‘It’s all right,’ said Karen. ‘It’s OK. Everything’s OK now. Come on. Come on, let’s get your face dried up.’
Gradually my sobs subsided. Karen gave me tissues. ‘I’m really glad you came tonight. For selfish reasons, I mean. It’s really made me confront some things that I’d been pushing to the back of my mind, you know?’
I blew my nose. ‘This is not Oprah,’ I said, and Karen laughed. She looked at me, all smiles. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘You turned out really fucking well.’ And that was that. I was off again.
Back in the pub a little while later, there were more drinks from somewhere, loud music and erratic loose-limbed dancing. Then time was called. It was over. We were being moved on.
‘But I was just getting going,’ I told the barman.
‘Just get going,’ the barman replied, wittily.
‘We’re going clubbing, mate, come on!’
‘Mac!’ I yelled.
‘We’re going to Air & Breathe!’
‘Breathe!’ I yelled. ‘Breathe!’
Then I remember choking, trying to breathe, trying desperately to catch my breath, fighting the feeling that I was drowning. Then I remember movement, falling and tumbling. Then I remember waking up, parched and gasping, my throat like a rusty cheese-grater. Then waking again with my legs and arms held hostage by a giant, sweet-smelling duvet. Light filtering through half-closed curtains. I had absolutely no idea where I was. I was alone. I was naked. I felt horrendous and frightened and lost. I closed my eyes and crawled away from the pain of consciousness, back into the sanctuary of sleep.
I was woken again at 10.15 a.m. By Ange. She knocked and popped her head round the bedroom door. ‘Wakey wakey,’ she chimed. I groaned, believing this to be the appropriate response at moments such as this. I pulled the duvet instinctively over my face, which was somehow covered in bits. ‘Where am I?’ I whimpered.
‘You’re at Ange’s house in Hackney,’ Ange replied. I was in Ange’s spare room. I breathed it in. ‘You had a bit too much to drink last night and got sick on George, so we brought you home in a cab. Karen’s here too and we’re all about to eat breakfast together and have a good old laugh about last night.’
Minutes later I shuffled through the living room and into the kitchen. My clothes were still drying so I was squeezed into Ange’s dressing gown, which I was trying not to feel too closely or smell too keenly for fear of inappropriate arousal, and which just about covered my shameful amplitude but was in truth a tad too pink and flowery for my taste; much pinker, in fact, and a great deal more flowery than I was feeling. ‘Goooood morning!’ cried Karen, bright as a bag of buttons on Cardigan Day. ‘Don’t you look good enough to eat!’ She laughed, amused by herself.
Apparently, we never made it to the club. Outside the pub I had an attack of best frienditis and began hugging everyone and telling them that I had learned a lot and that I considered them all very dear friends, while someone tried to organise taxis. I ended up with Georgina, shambling, falling into her, my body slurring. Ange witnessed this and shouted, helpfully, ‘What about that blow job, George?’ At which point George laughed and licked her lips at me.
Apparently, my blacking out and my vomiting occurred simultaneously, so I was already on my way down to the ground when George’s legs got between my puke and the pub car park.
I cringed into my coffee. I felt ill all over again. My head began to spin and bruises I’d just been reminded of began to breathe and throb in my arms and legs.
Ange and Karen were still very amused by the whole episode. ‘There was loads of it,’ said Karen.
‘It ran down her tights and into her boots,’ added Ange.
‘Gallons of it,’ insisted Karen.
‘God,’ I moaned. ‘I was aiming for Mac.’
‘I find that difficult to believe,’ said Karen. ‘You’d just told him you loved him.’
Apparently—if any of this nonsense is to be believed—I’d also professed my love to both Ange and Karen while drifting in and out of consciousness in the cab home. Also, by all accounts, I even made a coarse proposition or two. But I was assured my advances were ‘hilarious’ rather than ‘ugly’. So that was something.
I felt bad. But I felt wonderful too. Suddenly it seemed that I was part of the gang, that I’d been accepted. And all it took was for me to get drunk and be sick on someone.
‘Poor George,’ I said. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘She was definitely going to blow you too,’ added Ange. Then suddenly my penis was the topic of conversation and both Ange and Karen were laughing and passing conspiratorial looks back and forth.
‘What?’ I said, worried.
They looked at me, mock-suggestively, and I felt the blood rising in my face.
‘You don’t remember anything about how you got from the cab, covered in your own vomit, into my bed, naked and clean, do you?’
My mouth fell open.
‘You’re hung like a horse, my lad,’ said Ange.
I was embarrassed, but in a good way. They explained that they’d dragged me upstairs, undressed me and sponged me down. ‘I swear you were awake,’ said Karen. ‘Go on, you can admit it now.’
I wasn’t awake. At least, not fully. I remembered climbing stairs and heat on my legs but I think I thought I was dreaming. A brilliant dream, befitting of a birthday.
I started laughing.
‘Part of him was certainly awake,’ said Ange. ‘Know what I mean?’ she added, in the voice of Marsha from Spaced.
I laughed for a while longer, slightly maniacally. Then I was wiping my eyes. ‘Do you know, that was the best birthday I’ve had for years.’
‘What?’
‘Probably ever, if I’m honest.’
‘Did you know it was his birthday?’
‘It was your fucking birthday?!’
Blimey. They suddenly seemed really annoyed. ‘How could you not say anything?’ they wanted to know.
I shrugged. ‘I dunno. It didn’t seem important.’
On the contrary, they explained, it was actually very important indeed. Then, in order to show me just exactly how important it was, they made immediate arrangements to take me out to lunch.
Lunch, in time, turned into drinks, drinks turned into cocktails and cocktails turned into a wonderful long day becoming firm friends with two women who in very different ways had made my schooldays a living hell.
We finished it all off with a meal in a Korean restaurant, one of those where they cook your meat in front of you, on grills built into the table. ‘I’m going to change my life,’ I said, as we tucked in. ‘I’m going to sort myself out. Lose weight and start, you know, putting myself out there. Yesterday was the first time I’ve been out to a pub, or out of the house in any social situation, in about six months.’
Ange and Karen were both shocked by this, and full of encouragement for my plans.
‘I’m thinking of starting a blog too,’ I said.
‘What’s a blog?’ said Karen.
‘Do it,’ said Ange, after berating Karen for her ignorance. ‘If you think it’ll help. I’ll be happy to cook you a healthy meal once in a while too,’ she added. ‘And I must say, I’m loving your PMA.’
‘I