Viral, page 4
Ruth barely noticed the baby growing inside her during this battle, which troubled Bernie. ‘Perhaps you should rest,’ he said when she arrived home at 11 after a television interview in London. A man of playful games and gentle hobbies, his latest was growing vegetables in glasses of water. That night, he was tending the lettuce stump he’d resurrected from the compost bin.
‘Perhaps you should stop resting.’ Ruth mostly appreciated Bernie’s ability to remain calm, but calmness would not get Su back and the sight of the lettuce stump made her livid. ‘Why are you faffing about with that? They cost 30p, Bernard!’
‘Because I don’t want to die of stress. And I don’t want you or our unborn baby to either.’
Ruth grabbed the jar from Bernie and tossed it in the bin, lettuce stump, water and all.
Ruth didn’t check her pants for blood every couple of hours like she did with the last six pregnancies. She didn’t go to the doctor with every twinge. Didn’t pray, ‘Please God let it be okay this time.’ She felt no fear and no anticipation. She wasn’t unhappy about it, just distracted, obsessed perhaps, but who wouldn’t be?
She was on the phone to one of the lawyers she’d hired when her waters broke. The lawyer had just come out of a hearing with Bernie and they had some amazing news. A contraction made her drop the phone, and she felt intensely annoyed that she had to wait till it subsided to call him back.
She’d won the case. Su would be returned home.
Now, if anyone asks Ruth what labour is like, she tells them it’s bloody brilliant.
Baby Su was nine months old when she was returned to her home by a new social worker (also a dimwit). Su looked grotesquely large against her tiny new-born sister, and much darker than Ruth remembered. Ruth handed Leah to her husband after answering the door. She took possession of Su and refused to let her go for weeks, even sleeping with her in the spare bed. She would never lose her again.
The battle for Su’s return caused so much distress that Ruth would never know if she also had postnatal depression after giving birth to Leah. The only thing she felt certain of at the time was that her white baby did not seem to need her, and that she was scared of it.
*
Ruth wasn’t scared of Leah now. She sat upright on the end of the bed and took two deep breaths. She needed information. She could not afford to anger the witness. ‘Tell me exactly what happened yesterday, in order, and in great detail, starting from noon.’
Chapter Five
Pension Paula is in the busy Ramblas area of Barcelona. I’d give it a star for location if I was inclined to mooch or feel happy, and maybe another half for price (thirty-seven euros a night), but otherwise it’s a dump. It’s hard to recall the pretty façade once inside: walls and pieces of furniture that have been patched up over the years, by the elderly owner, I imagine (his name’s Carlos); an unstable staircase that smells of dog (his name’s Rico); and my narrow single room, which would be okay if it was in an aeroplane, but not on earth. I’ve been trying to nap for an hour now, but the mattress is lumpy and the pillowcase has a light brown stain on one side and a brownish/red one on the other. I hate to think what the actual pillow underneath looks like. Outside, I can hear English tourists talking about blisters and directions and where to have dinner even though the window’s closed (it won’t open). Inside, a variety of insects are making a variety of noises. The shared bathroom is on the landing opposite my room and I can almost see particles of faeces and urine creeping in through the crooked gap between my door and the stained green carpet. What I’d do to be in my own king-size bed at home, or even in my bottom bunk in Magaluf.
I slept well in Magaluf. Usually till noon, but yesterday I woke at 1.50 p.m. Leah wouldn’t let me set an alarm – it was one of the rules she laid out for me the morning we left. No non-alcoholic drinks – ‘You must match drink for drink’; no talking to boring and/or ugly people; no heading back to the apartment early and alone; no reading; no karaoke singing; no alarm; no unauthorised photo posts; no contacting James; absolutely no haggling – ‘if I catch you haggling you’re on your own for the rest of the trip’; and no morning runs. My mother’s surname had guaranteed body-fascism for the females in our family. Mum, Leah and I all knew that we could not be overweight and an Oliphant. To prevent this deadly combination, Leah didn’t eat much, and sometimes vomited if she did, and Mum and I exercised.
At first I missed my fitness regime – I either ran or swam every day, played netball, and regularly raced mini triathlons and half marathons – but I soon surrendered to slovenliness. By the third or fourth day I was waking as late as eleven. By the eleventh, twelve. Yesterday, 1.50 p.m. I remember feeling guilty at first, then chuffed with myself for finally being normal – i.e. lazy and badly hung-over – like the others, who always slept till two, sometimes later, waking with unexplained bruises, bad breath, a need to vomit and – on more than one occasion – a naked male. We’d been at a boat party the day before, moving on later to trawl the six top bars on the strip (Leah let me break the rules because she was almost out of money, and I haggled the price of a Maga Club Pass – or an MCP to us in the know – down to fifteen euros). An Aussie bloke had offered me an ecstasy tablet outside the loos at one of the bars. It was white with a wee thumb imprinted on it and this meant it was safe, apparently, unlike the yellow ones with the butterfly. I was happily drunk, and took it without thinking twice, and without telling the others. The pill caused me to feel a great deal of love and enlightenment. I told Natasha she was the best kind of clever – a happy and good and kind clever. I told Millie she should be a hand model because – man, those hands, can I keep stroking them? I understood what Leah meant about ‘feeling’ the music and went about feeling it for hours. I liked ecstasy. A lot. Next morning, not so much. Leah must have heard me heaving.
‘You okay in there?’
‘Aye, think that’s it.’ My stomach had nothing more to eject, but it kept trying, noisily.
‘Can I come in then? Dying for a pee.’
I retched a couple more times in the sink as Leah chatted on the loo beside me. ‘Can’t believe Natasha – what a slag.’
‘You mean because of the boat?’ Natasha had volunteered for one of the dodgy games on the deck the day before, baring her bottom alongside several other drunk girls, to be slapped by drunk boys who’d answered the Rep guy’s question correctly. I’d had several vodka concoctions by that time, and thought it was funny. Her bum was firm and tiny considering the size of her boobs, probably why she volunteered.
Natasha’s straightened blonde hair, large breasts and nose ring offset a lack of intensity that boys and girls found irresistible. All the girls wished they could be as popular and as laid-back as she was. She always said the right thing, diffusing tension by not giving a toss, moving the subject on so that fun would prevail. All the boys wanted her, and even though most of them had managed, her reputation as the pretty, nice, fun one remained untarnished. Since arriving, she’d slept with three boys, two in our apartment on the fourth night (seven hours apart) and one in his hotel the day after. They’d all messaged incessantly since, and Natasha had replied politely, neither upsetting nor encouraging them. In the thirteen years we’d known each other, my relationship with Natasha hadn’t extended beyond ‘How are you? Good. You? Yeah, good’. But in Maga I finally understood the attraction. She was relaxing to be around. She was up for anything, and not one to ruminate afterwards.
‘You nearly finished? Help, quick. I need in!’ I opened the door to Natasha, thankful that Leah hadn’t answered my question yet and that she hadn’t overheard Leah calling her a slag. Leah leaped off the loo for Natasha to throw up in it just in time.
‘Su, Su, look, is that blood?’
Natasha had appointed me chief medical officer on the first night, after she drank from a broken glass and cut her lip. Since then I’d tended insect bites (all four of us), sunburn (all but me, and I forced sun cream on them after), chewing gum in hair (Millie), and a mystery ankle gash (Leah). I’d also talked Natasha through one missing condom, holding her hand and looking the other way as she lay on the bathroom floor. (‘Breathe in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Imagine the ocean, nice blue ocean, breathe, feet together, slide them up to your bottom, now just let your knees fall, breathe, good girl, pop a finger in, and … okay, let’s have a rest and try again.’) After Natasha finally located and removed the condom, I’d accompanied her to the chemist and made sure she took the morning-after pill. I also took her to the clinic to be tested (positive, chlamydia), administered antibiotics, given her a lesson about condom sizes and secure application, and planted fresh ones in the girls’ handbags (nine handbags altogether) and in every drawer in our apartment.
Natasha’s expulsion included several undigested chips and at least one intact slice of onion. ‘No, it’s not blood, it’s the chilli sauce. You’re all right.’ I held her hair as kebab and pink liquid filled the bowl.
‘I fucking love you, Su.’ I’d just detached the thick stick of bile dangling from Natasha’s lip and wiped her face with a clean, warm flannel.
‘Aw, I love you too. Now drink this water, all of it, that’s it, hon.’
Throughout Natasha’s ordeal, Leah had been removing last night’s make-up at the mirror. ‘You’ve put on weight, sis,’ she said. ‘Your legs are pure trunks.’
‘Have I?’ It had become obvious that Leah didn’t particularly like me fitting in.
*
As usual, I made brunch for the gang. Fruit salad, cereal, wholemeal toast and jam, and tea. As usual, we then got ready to go to the pool. I was shocked to discover on the first day that it took ninety minutes or more to get ready for the pool. When I went swimming at home – every second morning, forty lengths – it took five minutes. Speedos, yep. Goggles, towel, money, key, yep. Out the door. In Magaluf, pool-readiness required the careful application of day makeup and waterproof mascara. NB: going to the pool did not mean swimming in it.
‘Under no circumstances may you put your head and hair underwater,’ Leah had instructed that first day.
Then came the choosing of a bikini. The girls had at least ten each. Being day thirteen, they agonised over having to re-wear one of their earlier choices. Shorts or kimono or crop top selection came next. Finally, accessories.
It was 5 p.m. by the time we got to the pool, late enough for us to find four free loungers together. I could tell Millie was excited to see Euan sunbathing on the next chair with a T-shirt draped over his head, his chest, legs and arms painfully red. She lay on the lounger next to him and played a song on her phone as loudly as she could, hoping to wake him up.
Everyone, including Euan, snoozed in the sun till seven, shade and a slight chill finally telling us to move on. As we walked off, Euan called after us. ‘See you on the strip tonight, girls?’
We waited for Millie to answer, which she finally did, without looking back. ‘Maybe.’
*
Millie was the only one in Leah’s threesome from an unhappy home. Her parents couldn’t stand each other but found common ground in hating their daughter more. In the last year, Millie had been kicked out of home about seven times, either staying at ours or at Natasha’s, always retreating to her semi-bungalow in the hope that one parent might greet her with love and an apology. She scared me a bit – I’d heard stories of her punching people in the face on nights out in Glasgow. In Maga, she’d been too busy having sex to punch people. On the first night, she had a threesome with a guy and his (‘kind of’) girlfriend from Leeds. ‘Well I’m not a lesbian,’ she announced when she arrived at the pool the next day. Each night after that she’d slept with a different guy. I never engaged in the postmortems – my virginal input not required, my judgement expected and not allowed – but I listened to the details as she relayed what she could recall. Mostly, she described alcohol consumed, drugs taken (MDMA or ecstasy usually, but cocaine once), penis shape, penis size and penis performance. But she slipped in other details, which painted a sad picture. For example: ‘I fell asleep in the middle I think …’; ‘He told me to leave after, prick …’; ‘He said I was doing it all wrong …’; ‘I haven’t been crying, it’s hay fever.’
Euan was one of her conquests, night three. He’d ended up back at ours and I heard them on the sofa bed in the living room.
‘Well maybe it’d work if you didn’t stink of puke,’ he’d said.
‘Shall I brush my teeth again?’
‘Nah, it’s not your breath. Stop already, it’s raw. Jesus, will you give it a rest.’
Millie was pleased with her oh-so-cool ‘Maybe’ as we left the pool. I wish she could have left it at that, but after a few seconds, she stopped and turned to Euan, who had put the T-shirt over his head again.
‘Hey, Euan, what bar you going to?’
This time, he was the aloof one and didn’t remove the T-shirt. ‘No idea, probably get an MCP.’
‘Maybe see you at Roc, say 10?’
‘Sure, maybe.’ He finally uncovered his face and sat up. ‘Are you coming?’
Was he talking to me? Boys didn’t usually address me. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, you, I hear you’ve got something you want rid of.’
Millie grabbed my arm and yanked me away.
‘You told him?’ I whispered, surprised at how annoyed I felt. Virginity wasn’t a big deal to me. I didn’t define myself by it.
Millie had gone bright red, so Leah intervened. ‘Everyone knows, Su-Jin, just by looking at you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Millie said, loosening her grip on my arm. ‘I was pissed, must have let it slip.’
Poor Millie. Ever since I saw her on the first day of school I’ve wanted to move her into our house permanently and feed her vegetables. At five, she was shorter and chubbier than the rest of us. I remember she sobbed as we formed a line in front of Mrs Benson. I remember that her mum was the only one who didn’t shed a tear and who didn’t wait till the line disappeared into the building.
*
We all ordered the usual at McDonald’s. Leah and Natasha: cheeseburgers, fries, Diet Coke. Millie: Big Mac, onion rings, Coke. Me: Caesar salad with grilled chicken, water. It was 8.30 p.m. by the time we arrived back at the apartment with the two bottles of vodka that’d get us in the mood for our grand finale.
10.30 p.m., music blaring, outfits and make-up edited and signed off, one litre of vodka and two litres of lemonade finished, Leah opened the second bottle, poured straight vodka into four glasses, ordered us to drink them on the count of three, and began her nightly speech, a kind of coach’s pep talk, usually aimed at her threesome (Are we are gonna dance till dawn? Yes! Are we gonna pull? AYE! Are we fucking gorgeous? Roar). But this time, it was all about me.
‘Tonight, ladies, we have a mission. Twelve nights in Magaluf and Su here remains tied to an asexual geek. Here, now, before this audience, we shall witness as she unties herself.’
Natasha and Millie chanted ‘Untie! Untie!’ as Leah dialled James’s number on my phone.
My head was already spinning after the three lemonade and vodkas. The straight glass I’d just downed had sent it into orbit. Untying myself seemed a grand idea. I took the handset. I’m still not sure if James had answered or not, but I did believe I was speaking to him, and I did believe that what I was saying was what I wanted. ‘James, I want to have fun. You’re not very fun, James Frank Morrison-Tweedy. It’s over, we’re over. It’s not you, no it is you. You’re … what is he, Leah?’
‘He’s chucked!’
‘That’s it, you’re chucked. Sorry if you’re sad, but it’s bye-bye now. Bye James, thanks for everything, and good luck at Oxford. You’ve been great but it’s time—’
Leah grabbed the phone from me and ended the call. The gaggle cheered. I climbed on the kitchen bench and bowed to the ongoing applause until I fell off.
Which might be why my shin’s got a black and orange bruise the size of a melon.
‘Quiet in the coven!’ Leah had banged her glass with another glass to get our attention, smashing one, which made us laugh.
‘That was only step one. Step two is our main goal, ladies. Su-Jin Oliphant-Brotheridge, your flower must be plucked, picked … what is it? Your sheets must be bloodied. Twelve nights and you’ve not even had a snog. Disgraceful!’
I’m not sure that was entirely correct. On the tenth night we went to Barillo’s and I’m almost certain I kissed a boy who had one of those ear things that create a huge gaping flesh hole. His right lobe hung at least two inches lower than his left as a result. But I’m not 100 per cent sure because I was so drunk I fell over, and then crawled from the dance floor to the loo, pretending I was demonstrating a new crawl dance all the way. I can’t have spent long with the guy, as associating with someone like him was illegal in Leah’s books and no amount of drinking would have made me daft enough to disappoint her. She’d have walloped me.
I was obedient in Magaluf, drinking everything Leah ordered me to. At first I hated the feeling, having never been off my face before, and I’d pretend to go out of whatever bar we were in to ‘check out the smoker talent’ so I could get some air on my face and sneak a pint of water. But after a few days I started to enjoy letting go, dancing, laughing at things I’d never find funny sober, chanting cheerleader style with my new friends, who had grown fond of me at last. I didn’t even hate vomiting, which was a bonding experience, I discovered. I’d never have guessed how lovely it would be to hold a girl’s hair back, to take off her heels, carry her to bed, put her head on a pillow, tell her she’s going to be okay, reassure her she doesn’t look ugly but surprisingly beautiful considering, to hear her tell me: ‘No, you, you’re the beautiful, much beautiful-er than all the anyone ever.’
