I took the Xanax, and lay on my bed, while Flo took my makeup off for me with a cotton pad. I remember being sure that this was how I was going to die – choking on my own vomit, with Flo’s sweaty face being the last thing I saw. I wouldn’t have to worry about turning twenty-nine on Wednesday, or thirty next year. I wouldn’t have to worry about boys, or Frank, or photographs to burn. I wouldn’t have to get old and ugly. I’d missed the twenty-seven club, but I could still get a cult following, a posthumous retrospective of my work at the Baltic, Tate Modern, then MoMA. Maybe they’d even find out about the boy. Then my work would be worth a fortune – like how John Wayne Gacy’s snidey clown paintings go for thousands. But I woke up, disappointed, with the sun down, and Flo’s arm slung across my belly.
Happy bday love x
Sorry about your mam x
Will ddrop off your presents when ur back from London & have sent you some ??? for a treat when your down their
Don’t get 2 drunk tonight remember you have a train!!! Lol xxx
Dad has sent me ???, and Mam hasn’t even texted, unwilling to speak to me since I binned off the bar.
I wait on the sofa for Flo, who is lighting candles in the kitchen, and Finch balances a party hat on top of my hair, kicking through the balloons he’s spent the evening blowing up.
Flo has set up her little makeshift nest on my smaller sofa, and her bags of clothes are stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs. It’s my turn to have her tonight. She’s been at Finch’s since Sunday, driving him up the wall, I think. Complaining about his smoking and the fog of white spirit following him since he took up painting. He helped her make the cake – I could hear them bickering in the kitchen like an old married couple. I watched telly with my eyes out of focus, the comedown hitting me harder than it normally does.
‘Cheer up, duck,’ Finch says.
‘I’m fine.’
‘London tomorrow,’ he says. ‘That’ll be good.’
‘Yeah.’
He turns off the television, and Flo comes in with the cake. They sing ‘Happy Birthday’， Finch’s voice breaking like a pubescent boy’s, Flo’s high and shrill.
It’s a vegan chocolate cake. Dark, with ginger. Flo is a decent baker. I blow out the candles with a sigh, and the party hat falls off my head. Flo pours me a glass of red, and hands me a piece of cake. I take a tiny, tiny bite.
‘I told you she’d eat some,’ she says to Finch. I’d spit it out if I hadn’t already swallowed. It’s good. My favourite, actually, this specific recipe. ‘It’s her favourite,’ Flo adds, smug.
‘Meh,’ I say, shrugging. But I eat the cake. The first time I’ve eaten something this sugary since… well, that affogato with Eddie from Tesco. Flo smiles, doting. She hasn’t gotten me anything, knowing I’m never in a good mood on my birthday. It’s better to get something for me next week, when I’ll feel better.
‘Is she always like this?’ Finch asks.
‘On her birthday? Yeah,’ Flo says. I grunt. ‘Since she turned twenty-four. Every year.’
‘Shut up,’ I say. ‘Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room, like my fucking parents or something.’ They talk, and drink wine, and I remain uncharacteristically restrained. Finch jokes: eating cake, not drinking wine, should he ring 999?
He leaves to smoke a cigarette, and a tipsy Flo shuffles over to me on her knees. She tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses me on the lips. I let her.
I think, this is fine, isn’t it? She could live in my house, and clean it, and eat me out on scheduled days of the week. I don’t have to tell my parents we’re together, because she sort of lives with me anyway, and they wouldn’t notice much of a difference. It’d be convenient, and it’d probably stay my inclination to start fucking choking my models. Because I know she’d be there, and I couldn’t hide it.
She’ll have to lose weight and cut her hair, of course, and I can always dump her if someone better comes along.
I wait to feel a twinge, a twinge of anything, something anatomical, or even one of familiarity. But I feel nothing. She’s so soft, now.
I shove her, harder than I’d meant to.
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘You need it.’ I grunt at her. She lurches towards me, but I push her again. I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner, really. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. ‘I… You told me to leave him. You stopped seeing the Tesco boy, and you told me—’
‘Michael was a bellend. The Tesco thing was just like… It didn’t work out. It happens,’ I say. ‘What did you think I was going to do here?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. She shuffles back to the other side of the room, and sighs, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘Never mind,’ she says.
All these years, and I’ve never really questioned why she loves me. Or why she thinks she does. With men, it’s always projection – a cliché, I know, but they fall for the idea of me. But Flo has known me for such a long time. She’s watched me putrefy, and twist, and get thinner and meaner, and stranger. But here she is.
‘What do you want from me, Flo?’ I ask. ‘Like, what do you think I can give you?’
‘What do you mean? I just want you to be happy,’ she says. She’s quiet for a moment, thinking, frowning. ‘I’m sorry I’m not it.’
‘It?’
Finch comes back before she can explain what she means. And I’ll never know, because fuck me if I’m bringing this up again.
‘Which one of your horrible fucking films do you want us to stick on, then, Irina?’ Finch asks.
We watch Haute Tension. It’s a pointed choice.
Do you want me to come to the station with you???
I could meet you on my lunch break????
Nah.
Are you excited????
Meh.
Okey dokey.
Do you want me to do your bedding
Or anything else while youre away?
Whatever you want.
Dont go in my bedside table
Lol :P
Gunna lick all your stuff while you’re gone!!!!!! :P
Flo sends a kissy face emoji. Part of me wants to tell her to make sure she doesn’t top herself while I’m away. I put my phone in my coat pocket. It’s the first time I’ve worn a coat since April. Over the knee boots, hold-ups, a black PVC trench coat, and I haven’t ended up soaked in sweat in five seconds. You just can’t dress during summer. It’s been so hot I haven’t even been able to get away with a waist trainer under my clothes, but I have one on today. It’s tight across my belly, like a hug.
My hair flops into my eyes as I drag my suitcase into the Starbucks opposite the train station – I am growing out my fringe, from a Bardot Bang to something I can part on the side. But it’s not long enough, yet, and is persistently in my eyes.
I grab a black coffee, and sip, and wrinkle my nose. It’s shit, but it’ll do. I listen to Sutcliffe Jügend, and window shop. I see a boy in a university hoodie, and shorts. He is carrying a gym bag, and his calves are thick and shapely. I see a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose which is wet, red and sore. I see a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and glasses, carrying a satchel, and talking on the phone. He seems pissed off. He’s wearing a tweed suit, with a pocket square, and I watch him for a while, because he stops outside the window to talk more, growing more and more irritated the longer the conversation goes on. He catches me looking at him, and I smile. He smiles back, though it’s awkward, and he walks away when we break eye contact. I’m in an aquarium – if you tap on the glass the fish swim away.