Precious Thing Read Free Page B

fat bald pillars on either side of the door.
    ‘Evening,’ says the shorter of the two with a gold-tooth smile. He pulls the door open and I am inside.
    The air is liquid. Sticky. It runs down my back, seeps into my pores. The change, from outside to in, is so sudden it sends me swimming. I try concentrating to steady myself but my eyes can’t hold on to anything. The room is a sea of blue and pink and green lanterns and fairy lights which nod in and out of focus. I reach for the nearest table to steady myself. I know you won’t leave me here with the two of them. But still, I want to turn round, go to your flat and drag you off your sick bed, just to be sure. The only thing that stops me is my bladder, which is ready to burst. And in the toilets, waiting for the two-at-a-time girls to come out and reapply their lip gloss, I give myself a talking-to.
She’ll come, she wouldn’t dare not turn up. Have a drink. Relax
. That’s what you always said wasn’t it? ‘Relax, Rachel.’ So I take your advice.
    I’m waiting at the bar. There is no queue to speak of, more of a mob shouting to be served. I can feel the mass of a belly against my back, soft and wide. It pushes and jostles me and it has a voice which shouts above my head, ‘Becks, mate,’ to the barman, who is busy with someone else and doesn’t even look up. The voice tries again, this time louder, angrier. Then the shout stops and is replaced by a yelp not unlike a dog’s. The heel of one of my Louboutins has found its way on to a foot and is grinding down. It must be his. You told me I was mad to pay that much for them. I always knew they were worth the money. The barman looks and me and then to the guy behind me and I wink.
    ‘A peach Bellini, please.’
    ‘Happy hour finishes in –’ he looks to the clock above the bar – ‘in two minutes. You want two of those?’ The barman’s hair is not unlike a cloud around his head, thick and long and bouffant with curls.
    ‘It would be rude not to.’ I smile. The voice behind has started shouting again. I think he will miss happy hour. I think he knows it.
    I take my Bellinis and move down the bar away from the crowds. I drain the first glass in minutes and wait for the alcohol to soften my edges. It does, quickly. I breathe. Deep. My shoulders sag, the tension in my head is released by degrees. I look around, my eyes seeking you out at tables, in dark corners of the room. I look to the door. I think I see your shape coming through it countless times only to realise it is someone else.
    I’m trying to call you again when I’m interrupted by a voice so loud it reaches above the music and thunders across the room. All of a sudden I’m back at St Gregory’s and the same voice, powering across the school yard, makes me small. I look around again and see her and suddenly I am glad I came. Sarah Pitts, the prettiest girl in the school, has moved a few dress sizes in the wrong direction. I laugh to myself, remembering how she used to swear blind ice cream had no calories in it because it melts. If I’m honest it looks like someone has taken her old school face, pumped it up with a balloon and covered it in thick, orange make-up. Her bobbed hair is bottle-blond and ends abruptly at her jawline. ‘Ghosty’ she used to call me and told everyone you could see through my skin to my blue veins. Oh I remember that now and I’m smiling inside. I’m smiling inside and out.
    ‘Oh my God, Rachel, it’s you.’ She gives me a prod. ‘We’ve seen you on TV so much, and now you’re here. We couldn’t believe it was really you when we saw you, you looked nothing like you used to. You’re so polished these days and you are TINY, isn’t she Debs, how did you lose all that weight? I need some tips,’ she says and with her thumb and her index finger she pinches a roll of fat on her stomach to prove her point. I remember how that felt, the desire to be thin. Now we have swapped places.
    Sarah doesn’t stop talking