‘Argh,’ she yelps, rubbing her leg and stumbling to gather her phones, her bag, her coat from the back of her swivel chair, knowing only that she must make for the double doors.
Down the stairs, not knowing where she’s going or why, she tells herself she definitely won’t be responding to that one. There’s an end to it. That message, she thinks, lighting a cigarette on the station steps, so characteristically pinched and formal. Her only response must be an arctic silence, laced with disappointment.
Soon, when the cigarette has been sucked down to its orange stump, she’s digging into her bag, a frenzy of fingers and thumbs, through furious tears which fall freely all over the little screen.
You’ll have a long fucking wait then, dick wipe cock sucking shit for brains.
The buzzer goes and she lifts herself from the bed. The room – the whole flat – is in darkness and she switches on the lights as she makes her way to the handset beside the front door.
‘Halloooo!’ says Bryony’s voice. ‘We’re here to take you out.’
Manon doesn’t reply, but presses the button to let them in. She leaves the door open and sits on the sofa, pulling a blanket around her shoulders as Bryony and Davy clatter in, on a wave of cold air from outside.
‘Listen, he’s a prick,’ says Bryony, ‘top totty like you.’
‘He might still change his mind,’ says Davy, who seems back to his old self.
‘Davy,’ says Bryony. ‘Let’s not give the patient false hope.’
‘Why do none of my relationships work out?’ says Manon.
‘None of mine have either,’ says Bryony. ‘I just happen to have married the latest one.’
‘That tosser’s left a space for someone better, that’s what I think,’ says Davy.
‘I love you, Davy,’ says Manon.
‘Come on,’ says Bryony. ‘You need a drink. To Cromwell’s!’
‘Urgh, please. Can’t we just stay here and watch Failure to Launch?’
‘Nope, and we are not taking you wrapped in a blanket,’ says Bryony, pushing Manon on the shoulder, which fells her to the sofa like a chopped tree. ‘Go and get your glad rags on.’
‘I’ll have a quick tidy-up,’ says Davy. ‘Where are your Marigolds?’
Bryony puts the Scissor Sisters on the stereo and leads Manon into the bedroom.
‘Smells like something died in here,’ she says. ‘Have you been lying on the bed crying and farting?’
Manon nods.
Bryony makes the bed and opens a window, and they select an outfit – a black tunic dress, tights, and knee-high boots – after which Bryony sits Manon down on a chair to do her makeup. Davy is clattering about in the kitchen, putting away dishes from the sounds of it. Manon has her eyes closed and feels the soft push and tickle of an eyeshadow brush, the sweet scent of Bryony’s breath, and her hand on her forehead.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she says.
‘Shurrup,’ says Bryony.
Three-quarters of an hour later, they’re assembled by the front door.
‘How does she look?’ asks Bryony.
‘Million dollars,’ says Davy, smiling at her.
‘Davy,’ says Manon, ‘this place looks amazing.’
‘Well, there’s nothing like a tidy-up to lift your spirits, is there?’
Manon can feel her face crumpling and Bryony notices, saying, ‘Hey, hey, come on, don’t spoil your makeup.’
The first drink, in the darkness of the bar, is like nectar. Manon begins to feel things loosen and dissipate. Who cares? What does it matter? Things pass!
‘Fuck it!’ she says, raising her glass to Bryony.
‘Fuck it, indeed,’ says Bryony, raising hers back.
By the second drink, she is grateful to Alan for releasing her from the hell of suburban convention. All that domesticity. ‘So booorrrrring,’ she says to Bryony.
‘Bor-ring,’ says Bryony.
‘He wants to be friends. Texted to tell me. I mean, all of a sudden he’s Texts R Us. Friends! What is that shit?’
‘Dunno,’ says Bryony. ‘I always thought a good break-up meant never speaking to the person again, except when armed with scissors or in open court.’
‘Zactly!’
She surveys the usual suspects: Colin, Stuart, Kim, and Nigel (having a quick half before getting back to ‘the lovely Dawn’).
‘The inspirational Dawn,’ whispers Bryony.
‘The irrefutable Dawn,’ says Manon.
‘The seriously fucking knackered Dawn,’ says Bryony.
‘Twins woke at 4 a.m. this morning,’ says Nigel, visibly depressed and gazing into his drink.
Another reason to celebrate, thinks Manon, and orders another double at the bar. Thick and fast they come, bought by others or bought by her. She thinks life is best passed in a blur: imprecise and anaesthetised from the sharper feelings. She is drowning as the gin engulfs her, swaying on the spot, the room spinning, the music pumping in time with the blood in her arteries. She can feel the beat through the soles of her feet.
Stuart is smiling, glittering at her dangerously. They appear to have been talking for some time. Bryony is nowhere to be seen.