Fugly Read online

  Ah, the joys of hooking up. Meet a guy, he gets you a drink, you have no idea what his name is, but you’re probably going to cop off with him anyway, because that’s how we do it. Everything’s anonymous: anonymous review, anonymous Twitter handle, anonymous shag.

  Scruffy saunters back and hands Amy her drink. Nothing for me, of course, but then I’m not the one he wants to expertly seduce. And anyway, I don’t want anything else to drink. I’m already feeling a little too fuzzy round the edges, and quite honestly, I don’t want to end up like the hyena victim, who is currently snogging one of them while he gives his mates a thumbs-up and they laugh hysterically . . . I wonder if that’s her first kiss. It would have been mine, if Amy hadn’t stepped in.

  Scruffy and Amy try to chat, which involves lots of leaning closely into one another. I can’t help but wonder if he’s telling her to ditch her mate so they can go off and have some proper fun.

  I stare at my phone. The reception in here is terrible. Even with the signal booster, it’s struggling to find one bar. Just enough to check Facebook—the little icon spins round and round and round and round and nope, not even that. Bollocks. No one to text, no internet to amuse me, and . . . oh, great. Scruffy’s got his tongue down Amy’s throat now. I mean, what do you do? Stare, vaguely horrified, in the other direction? Cool indifference, as if sitting next to two people groping one another isn’t awkward in the slightest? Get up and give them some privacy, running the risk of losing the only person you know in this dump, while looking like a complete billy-no-mates? None of these options are very attractive. Maybe this is why so many people take drugs when clubbing—to dull themselves to whatever squelchy things their friends are doing not two feet away from them.

  Finally, Scruffy and Amy break apart. He gives her a look that I’m sure she finds most alluring, but I think it just makes him look like he’s stoned. He takes a gulp from his drink, touches Amy on the cheek, and jumps up, which I think is quite a feat, given what he’s just been up to.

  Amy turns to me, her lipstick smudged, her eyes luminous.

  “I can’t believe it! I think I’ve pulled!” she squeaks.

  I’m not quite sure what to say to that. He willingly came over to her, bought her a drink, made small talk, and then shoved his hand up her top in public. Oh, and yep, there he is, making his way back, smiling as he does so. What other evidence does she need? A verbal contract? Something signed in blood? Jesus. Open your fucking eyes, girl. You’ve pulled. Go you—

  I stop myself. My inner troll seethes, but the human part of me backs up and feels a bit awkward. Amy’s lovely. Why shouldn’t a guy be interested in her? No one else in the room deserves it more than her. And then it strikes me. I’m jealous. I don’t want to be jealous. I want to be above such petty nonsense, but I can’t deny it. For all her kookiness and her manic-fairy demeanor, Amy is still a Beautiful Person. Possibly the most Beautiful Person I’ve ever met.

  I just don’t think she realizes it.

  An uncomfortable thought occurs to me. If I had found her online first, would I have seen this? Would I have seen her sweetness, her open heart, her positivity in the face of this soul-crushing world? Or would I have just seen the kooky clothes, the perma-cute grin, the snub nose, and condemned her to Troll Hell? How many others out there are oblivious, posting snippets of their life, only for me to come and tear them down—

  I drain my glass in one big swallow. The club spins, as does my stomach.

  I need to get out of here before I’m sick.

  ***

  So, here I am. Alone. Crouching against the wall outside the club, phone in hand. At least the reception is better out here.

  I don’t feel quite so queasy now. The cold air’s been good for me. Turns out, Tori’s been on Facebook. I missed her. She even left me a message.

  Amy knows where I am. I didn’t just bail on her—I told her I needed to go out for some air, which wasn’t a lie. And to her credit, she said she’d come out with me. But then Scruffy started to whine, telling her not to go. I don’t blame him, not really. To him, I’m just Amy’s fat mate, the chubby millstone around her neck that is stopping them from having some real fun.

  Amy wavered for a bit but ultimately chose the dick over the friend. Hell, I don’t blame her either. If it was me, I’d probably do the same. Okay, maybe not, but you never know. It could happen. Stop snickering at the back.

  The ground is damp, so I can’t sit down, and my legs are screaming at me. The bouncers keep giving me weird looks; I don’t think they know what to do with me, as I’m clearly not out here because I’m blind drunk, which means they can’t just order me on my way, but at the same time, they can’t let me crouch here like Gollum’s fat cousin. To spare them, I straighten up, wishing I smoked so I’d have an excuse to be out here.

  Maybe I should just go home. But what if something bad happens to Amy? What if Scruffy is a secret date rapist? What if he ditches her, drunk and alone near a canal, and she falls in? Okay, so we don’t have a canal here, but that’s not the point. The point is, if I did go home and something did happen to her, I’d never be able to forgive myself. Or her, for that matter.

  But I can’t stay out here all night. I glance up at the sky, as if the answer might be written in the stars, which is a futile endeavor given that this is the UK and the stars are hidden behind a smothering layer of cloud.

  Fuck it. I’ll text her. Then toss a coin. Maybe gut a rat and see what its entrails have to say. Lord knows, there must be enough of them around here.

  Hey, u ok? Where r u? With . . .

  Balls. What’s his name? Can’t call him Scruffy. Did she even find out before she let him slobber all over her like an overexcited labradoodle?

  . . . blokie?

  I cringe. Oh well, best I can do. I send it.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  And w—

  “Hey! Big Bird!”

  Oh, God.

  “Hi, Patrick,” I say wearily.

  “Lost you back at Sanford’s. Found Jonty and Mikey, though, so that’s tip-top.”

  Holy fucking moly. The boy’s a walking stereotype.

  “So why are you out here?” he continues. His two friends smirk at me, but Patrick doesn’t. He actually seems . . . genuinely concerned? Yeah, I know. I’m struggling with it, too.

  “I’m here with Amy. She’s hooked up with some dude, so I’m catching some air.”

  “Oh, eww. Know how that feels. You should come with us!” He beams at his friends. “We’re off back to Jonty’s to partake in some spliffola and play some violent video games. You’d love it!”

  “Ahh, no, I can’t. I need to make sure Amy’s okay.”

  “Come on, Big Bird! Tinkerbell will be fine with her Peter Pan, I’m sure. You look like you could do with some cheering up.”

  Jonty and Mikey are both giving Patrick the side-eye now, so I shake my head. Patrick might be the biggest, most oblivious oaf I’ve ever met, but his heart seems to be in the right place. Shame his mates don’t sing from the same hymn sheet, so to speak. Although I do wonder if they’d be sharing looks of horror if I’d been Dizzy or Indigo . . .

  “C’mon, Paddy,” says Jonty or Mikey, not sure which one. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

  “Sure I can’t tempt you?” Patrick says.

  “Nah, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Ah well, suit yourself. See you later, Big Bird.”

  He meanders off. Both his mates share a relieved look and follow him.

  And I am alone again.

  Well, apart from the bouncers. But I’m not sure if they count as human.

  28: #hometime

  I’m actually pretty angry now.

  It’s been half an hour since I texted Amy, and she hasn’t replied. Probably because she’s too busy getting off with Scruffy.

  Or he’s dragged her off into somewhere secluded and is—

  No, not going to think like that. Amy’s fine; s
he’s just ignoring me. That’s why I’m angry, remember? God, I gave up a night of mucking about with Tori for this. People are always saying, “Get off the internet and out into the real world.” Yeah, no thanks, not when this is what the real world has to offer.

  Well, if I can’t find Amy, I can at least see if Tori’s around. I open Messenger.

  Now, how to start this? Can’t kick off proceedings with whining. Something short and sweet should do it. A hey. Yeah. You can’t go wrong with a hey.

  Hey. You there?

  Nothing.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . but, no, wait . . . a “seen” check mark! She is there!

  Hey you! Was wondering where you might be. You ok?

  I am now.

  Argh.

  Made the mistake of going clubbing

  and am now outside

  freezing my ass off

  cos it’s hell in there.

  You went *clubbing*?

  Why the fuck did you do that?

  That’s reserved for wankers and students.

  The latter.

  Uni friend wanted to go out.

  She caught me in a moment of weakness.

  Shiiiiiit. Poor you. Lesson learned, huh?

  Is that the girl who is always posting shite on your FB wall?

  Yeah . . . she’s sweet, but does do my head in sometimes. She’s currently eating the face off some twat so I said “later” and fucked off.

  So you on your way home?

  No, I’m hovering around outside, dithering, because I am incapable of making a decision on my own. But you don’t need to know that.

  Will be soon when my uber shows up.

  Ugh. Uber. Let me know where you are

  so I can keep track of you,

  so you don’t end up being trafficked

  to Lithuania or something.

  Aww. She’s seen actual pictures of me, and she still thinks I might be a victim of sex trafficking. That’s quite sweet, if you think about it.

  K. Hang on . . . location pin sent!

  :) Awesome. Now go get your Uber, Batgirl!

  :)

  Talk about misrepresentation, because the last thing I feel is “smiley face.” “Slightly terrified face” is more like it. I tuck my phone back into my bag and actually consider walking home, which, coming from a fat chick, is saying something. I could call an Uber but I’d probably have to wait a few more minutes for one to show up, and there are a lot of ordinary taxis already here, parked up like shining beetles. Might as well just grab one of them.

  I have nothing against taxi drivers. I’m sure the vast majority of them are lovely. And I’m positive that, even if their intentions were less than pure, they’re hardly going to go for me when there are hordes of scantily-clad drunk girls around. Still, approaching the line of cars is nerve-racking.

  I try to remember the advice from those safety videos we watched in school. Look confident. Don’t look like a victim. Head up, shoulders back. Only not that much, because it makes you look like someone with a botched boob job trying to join the Ministry of Silly Walks. Relax. Relax. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people are probably doing what you’re doing now, and they’re all fine. So be fine.

  I sort of totter over, and instead of asking confidently if he’s available, I do that “Uh, you? Yeah. Great. Thanks mate,” thing.

  The cab driver is a middle-aged bald bloke, and I know without looking at his badge that he’s called Steve or Bob or Dave. I get in the back (screw getting in the front; he might try to engage me in conversation, and the last thing I need tonight is A Proper Englishman’s Perspective on Brexit), give him my address, and fish my phone out again, hoping he’ll take the hint.

  He doesn’t.

  “You have a nice night, love?”

  Urrrgh. Love. Why? For all he knows, I’m a militant feminist kickboxer who could punch his Adam’s apple right out of his throat.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You on your own?”

  I stare at my phone for a bit before giving in. “Yeah. My friend lives on the other side of town.”

  “Oh, right. Student?”

  Oh, for God’s sake, enough with the questions! I just want to ride the ten minutes home in uncomfortable silence, then mutter “Cheers, mate” as I tip you. Is that so hard?

  “Yeah. She’s in halls.”

  “Ahh, you’re not though?”

  I bite back a sigh. “No. I live at home.”

  “Sensible. Life’s expensive these days. All those university fees. Weren’t like that in my day. Only the brainboxes went, rest of us went out and made a proper livin’, you know, payin’ our way. But then everyone got told they were a special snowflake and could be anything they wanted.” He says that in a singsong voice. “And all of a sudden everyone wants to go and study fucking pointless things like media studies and women’s studies and psychology, you know what I mean? What you studying?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Oh.”

  He stares at the traffic lights for a bit.

  Well, at least he’s stopped talking. I don’t think I could cope with the inevitable immigrant rant that I could sense was coming next—

  “Of course, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem if it wasn’t for all those bloody immigrants . . .”

  I sigh inwardly. Is it too late to put on a Polish accent?

  29: #soblessed

  I smile and nod and grimace the rest of the way home. Steve or Bob or Dave has two kids and a baby grandson, as well as strong opinions on everything that’s wrong with this once proud country, including people under the age of twenty-five (his daughter not withstanding), students, the Liberal Elite (which seems to be anyone who can count without using their fingers), and those benefit scroungers like the ones you see on TV. It’s all quite horrifying, but I still give him a tip at the end of the journey, because I’m nothing if not terribly British and therefore fear any kind of confrontation, ever.

  “Oh, cheers love,” he says when I give it to him. “You enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?”

  Okay, maybe he is taking the piss after all.

  The house is silent when I go inside. Thankfully, Mum remembered not to put the chain on, or I’d be forced to sleep on the front step.

  I don’t turn any lights on. I don’t need to. Since Dad ran off, nothing ever gets moved around. The whole house is trapped in a time warp. Before, Mum was always shifting things, complaining that she hated the house, forever peering into estate agent windows, picking out what, to me at least, looked like near-identical houses to the one we already live in. But after Dad left, all of that stopped.

  Everything stopped.

  An eerie, flickering light plays along the corridor wall, telling me the TV’s still on. I poke my head around the door. Mum’s asleep on the sofa, covered in her blanket. I tiptoe over, fumble around for the remote, and turn the TV off. The room is plunged into darkness. Mum fidgets in her sleep. I hold my breath. She does not wake.

  Relief washes through me, and then I feel bad. I shouldn’t dread my own mother waking up. But I do, even if it is simply because life is easier when she’s asleep.

  I creep upstairs and log in.

  So you got home safe and are not on your way to Lithuania? The night’s a success!

  I have to laugh at that, and instantly feel a bit better.

  Yep, home safe. There was this one moment when they tried to stuff me in the boot, but I fought them off with my mad ninja skills and then ran over the rooftops until I got home ^_^

  Lol! Did you chuck poison-tipped throwing stars at them while you disappeared off into the night?

  You know it! Cos I have such good aim and everything :P

  *imagining bastard taxi drivers gurgling in the gutter with throwing stars embedded in their necks while Beth runs off in her catsuit, two katanas slung over her back*

  Something swells in my chest, and I can’t help but grin.

  You wanna play on Twitter?

  Ahh, T
witter rampages. They’re always fun. I imagine my targets are the hyenas from the club, and it feels so good. But out of nowhere my mind switches to Amy, the Oblivious Beautiful Person, and suddenly I’m not so sure. I don’t want to disappoint Tori. But still, no matter how hard I try to smother it to death with Twixes, that horrible, nagging feeling—that I don’t actually know these people, so who am I to judge?—keeps gnawing at me, and for the first time since I met Tori, I go to bed feeling less than euphoric.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Must be the booze.

  ***

  As it happens, Amy did cop off with Scruffy. His name was Dylan. I say was because he disappeared Saturday morning, and she hasn’t heard hide nor hair of him since. She is, naturally, devastated, meaning I’ve had to lay off the first-years are fresh meat comments. To be honest, it’s enough to make me glad I’m not attractive in any way, shape, or form. Why would anyone want to put themselves through it? It borders on the masochistic, if you ask me.

  Turns out, I give good hugs. After some tears and “What’s wrong with me?”s and “He’s such a fucking bastard!”s, she bounces back quickly enough.

  The days turn to weeks, and before I know it, a month’s flown by. It’s okay, though; by day, I go to lectures and spend most of my lunchtimes at Amy’s. By night, I’m with Tori and her whole host of wonderful sockpuppets. I never thought I’d say this, but life ain’t too bad. Dad even calls a few times and tries to sort something out for Christmas; we’re invited to his place, which would be a first. Mum’s not invited, though, so I don’t think I’ll go.

  The only real fly in my ointment is a certain Denise Reitman. Yep, the lovely Dizzy, with her superior attitude and inability to treat Amy like a human being. The final straw is when one of her tops gets caught up in Amy’s laundry and she accuses Amy of nicking it. Of course, Amy’s done nothing of the sort—it was a genuine mistake—but Dizzy makes Amy cry, and so Dizzy must pay. With any luck, she’ll also lead me straight to that sniffy bitch Indigo too, and I’ll have both the Poison Twins in my sights. A little thrill chases its way down my spine. Revenge is like ice cream—very sweet and best served cold.