20
Everybody Hurts
The rest of the weekend passed without incident, and late on Friday afternoon, I boarded the train at Victoria for Alice’s hen weekend in Brighton. Her other friends had caught earlier trains and I was the last to check in to the B&B. It faced the sea, which was an unexpected bonus, but was closer to Hove than Brighton. Still, even a dyed-in-the-wool Londoner like me could take pleasure from waves breaking on the pebbled shore to a rhythm of satisfying whooshes.
Alice had texted me where they were – a bar on the pier. I dumped my case on the floor between the paisley curtains and the single bed – the only place it could fit – then sat and rechecked my phone hoping I’d find a message from her along the lines of ‘decided to call it a night’. But it was barely eight o’clock on a Friday and even Alice was upping her rock ’n’ roll game for her hen weekend.
I left my jeans and Converse on, but changed into a cotton peasant top – which felt appropriately seaside-ish. I’d barely taken five steps out of the front door before returning to get my jacket. Walks along British shores were not balmy strolls under shady palm trees, but hard slogs against gale-force winds. By the time I got to the pier, my cheeks were stinging and my hair had doubled in volume, as if it had been blow-dried by the jet engine of a 747.
Alice and co. were bunched together in a booth that comfortably seated six and rather uncomfortably seated nine, as I discovered when I joined them carrying a fresh bottle of wine. I knew Annette and Helen, but the other five faces were new to me. Annette, who had organised the weekend, immediately stood up when I sat down.
‘Everyone, this is Zoë Frixos, the sister-in-law.’ A polite cheer went up – thank God they weren’t all completely pissed yet. ‘You know what to do, girls.’
The girl to my left thumped the table, clapped once then the rest of the group sang ‘Laura!’ The girl after her then thumped the table twice, clapped twice, while everyone announced ‘Seema’. And so it went on, till we got to me, by which time I’d cottoned on that I needed to thump the table and clap nine times while they chorused my name.
‘And back round again!’ decreed Annette, so the whole process was repeated like a Mexican wave.
I had to admit it was a neat trick to remember names. I’d barely been here ten minutes and could correctly identify everyone: Laura, Seema, Flo, Sally, Vicky, Helen, Annette and Alice. Maybe I should suggest it next time I was at a work dinner and struggling to match names to faces.
I was also pleased that I wasn’t the most underdressed of all the hens. Laura and Seema looked like they’d come straight from work – both were wearing buttoned-up blouses and sensible skirts. Most eye-catching was Flo, however. She was wearing earrings that reached her neck – a constellation of gold stars on delicate chains that caught the light whenever she moved her head. She must be the jewellery designer – Alice had mentioned her. Pete had secretly commissioned her to custom-make a necklace for the big day – an uncharacteristically thoughtful impulse from my brother.
‘We’ve got you a little something, Alice,’ said Annette. She reached under the table and brought up a rather phallic-looking package. Annette had shown remarkable restraint in not suggesting we all wear fake tits and tiaras; I could forgive her one dildo. I only hoped that Alice wouldn’t be mortified.
She started unwrapping and the package got thinner and thinner; Annette must have bought something from the beginners’ range. But when Alice removed the last of the wrapping, her gasp was echoed by my own. In her hand was a stick of rock, a swirl of lilac threaded with white. Inside was written: Alice and Pete. Not Alice luvs Pete, or Pete and Alice 4EVA, just Alice and Pete.
‘We had it made especially,’ said Annette to impromptu applause.
Alice looked happy to the point of tears – and not only because she wasn’t having to thank us for gifting her a plastic phallus. She was genuinely moved.
‘It’s in the right colours and everything,’ she whispered.
Annette grinned proudly. ‘And that’s not all. We’ve made one hundred and fifty miniature versions that you can give your guests as wedding favours.’
Alice flung her arms around Annette and let the tears fall. ‘Thank you so much!’
The moment was topped off by the arrival of flutes and two bottles of champagne. Annette had thought of everything.
I was feeling rather less sympathetic towards her, however, when the disco started. She insisted we all dance, and kept requesting those annoying records that have tacky choreography that she forced everyone to do.
‘YMCA’, I quite enjoyed. ‘Saturday Night’, I was less happy with. ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ was hopeless.Who the hell remembered this?I drew the line at ‘Gangnam Style’ and excused myself to go to the loo.
I splashed water on my cheeks to cool down. It was quieter here, and it was good to catch my breath. The bar was heaving; I was a few glasses gone, but still had stray moments of concern that hundreds of us were drinking away our cares while suspended above the freezing English Channel supported only by a few rickety pillars.
Alice joined me a few moments later. ‘You’re missing “The Locomotion”,’ she grinned.
‘Damn.’
‘I’ll make sure you get to dance to it at the wedding.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
Alice went into a cubicle and I checked my phone out of habit. I had a missed call from Justin, but no voicemail. I checked the time he’d rung: ten o’clock. Strange – were he and Patrick having another ding-dong about Italian olive oil? The phone rang again and Justin’s name flashed up.
‘Hello?’ The line was crackly and all I could hear were muffled voices.
I hung up, but a few moments later it rang again. This time I heard someone say my name.
‘Justin? Is that you? I can’t hear you. Let me ring you back.’
