Or just give up and let them sign you off on the sick.
OK then.
Deep breath.
After all, what did she have to lose?
‘It all started on a Friday night, at the Fisher King, on Smithchris Road...’
Five past nine and Gillian’s already hammered. That’s what happens when you adopt eatin’s cheatin’ as a religious belief. Still, at least she’s not been sick yet, so that’s something.
Might be a good idea to not sit opposite her, though. Just in case.
Lucy shifts one chair to the left and knocks back the last mouthful of Pinot Grigio. ‘How’s our birthday girl doing?’
That gets her a blurry two-thumbs-up, a broad grin, and a burp. Gillian’s got her long, curly red hair pulled back in what had started life as a ponytail, but turned into a frizzy pompom somewhere between the Bart and the Postman’s Head.
‘Budge up, losers.’ Mandy — back from the bar with both hands clamped around an unfeasibly large collection of glasses. Wine glasses, beer glasses, and most worrying of alclass="underline" shot. They click-rattle onto the sticky tabletop. ‘Tequila!’ She probably thinks her new asymmetric bob makes her look chic and stylish, but it just makes her face look fat.
Not that Lucy would ever tell her that, of course. After the divorce, Mandy needs all the self-esteem she can get.
All three of them, done up to the nines in their best party frocks, like civilized human beings for a change. Instead of a lawyer, a cardiothoracic specialist, and a detective sergeant.
Gillian wobbles forwards, one eye screwed half-shut as she peers at the drinks. ‘Thought... thought we were... flaming Drambuies?’
‘You set fire to your fringe last time, remember?’ Lucy helps herself to the glass of white. ‘Flaming Drambuies are banned, and so’s flaming sambuca, and anything else that poses a risk of tonsorial ignition. It’s in the Most Excellent Girls’ Night Out Constitution.’
‘Oh...’ Then the grin is back as she picks up one of the shot glasses, accidentally slopping a little onto the back of her hand. ‘Slippery.’
Mandy raises the toast, ‘Happy birthday, Gills!’ Pronouncing it ‘Gills’ as in ‘like a fish’ rather than ‘Jills’, and hurls back her shot of tequila. Shudders. ‘Ghaaaa...’
‘Happy birthday, Gillian.’ Lucy raises her new glass of Pinot Grigio, leaving the tequila the hell alone.
‘Yeah, happy birthday.’
Mandy and Lucy turn in their seats to look at the newcomer.
It’s a man: early twenties, thin, pointed face, one of those chav haircuts — almost shaved at the sides with a short, greasy, combed-forward fringe. Rugby shirt with the collar popped. Combat trousers. Sovereign rings on most of his fingers, thick gold chain around his neck. Little diamond stud earring. One of those boys whose default expression is a leer.
He’s got a pint of something lagery in one hand — uses it to salute the table. ‘Gillian, isn’t it? You’re very pretty, Gillian.’
‘Not... not interested.’
‘Double negative, that. Means you are interested.’
Mandy rolls her eyes. ‘Men. Don’t take a hint, do you? Go bother someone else.’
‘Hey!’ He pulls his chin in, shoulders flexing. Making himself look bigger. ‘Just being nice to the pretty lady, aren’t I? Nothing wrong with buying a girl a drink for her birthday.’
There’s always one on every night out. Some bloke who’s seen too many romcoms where all you need to do to get the girl is keep pestering her. Because in the movies it’s ‘romantic’. In real life it’s called ‘stalking’.
‘Hoy, cockwomble’ — Mandy’s half out of her seat now, jerking a thumb towards the door — ‘sod off.’
‘Hey, don’t be so rude, fatty. Wasn’t talking to you, was talking to the birthday girl.’ And there it is, the threat hidden just below the skin of every arsehole like this: the aggression. Women aren’t fawning all over you? Just throw your weight around a bit and they’ll be gagging for it. ‘Wasn’t I, Gillian?’
Probably been watching those ‘how to pick up women’ videos on YouTube, posted by even bigger arseholes than he is.
Lucy puts her wine down. ‘She’s got a boyfriend, OK? And he’s a police officer, so...?’
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, radiating his menace.
‘Is this dickhead bothering you?’ Another man, but this one’s in a decent suit and open-necked shirt. He’s a good three inches taller than the arsehole. Broader, too. Wide shoulders and serious eyes. Nice haircut. Voice like a newsreader. Stepping between the table and the arsehole. Putting himself in the way. ‘Lady said she’s got a boyfriend.’
‘Fuck’s it got to do with you?’ Puffing out his chest.
The newcomer rolls his shoulders and clenches his fists. Cricks his neck from side to side in complete silence.
‘You want some of this? Do you?’ More puffing. ‘Do you?’ But the arsehole’s backing away all the same, mouth pinched before it gets punched.
Still no reaction.
‘Yeah.’ The arsehole takes a gulp of lager. ‘Didn’t think so.’ He jerks his chin at the three of them. ‘Later, bitches.’ Then slopes off, back to whatever rock he crawled out from under.
The man in the suit shakes his head. Turns. ‘Sorry about that. I know it’s not the done thing to say “not all men”, but genuinely: we’re not all misogynistic wankers.’
Mandy toasts him with her empty tequila. ‘Thanks.’
‘Nah, my pleasure.’ Then he checks his watch. Frowns. ‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.’ Nods at Gillian. ‘Hope you enjoy your birthday.’ And slips away towards the crowded bar.
Lucy smiles. ‘Did I imagine that, or did a man just stop another man from being a dick, and leave without expecting to be patted on the back?’
‘Oh yes.’ Mandy reaches for Lucy’s untouched tequila. ‘And I would so shag the living hell out of him for it.’
Then Gillian bangs on the table. ‘The birthday... birthday girl... demands more drink!’
Of course she does.
‘Oh, Jesus, Gills!’ Mandy holds Gillian’s hair out of the way as her back heaves and a torrent of yuck spatters into the alley behind the Falling Down, next to the big council wheelie bins full of empty bottles, lit from above by a sickly yellow streetlamp. Mandy dances her feet out of the way as Gillian retches again and again and again.
Lucy grimaces at the spreading puddle of vomit. ‘OK, new amendment to the MEGNO Constitution: no snakebites. And maybe: eat something first.’
‘Are you all done? OK.’ Mandy pats Gillian on the back, top lip curled as the stench of an evening’s alcohol and bile wafts up from the tarmac. ‘There you go, that wasn’t so bad.’
‘On second thoughts: definitely eat something first. Eatin’s cheatin’ is hereby banned. All in favour?’
A nod from Mandy. ‘Seconded.’
Gillian raises a thumb, then is sick again.
‘Nah. No way. Not going to happen.’ The taxi driver shakes his head, setting his dreadlocks rattling. Not a great look on an overweight lump of gristle with skin the colour of cold porridge. ‘She’s gonna puke all over the car.’
‘Come on!’ Mandy throws her arms wide. ‘She needs to get home!’
‘Not in my taxi she doesn’t.’ Then he buzzes up the window and pulls away from the kerb, leaving the three of them standing there.
Well, two of them standing. Gillian’s slumped sideways against the lamp post, hair all anyhow. Reeking of booze and puke.
‘BASTARD!’ Mandy steps into the road and gives the departing car the finger.