He was your typical stay-at-home-watching-movies-and-ordering-pizza kind of guy and mostly I was that kind of girl. We never held hands or finished each other’s sentences or went for walks on the beach. Not that I wanted all that mushy stuff, but Craig’s idea of romance was buying me my own games controller. Sometimes I wanted more than that.

I had high hopes for the wedding. Not that I hoped it would push Craig to propose or anything like that, just that for once we
’d be like a real couple. We’d go out all dressed up and sit in the corner making jokes about Poppy’s posh friends. The friends who must surely think I’d made Craig up; that he was my imaginary boyfriend. No one ever saw him. Even Poppy had only met him a couple of times and then she’d just rolled her eyes.

Sure, Craig wasn
’t glamorous like Daniel. Daniel probably spent more on one of his fancy designer suits than Craig did on his entire wardrobe, but Craig had his good points. He never carried on with other girls the way Daniel did. Sometimes, I felt bad for Poppy at the way Daniel flirted. I guess they were both a lot more sophisticated than me, but I’d be so embarrassed if Craig did that.

I giggled at the thought – Craig flirting. The only other woman Craig looked at was Lara Croft.

Craig was… comfy, like my favourite jeans. Not the latest fashion, but he fit well and didn’t make me feel self-conscious. I could talk to Craig.

I bet he
’d get a shock when he saw me all dressed up. No jeans and runners today. I reached up and patted my hair. Deirdre at the hairdressers had given me a special wedding ‘do’. It felt kind of stiff but she’d said it’d drop. I needed special hair to go with my new dress – all floaty, pale apricot with white flowers. I’d even put on a little lipstick.

It was such a beautiful day, everything looked shiny and sparkly. Even the scraggly garden of impatiens growing through the gravel outside Craig
’s flat looked happy.

I knocked on the door again. Maybe he was in the shower. But I was getting nervy. If ever I needed moral support, it was for Poppy
’s wedding. Poppy and I had been best friends since primary school. We’d shared everything – textas, Cherry Ripes and chicken pox. When we grew up, we were going to buy a horse farm and, in our spare time, have adventures like Nancy Drew. It had been the perfect friendship.

She
’d always been the leader, and I’d tagged along getting into more trouble than I’d have ever imagined possible on my own, but it had always been kid trouble.

Then, at the start of Year 8, Poppy came back from overseas and I didn
’t recognise her. She wore a short skirt, a very short skirt, and she had boobs. She even wore makeup. I must have looked like a little kid beside her, with my baggy, long skirt and flat chest.

At lunchtime, we met up at the lockers. We always had lunch on the seats in the covered area near the canteen and tried to scab free Samboys off Mrs Baxter.

‘Ready?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got the latest issue of
Dolly
with the posters of Hanson in it.’

I grabbed a glad-wrapped parcel of jelly cakes out of my bag. Mum had made them especially for the first day back because she knew they were our favourites.

‘
Dolly
? I don’t think so.’ Poppy frowned. ‘I’m going down to the oval.’ She walked off down the hallway then called back to me, ‘you coming?’

I wasn
’t sure whether to follow her or not. The back of the oval was where all the bad kids hung out. Not kids like us. This was going to be big trouble. I thought about going to the covered area by myself, but I watched Poppy strutting down the hall and ran after her.

I slipped the jelly cakes into my pocket. Poppy seemed way beyond jelly cakes.

When we got to the oval, Neil Jennings walked up to us. He was in Grade 10 and had the worst reputation in the whole school. There was a rumour going around that he’d been the one who set the staff room on fire. On the grass behind him, a bunch of kids lolled around, smoking and acting tough.

‘
What do you chicks think you’re doing?’ he said. He winked at his friends who stared at us and giggled. Poppy swaggered on up to him while I screwed up my eyes, waiting for the trouble to start.

‘
Just hanging out,’ she said. She put her hands on her hips and poked her chest out. ‘Got a spare fag?’

I stared in horror. Of course they did. You could smell the cigarette smoke from halfway across the oval but you don
’t just walk up to people like Neil Jennings and ask for one.

Neil Jennings turned to his friend who tossed him a packet of cigarettes. He flipped it open and offered her one then he looked me up and down.

‘Does little Laura Ingles want one?’

I shook my head, afraid to speak.

‘Come on, have a drag,’ added Poppy, passing me her cigarette.

I hesitated for a minute. It wouldn
’t kill me to have one puff. I could join in. I could be one of the cool kids. Except, if we were caught smoking we’d be suspended, for sure. My dad would kill me. Or I’d choke on it and cough my lungs up while everyone laughed.

I brushed Poppy
’s hand away. She rolled her eyes at me then turned her back, whispering something in Neil Jennings’ ear.

The two of them giggled together as I walked off – across the oval where the footie boys yelled at me to look out – back to the covered area where I belonged. I sat on my own, reading
Smash Hits
and choking down the crumbled remains of the jelly cakes, wondering if Poppy would ever speak to me again.

After that, things changed between us. We stopped hanging out together so much but we stayed friends. After all, she needed me. She could act all tough but really she needed looking after. Like at uni – it became easier to rewrite her assignments than have her all upset because she
’d failed. Or her engagement party. I nearly died when I found out how much she was going to waste on caterers when I could easily throw a few things together. I’d been much happier pottering around in the kitchen than hanging out with her friends anyway. To be honest, most of them scared me.

Just thinking about all those people, the same ones who
’d be at the wedding made me wilt. Where was Craig? I banged on the window.

‘
Craig!’ I called. ‘Let me in.’

Finally he opened the door and stood there for a minute, dazed and blinking in the sun. I stared back, dazed myself. What was he thinking? Still in his stained t-shirt and old pair of jeans. He hadn
’t shaved and he looked like he hadn’t even showered. We didn’t have much time.

I followed him into the lounge room and he sank down onto the couch, picking up a controller from the floor. He didn
’t comment on my dress, but then what did I expect? Craig lived in his own little Craigy world.

‘
Craig…’

‘
Check this out,’ he said, without looking away from the screen. ‘Serge bought over the new Grand Theft Auto last night. I got up to 25% in one night. It took Serge three days.’

‘
That’s great,’ I said, without much enthusiasm. I sat on the arm of the couch waiting for him to mention the wedding. Craig nodded along with the music, twisting and swerving with the game.

‘
See that?’ he asked, jumping up. ‘I’m totally going to own Serge. No way can he top that.’

I nodded.
‘So, are you going to get ready now?’ I asked, keeping my voice light. I hated to nag him.

‘
Ready?’ he asked and reached over to grab a slice of cold pizza out of a box on the floor.

‘
The wedding. Remember. It’s today.’

‘
Wedding? Shit. No way.’ He slapped himself on the forehead.

I stared at him, hoping he was joking, although it didn
’t look like it. He wasn’t going to the wedding? But he’d promised. He’d said he’d make an effort, just this once.

I should have rung him last night. I knew I should have. He was so forgetful. I should have come over and picked out his clothes for him and made sure he was organised but I
’d been so tired after work.

‘
Just a minute. I want to get through this next bit.’

I picked at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. Maybe he
’d change his mind. Maybe. Once he’d thought about it a bit. He had said he would go. He’d promised.

‘
It’s not too late. Come on. Jump in the shower and I’ll iron something for you to wear.’ I walked into the bedroom to pick out a shirt.

He didn
’t answer. I walked out of the bedroom with a light blue shirt.

‘
How about this one? It looks great on you.’

Finally, he put down the controller and looked at me.

‘Honey, I’m buggered. Look at me, I’ve been up all night. There’s no point me going. I’d fall asleep on the wedding cake and wreck everything for you.’ He turned back to the game.

‘
But I really wanted…’ I looked at him in the blue glare from the telly. This was Craig. This was the way he was and always would be. What was the point of even trying to talk to him? ‘… Oh, never mind.’

‘
You’re shitty now, aren’t you? It’ll more fun without me. You’ll be fine. You look really pretty.’

What did it matter how I looked? Of course he was right. He was in no state for going to a wedding but, as I walked through the lounge room, passed his X-Box, I gave it a kick. For a moment, I hated it. Suddenly, nothing was sparkly any more.

The Bad Girls
’ Club might have been my idea but the funny thing about it was that I almost never even made it to that frigging wedding. No wedding would have meant no Bad Girls’ Club and no Bad Girls’ Club would have meant no… well, no everything.

Still, weddings are arse, they really are. Sitting with people I
’d normally run a mile to avoid – and I never run unless there is free beer involved – making happy talk about the weather and their health and how do you know the bride? The choice of overcooked stringy chicken or overcooked stringy beef and tepid champagne. The cover band, with the fat, balding bass player and the scraggy, blonde chick singer-slash-tambourinist, who think they are frigging rock stars.

The one and only good thing about this whole day was that I had a killer dress. Yeah. Me. For starters, getting me into a dress was a miracle that should have got Jack some kind of minor sainthood. And it wasn
’t just a dress; it was
the
dress, the dress every girl dreams of. Last time I wore a dress was the ‘90s when I flirted with the whole Courtney Love kinderwhore look for about a week before going back to jeans and Docs. But this dress wasn’t grunge, this dress screamed sophistication and glamour and sex kitten mystique. Like I said, Jack had performed a miracle.

I got it out of the wardrobe – all slinky and black with red velvet across the boobs and tiny red net sleeves. This dress was so not me but I could be the dress; I knew I could.

In the shop, I’d almost been too scared to try it on. When I’d finally walked out of the change room, I held my breath, waiting for Jack’s proclamation. I mean, he knew more about dresses than anyone and I’d wanted him to say it worked; I’d wanted him to see the part of me that could be the dress.

He
’d clapped his hands and smiled. I exhaled then pointed to the red velvet.

‘
I’m not sure about this bit,’ I said. ‘It’s like “hey look at my tits. Here they are.” In bright neon letters.’

Jack put his hand on his hips.
‘Honey, there aint no hiding those puppies. I’m just not sure about black though. Black is for mourning.’

‘
It’s Poppy’s wedding. I am in mourning.’

Poppy. The bane of my life. I swear she was on a mission to drive me insane. Like the night before, just as soon as I turned off my PC, she
’d dumped a stack of cards on my desk.

‘
What are these?’ I asked, putting on my coat.

‘
Thank you cards. They shouldn’t take you long.’

‘
But you aren’t even married yet…’

She went back in her office so I pulled prune faces at her door then shoved the cards away in my bottom drawer. Out of sight is out of mind with Poppy, and I needed a cigarette.

I’d almost escaped when the lift dinged. I looked up and Daniel walked out. He moved towards me, swinging his briefcase, his fringe flopping in his eyes. Why didn’t I ever check my makeup or fix my hair?

‘
Is she ready?’ he asked, nodding toward Poppy’s office. I sighed. This was Daniel. Off limits. In bold caps. With underline. In a solid, sans serif font.

‘
Poppy,’ he called. ‘Hurry up. We’re late.’

I took off my coat and got the cards out of my desk drawer because maybe it would be the nice thing to do, sticking around for a while. Daniel sat on the corner of my desk, his muscular thigh straining against the tweedy fabric, so close I could reach out and touch it if I wanted to and… well, yeah, I did want to but I couldn
’t… I closed my eyes to avoid the temptation but that didn’t help. It just made me more aware of the intoxicating, male smell of him.

Why was he marrying Poppy? Couldn
’t he see he deserved so much better? Not that I’m saying I’m better or anything, just that life was so unfair and that thigh was mighty tempting.

‘
Why are you still here anyway? Don’t you have some hot date lined up?’

As if I had anything better than a pizza and a DVD. I grinned to think that maybe he actually thought I had a life and he wasn
’t just trying to be nice to the poor dumpy girl.

‘
Bad enough that you’ll be bored shitless at the wedding tomorrow, hanging out with us old folks.’ I was two years older than Poppy. ‘You are coming aren’t you?’

‘
Of course.’ Even though it would kill. Perhaps he’d realise his mistake at the last minute. As the minister said, ‘do you take this woman…’, Daniel would see me, in my sexy new dress, and yell STOP and rush into my arms.

And, just at the very moment I
’d thought that, he had leaned over and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. I jolted.

‘
Wake up, sleepyhead. Go home and have some fun.’

Poppy must have heard that because she stormed out of her office.

‘Imogen can’t go. She’s busy.’ She waved her perfectly manicured, red lacquered nails at the cards on my desk. I looked at my nails – short and raggy and half covered with chipped black polish.

She sighed.

‘Do I go into
your
work and tell
your
staff what to do, honey?’

‘
Hey, settle.’ Daniel picked up one of the cards and laughed. ‘You’re kidding me? You’re making her do your thank you cards? Now?’

Poppy glared at him then turned to me.

‘OK, you may as well go. If you really have to.’

And if you knew Poppy like I did, you
’d know that she didn’t mean I
could
go but that I was meant to say that I didn’t mind staying, that her wedding was far more important than anything I had to do because that’s the way Poppy thinks but, at that moment, all I cared about was that first drag on my cigarette when I walked out the office door. And I wanted to get out of there before they started macking on.

I was going to look hot at this wedding if it killed me but things weren
’t going well with my preparations. I tried to do the pretty but it was hot and my face sweated so my foundation ran and, when I put on more, it glopped and I looked like a leper.

I washed it off and put the bottle in the fridge for a while then put the air conditioning on to freezing. Finally, I got it right but somewhere along the way my mascara ran and I had Alice Cooper eyes and, when I fished my Dusky Rose lipstick out of my bag, it was covered in strands of tobacco. I
’d lost the lid about five years ago but I couldn’t throw it out – they don’t make Dusky Rose any more, although I still search the makeup section of every supermarket hoping to find some leftover stock.

I
’d have to get Jack to do some damage control later. I needed to stop stuffing around and get into that dress.

I slipped it over my head and inched it down. It felt tight, tighter than it had in the shop; I had to pull it taut to get it over my hips. But it fitted, just. I turned to look at the back view in the mirror. Oh man, it was definitely tight. That diet… the one I
’d been meaning to start every Monday for the past six months… that diet surely wasn’t working. But I hadn’t been pigging out
that
much, it’s just hard when you can’t cook and the man at the shop on the corner makes the best chips in the entire world. Or maybe I was getting my period; it was bloating.

Who was I kidding? Every dim sim and hamburger and pizza I
’d eaten in the last month had gone straight to my arse.

I needed help... like a whalebone corset or emergency liposuction but the best I could do was control tops. I emptied my drawers, praying I had a pair. I did. Something was going right.

I’d just put my second foot into the pantyhose when I heard the rip from behind.

Fuck.

I froze then sat on the edge of the bed and tried again, gently easing my foot in without breathing.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It was the pantyhose. I’d ripped them. That had to be it. I could breathe again if it was just the pantyhose. I stood up to check the mirror but shut my eyes. I couldn’t look, but I had to – I had to know the worst. I slowly opened one eye. Everything looked fine, so I opened the other. Oh no.

The side seam had busted. Not just ripped but burst apart like my arse was so big, nothing could contain it.

I sat back down on the bed and bit my lip, maybe I could save the dress somehow. I wouldn’t cry; it would just smear my makeup more. I’d sit here and not move until Jack got home and fixed it all for me.

But, even without moving, I could hear the seams unravelling – pop, pop, pop. That was it. That was the universe giving me a sign. I couldn
’t be the dress; the dress had rejected me.

I inched it over my head and threw it on the floor. My pyjamas would do me. Bugger Poppy – she could have Daniel and she could have her perfectly fitting dress. My fat arse was staying right here. I looked at the dress lying in a heap. Girls like me don
’t wear dresses like that anyway.

I needed sustenance – Coke and Pringles. I turned on the TV and flicked to Channel V hoping they were playing something loud and angry – I needed metal – but, of course, it was some chick singing a shitty ballad about love and empowerment and shining through. The world hated me.

Just as I opened the sour cream and chives Pringles – I love to put them on my tongue whole then smash them against the roof of my mouth – I heard the front door slam. Jack walked into the bedroom.

‘
What’s going on? You’re supposed to be glammed up by now.’

‘
I’m not going,’ I told him and popped a chip in my mouth. Crunch.

‘
What’s wrong?’

‘
Nothing.’ Crunch.

‘
But you got that new dress. Come on, baby.’

‘
I broke the dress.’

‘
What?’

‘
I broke it. With my fat arse.’ My laugh came out like an hysterical gurgle.

‘
Maybe I can fix it.’

I pointed at the dress on the floor. Maybe he could do something; he was Saint Jack, the miracle worker. I crossed my salty fingers, but he looked at it for a while and then pursed his lips. No more miracles for me.

‘Don’t you have anything else?’

‘
You know I don’t. Everything makes me look fat and ugly and frumpy. I hate all my clothes.’ I pulled the doona over my head.

Jack looked through my wardrobe and through the clothes on the chair and through the clothes on the floor. He threw everything into two piles.

‘This would be much easier if you weren’t such a slob.’

‘
Am not a slob.’

He rolled his eyes and sat on the end of my bed.

‘See, here’s your problem. You have two types of clothes. These ones –’ He pointed to one of the piles, ‘that are your basic rock chick outfits. Band t-shirts, jeans and the like.’ I nodded my head as he picked up my favourite Ramones t-shirt. ‘Then you have your work clothes.’ He pointed to another pile of black suits. ‘And, boy, are your work clothes ugly. You really do need to go shopping.’

‘
Shopping doesn’t help me.’ I pointed at the dress. ‘Look at that – $200 and it’s only fit to use as a duster. It’s a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t go. I know it.’

Jack wrenched the Pringles from my hand.
‘It’s a sign from the universe that you should stop eating junk.’

I snatched half-heartedly for the chips.
‘You’re so mean lately.’

‘
It’s called tough love, sister. You’ll thank me for it in the end. Firstly, you have to go to your boss’s wedding. She’ll have your arse in a sling if you don’t. And secondly, you have to get out more. You are turning into a hermit. The only time you leave the house is to tag along with me. I love you to death, sweetie, but you need to go out with your own people. Go. Meet a man, get laid.’

‘
How can I go out? All my friends are hooked up and breeding. Or else they’re in rehab. There’s just me.’

‘
Here,’ he said, handing me a billowing, floral shirt from the back of the wardrobe. ‘Put this on.’

‘
It’s too tight,’ I mumbled into my pillow.

Jack rolled his eyes and picked up a purple singlet top from the floor. He held it up and then sniffed it.

‘This is clean. Just wear the shirt over the top, unbuttoned.’

I wrinkled my nose.
‘I’ll look like a fat old Nana.’ A million miles from the sexy dress.

‘
And this,’ he said, throwing a black skirt at me. ‘Come on. Focus. The clock’s ticking.’

I sat up, trying to think of a way out. I could pretend I got hit by a bus or I
’d been abducted by aliens or…

‘
If you had an attack of some kind,’ I said slowly, ‘I’d have to go to hospital with you. Even Poppy wouldn’t expect me to abandon my best friend.’