‘No thanks. Acid isn’t a club drug, IMO,’ says Finch. Flo protests – she thinks it can be. Finch shakes his head. ‘I just feel like I’m three when I’m on it, like everyone’s scary but I fucking love shapes and textures? Like, no thanks.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Flo says. Flo and Finch bicker for a moment about whether or not Flo should take half a tab. He tells her it’s antisocial, I say I agree with Finch and point out how unpredictable her little trips can be, so she pouts and says, ‘Fine. I’ll just stick with MD.’
‘Good lass,’ I say. About eighty per cent of the time she’s fine on LSD. She says it’s a way she can be up without a comedown, without a risk she’ll throw up, conveniently forgetting the occasions I’ve had to put her in a taxi because she’s gotten paranoid over nowt.
I drink my shitey prosecco, and I tuck the cocaine and ketamine into my bra, in the slit where my chicken fillets are currently stuffed.
‘Is that a push-up bra?’ asks Finch. ‘Your tits look cracking.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘So you know, I’m holding the coke and ket. We should be fine.’
‘Should we make some bombs?’ asks Flo. I shrug.
‘I’m just going to stick with coke,’ I say. Flo makes a face.
‘I’ve gone well off coke.’
‘No you haven’t.’
‘I mean, like, morally,’ says Flo, smugly. I sneer at her and tell her to shut the fuck up.
‘I’ll make bombs,’ says Finch, ‘Better to have them and not need them.’ I throw Flo’s MD at him, and he starts making up a few little bombs with cigarette skins. I’m not into MDMA – I always end up with a harsh comedown, the kind they report on anti-drug sites for teenagers, full-on everything’s-shit-I-might-as-well-just-top-myself comedowns. ‘Do you want one?’ Finch asks, looking at me.
‘No thanks,’ I say. I pat my tit. ‘I’m good with what I’ve got.’
‘Oh, don’t let me smoke tonight, guys,’ says Flo. Finch and I exchange a look.
We finish hair, makeup and dressing, and opt to walk, rather than taxi. Flo lives slightly closer to town than I do, and it’s a warm night – close and sweaty. My damp thighs rub together beneath my skirt, and Finch rolls up his shirt sleeves. Flo complains about her heels and asks Finch if she can have one of his rollies, before changing her mind.
She makes us stop in a Sainsbury’s for gum and comes back out with gum and a pack of Marlboros. She immediately lights one up, her eyes rolling back into her head when she takes the first drag.
‘Gimme one,’ I say, and she does, handing me her lit cigarette, and lighting another for herself. Finch is already on his second nasty rollie, complaining his baccy has exploded in his pocket.
I walk ahead while they faff about. Flo stops and tries to stroke a ginger cat she says looks just like Fritz. She tries to get me to stop and look at it, but I just keep walking.
‘So.’ Finch appears at my side, trotting along like a puppy. ‘Hackney Space? Holy shit.’
‘Yup,’ I say. ‘Big deal.’
‘It is,’ he says. ‘I hate to be this guy, but can I send you some of my photos on Monday? I could really do with some crit. It’s like… photos documenting my top surgery, but everyone on my course just keeps telling me I’m so brave.’ He takes a drag of his cigarette.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘I hate that shit. I used to get it all the time.’
‘It’s fucking obnoxious,’ Finch says, puffing smoke from his nose. ‘I swear down, I could come in with an out-of-focus photo of a dead pigeon, and be like, the pigeon represents my dead name, and everyone would be like—’ He tucks his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, goes ‘Ooo’ and applauds. I snort. ‘Like I just want to know if the photos are any good. And right now, I have no idea.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Send them over. I’ll be brutal.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I know you will. That’s why I’m asking you and not—’ He nods his head back at Flo. ‘You’re honest. I appreciate it. I really do… Um… If you need, like, an assistant for hanging your show, or anything, I’d really like the experience. If you need someone.’
‘Can’t afford you, babe.’
‘I’ll work for free?’ he offers.
‘I’m not comfortable having anyone doing unpaid work for me. Plus, they do have people at the galleries who do that.’
‘Yeah. Of course. Fair enough. Um. Well, the offer’s there just… in case.’
We get to town for around ten, and head to BeerHaus, where the manager gives me a free drink. Everyone else pays.
We find a table in the corner. I’m drinking a negroni; Flo twists her face over the top of her pi?a colada and wonders aloud how I can drink it.
‘More refined palette,’ I say. ‘Plus, less sugar.’
‘Ugh, I don’t want to talk about calories and sugar content,’ whines Flo – spoken like someone who was a size six till she was twenty-five, then ballooned to a fourteen over the course of a year and a half. I raise my eyebrows at her and sip my drink. Finch sighs into his pint and complains about the prices.
We’ll have one more drink here, then move on to Universal Subject （or UnSub, as people have taken to calling it）， where we have tickets to the ‘alternative’ club night Big Deal. It wasn’t my choice. I’d rather go somewhere out-and-out naff than somewhere trying so hard to be ‘alternative’; it swings back around to being naff. It’s aimed at the kind of people who get really, really excited when a DJ plays The Smiths. I suspect it’ll be full of nineteen-year-old Home Counties student girls in vintage Adidas tracksuits – if it’s unbearable, we can fuck off to Will’s party. He texted me the details this morning, and I didn’t even know he had my phone number.
I talk Finch and Flo into shots before we leave.
We end up queueing for UnSub for ages. Flo smokes two cigarettes, I smoke one. Finch clears the loose tobacco from his pockets, trying to salvage what he can. He and Flo drop while we wait, which means Flo will be gurning and wriggly in an hour. Alcohol tends to leave her maudlin and solipsistic without the intervention of MDMA, so I’m guaranteed a low-maintenance night with her. She might chuck up, but there’s a low risk of crying, or her rehashing being bullied at school.
There’s a group of underaged girls behind us muttering about IDs. It sounds like one of them has her sister’s old passport, but the rest are going to blag it. I never get ID’d. It was a huge boon when I was younger, but in the last few years… I mean, the rule is challenge twenty-five now. It’s absurd not to ID me.
When we get to the front of the queue, the bouncer only asks for Finch’s. I recognise him – the bouncer. We chit-chat for a moment （Yes, I do work with Ryan! Aye, he is a tosser, isn’t he? Ha ha!） and I tell him he should make sure he cards the girls behind us. I hear them whining while I get my hand stamped.
It’s gone midnight by the time we get in. I head straight to the bathroom. There’s an unreal number of posh girls buzzing about. I hear one call her friend Pollyanna, genuinely, Pollyanna. A name someone chose to give their child in Britain in, like, 1998. Pollyanna is being asked for toilet paper, and Pollyanna can’t find any. She knocks on the door while I’m pissing.