‘There’s more?’ I don’t even want to look at him.
‘Well, we took you girls into the restaurant to try and sober you up for a bit, but you were adamant on coming back up here. You made us promise that we’d come up after closing.’
‘And you did?’
How could I not remember four Indian geezers in my flat? Maybe I’ve got Alzheimer’s.
‘Yes. We brought up some left overs.’ He looks disapprovingly at the naan breads strewn on the sofa beside him. ‘You insisted that we have a few drinks and...’
‘And what?’ I ask, on the edge of my seat.
He squirms in his chair a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, you made us watch your performance of Spice Girls Wannabe.’
‘Ha!’ Jazz rolls over to her side in hysterics, clapping to herself.
‘We...’ I swallow hard. ‘We made you watch us dance...to the Spice Girls?’
I don't know why I’m asking. I don't want to know the answer.
‘And sing,’ he nods.
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Oh chill out Pops,’ Jazz says, lighting up a fag. ‘It's funny. We always revert back to Spice Girls when we’re really pissed.’ She turns to Raj. ‘We did a talent show in Uni as the Spice Girls for a laugh and for some insane reason when we get really trashed we want to relive it.’
‘I understand,’ he nods. ‘Anyway, we all ended up getting pretty drunk. I don't remember leaving or getting home, but all I know that is my wife told me she found me outside our flat in the rain with blood everywhere and she had to put me to bed.’
‘Blood?’ I recoil.
Oh my God. How the hell did he get blood on him? Did we sacrifice someone last night? I knew we’d watched The Craft one too many times.
‘Did you kill somebody?’ Jazz whispers, her eyes wide. ‘Don't worry, if anyone asks we were with you all night.’
‘Of course he didn’t kill someone!’ I shout in irritation. Jazz can be so ridiculous. ‘You didn’t...Did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t! That's what I was trying to figure out. Look.’ He pulls back his bushy black hair to reveal a massive cut on his forehead and some grazes on his forearms.
‘Oh my God Raj,’ Jazz says, considering touching it and then deciding not to.
‘Do you know anything more than that? Did your wife see anything?’
‘No. She just found me covered in blood, apparently totally incoherent. She cleaned me up and put me to bed. I’m really freaking out. I’ve never been so drunk that I completely black out. Anything could have happened.’
‘Raj, I’m so sorry.’
‘It's ok,’ he smiles. ‘But damn, you white girls can drink!’
‘Oh thanks.’ I roll my eyes, but then realise it's too difficult at the moment. ‘That's the British binge drinking culture for you.’
‘Well, we Indian boys clearly aren’t used to it. I’ve already had two call in sick. Jazz, how on earth do you look ok?’
‘Thank you! I’ve been saying the same thing to her. She says it's just because I’m a hermit.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if you’re a bunch of wooses, but some of us know how to drink.’ She flicks her hair back smugly.
‘I thought you said you didn’t remember anything either?’ Raj challenges, winking at me.
‘Look, we got trashed. It's no big deal,’ she shrugs, looking peeved.
‘No big deal!’ I practically scream. ‘Jazz, we started a fire, kissed a fireman and nearly killed Raj.’
‘You kissed a fireman and he may have nearly killed himself.’ She looks accusingly at Raj.
‘Either way. I wouldn’t say it was one of the best evenings.’
‘Look, thanks Raj for popping in, but Poppy was just leaving.’ Jazz gets to her feet and folds her arms crossly.
‘Yeah, Jazz is throwing me out,’ I grunt looking at her resentfully.
‘I’m gonna be your new neighbour,’ Jazz smiles wildly at Raj.
‘Ah yes! The life swap thing. You told us about that last night. Good luck,’ he says unconvincingly.
* * *
Before I know it she’s pushed us both out of the door and I’m on the train to her house, in the same clothes as yesterday. I would have taken the car but I don't think I’m sober enough yet. I keep laughing at squirrels, which I think is evidence of this. I sit down, careful to avoid everyone’s eye contact. Everyone knows London is full of nutters and I do not intend on being murdered by one.
I catch my reflection in the window and recoil in horror. My hair is lank, my eyes blood shot and puffy, and my chin is red and angry looking. Beautiful. I pull some sunglasses out of my bag and put them on over my naked face. A few teenage boys giggle at me but I quickly look away. They’re either laughing at what a twat I am, fancying myself a celebrity, or planning my rape and murder. Either way, I’m not taking the chance. I slink lower in my seat, wishing I could hide away from everyone. And get a giant McDonald’s Chicken sandwich.
I wonder what the house will be like. I’ve never actually been inside it before. Jazz has always been too embarrassed to bring me in, saying I’m a total snob and would never recover. She assures me it's worse than the studio in Balham she rented a couple of years ago and that had rats. Although her Mum’s always given her a gigantic monthly budget, she’s always preferred to ‘keep it real’ and ‘live with the real people’ as she says. That, and I think it allowed her to spend more money on shoes and getting trashed. We tend to hang out at my flat, especially as she has three housemates. I don’t even know their names. I really should listen more.
I get off the train and struggle along the platform, wondering if I could just go and move into my Mum’s house instead. Would Jazz even notice? Someone’s embarrassing ring tone stops my thoughts as my head starts to quake in misery. I think it’s Oops up Side Your Head. What kind of mental case has that as their ring tone? Poor bastard. Like I said, London is full of head cases.
I wonder what her housemate’s names are – I think maybe Tilly? I know it’s one guy and two girls. He’s probably gay. I’ve always wanted a gay best friend.’
God, I really can't concentrate with that ringtone making my head rattle. And it seems to be following me. It must be someone around me. I survey the crowds carefully but they all seem a bit too grown up for such a ridiculous ring tone. Maybe it's one of those people that wear dull grey during the week and swing at weekends.
‘Excuse me,’ a man with red hair and piercing green eyes says to me.
‘Yes?’ I smile, suddenly aware that I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.
Surely he’s too good looking to be distracting me while his friend robs my bag? Maybe I should watch a little less Hustle. Maybe I’m one of those people you hear about that meets their husband randomly on a train platform. I mean, I never thought I’d marry a ginger, but you can't choose these things can you. Sometimes fate is just mapped out for you.
‘Err, I think your phone is ringing.’ He gestures at my bag.
The ringtone is still going and he’s looking at me strangely, amusement on his face.
‘No, no. It's not mine,’ I protest, digging my phone from my bag to prove it to him. But it is mine. The phone is lit up, flashing urgently ‘Home’.
‘Oh.’
‘Have a good day,’ he says, rushing off chuckling to himself.
‘Hello,’ I almost shout down the phone in frustration.
‘Darling! What took you so long?’ my mother screeches in her usual high pitched tones.
‘I was just being whisked off my feet by a gorgeous man.’
‘Really?’ she says, excitement showing in her voice.
‘Of course not. This is me, remember.’
‘Oh. Well, that's what I’m ringing about. Have you got a date for the wedding yet?’
‘Oh, I’m just on the final round of selection. I just need to see the final five’s party tricks before I make a final decision.’ I can’t help but be sarcastic around my mother.
‘Is that a joke darling?’
‘Of course it's a joke.’ God, I worry about her sometimes.
‘Oh. Ha ha. Anyway, you really must work on it darling. The girls at pottery class are starting to talk about you. They keep asking me when you’re going to get married.’
‘Yes, well unless you have a crystal ball, I don't know.’
‘Oh please stop being so sarcastic darling. It's this sarcasm which makes me wonder if you’ll ever meet someone.’
‘Oh thanks for the confidence,’ I snort.
‘I’m your mother darling. It's only right that I worry about you.’
‘Yeah. Well I have to go mum. Bye.’
I hang up before she can make me feel any worse about myself and stare at the phone. My screensaver has been changed to the picture of Jazz holding up two shot glasses for her eyes. I should have known she’d be behind this.
I have five weeks to get a date before the wedding. Totally achievable. Totally.
‘Taxi!’
* * *
I get out of the taxi and stare up at the slim terrace house. I’d never realised before how run down it looks compared to the other houses. It’s the only one on the street that doesn’t have double glazing, and the red paint on the door and window frames is chipped. All of the other houses have been painted pastel colours and have hanging baskets full of busy lizzies. This one has cracked pebble dashing and over flowing rubbish bins. It hardly looks welcoming, barely habitable to be honest, but I have to think of Jazz. This is what’s best for her and if that means I have to live in a crumby house for a while then fine. Maybe it’ll be an adventure.