Apologies for the delay, things have been pretty difficult over the last few months, having my own Marianne problems. Will edit properly and add images soon, just did not want to postpone posting. Planning something different for the diaries so looking for a graphic artist, will update when happens. Hope you enjoy, lots of love x Finny
Carousel Maidenbow - Seventh diary entry - 10th of March 2013
7.15pm - In the Venue bar, central Brighton
Weight 8 stone
Alcohol units - 25
Coffees 5
Orgasms 1
Carbs 30+
Regrets connected to boss Marianne 1
Drugs (a light dusting)
We arrived at the ‘Venue’ bar around 7.15pm. Chicken, after inhaling enough coke to disintegrate three septums, whining at me for confiscating his ‘fun spice’. The bar had a faint miasma of sweat and stale alcohol, and the air from the street caused a nauseating back draft. Bedecked in shopping bags, I eased into the throng, wholly conscious of the tiny bag of white powder languishing in my jean pocket. I could still taste the pinch of it ground into my teeth, along with the warm Saki Chicken insisted on at the midday karaoke. He’d squawked his way through a rendition of Quando Quando Quando, the crooning melody replaying in my brain like a ‘comedic migraine.
Noticing the large group, I nudged him, drawing his attention to the collection of uniquely fashioned beings. Their cerulean draped hue stark against the blush deco shell banquette that took up most of the back wall.
“See blue hair dyes still in vogue,” he hissed, adjusting bright yellow cats’ eye glasses. His peacocking turning the heads of the early evening drinks crowd.
Sensing my apprehension, he gathered me up limply and steered me forward with a “Have to interact with humans now, babes, come on. Game-face time”
Marianne was leant in, sleeves pushed up 80s style, addressing a cornucopia of listeners, nodders, note takers and those otherwise distracted. Their collective glances, a dulled alcohol infused glaze as they flicked through the various rainbow coloured reading materials.
She looked up, eyes narrowing, and I felt instantly judged. Chicken felt me turn to leave and stopped me with a hard grasp on my elbow and a firm ‘Stay’.
Marianne waved her long fingers at a half full bottle of champagne. “Grab a couple of glasses and help yourselves,”. I didn’t move, senses overwhelmed with the sickly sweet tang of marijuana and the cacophony of overlapping conversations.
A ‘drurum-da-thrurum’ leaching through the soles of my shoes, I turned away to take a breath and unclench my jaw. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall, I sighed. The coat Chicken had encouraged me to purchase made me look not unlike a small bipedal yak. He’d dressed similarly only instead of fur, opted for blue feathers. Long skinny gold leggings offering a Queer Emu appearance.
A plump woman seated by Marianne asked loudly if we’d come as the cast of the Lion King?” - there was a sprinkle of amusement, the seated flock chittering like birds at a feeder.
I hid slightly behind Chicken. “Mmm’yah!” He snarled confidently, sucking his teeth. “Coming from someone who looks like a thumb that’s fucking priceless, Charmine,” giving two loud finger snaps to drive home his statement.
It suddenly hit me who Charmine was. A few months ago at Annabelle’s bar, I’d unintentionally used the wrong pronouns, calling ‘them’ ‘her’ and not ‘they, them’ and ‘they’ had clearly not absolved ‘me’’ ‘us’. I then battled internally whether to make a second apology, but chose against it. Marianne loathed it when I fawned.
Chicken was patting me down customs official style, looking for contraband and saying, “Stop stressing, babe. You’re practically vibrating”. Then, finding his prize, shook the little baggie, gave me an arm pat and announced he was ‘off to piss.’
Dropping a shopping bag, I snatched at his sleeve, inadvertently plucking him, feathers flying. “Ease off the damn coke, you know how she gets” indicating where Marianne had been seated, but now wasn’t.
“Everything alright with my comedy duo over here?” Came Mariannes voice and I turned with a jump to find her at my shoulder. “I see you’ve bought most of Brick lane market,” she was peering into the bags. Then less playfully added, “Thought you’d both be here an hour ago to help me set-up?” She was inspecting my coat, nostrils flaring delicately.
‘Christ, did it smell?’ I sniffed it discreetly. “I’m really sorry’’ Casting my preening friend a frown as it had been him who’d insisted it’d be fine if we arrive after seven. He caught my widening eyes, scanning a few Trans flag printed leaflets, info on the local ParkRun and group sign up papers. “I’m at a loss to see what needed setting up, exactly Maz?”. He only ever used this abbreviation with her when riding a ‘high’ ego and it amazed me she overlooked it.
“It’s always at six”, she persisted, scolding me doubly with her gaze and checking her watch “and now it’s…” she tried unsuccessfully to focus “well you’re both really, very, late” then wobbled on her heels, trying her best to hide it.
Chicken covered his mouth with his hand. “Think Mrs M’s had a few too many Aperols” and, amused, wandered off towards the neon toilets sign.
Marianne gestured to the chairs at the end of her table. “Well, go on. Sit, sit, I’ll get the drinks.. a Cosmo and is he on the Sec?”
”Erm. Let me just…” I was trying to find somewhere for my bags, but was getting only irritated glances and turned backs. “He’ll be fine with anything, really” my words were mostly drowned up by the noise.
Getting frustrated, I contemplated just tossing it all in the middle of them, knocking over glasses and drenching expensive tech. Marianne suddenly stepped in. “here gimme those” and ordered the group to “make bloody some room”, placed the shopping in the corner out of the way. “There you go” she smiled at me “You ok?” A familiar warmth returning to her countenance as she touched my face.
Savouring the feel of her palm, I bobbed my head and insisted that “Yes, of course I was ok”. A seat was free next to Henri, who made a point of turning away as I sat. Apparently, someone (Beth) had spilled bleach on her favourite blue pumps and I was the scapegoat.
Dahlia, who had been sipping a small glass of whiskey, put on a smile. Concealing a wave as not to show any fraternisation with the enemy. She then took the bold move of gesturing at my outfit and wordlessly mouthing, “Love it!“
I returned a silent “Thanks” then, in an attempt at humour, wrinkled my nose, as if the faux fur smelt musty.
Charmaine must have clocked this and piped up, “Seriously though, what the fuck are you wearing?” There was another smattering of amusement.
“Erm,” I pretended to check the tag, “A vintage Himalayan goat herding coat. It had a matching gilet, but that’d be vintage overkill.”
“Yeah, call it vintage all you like darling, when that’s clearly thrift,” sang a wrath like androgynous German boy. He wore dark stockings, a jarringly beautiful Joel Grey guise, and long eyelashes that fluttered like butterflies.
‘What had I’d done in a previous life to offend the entire Trans and non-binary community?’ I mused.
” Well, I rather like your coat” announced Marianne handing me the Cosmo and smoothing her fingers over the fur “I had something similar in the 80s” this seemed to deflate the boys ego and he returned to his phone, black pin curled hair lit blue by the screen. She then gave me a wink and took her seat.
Chicken appeared, a glassy eyed sneer cast around the gathering. “Whose fuckable in this place then?” then grimacing said “slim pickings around this table. Might have to hit the breeders” He attempted to light a cigarette, and I took it off him.
“So what did we finally raise from the Gallery Auction?” I asked.
Henri leant forward and to everyone announced that we’d already been told this, and that I must have been having one of my (finger quotes) ‘existential blackouts’
“Wish I could have one now” I muttered under my breath and side-glanced to Chicken who suddenly came to life saying with a pouting face directed at Henri, “Forgot to throw up today Hen?. Bloat making Mama testy?”
After quietly chastising them both. Marianne informed me that the auction had raised over twenty-two thousand. Then, seeking affirmation from the distracted affiliates said - louder, “Which I think we can all agree is pretty bloody incredible!”
I forced a smile as they languidly rose to the challenge with a smattering of uncomfortable clapping and finger snapping.
“What had been incredible, is that none of us succumbed to hypothermia”
Marianne asked us if we had eaten? And then happily informed me that the chicken wings were surprisingly good’.
Still bemused by the idea of Marianne holding, never mind consuming a chicken wing, I informed her we’d ‘already had sushi.’
”I thought I smelt fish,” Henri mocked
Irritated, I snapped a, “Yeah, well, I serviced your mother on the way in. She likes my fucking coat” the table fell silent apart from Chicken, who chuckled into his drink.
Henri made a horrified face, adding dramatically, “You know my mother’s dead, Caris?”. The German gave a Am dram gasp and someone offered Henri a tissue.
“She’s not picky. Are you babe? She’d fuck a corpse,” Said Chicken, giving me a light back slap, and the gathering descended into a hush of outraged whispering and ‘pointed’ shaking of heads.
“So maybe the best way to continue the discussion,” said Marianne loudly, levering to regain control “is to break off into two smaller groups, then at least everyone can get to voice any concerns. Ok?”
It hadn’t gone unnoticed that Dahlia had been trying and failing to involve herself in nearby conversations. And I wondered what unforgivable thing she had done to upset the authorities. Catching her glance, we offered her a conspiratorial eye roll, which went unreciprocated. Obviously terrified that she’d fallen victim to my status as an undesirable.
Charmaine bellowed that her group would take the corner table, and then systematically selected only her close friends and supporters. Dahlia eagerly latching onto Henri in an effort to be included. We watched as she propped herself prettily on a little stool, nursing her whiskey and quietly resigned to being ignored again, in a different location.
Disinterested in social politics, Chicken and I remained in the newbies group with Marianne. Both tables falling quickly into a hub of informative information, sliding all too easily into exhaustive and asinine gossip.
Who was applying for surgery? not having surgery? Considering surgery? Who was having therapy? Who considered therapy worthwhile? Then - who had been in bed with whom? Caught being unfaithful to whom or contemplating being unfaithful? Didn’t know who was interested in who? Had considered getting intimate with who and then changed their mind and chose someone else, only to decide they liked the original person and…. URGH!
Marianne would invariably catch my eye as I sat quietly ripping up beer mats, arranging used straws or sharing the occasional anecdote with Chicken.
The person next to her was scrolling on their phone and talking excitedly about something or other. Marianne, feigning interest with pursed lips and a nod, gestured to my empty glass. She then abruptly leant across the table to re-fill it, the cleft of her breasts sitting perfectly level with my eye-line. Through the sheer fabric of, I could make out the dark half moons of each of her areole. She caught me trying to avoid looking and smiled, holding my gaze for what seemed like forever as my heart hammered away in my chest. Then it was over. She settled the champagne bottle in its nest of ice, sat and fell into the same conversation..
Crossing my legs to inhibit the dull pulse between them, I swept up the glass, gulping dying bubbles and sought refuge in my phone - ‘No New Messages’ - nothing from Clara or Marcus. “Great. Now I felt worse”. Overlapping conversations continued as the music plateaued from the late 80s pop vibe to some nondescript techno. My anxiety spiking as the olfactory atmosphere of bodies, breath, smoke and drink grew clamorous. Then, feeling an insistent pull on my bladder, I headed to the bathroom, hoping for solace, or at the very least - quiet. The strip lights blinked noisily as I entered the uniformed, white-tiled space.
Hovering above the toilet seat, I begged my insides to comply as each leg muscle quivered painfully. Seconds before my bladder, so insistent, had now clammed up, giving only a dull expectant itch, but producing nothing.
I sighed, thinking of Marianne. Her looking gorgeous, drunk and available, made me rueful. I’d hoped to feel more of a spark with Clara, lessening the intensity for my friend. But Clara being so geographically unavailable and Marianne so ever present - only seemed to exacerbate matters. I wondered if I should call it off with Clara. A brief but polite text would do it, ending what had yet to begin. But the idea made me miserable, that and my inability to pee.
The heavy door was pushed open and slammed against the wall. Giggling voices followed a throaty whisper that I immediately recognised. Van was indulging in some extracurricular activities, it seemed.
My insides finally responded and the relief as the foul smelling liquid evacuated me gave me a momentary feeling of bliss. This died two seconds later upon finding a single sheet of paper half glued to the cardboard roll. I could hear more shushing sounds, scrapes of plastic soles on tile, the rustle of clothing and ‘slooshing’ of a belt, unlooped.
Flushing and leaving the stall, I clocked my friend’s pinstripe jacket, tie and the driving gloves that Grace had excitedly given her on her birthday, along with a card that read ‘So glad you’re mine. The jacket was folded and positioned by the far basin. Even the pocket square that matched the tie remained intact. For someone so outwardly neat, Van’s relationships always ended messily.
Heading to the mirrors, I checked my reflection, teasing out my fringe, the split ends making me wince. I looked tired but passably attractive even with the odd pimple threatening to appear. I opened my purse, making sure not to settle any of my precious makeup down in any little pools of water and pink soap.
The door to the corner stall was damaged, making it sit open a fraction, clearly exposing the two spirited occupants. A girl, face masked by long blonde curls, was facing the basin mirror, a dark muscular arm around her waist. Fingers gripping the white porcelain, Van’s hand delved into the waistband of the girl’s baggy jeans, pulling them down and exposing a fleshy behind. She slapped it hard twice, so it wobbled, making the girl shriek happily. They tangled together, kissing clumsily, working at each other.
While applying my concealer, I found my brush strokes began keeping time with their repetitive coital orchestra. Invariably there would be a loud bang, flooding me with cortisol, liquid liner having to be wiped and readjusted.
“Come on, show me those beautiful big tits,” her husky voice barked, and I’d side-glanced out of mild curiosity to see a T-shirt lifted and two ample breasts spill from a lavender lace bra. A tongue tracing each dark nipple before engulfing it with a hot mouth.
Feeling shyly voyeuristic, I turned my gaze, drawing a line of light cream down the nose, across on the brow and chin, added dark and blended. Just as Annabelle had taught me, “We’re creating cheekbones Carousel, god does not bless us all with perfection”. Provoked by the memory, I peeled off each false eyelash, letting them flutter to the wet sink sides. Then, with a turn of the tap, watched them circle the plug hole before disappearing, along with my fading ideals of ‘perfection’.
The wet sounds from the cubicle had added a percussion section to the proceedings, overlaying the higher pitched vocal rhythm, mixed into the classical hum of the water racing through the pipes above and the low ebbing bass booming from the dance floor.
The cubicle creaked its last as Van pushed the girl against the mirror, caught up in her own urgency to cum, panting into her long tresses and hanging onto that chubby ass for dear life as she peaked with a magnificent “Fuckkkkkkk!”. The clash of a large cymbal ringing in my imagination ending the toilet aria.
I glossed each of my lips, smiling at the sweet little blonde. Cheeks flushed, she adjusting her clothing while hurrying out.
“You couldn’t have done that later?” Van asked, indicating my makeup.
“What, and miss the show?,” I smirked, as she was lathering away the scent of sex with the chemical smelling pink soap. Standing next to me, as she tied a perfect oxford knot and shrugged on her jacket.
“Having a good night?” She asked and, getting a non-committal shrug, brushed off an imaginary spot of dirt, adding, “Just getting it out of my system, Caris!”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” then after a pause and later wishing I hadn’t, I added, “I’m not your girlfriend. “
Van sighed, waving a mint packet at me. “Did you see her tits?” and grinning, popped one into her mouth. “What is it with big tits?”
“I wouldn’t know” I said (I was not blessed me in that department) then with a last look in the mirror, sprayed peppermint twice on my tongue.
“Gracey and I have an arrangement, ok!” she announced
“Hey, I’m not judging you,” I lied
Van pushed her long dark hair behind her ears, then tied it up in a tight bun. “Kind’a feels like you are.“
I tugged out a blue paper hand towel and sighed. “It’s not my business.”
“Ok Saint Maidenbow, how much pussy you had this week?”
“Lost count,” I said, her baiting spit of ‘Exactly!’ Followed by her squaring up, expecting retaliation - NO - wanting it. This had been boiling up for a while.
“Look I’m in no mood to debate the semantics of prostitution vs cheating right now,” and drying my already dry hands, threw the cheap blue tissue into the overflowing corner bin “So let’s just agree to disagree. Ok?”
Van stared at me, the need to push the subject palatable, but she backed down “Later,” she said, moving to leave
“Hey wait,” she paused “Is Marianne ok?” I asked “Has she said anything to you?”
“What ya mean?”
“She’s drinking a hell of a lot” and wanting to lighten the mood and exaggerate my pettiness added “she ate chicken wings for christ’s sake. “
“OMG not chicken wings!,” she suppressed an ill-humoured laugh, perhaps deliberately avoiding my attempt at humour “The boss is wound pretty tight, maybe just let her have some fucking fun for once,”, then she continued with a shake of her head “It’s time to stop obsessing Caris, move on. It isn’t happening!” The final hard shove of the door as she left, punctuated with the words “Give us all a damn break.”
The woman in the mirror stared back at me. She suddenly looked very small and broken and I hated her for it.
Someone had taken my chair, so I had to beg a neighbouring table for one. Chicken was attempting to impress the German boy with any remotely Berlin specific information he could muster. So we watched Marianne for a while, glancing away whenever she looked up.
“Omg, have you seen Beth’s shoes?” Came an excited voice from the next table and I looked up to see Henri showing a photo on her phone to the others.
“Jimmy choos. She looks divine in them. Look!” Henri was praising.
The exhalations sounded out as they passed the device around, all in dramatic awe of the beautiful gold stilettos adorning Beth’s feet.
” M’Yeah. Nice for last season” baulked Chicken across the table, then settling an arm around me said “Show em yours babe”
I turned and in a whisper said, “It isn’t a competition, Chick.”
” The hell it isn’t, gimme your foot” he grabbed my ankle, unglamorously upending me and held up my foot.
” OMG” “No F’ing way” “Holy hell” several of the group were gushing, a few of them even leaving their seats to inspect my slender footwear.
“It’s only a pair of heels,” I protested, trying to right myself again. Feeling like some kind of gay Jesus, my feet glamorised by such an attentive following. Charmaine, looking violated that they had offered my social leprosy a respite, craned her neck to get a look at them.
A tall trans woman with beautiful ebony hair hunkered down, running her fingers across each heel. “Please say they’re my size?”
Henri guffawed. ”Are you mentally defective? Caris is like barely a 4, and you’re in double digits,” then threw me a less vindictive look that said, I’m borrowing those just so you know.
After the initial excitement of the shoes and an unwelcome pop quiz regarding every aspect of them, the conversation settled into the general topics of TV, music and, of course, fashion and makeup.
I watched Marianne closely as the musings of popular queer culture filled the air like little gay bees. She had thrown back another four Aperols in the space of thirty minutes and was frowning at things as she did when she had trouble concentrating. People dropped out of conversation with her, and she picked at the cuff of her jacket distractedly. When she finally left her seat, she clung onto the table. Her progress towards the exit sign and toilets, incredibly slow. Hesitating a few times, she steadied herself on chairs, strangers, and walls before moving off with a shaky confidence.
Not missing a beat, I took out my lip gloss and mumbling to Chicken, that I was going to reapply, and followed her.
Inside, all the cubicles were shut, but instead of peeping under the stall doors, I set about applying gloss and waited for her to make an appearance.
“Caris,” came her voice. The music from outside was loud and then we heard her even louder. “Caris, is that you?”
“Yeah,” I paused “Are you ok?”
A cubicle unlocked, and glancing around, we saw Marianne’s fingers waving.
“Do you need a tissue?” I asked, quickly tearing off a ream and hovering outside her door.
“Come here!” She grabbed at the sleeve of my shirt and soon I found myself in an incredibly small space with my very intoxicated boss. She reached behind me, cursing as the lock just rattled a lot and failed to slide along.
“Erm..” I was pathetically unprepared for this. She finally locked it and grabbed my arm to steady herself.
“You wore them,” looking at my feet. “I love that you wore them.“
I wished I didn’t have a big wad of toilet tissue in my clenched fist.
The alcohol on her breath and scent of almond body oil made me dizzy. Her teeth nipping at full lips, pink skin forced white under the pressure. Dropping the tissue, I surprised myself by pushing her hair behind her ear in a gentle movement, taking in the line of her strong jaw, the delicate creases at the corner of her eyes. She, too, seemed to be anticipating what to do next. I allowed myself a smile, enjoying this pause in time with her, this colleague, friend and now - “could it be?” - prospective lover.
She fell against my lips, crushing them. Happily shocked, I responded, hands cupping her soft face as her tongue filled my mouth. I stroked her lips, widening them with my fingertips and pushing my tongue between them, savouring the warmth of her, the subtle taste of mint.
We both moaned, but I could only sense the vibrations in my throat, little echoing sounds of desire swallowed up by the music’s baseline.
Sensing her stumble, I clasped her by her waist, hauling her in protectively. “I’ve got you,” I cooed, not unlike some hack hero in a movie.
She was giggling “I (hic) think I’m drunk” Then, as if suddenly noticing me said “I’ve wanted to kiss you all night” then she screwed up her face as if regret was setting in.
Seized with the terror that this fantasy would end, I reached down into the slit in her dress and held the top of her leg, the warm softness of her skin, the subtle dimples and the light brush of her lace underwear against my fingertips. I wanted her so badly, to be with her in soft sheets, naked and tangled in her. She grabbed my wrist and steered my fingers between her legs. Her underwear was soaked and made me gulp in a breath.
Her head downcast, a coy expression playing on it, she cooed, “You think about fucking me, don’t you?” The lust mixed with control overwhelming my senses. I kissed her tenderly, opening my eyes. Hers were closed and I willed them to open, wanting to see love there. She smoothed a line along my mouth, tracing up as I smiled. “Make me cum, baby,” she breathed into my ear, her breath burning as she whispered, “you know what I like.”
“Actually, I don’t” I mumbled
“Oh you do baby” she breathed out
“Was she even thinking of me?” It suddenly hit that I could be merely a vessel to act out some drunken role play, a way to cope with whatever she was going through emotionally?
My protective instincts for both my own heart and her drunken condition weighed in and overriding the pulse between my legs and ache in my chest.
“How about I endeavour to get you home Marianne” It sounded so ridiculously formal.
She echoed a low, “Mmm, end-devour away” and fell into me again. I couldn’t help but kiss her, heart melting as I opened my eyes and caught her looking back at me.
But then she stumbled and hit the side of the cubicle hard with an ‘Ouch’ and a chuckle of “Oopsadaisy”.
Someone had entered the bathroom, and we fell silent. She echoed a loud ‘shhh’ and snorted, laughing as she burrowed into my neck, her tongue licking up behind my ear and making me shiver. “Have you fucked anyone today?” she whispered loudly.
I shook my head as we listened to the other person pee, flush, and the dryer start up. All the while, Marianne whispered into my ear, listing every intimate thing she wanted me to do to her in explicit detail. My body was receptive to it, nipples hardening, a dampness spreading, intensifying the need. Yet it stunned me how much my heart shrank from the profanity on her lips. This wasn’t what I wanted at all. I wanted softness, intimacy and romance, not jarring acolytes about me on my knees in some filthy club bathroom.
“I don’t want this.” I said, pushing her away, more forcefully than intended.
“Seriously?..” there was a hint of anger there
“I have to help you get home,” I insisted.
“You’d happily fuck that German bitch!” she spat
“Jesus Marianne” then seeing a flicker of hurt in her eyes said “That was a job” I leant in to kiss her but she pulled back. “I want you. I always have.” I whined, the passivity and neediness in my tone, sickened me.
She grimaced. “This was a mistake, I want to go,” grappling with the lock. “Why won’t this open?”
Feeling as if I’d ruined everything, I helped her stumble to the washbasins. Luckily, the space was relatively clean as she craned backward against the porcelain, her neckline falling open and exposing her breasts.
“You think I’m old,” she snapped and slumped again, hair falling over eyes.
“That’s not true.” Then, noticing tears welling up, said, “I just don’t particularly want to have sex with you in some fucking toilet,”
“It was ok for Francesca Leeds” she said, brushing at the hair sticking to her lips
“Yes, well, I’m not in love with Francesca Leeds, Marianne” The words hung in the air as I attempted to regain composure.
Eyes still teary, Mariannes fixed them on me, surprise etched there and under her breath, she mumbled something incoherently.
“Now please help me get you out of here with some semblance of dignity. Yes?”
Realisation hitting, she nodded. “Yes, I heard you.
She gripped the countertop, knuckles turning white, and nodded mechanically. “I’m ok. You…” she faltered slightly on her heels and then, righting herself, said, “You get the car.”
Leaving her, I quickly pushed my way through the packed bar. Chicken, who was busy dry humping some pretty thing on the banquette, took surprisingly little convincing to leave. His young paramour, however, took more negotiating. Only a white powder bribe finally releasing her limpet’s grip on him. She snatched, not unlike a starving animal, retiring to the other side of the sofa to inspect it, taste it, eyes wild.
“She seems nice,” I offered as he followed me to the exit grumbling and adding, “This had better be an emergency babe”. Someone bumped into me abruptly as we reached the exit, a sharp elbow catching my arm, and turning I barked in “In a rush, man?” And caught sight of a dark blue sports jacket disappearing into the crowd.
When I finally entered the toilets, it took a while to adjust to the scene. The bathroom was in soupy darkness, a few shards of light entering via tiny yellowing windows near the ceiling. Pieces of bulb crunched underfoot as I edged in. The illumination from Chicken’s phone illuminated the figure of Marianne, slumped by the sinks, her dress pulled up, exposing the top of her legs. I ran to her, lifting her face. “She’s conscious” I barked at Chicken.
“What the fuck?” he was sweeping his phone torch around, taking in the chaos of the scene. “Is she hurt?”
“No. I don’t think so,” then in a calm voice said, “Sweetheart, can you talk?” I brushed the hair from her face. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared at me, confused. “Marianne, talk to me, honey. What happened?”
“Someone grabbed me,” she managed. “I’d turned to wash my hands and…” she stared down at her palms, confusion flooding her face.
I asked Chicken to hold the light still and then, seeing a large footprint on the wet floor, told him to take a photograph. Marianne fell against my shoulder, fingertips knitted into the fabric of my top. From where I hunkered down, I could make out a metal handled broom some three feet away, where it had been discarded, the bucket tipped over, spilling dirty water. The broom must have used been by Marianne’s attacker to smash the bulb and conceal their identity. I thought back to the blue sports jacket pushing through the crowd. “In a rush, man?”
“Did you see them?” To preserve her modesty, I adjusted her dress, red marks clear on them. “Did they hurt you?”
She was shaking her head vehemently. “No, I fell. They left” there was a scent on her clothes that made my nose wrinkle. It had a familiarity to it, it but did not belong to Marianne. I couldn’t single it out from the other smells in the room.
“We should tell the bar staff, they might wanna call the police,” came Chickens voice. “And the boss might need a hospital,” he added.
Marianne was pulling at me. “NO! I just want to go,” and with this she sobbed, “Promise me (gasp) no police (gasp) no doctors, please I want to go home Caris!”
I tried to negotiate with her to at least see a doctor, but she only grew more frantic and so abandoned it.
Marianne allowed us to lift her up and while Chicken helped her into her coat, I used a sheet of tissue to remove the smeared makeup, reassuring her she was safe. Then, between us, we frog marched her out. The place had luckily filled up, hiding our exit as we squeezed our way through, flagging Van to help when we were finally outside.
“The boss was attacked” Chicken clucked, and I heard Van exclaim “oh shit” Marianne lurched, making a terrible groaning sound. I just pulled Chicken out of the way as a pink-coloured stream hit the pavement. Clinging to her as she wretched and heaved, I caught Vans’ concerned look and spitefully wanted to ask if she thought Marianne was having fun yet?. Of course I didn’t. The truth was, I wasn’t angry at Van. I was angry with myself for leaving her alone, at the person who had attacked her, at my jealousy. But mostly that I always ended up being the responsible one, then blamed everybody else for me negating my own needs.
Van finished packing our shopping into the boot, then threw plastic sheeting over the interior as my friend emptied her stomach over and over into the gutter.
“Did she see who it was?” Van was asking
I shook my head, holding Marianne’s hair out of the noxious stream. “They’d broken the light, don’t think she could see anything” I stroked her shoulders and kept her upright as she sobbed and pleaded and apologised. Chicken returned from the bar with a few bottles of water, one he handed to me, the rest swilled away any incriminating evidence.
“I’ve told the staff about the bulb,” he said. “I didn’t mention the boss“
“What do we do? She can’t go home in this state,” Blurted Van “Anna’s freak, She’s got guests over,” helping to slide Marianne in the backseat.
“Have my room, doubt I’ll be using it tonight anyway,” piped Chicken, then seeing our expressions, added, “Well, you can’t very well take her into Dog territory, can you?” He was right, of course - which made my room an impossibility- the Dogs, especially Beth, would use this as leverage with Annabelle.
I nodded a thanks to Chicken instructing him to blame her abrupt departure on me if any of the group made enquiries.
He gave a salute and then closed the car door, swilling the last of the water on the curb and inspecting the pavement for any traces.
“Hey. Is she good?” Van asked, meaning ‘is she going to be sick again?’
Marianne’s head was planted in my lap, her eyelids closing lazily. “I think she’s good. Just try to keep it smooth if you can.”
She gave me the thumbs up and we started to move.
Marianne gave a moan of displeasure and I soothed her, stroking her cheek and holding the cold water bottle to her neck. “Shh, it’s ok…. you’ll be tucked up in bed sleeping this off in no time. “
She opened her big eyes wide and stared up at me as if trying to contemplate what I was saying.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to be ok,” I smiled
She’d wiped her lipstick with the back of her hand and it looked sadly clownish. She was waving her hand around. “Caris (gasp) I can’t (gasp) find my (gasp) bag. My pills”
Leaning down and trying not to recoil from the smell, whispered, “Your bags here, sweetheart. Try to rest.” I looked out of the window. The vision of Marianne on the floor and the idea of what could have happened didn’t bear thinking about. Looking down, I saw that she’d closed her eyelids, hot breathing shallow against my leg. “I love you,” I whispered under my breath.
Almost at the club, Marianne suddenly sprang up, her hands clamping over her mouth as she managed a “No.. no. Oh God” and vomited. The deluge hit me like a log plume in a theme park. It soaked my jeans in an instant, the stinking hot fluid leaching through the fabric into my underwear, where it quickly started to cool. I shuddered as it dripped down my ankles, pooling in between my toes. ‘Henri was welcome to them now’, I thought.
Van had slowed the car and parked up in an alley. Then, opening the door, she tried to hide a smile. All earlier anger at our implied criticism softened by my horrified expression and the state of her employer. I was holding up Marianne’s lolling head and attempting not to retch as the smell flooded the cabin. “I smell like hot bins,” I moaned. “Help me get her out. Need to get these clothes off. My heels are toast.”
Van aided me in getting a semi-conscious Marianne out of the car and sitting her on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut’. I removed my jeans as Van replaced the soiled plastic, spraying leather air freshener around pointlessly. “It’s bloody lucky that Anna insisted on these after the girls caught that bug that time,” she said, shaking out another fitted plastic cover.
I nodded, grumbling about waste. I peeled off my jeans and underwear, stuffing them into a nearby skip as Marianne gazed at me, confused. Then, wiping off the vomit with a clean part of my shirt, I discarded that as well. I felt sad pouring the vomit from my precious shoes, grimacing while flicking a tiny masticated sliver of meat from the heel.
Hooking her under each arm, Van hefted Marianne to her feet. “Come on boss, let’s get you up and at em, eh?”.
Plastic sticking to my arse, I eased in uncomfortably as Van started the engine. Then, pulling my coat around me, I thanked god it covered my arse. It appeared to have survived the deluge, unless any tiny surprises were hiding in the layers of fur for later.
Marianne swayed slightly, her head lolling as Van started to drive off, bumping a curb. She looked so lost and upset as I pulled her in. The smell from her gasping breath was unbearable as she settled against my neck. But it was Marianne, and I loved her, so I kissed her forehead and just prayed she wouldn’t throw up in my face.
At the club, Van and I got her up the backstairs and through the fire door with Marianne, giving a running commentary on how she’d asked the fitters to look at the ceilings paintwork a million times and how was it still a mess? ‘Do you see the peeling paint? Do you see it?.. shoddy workman shipsss.” Lips pursed in an unimpressed pout.
Passing a mystified looking Marcus, we entered the flat. He was dressed in a floor length powder pink dressing gown, mouth agape. I said “Just don’t” and Van said “She was attacked” A string of questions then cascaded out of him “What the hell, where?” “Was she spiked?” “Did she see who did it?” “Has someone told Anna?” Then, after a long pause, “Why in all heaven are you naked, Caris?”
Getting no answers, he simply took my soiled heels off me and sniffed them with a grand ‘Eughhh’. He helped settle our floppy limbed boss onto the floor of the already untidy bathroom, removed her shoes and then stood cradling them as one might with precious jewels.
I tried to remove her clothes while she complained and fought to pull them on again, like a giant disgruntled toddler, then I carefully placed them into a carrier bag and handed it all to Marcus.
Once in the shower, the warm water cascading over us both, I heard Marcus echoing a low, “I’m right outside, baby ok?.”
Using a soft flannel to clean her mouth and neck. I soaped her hands, her arms, down her back, all the while looking into her eyes. I didn’t want to linger on parts of her body, as it felt wrong in her condition. Even though the closeness of her nakedness was so utterly absorbing, any desire I’d had had been firmly replaced with caretaking. She started to sob as I washed her hair, lathering it gently and making sure to remove all the soap. I soothed her with soft placations of how ‘how she was safe and it was all ok and no one would find out what happened’ and held her against my soaked T-shirt, as she let out all her hurt in deep guttural sobs that broke my heart.
Marcus, who had just set out a big bowl of pasta and salad on the little table for himself and Van, helped me wrap her in Van’s big robe and carry her into Chicken’s room. We put her into an oversized shirt and shorts and pulled the soft covers up around her. The scent of Chicken’s vibrant aftershave, heavy on in the fabric, was strangely comforting as I adjusted the pillows for her.
“What the hell happened?” Marcus settled himself on the corner of the bed as I climbed onto it next to her.
I shrugged. “Some guy I think. He must have run when she passed out. She was pretty drunk when Chick and I got there” then glancing at her said “I only left her alone for a second” and brushed a few stray hairs from her face.
“My pills” she was muttering under her breath “I…can’t” but then fell silent
Marcus left the room, and I heard the tap running in the bathroom. Getting up, I found two blister packs of tablets in her bag, studying the names. Matrifen (Fentanyl) - which I guessed was a painkiller, probably opioid based, and Duloxtine - which I knew was a serotonin-noradrenaline reuptake inhibitor “Why was Marianne on antidepressants and prescribed painkillers?”
Marcus placed down a glass of water on Marianne’s side of the bed. “What are they?” Eyeing to two little pills by Chicken’s battered copy of Christopher Isherwood ‘Goodbye to Berlin.’
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “Valium”
He touched my cheek, seeing the upset there “You’re exhausted my girl” his warm hand and big broad dark face bringing me the comfort it always did “Let her sleep I’ll make you a drink, maybe try some pesto linguine?”
Marcus knew I’d not have any food, but he’d been making us his creamy cinnamon spiced lattes since he’d found me crying on the staff staircase in my early twenties. I still recalled this huge man dressed in a long sequin gown, scooping me up into his big arms and saying, “Ive got just remedy for heartbreak”.
He occasionally added marshmallows as a treat and it always did the trick. Seeing the gentle rise and fall of Marianne’s chest, I nodded, but as I moved to leave, I felt her fingers clutch for mine. “Don’t leave,” she begged.
He nodded even before I shook my head, thanking him as he turned off the light. On his way out, he blew me a kiss. I whispered a low “Night, mama bear.”
I could still hear him and Van conversing in hushed voices as I settled in behind her. Medication was mentioned and speculation regarding a possible fight with Annabelle. Marianne shuffled closer to me and pulled my arm around her, muttering thank you’s, sorry and kissing the delicate skin of my wrist. She drew me in so close we ended up sharing a pillow, her gentle snoring thrumming against my ear through the fabric. I lay awake listening to her breathing for hours, sensing her heartbeat through my palm and smiling at the little involuntary twitches she made as her body succumbed to deeper sleep.
I finally surrendered to the darkness in the early hours, trying not to put too much credence in this drink fuelled intimacy. But as my breathing changed to soft sleepy exhales, my dreams switched from tracking down the person who’d attacked her to bringing her fresh croissants for breakfast, of kissing her awake, of making love to her and of her loving me in return. I couldn’t help it.