M Word Page 3

  I stroke my tat.

  I’m given my first assignment, to be completed before the class starts next week. What, I actually have to do some work without any time to test the waters? Got to take a ‘scene from a Shakespeare play and use it to inspire a piece that sums up your artistic vision’. Eh? I’d rather lick a dog’s paw. Bet Alexander Lee McQueen didn’t have to do this kind of guff.

  That night I know I should be ploughing through famous Shakespeare scenes for my assignment, but honestly, who giveth a fucketh? How’s Shakespeare going to help with anything? Suddenly my mind’s hissing, What’s the point in doing this course? Bad thought on day one.

  I read job pages on my phone instead. Not for me. Who employs seventeen-year-olds with zero enthusiasm? Anyway, most of the jobs are shit. Everyone’s looking for nannies or skivvies. Crap pay, grubby conditions. Think Mum’s past cleaning rich people’s crumbs. Tons of taxi-driver jobs; driving drunk pervs around night after night? Erm, no thanks. For everything else you need to have a brain the size of a watermelon. There are a few things that could test her talents though.

  ‘Bar job here,’ I go.

  She doesn’t even look up from the TV.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What about a bar job?’

  ‘What about it?’ she goes.

  God, it’s like talking to a coma victim with a fag dangling from their lips.

  ‘As a job possibility,’ I go.

  She crushes her cigarette into the ashtray. They should extend the smoking ban to houses. I’m calling it for what it is: a form of child abuse.

  ‘Who’s looking for bar workers?’

  ‘The Mint.’

  Mum scoffs.

  ‘Wouldn’t even step foot in that place, never mind work there,’ she goes.

  ‘It’s just a job.’

  ‘Why do you think they’re always looking for bar staff, Maggie?’

  ‘Erm … Cos they have jobs on offer?’

  ‘No, because the Mint is a zoo.’

  She lights another; smoke streams from her nostrils. No joke, it’d drive you to a sick bag. I scroll down.

  ‘What about something in childcare?’ I go.

  ‘That’s what I do every day now, is it not?’ She gives me this brazen sideways glance. I tense my legs, scrunch my toes. Cheeky mare! She’s lucky I don’t stub that fag out in her ear. Suddenly I have two choices: attack or scroll. I’m only trying to help. I could easily rip into her about having enough money to buy those cancer canes, but I don’t, do I?

  I read on.

  But let’s get one thing straight, I’m pure raging.

  ‘Job here for a gym receptionist.’

  ‘Too old.’

  I keep my eyes on the phone. ‘Here’s one in a sandwich factory.’ Mum switches the TV channel. Four in a Bed. Seriously? ‘Oh, wait … never mind, it’s miles away.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve looked at the jobs page, Maggie?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘I have. There’s nothing for forty-something ex-dinner ladies.’

  ‘Wow! Share some of that positivity, why don’t you.’

  ‘I’ve filled in all the online forms, sent my CV to agencies. There are no jobs around here, Maggie.’

  ‘So, what’re we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll cope,’ she goes.

  ‘That’s it? That’s what we’ll do?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll cope.’ She blows two smoke rings towards the ceiling. ‘Isn’t that what we do?’

  I know she’s talking about me; good deflection, Mum.

  ‘Yeah, we cope,’ I go, pushing my phone inside my jeans pocket.

  ‘Right, can I watch this now?’

  ‘Who’s stopping you?’

  It’s a bad day when you’re being snubbed for Four in a Fucking Bed and a packet of fags.

  We’ll cope.

  Totally looks like it.

  I look online at famous Shakespeare scenes. Glare at the words. Read them again and again. And I thought University Challenge was brain-melt! Honestly, may as well be Norwegian I’m reading. If ever they want to cure insomnia, look no further than this activity. Thing is, I think most teachers haven’t a clue either. Bet Anna does though; maybe I could ask her what that soliloquy in act five, scene six of Macbeth is all about. As if I care.

  Shit, it’s Anna again tomorrow. She’ll want to talk about my inner balance or some other claptrap.

  Can’t wait.

  Singer

  I want to throttle her. Pounce on her like a mad puma or something. God, being in a sesh on ‘unresolved feelings’ is like sitting through an are-we-nearly-there-yet? car journey. Anna’s fruit-looping her head off cos she thinks my current state of being is to punch shit out of people if I don’t like the cut of them. Normal behaviour, apparently. I’m moving from stage one to stage two. That’s right, people, grief has stages. Some say seven, others say only five. There’s loads on Dr Google that says it’s all a pile of pish though.

  Don’t worry, Anna, the only punches I’ve been throwing are metaphorical ones, usually at myself.

  She swishes through her office, flapping her arms around like the world’s worst figure skater, to ‘ease floating tension’. I sit, preferring to lure all my tension towards my arse region and down through the seat. She’s delighted, pure hand-rubbing her excitement whenever I go see her, desperate to wring that grief right out of my bones.

  I’ll never tell her everything though. Are you daft? I like to distract her with trivialities instead.

  ‘Listen, Maggie, it’s insignificant if people don’t like the clothes you wear. Who’s interested?’

  ‘Me, that’s who.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you see lots of people wearing clothes you don’t like?’

  ‘Yeah, like maxi dresses,’ I go.

  ‘Maxi dresses? I don’t see them as being an issue.’

  ‘Can’t stand them, that’s the issue.’

  ‘You do know I’m wearing one now?’

  Really?

  Course I know; could probably camp in it.

  ‘But you’re not squeezed into it, are you?’ I go.

  ‘Does my dress annoy you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it make you want to lash out?’

  I’m convinced Anna thinks I’m a complete psycho. She’s almost dribbling at the prospect of me saying yes.

  ‘No,’ I go. ‘It’s those big women who wear them over their fake tans that gets right on my …’

  ‘Which makes you want to challenge them?’

  ‘Only when they look at me as if they’re God’s gift to fashion.’

  Happy to be talking about clothes and style as opposed to ‘unresolved feelings’. I spend the sesh clock-watching. Yawnathon. Think Anna just enjoys a good chinwag now and again. She’d talk the hind legs off the Grand National line-up. Not sure if this is a grief-counselling tactic. If so, I’m on to her.

  ‘OK, we’ve come to time,’ she goes, which means we have two minutes at the end of the sesh for ‘silent recap’ (recrap). Anna’s moment to sit with her lids down and breathe loudly. I’m supposed to do the same.

  ‘Let’s silently recap.’ She shuts her eyes.

  I close mine tight. Think deeply.

  C’mon, Maggie, deeper.

  Try to reach her.

  C’mon, Maggie, deeper than that.

  Try to find her.

  Deeper, Maggie, FFS.

  Deep …

  And then she appears; an apparition decked out in Primark.

  Face beaming.

  Back to that time it was all clouds and candy for her:

  ‘You should see him, Mags, he’s a total babe,’ she went.

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ I went.

  ‘He can drive but he’s not got a car yet – he borrows his cousin’s sometimes. Said he’ll take me up Loch Lomond in it one day.’

  ‘Bet he will.’

  ‘It’s a silver one.’

&
nbsp; ‘What, his tongue?’

  ‘The car!’

  ‘I don’t get it, Moya …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So, you met on Instagram?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. He’s related to one of my neighbours – the one who’s got the car.’

  ‘Handy.’

  ‘He commented on some of my Insta stories, then he posted some of his tats, then we started WhatsApping, then I sent him some photos, then we arranged to meet. So we met. He’s dead nice, Mags.’

  ‘Wait … what, you sent him photos?’ I went.

  ‘Only two.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Just a half boob and knickers, nothing major – it was only the top of the knickers and a bit of nipple.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Moya. I’m pure mortos for you.’

  ‘Calm it! I didn’t put my face to them.’

  ‘Brave woman, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘He’s not a dick.’

  ‘That’s not a virtue.’

  ‘It’s just fun, Mags. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing at this age.’

  ‘So, you actually met?’

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘God, your face! You’ve done it with him, haven’t you?’

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘Moya!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could play a tiny bit hard to get.’

  ‘Then I don’t get what I want, do I?’

  ‘Yeah, but, you know, there’s easy and there’s effortless.’

  ‘OK, Mother Superior.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He just left school last year. Says he’s got a few things up his sleeve. But he’s always loaded and wears really cool gear. You should see his trainers.’

  ‘You sound pure loved-up, Moya,’ I went.

  She grinned, fluttered her lashes. OK, so he might not have been a dick, but he failed the Instagram perv test with distinction. Mean, who posts their tats to teenagers?

  I was happy for her, I was. Just hard to feel crazy joy for your mate who’s out riding rings around herself, butter-legging it on date one.

  When I reopen my eyes reality kicks in again, Anna’s staring at me, mouth wide. She nods her head. And suddenly we’re meant to feel better.

  I don’t.

  Oh, see that little art-school Shakespeare assignment? Well, turns out it isn’t so little after all; more purgatory than assignment. Got to be done in collaboration, in groups of four. Gone is the notion of Me, My, I. Now it’s Us, Our, We, and I’m locked into a WhatsApp gaggle with a bunch of outsiders. Magic! Talk about stranger danger.

  You can just tell from their names that we don’t swing from the same monkey bars. I’d wager that Alfie and Davis each had their own playroom growing up, which became a den, then a study zone and now, most likely, a wanking wing. And, don’t laugh, but there’s someone called Plum. Unsure of the gender. Very sure the parents are a right couple of twartists though. Mean, what kind of child abusers call their kid after an easily bruised fruit?

  Davis messaged the group suggesting we all meet up to talk about the assignment. Where do you think he suggested?

  Library? Wrong.

  Art school studio? No.

  Bar? Fat chance.

  No, this Davis person suggested we all meet in the foyer of Cineworld. I know, right? My knob-alert siren is blaring. Apparently, he and Alfie want to go watch some dick-flick later.

  So after the head-clamping sesh with Anna, I hot-step it to Cineworld with all the zeal of an escort who’s off to see Big Bob the Banker. I wear my Hatful of Hollow T-shirt and cardie to look more studenty and, also, to hide my cash-flow situation. Doubt they’ll be into the Smiths anyway.

  The three of them are sitting around a table, chatting away like they’re old friends. I recognise the two guys from their WhatsApp pics. Plum is female. The three of them are actually having a conversation and laughing. Like, really listening to each other. Weirdos. Maybe Moya was right about art school.

  When they clock me, all chinwagging stops; their eyes lock, sketching me top to bottom. My chest wants to combust. I sense myself shrinking and want to melt into the ground like that green witch from The Wizard of Oz. Davis stands. I cross one foot over the other.

  ‘Maggie?’ he goes.

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, trying to sound cool.

  ‘Great T-shirt,’ he goes.

  And in that instant, I fancy him. No Instagram half-nipple photo required, just one person standing in front of the other. Smiling, being normal. I flick my head and kind of girlie laugh. I’d punch myself if I could.

  ‘Oh, this?’ I go, secretly chuffed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘These guys are Alfie and Plum.’

  Plum puts her hand out for me to shake. I feel slightly embarrassed; it’s as if we’re playing at being adults. My skin’s clammy. Moya’s laughter rattles around my head when our palms touch.

  ‘Hi,’ Plum goes, very mousey, as awkward as me.

  ‘All right, Maggie?’ Alfie goes, saluting me. Actually saluting.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I go, sitting at the table. ‘Have I missed anything?’

  ‘We were just chatting about music and bands and shit,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘Really?’ I go, eyes wide.

  ‘See,’ Davis says, ‘Alfie and me have been talking about starting a band since we were small …’

  ‘You two know each other?’ I go.

  ‘Best mates,’ they say in unison.

  ‘Oh,’ I go.

  ‘And Plum’s his girlfriend,’ Davis goes.

  Plum looks mortos while Alfie puts on a cock-of-the-walk grin; pure delighted that he’s managed to bag a bird.

  ‘Strange that you all go to the same art school?’ I go.

  ‘Yeah, mad, innit?’ Davis goes.

  My thoughts jump to inbreeding.

  ‘Yeah, that is mad,’ I go. They smile and nod to one another. ‘So, anyone got any ideas about this Shakespeare thing?’

  Silence. Confusion. Am I at the wrong meeting?

  ‘I was thinking we could maybe look at costume design,’ I add.

  Alfie and Davis laugh.

  ‘Naw, fuck that,’ Alfie says. ‘Let’s talk about starting a band. A proper one.’

  Plum purses her lips; think she wants to apologise.

  ‘Really?’ I go.

  ‘Yeah, that Shakespeare stuff can wait,’ Davis says.

  ‘I’d love to be in a band one day,’ I lie.

  Well, half lie. It would be kinda cool.

  ‘Wait,’ Alfie goes, looking at the others. ‘Can you chant, Maggie?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can you sing?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ Davis goes. ‘I mean, you’re halfway there with that T-shirt on. Any fan of the Smiths is welcome in our band.’

  ‘Totally,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘So, Maggie, can you sing or what?’ Davis goes.

  I think I can. I know I can. I’m good, decent. Mean, I can hold a tune. Mum once said that I should go on The X Factor. I know it was after she’d rattled a bottle of Pinot Noir into herself, but she was serious. The X Factor? Shove that.

  ‘It might be nice to have another girl in the band,’ Plum goes.

  What’s just happened? One minute I’m thinking Shakespeare scenes and costume design, trying not to come across as a thicko, and the next I’m being thrust into the role of lead singer in an unnamed band. Got to love life sometimes.

  They’re actually mulling it over, totally examining my body. Feel like screaming, ‘Hey, I’m not here for a fucking modelling job.’

  ‘I think you should do it,’ Davis goes.

  ‘Absolutely, you should,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘It might be an enjoyable experience,’ Plum adds.

  Sometimes peer pressure is so comforting.

  This Davis guy wants to start a two-girl-two-boy band. Suddenly I’m
thinking, This could work. Me and three strangers, who’ve no idea about my baggage, could possibly function. An alternative therapy. Is the universe trying to soothe me? Can’t help but love that. Mean, who doesn’t want to be in a band?

  ‘You haven’t heard me sing yet. I might be utter crap,’ I go.

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ Alfie says to the others. ‘She could be tone deaf.’

  ‘Tone deaf?’ I go. ‘I’m anything but.’

  ‘There you go,’ Davis goes. ‘She’s a chanter.’

  ‘OK,’ Alfie says. ‘Cool with me.’

  ‘I think it’ll work out,’ Plum adds, giving me the don’t-leave-me-with-these-two-numpties eyes.

  ‘OK, I’m in!’ I go. ‘What kind of band are you thinking of?’

  ‘Like Take That after Robbie left, but with two girls,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘Take That are shit,’ Davis states.

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ Plum goes.

  ‘I thought you’d be thinking of something a bit edgier,’ I go. ‘Indie stuff.’

  ‘No, we are. Totally are,’ Davis says, slapping Alfie on the shoulder. ‘Don’t listen to him.’

  ‘Edgy pop,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘No pop,’ Davis says.

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ Plum goes.

  ‘What do you play, Plum?’ I go.

  The lads laugh. Plum shuffles uncomfortably, as if I’ve just asked if she wants to have a threesome. Davis takes me through all the instruments in Plum’s repertoire; she’s like a one-woman orchestra – you name it, she plays it. Girl’s a freak of nature.

  ‘Right, so, we’re not playing pop,’ I go. ‘Agreed?’ I think they’re taken aback by my brazenness, just waltzing in with my creative demands. Doing a pure Yoko. But what’s the point of being a lead singer if I can’t voice my opinion?

  No one speaks.

  ‘So, indie band then?’ I go. ‘Agreed?’

  Still nothing.

  I wait for a response, give them eyes.

  ‘Agreed,’ Davis goes.

  ‘Agreed,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Plum goes.

  ‘So, no piss-poor pop. Only stuff with attitude and V-signs,’ I go, reinforcing my point.

  I’ve bagged my role of the hot, sexy, sweaty singer; Karen O from Yeah Yeah Yeahs springs to mind. Alfie’s on drums; exactly where you stick those with shadows on their brain, isn’t it? Jury’s still out on Alfie in that regard. Davis is on guitar; he can play lots of Beatles and Smiths songs, but insultingly bad, apparently. Plum will be left to do everything else: bass, piano bits and strings. I’m glad to be the singer. Can’t afford an instrument, nor can I play one.