Fishnet Read Free Page A

shots of lurid liquid, whooping, coughing as it caught the backs of our throats, chemical on our tongues. We were wearing the sashes over our regulation pink tonight, like beauty queens, HEATHERZ HENZ . Down the hatch, girls, someone might say if they were feeling particularly enthusiastic, and they were, and it was Samira this time.
    Claire trailed behind us, features submerged under layers of powder and foundation that the other henz had forced on her after a few drinks at the cottage.
    â€˜C’mon honey, you’d look so much better with a wee bit lippy. We’ll give you a makeover.’
    She’d clucked out a protest, but they’d closed in round her wielding the old lanolin smell of their makeup bags.
    The borrowed pink and silver vest top was stretched to bursting over Claire’s wide, flat torso, tucked into her own black school-style trousers and hiking boots. Claire had a dodgy knee, sometimes, from years of athletics. She’d taken the makeup butrefused to wear heels. My aching idiot feet admired her for that.
    â€˜And now it’s time for Brenda’s hens to get on the dance floor for The Slosh! Come on girls. Let. Me. See. You. Moooove .’
    That last a throaty purr, so close to the microphone that you could hear the catarrh in his gullet. The other hen party squealed and roared and clattered on strappy sandals to the dance floor. It’s always older women who do the Slosh. Sort of thing I can imagine my Mum getting up to at a wedding or something, red faced, kicking off her shoes and clutching on to my aunty Linda. They looked genuinely happy, all of them beaming with it, helping each other into lines, folding each other’s outhanging bra straps back into their huge sparkly tops.
    â€˜Alright ladieeeez , get ready to Slosh it up!’
    They were counting, faces stern with concentration as the country tune wheedled its way out, and you could see them all mouthing the way they’d been taught it, years back: one-two-three-kick-back-two-three-clap-right-two-three-heel!-back-two-three-under-TURN-TURN-TURN-and-one-two-three-
    I finished my chaser quickly and made a decision to get very drunk indeed. Someone tapped my arm, pressed gently, two fingers. I tried to shake it off, as you do in nightclubs, but it continued. I turned round; it was one of the older men, the prowlers.
    He raised a glance at me.
    â€˜How you doing, darlin. Missed seeing you around the while, eh?’
    His hot nicotine breath on my face.
    I shook myself free and moved quickly back to where women were.
    Heather came tottering over. We’d dressed her in a white basque and pink fishnet stockings tonight, veil, tiara and a pink garter to hang her L-plates off. The men were watching her from their corners, watching her wobble and shake. She grabbed Samira and me, one under each arm. The bitter smell of her perfume and sweat.
    â€˜Mah oldest friends, and I love yis!’ she screamed, heraccent thickening, as Samira kissed her back. ‘And listen Fiona, listen,ˆAh know we’re not seeing that much of you these days, but it’s always the fuckin three of us, isn’t it? Three whatsit, muskahounds!’
    She leaned heavy on my shoulder to take the weight off her heels, curled a lip at the Sloshers.
    â€˜God, would you look at the state of them.’
    â€˜Come on, Hedge,’ Samira said. ‘They’re loving it.’
    â€˜I hope when I’m that age I’ve got the decency to stay out of nightclubs, eh!’
    Two younger guys, pressed into dun-coloured shirts, had come in and a couple of the henz had already begun the signalling process: smile, look away, giggle to each other, look back, stomachs sucked right in.
    Kelly, the one with the darkest tan and the French-polished nails, the skinniest, tapped Heather on the shoulder, took a breath in as she prepared to shout. ‘We’re gonny do a showcase of our own, wee wifey. No point in paying for dancing classes