And I made everything just that little bit worse.
‘Is he OK? He has friends, right? People looking out for him?’ I ask.
‘He’s good. I’m sorry – this is not the conversation to be having on a night like this. I’ve drunk too much already.’
‘No, it’s good to know. Thank you, Ruby.’ I look up at her very symmetrical and very smooth face. We need to talk about your skincare regime because when I’m drunk, I don’t look like that. I look like I’ve just run a marathon in the rain. She gives me a final hug before I get back to my painting and notice Tina and Mum staring at me.
‘Don’t,’ I tell them.
‘It’s very sad,’ Mum says. ‘He was a single dad, on his own…’
‘Mum, I am at that level of drunk now that if I think any more about it, I will cry and you’ll have to spend the rest of the evening consoling me and it will spoil my painting. Please. No.’
Mum nods and pretends to get back to her penis painting.
‘But maybe you could chat to him. Explain…’ Tina slurs.
I shake my head. Julius looks over at all three of us. The mood has changed to solemn and pensive, which makes him doubt himself and his assets. It’s not you, Julius. You and your penis are great. Another half-naked man comes over with shots. I take two and down them in quick succession, burning the lining of my throat all the way down to my chest, my heart.
‘It’s a hen do. I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘But—’
‘The only butt we should be talking about is that man’s over there.’ I signal over to the bar, trying to distract them.
They both swing their heads round. Tina drops a paintbrush. Someone needs a wax.
‘Please… This evening is about Ruby and… penises, so let’s not talk about that now. Let’s…’
But before I can suggest what we should be talking about, some music starts up. That’s Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’. That song is like the soundtrack to my working life. I think we used it on a TV ad once. I can’t dance to this. I need me some disco. However, it turns out these waiters also have side hustles in Magic Miking. Even Julius. Hey, I wasn’t done painting you yet! They all get up and there’s a lot of gyration, a sound over the bass that sounds like flesh slapping flesh. There is a lot of screaming and hollering, not least from Tina, a wolf whistle from my mother. Please don’t encourage that young man, Mother. Too late. He’s straddling you. Another one of them is dry-humping my future sister-in-law.
‘You wanna piece of me?’ a man says, bending over so his crack is in my line of sight. ‘You can cash in a dance?’ He hands me a strange credit card. PAYS FOR ONE LAP DANCE. ‘You just swipe it through my cheeks,’ he explains. Oh god, no. I’d rather go contactless if that’s OK. I smirk. He doesn’t seem to care and twerks in my face regardless.
My mother looks over, nodding, urging me to get involved. This will make you forget. Just snog one of these naked men and let him dangle his dong in front of you. The art of distraction. This man’s ass is still here. What am I supposed to do? Caress it like a melon? He is helping to an extent, though. I am laughing. A phone on the easel in front of me gets my attention and I pat the butt cheeks in my face to tell this lovely man he’s relieved of duty. He shrugs and walks away, heads over to Ruby’s mum, who looks like she may faint.
‘Hello?’ I say, answering the call from the unknown number.
‘Shit, Josie – is that you? Where are you? It sounds a bit loud there.’
‘Sonny? I’m at Ruby’s hen. Aren’t you on your stag?’
‘I was. I need your help. I’m calling you from a stranger’s phone.’
‘Oh. Where’s your phone?’
‘Who bloody knows… I’m in London. I think. This kid is telling me we’re in Wapping.’
‘Where exactly are you?’
‘I’m handcuffed to a lamp post. Can you come and get me? Don’t tell Mum?’
‘I think it’s round the corner, mate. Nearly there.’
The London taxi driver looks at me curiously, wondering what I’m all about. I’m dressed up in a red spangly dress like Tina Turner (ruby red, it was a hen night with a theme), I’m at that point in my night where the make-up hasn’t gone to pot and not that drunk that I’m off-balance but why have I made him stop off at a retail park just outside of East London so I could buy a travel rug and some bolt cutters? I look down at my phone. I persuaded Angelo, the kid whose phone Sonny borrowed, to stay with him and got him to pin his location so I could find where they are.
‘I think that’s them,’ the cabbie says, chortling. ‘I see why you made me stop at Wickes now.’
On the corner of the street is Sonny, handcuffed, chained and totally stark naked, bar a puffa and what looks like a pitbull and a blow-up doll keeping him warm.
