1 Gemma

 

she doesn’t really remember getting to the beach, a wave of fizzy wine swept her here, arse now held up by the pebbles, her arms wrapped around herself, self care that should have been administered a few hours back

    Gemma looks out to sea and sees nothing in the waves rolling towards her, mouth open, flecks of dribble at the corners, the breeze drying her tongue

    she’s the only one there at 6am on a Sunday morning, seagulls spy her and hop across the stones, scoping her out for the likelihood of snacks about her person

    though all she has on her is a can of wine

    a can

    when did this start?

    beer = can

    wine = bottle

she wonders aloud, popping the ring and taking a draw of lukewarm chardonnay that she picked up somewhere along the way, the seagull turns its back, disgusted at her lack of foodstuff

    at least it can’t see her now, can’t judge her for her hazy night before, flashes of shot glasses fly through her mind, dive bombing her, taking no prisoners

     the wine dulls her slowly like a runaway truck crawling to a halt once it hits a slight hill, she smiles, wishes the seagull would come back and say hello

 

Gemma set out from home that night before with the very best of intentions, a night out, yes, but not crazy, not like when she was 20, when a night out was 4 days long with no discernible end

    tonight would be refined and relaxing, decent and demure, befitting her 39 year old frame that could not stay up for days or skidaddle around Brighton like it did so many times before, yet

    she fell before she had even begun when still at work in the afternoon, she nipped out for a smoke and then into the bright yellow splendour of premier stores, tipped a caffeinated alcoholic nightmare, 7.5% abv, down her throat in an alley, feeling dirty and splendid, revived from all the hours dispensing blood pressure medication to the masses, condoms to skinny boys with skinny girlfriends, wondering if she would ever escape working in a pharmacy, the chemist as her mum still called it

    where all the other women (it was always women, except for about 75% of the pharmacists) bleated out right wing rhetoric they had found in the depths of facebook or wherever those dumb cunts got their news from, Gemma always smarting from their cruelness to faceless brown people they were convinced were hurting them from afar, wanting to scream at them, knock them to the ground

    and she could, 10 years kickboxing classes, her shoulders still well muscled from the thwack thwack thwack against the pads, feeling the sweat under her armpits, sensing the strength building inside her

    instead, she holds it all in, eyes down, fiddles with a packet of pills, forcing them into a box with strained fingers, stupid fuckers, stupid fucking fuckers

I’ll have to start taking the blood pressure pills myself    

and when she was back from the shop they looked at her, knowing she had been gone longer than a cigarette can reasonably last, she flounces past them to the back room, fumbles in her bag for chewing gum that tastes vile against the chemical sweetness of the vile drink she put inside herself

    after work, has another drink from the same shop, buys two, one for later, need to get home and shower, scrub the stench of sick people away

 

awakens on the sofa, hair wet, Martha stood over her, frowning

    why are you sleeping?

Gemma wonders why too

I called you 11 times

sits upright on the sofa, sees her work clothes strewn across the floor, Martha standing there with an unlit rollie in her hand

we need to do something with your hair, Gem

runs her hands through her dark, thick, locks, fingers tangled in the damp sticky mess

    give me a minute, Marth

Martha, shrugging, goes to the front door that she let herself in through, key buried in a shallow grave in the fatsia japonica, delving deep, dirty fingernails now, scowls at the dirt, lights the cigarette, watches Gemma stumble to her bedroom

    Gemma drops the towel that is still wrapped around her from the shower, her hair still damp, huge curls of chaos surround her head, she looks at her body, pushes her tits out, you still go it babe, does a half turn, sighs at the sight of her arse, an arse of reasonable proportions to most, not in her head, not today. fucks sake

    it’s Jimmy’s birthday though, Gem

    I know babe, I know, I just don’t wanna go nuts you know?

    oh yeah, since when?

    since being nearly fucking forty, Marth

Martha tsks, nearly forty, we’re all nearly forty, she’s 36, that’s nearly forty too, Jimmy is 35 today, he’s nearly forty, we’re all nearly forty and what is forty anyway, we will all die then, no, well then

carries on pulling Gemma’s hair around with a brush, watching her wince as the tangles hold onto her

    fuck’s sake Marth

 

    ______________________________________________________________

 

Gemma, born and bred Brighton, a thing of the past, the London mob keep on coming though a few are being diverted to Margate nowadays, beanie caps bobbing along the streets, moustaches that the men think make them look like they're the epitome of cool, big hair on little boy’s faces, the women are all artists, Gemma sneers at their charity shop long coats, won’t see them queuing up for a job at the pharmacy on fuck all per hour

    mum, had a pub, one of the first women in town to be a landlady back in the day-formidable they would say of her then, scary as fuck at other times, Gemma in awe of her way of carrying herself, of reducing grown men to quivering wrecks with a look that could stop a train

perhaps it all started there, the drinking of course, the lariness, the willingness to fight anyone who actually dared to step up, don’t mess with Gemma, all through school, the fights, sticking her tits out, a forcefield that you better not try and penetrate, sunshine

dad disappeared before she was even walking, he was last seen in Worthing, hand in hand with a pale skinned woman with a blank expression, at least that’s what her aunty told her when she was old enough to know these things

you can’t miss what you never had she told herself, she did miss him though, even though they had never met, 

his failure

left a hole in her

mum had boyfriends, plenty, spent all day getting blokes pissed, could have had any of them, Gemma saw them climb the stairs after closing time, stumbling, coughing, the stink of cigarettes meshed into their skin, she watched through the banisters, when young she was curious, when older she was angry, sneaked down to the bar and poured herself a quad whisky topped up with coke, down in one, rinse the glass, 13 years old and learning the ropes behind the bar

    she never wanted to work in the pub, be like mum, though she did it for a year part time whilst at college getting her pharmacy technician BTEC, the job that still only paid just a smidge above minimum age, went every day for two years, essays, test, all for what-£1.75 per hour more than some girl they pulled off the street that morning?

    and here I am still doing it 20 years later, mug

    mum sacked her in the end, drinking too much, getting paralytic actually, disappearing off with the punters at closing time, mum called her a slag

    me, slag? at least I don’t drag them past my kid every fucking night, Brenda

Brenda kicked her out, she never called her mum again, she ended up with Robbie who worked on the bins

    Robbie

    steady as you like

    had a council flat that wasn’t a shithole

    spent most weekends playing with the engine of one of his mate’s cars

    most importantly, as she was skint and homeless, didn’t ask her for rent

    wasn’t even that interested in sex, even when she pushed her tits right up close to his face when he was fiddling with a head gasket, he deserved that at least, poor Robbie, not really sure how this siren had walked into the midst of his life after a works do that ended up in her mum’s (Brenda’s!) pub, a pub he had never been in before

    watched Gemma scream at her mum (Brenda!)

    drunk on four lagers, he smiled at her, she went with him

    gave him a flimsy handjob on the sofa

before she vomited on the floor

passed out

woke up the next day and asked if he had any booze

found some Campari in a cupboard

watched her drink half a bottle, neat, for breakfast

she stayed there for a year, saved enough to get a deposit together to rent her own place, shit at saving, a year to save £800 with no rent to pay, left Robbie a note with £50

    thanks for everything babe x

he cried when he read it, missed her despite the fact that she was rarely there, rarely sober

 

_________________________________________________________________

 

    Wetherspoons

Gemma glugs at her pint of lager, smacks her lips loudly, it’s drink number three, she’s alive again, next to her

    Martha, cami top, straps contouring her slim shoulders, her slim everything, her skins so pale, she’s a secret ginger, ridiculous tight satin trousers, her disco pants, you need one hell of an arse to pull that off, she has

    Jimmy, birthday boy, 6ft4, shoulders as wide as the women’s bodies put together and some, tumultuous beard, grey hoodie, he must be boiling, sips his pint, the glass looks like a half in his giant hand

Gemma, went for a bright green dress with sequins around the chest, too jazzy for Wetherspoons but fuck it, they’ll go on somewhere classier later, this is Brighton, a bar for every level of craziness you fancy babe, Spoons is the cathedral of cheap booze, half the price of the pub across the road, glug

Marth shouts in her ear above the noise

    can we get the fuck out of here?

        in a bit babe, cheap shots first, yeah?

            shots? already? oh, go on then

Jimmy sent on an expedition to the bar, he towers over the mortals, gently surging through the throng, gets served right away, as usual, ambles back to the ledge they are perched at, three glasses in each hand, somehow, Martha shakes her head

                why did you get us two shots each?

            I didn’t want to go to the bar twice

        we would have been fine with one, Jimmy

Jimmy shrugs, looks at Gemma, when did Martha get so uptight, Jesus, Gemma necks a shot, wipes her mouth, nods to Martha to do the same, she does, violently, almost swallowing the glass, she can put it away for someone so tiny

                let’s go

 

______________________________________________________________

 

the seagull is back, it hops closer and closer, her can of wine lays empty on the pebbles next to her, the gull wants to check it, make sure there’s not a sausage roll lurking within

    Gemma, tears on her cheeks, mascara must be fucked by now, listens to the sea, tide is coming in, rolling the stones with each cycle

    she remembers Wetherspoons, being jealous of Martha’s marvellous arse, Jimmy’s giant beard glistening under electric light, tripping up a step, bouncer catching her in his big arms, a tactical vomit in the lanes, something for the sunday morning tourists to skip around

    and now she’s here on the beach, such a long gap in her memory, convinced she was a fucking mess, despite her protestations of a gentle night out with her very best mates in the whole wide world

    why

    is

    it

    like

    this

    ?