Re-apply

Stumbling into the toilets, I leave the twilight of the club behind me. As the door opens, deep bass pours in and massages my heart. It closes, slowly, an invisible hand caresses my chest, my heart thumps – car wheels over speed bumps.

Pretend to be sober.

Try.

Stand up straight, chest out, and imagine your brain is static. I find an inch of space between some girls at the sink and lap up tap water. I don’t care if it’s from the Thames. I’m very, very thirsty because I’m very, very drunk. The water spurts everywhere like a severed artery, goes all over my outfit, all over this other girl’s dress. I laugh out loud, because it isn’t funny, really. She is not amused; keeps giving me the eye whilst deciding how much water got on her and how much to be annoyed. I eye her right back, but there’s four of her surrounding me. When did that happen? I flash a smile to placate them.

Another girl on my left sucks in her stomach and re-adjusts her bra. I have enough breasts to give to her and the Third World. She catches my eye and I make a show of them. Nope, she’s not amused either.

“Jenny, you all right?”

Jenny. That’s me. It’s coming from right outside the door. It’s the boy I’ve hooked up with tonight. He’s checking up on me! How sweet. It sounds like, “Femmyarethuawright?” but it’s still rom-com romantic. I mumble something but don’t quite catch it myself. He’s hot. Has a name to match his good looks, like a designer brand of aftershave; Dijon or Hansou or something. I can’t remember. All I know is, he’s hot. And it’s me he wants. Me. Not any of these other chicas. It’s not Rex, that’s for sure, my best mate’s brother who’s probably outside right now keeping an incestuous eye on his sister. OK, that’s mean. He’s been tasked to look after us, but he’s not having much luck. He’s like a wannabe teacher who failed the PGCE.

I have to re-apply my makeup and wipe the sweat streaks from my face; try to Photoshop myself in seconds. The mirror is dirty. It’s screaming with muck and water residue and smudges my reflection. I put on some Juicy Big-Lip balm, re-touch my eyeliner; pout, and that makes me want to retch. I stand up straight and almost fall backwards. The toilet attendant, a small, squat African lady comes to my aid, holds my shoulders. I think I see judgment in her face but really all I see is a black blur.

“Tissue?”

She hands me a wad of brown paper. I take a load and wipe the top of my breasts. She’s waiting for a tip so I fish in my bag but all I can find is is isa fiver.

“I’ll come back with change, yeah?” I shout.

She nods and goes back to her seat, innocently enough. Her shoulders are stooped. Guilt clings to the edges of my brain like a fraying web.

“Femmy?”

Hold up, Dijon. Hansou. Hold on, I’m coming. I’m gonna make myself beautiful for you, again, so that we can escape to the night of the dancefloor and keep dancing until we check the time and realise the sun should be up, but we can’t see it, because the club is in a basement. That suits me fine. That way, the night lasts forever and the new day is practically imagined. The heat will make us sweat and purify us. Alcohol will be medicinal, curing the heart and the loins of any pain or fear. Then we’ll reach that moment and one of us will feel it’s the right time to make a move, the way it happens in Hollywood, and kiss and stuff.

A flash.

His handprint is still on my knickers. We’ve done that part already. Right. I turn the thought of sex over in my mind. Cheap wine has created smog, my bits feel deadened. I imagine what it will be like, in the dark.

There’s me in the mirror looking all stern, like. What’s your problem? Behind me, in my reflection, is a line of girls waiting to re-apply foundation, lip balm, mascara, eye shadow, sex. One girl’s has smudged so much it looks like she’s been punched, twice. We look like we’re waiting on a sidewalk on TV. Lines of impatience are in their faces, in my face. My make-up is smudged again. My eyes look tired. It’ll be OK, once I’m back in the dark club.

I move, but mirror me doesn’t. She stands there, with hands on her hips, disgust a twisted grimace on the lips, her eyes staring at my bits. Why? I look down. My skirt is tucked into my knickers. Dijon / Hansou. He’d made it that far? My dress is all off kilter, like I’d just escaped a mugging or worse.

Now I want to be sick.

I break for a toilet and find a girl in it, too drunk to bolt the door. She’s slid to the floor, spread-eagled, her mouth open in a smile. A little vomit clings to her bottom lip. I chuck, not on her, in the bowl by her head. The sounds carry across the toilets, into the ears of everyone else. When I stop and turn and look for the attendant, she’s already behind me. I wash my mouth, use up all of her tissues and give her the fiver. I don’t feel any better. And now I’m broke.

“Femmy!”

I’m almost ready now. I think. I turn to the mirror once more but I can’t see anything. I rinse my mouth out and the water tastes like toxic toothpaste.

I rush for the door.

It’s Rex. Not my aftershave man. His face is thunder and his eyes are thick clouds.

“You been sick?”

I manage a nod.

He resists shaking his head. He puts an arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “Silly,” he whispers.