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Fried Scampi From Hell
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4
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'Don't be daft,' she says, 'It's nice - honest.'
'Naa,' I say 'Canny be bared.' It's our short hand for 'I cannot
be bothered.'
Before we leave we sneak into her mum's bedroom and spray ourselves
with perfume from the dresser. I try Charlie and she pumps Liberty
behind both ears and then down her front. We are sniggering and
the flowery scent hits the back of my throat, making me cough.
'Bye Mum,' Vicky shouts from the kitchen, as she opens the back door.
'Aww, come on in and give us a fashion parade first,' her mum yells
back over the News at Ten music.
'Sorry, gotta rush,' shouts Vicky, pulling a face at me as we step
out into the blustery night. I feel relieved that I don't have to do
a twirl while Mr Worthington sucks on his pipe and Vicky's mum says
'Ooh, gals about town eh? Out in your glad rags tonight.' Then she
always says the other stuff. 'Just you watch those boys Vicky.
They're only after one thing and believe me chuck, it's not your
brains. You know what your gran always said. If you can't be good
be extra, extra careful.'
We can here the thump of the music as we round the street corner.
The windows are filled with condensation and from outside all the
Christmas lights seem to have wee halos.
'You go first,' says Vicky.
'No, you.' I say and then I give in, knowing we could spend ages
in the cold. I walk a shoulder in front of her but it hits us both
in the same moment. Music so loud it tingles all over, like we just
jumped into deep water. Warm air, heavy with the smell of smoke and
beer and polished wooden floors. I order the cider and the barmaid
says nothing. Vicky slips me 50p at thigh level to pay for hers.
I think she looks pretty in the low lights with her make up on.
'Seat, seat, seat,' she says through gritted teeth in a kind of
false grin and I know we will both feel better if we can find a
place to sit down.
'Over there,' I say and we get a corner bench in front of a round
table. It's one of those copper ones with the dimpled metal effect
and it reminds me of Vicky with the meat mallet, whacking her
derriere as she sometimes calls it.
On the dance floor a few of the girls from school are dancing in
huddled groups. They look really different here, away from double
maths and pack lunches. Sort of glamorous like they're on TV.
Gillian Stewart is wearing new stretch Wrangler's and her lips
are shiny with lip gloss. Only Jane McKinley looks out of place.
Her white bra is glowing luminous beneath a yellow T shirt under the
disco lights. It's one of those big corsety bras like someone's
Auntie would wear. Vicky and I smile at each other as if we have
just narrowly avoided disaster.
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5