Lobsters Read online

  ‘She’s definitely had her bikini line waxed,’ I said, nodding at the poster, ‘and it definitely wasn’t her first time.’

  Stella shrugged and got out her phone, probably to text Charlie. She wasn’t intimidated by the model in the bikini because she is effortlessly cool. She’s petite, olive-skinned, naturally sexy and mysterious, and boys always fancy her. She loves video games and blokey films like Pulp Fiction and Scarface. Her dark brown hair is dyed with random bits of lilac, and last summer she got a snowflake tattooed on her wrist. You can’t see it in winter, but it appears when she tans. Out of all of us, she is the closest to H&M girl.

  Me, Tilly and Grace don’t even come anywhere near. Tilly is tall and willowy with freckles. Her hair is her best feature. It’s straight out of a pre-Raphaelite painting, auburn and flowing with curls at the end. Grace used to be plain until sixth form but, like my mum says, she has ‘really blossomed’, especially since she stopped wearing massive shapeless jumpers as her everyday look.

  I think it’s really hard to see yourself how other people do. I have naturally blonde hair, pale blue eyes to match my pale skin and a totally average body. On a good day people might call me pretty. On a really good day.

  The bus came and Stella strode to the back while I waddled slowly behind her, trying to keep the burning pain around my minge to a minimum.

  ‘You’re walking like an old person,’ Stella said as we sat down.

  ‘Well, it hurts.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  I wanted to ask her about Charlie Allen, about her virginity and what was going on between them. She is a virgin by choice, which is a distinct category from just being a virgin. She has done everything but with Charlie. He is her fuck buddy without the actual fucking part. Or the blowjob part because that totally grosses Stella out. He’s fit, but behind her back we all say he’s a prick who’s using her. We know he deals drugs but we don’t talk about it. She says she’s happy with the way things are between them, but I don’t think that’s really true.

  I can’t ask her though, because the whole her-and-Charlie thing is a no-go area. She’ll never admit there’s a problem, so we all have to pretend there isn’t one. She can ask any of us anything, but we are not allowed to do the same back. Stella is just different like that; she’s a closed book.

  She is also the kind of person who just has house parties and is relaxed about it. Her parents have gone to France for the whole summer. You would think she would want to go with them, but she never does. This is the second summer they have let her stay home alone. They get her Marks & Spencer food delivered every week and transfer her pocket money by direct debit.

  ‘Are you still getting a bob?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m brave enough.’

  ‘You are way too uptight about hair.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I need to do a lot of things before uni.’

  Stella got out her phone again. ‘Shall we consult the list?’

  Last month, deep in revision hell, we had made an action plan of all the things we had to do before uni.

  ‘“Hannah”,’ Stella read out. ‘“Fall in love and lose virginity”. Well … one of those is getting ticked off pretty quickly… OK, next we’ve got, “Get an amazing body. Get good at fake tanning. Get a new look. Get a bob. Practise having slow mannerisms to appear more enigmatic. Be less giggly and more intellectual.”’

  I groaned. ‘Oh god, there’s so much to do. Can you add “Cope with failing history” to the list?’

  ‘OK, you might need to prioritize. What about just getting a bob and sleeping with Freddie?’

  I sighed and fished a fried egg out of the Starmix bag. I don’t know when everything got so complicated. Eighteen is supposed to be the age when you become an adult. When you are complete. How can anyone feel finished by now? I don’t even feel started. I haven’t done anything, I haven’t been anywhere. Everyone around me seems so sorted. It feels like suddenly it’s the norm to be in a long-term relationship. To be having sex like it’s no big deal, and have had your bikini line waxed to do it. It’s like so much has changed since Year 10, but then at the same time nothing has. Sometimes I wish I could be fourteen again and just not worry about all this stuff. About what people think of me, and how I come across in social situations. When every weekend we used to sleep over at Stella’s house and eat ice cream and drink cups of tea. I hate it that now people are constantly expecting me to have become something. And like I’m a failure because I just haven’t. Everything seems like it was easier in Pride and Prejudice. My nan was married at eighteen. Married. I can’t even operate an iron.

  When we finally got to Stella’s house, I went straight up to the bathroom to fully assess the horror beneath my knickers. As if it wasn’t enough having pale red legs with veins showing through and weird albino blonde hair and looking like a hobbit wife, I was now also deformed.

  I didn’t tell Mum where I was going because that would have been weird. I know for a fact there are some things she would never do. Like blowjobs and polyester clothing and KFC. I would bet a lot of money she has never had her bikini line waxed.

  I can see why people become feminists now. All those years of PSHE telling us about crabs and the UN and mind-maps. Why didn’t Miss Smart just get up and say, ‘As well as voting and learning to drive and being a good citizen, one day you will have to go into a room and put on a pair of knickers made of tracing paper and let a woman you have never met before pour hot wax on your minge.’

  It looked like a raw, bloodied chicken with a Mohican. And I was supposed to be losing my virginity tonight.

  Sam

  Chris bounded up the stairs two by two. We heard him coming about a minute before he opened Robin’s bedroom door. He stood on the threshold, beaming at me with his arms outstretched.

  ‘Yes, Sammy! The boy’s finally all done and dusted!’ He yanked me towards him and gave me a lung-busting bear hug.

  He and Robin had both finished their final exams three days ago, so Chris was clearly eager to have another ‘last day’ to celebrate. He hadn’t yet heard about the French fiasco. I almost couldn’t face telling him.

  It was a few hours after the (attempted) book-burning, and the three of us had agreed to meet at Robin’s before heading to the party. I’d gone home to change, but hadn’t actually done much more than put on a fresh T-shirt. I was still wearing my busted-up trainers with gaffer tape holding the soles in place. On answering the door to me, Robin had looked me up and down, groaned and told me that girls didn’t usually respond well to the ‘tramp vibe’.

  Chris, on the other hand, looked annoyingly good, despite the fact he’d also clearly made no effort whatsoever. He was wearing a shabby chequered shirt and the same jeans he’d had since Year 10. His bushy, black hair was even wilder than usual and he hadn’t even bothered to shave the patches of stubble that were dotted across his cheeks. When you’re as good-looking as Chris, you don’t have to bother with decent clothes or a hairbrush. You’re beyond all that.

  ‘So, what time are we off?’ he asked, releasing me from the hug and slapping me hard on the back once more for good measure.

  Robin wrinkled his forehead, disdainfully. ‘Chill out, mate. It’s only half past five.’

  ‘Yeah, but we need to buy booze first.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin, reaching into his wardrobe and flinging practically every T-shirt he owned on to his bed. ‘But before that, I need to decide what to wear.’

  Chris exhaled loudly and collapsed into a nearby chair. Robin stood over the mountain of clothing with his hands on his hips, like a football manager about to pick his first eleven.

  ‘So, how we all doing, then?’ said Chris, as I slumped down into the chair next to him.

  ‘I’m doing fine,’ Robin replied, selecting a garish green polo shirt from the pile, and sniffing it gingerly before tossing it away. ‘But Sam’s being a mardy-arsed knobhead.’

  Chris frowned and put his ha
nd on my shoulder. ‘Oh dear. It’s not Jo again, is it?’

  I shook his hand off. ‘No, of course it’s not Jo. I haven’t talked about her in weeks.’

  I saw Robin and Chris exchange raised eyebrows. I had talked about Jo almost all of yesterday. And the day before.

  ‘It’s his fucking French exam,’ said Robin.

  Chris clicked his tongue against his teeth and turned to me. ‘Shit, man. What happened?’

  ‘I just screwed it up, that’s all,’ I shrugged. ‘Like I knew I would.’

  ‘Come on, man,’ Chris smiled. ‘It can’t have been that bad. And anyway, it’s over now. Tonight, you need to forget about exams and Jo and everything, and actually try to enjoy yourself for once.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Robin, gesturing at Chris but looking at me. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, you grumpy twat. Now …’ He held up a purple T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘THE LIVER IS EVIL AND MUST BE PUNISHED’. ‘Shall I stick this one on the “maybe” pile?’

  ‘If “maybe” is short for “maybe burn immediately”, then yes,’ I muttered.

  Robin sighed. ‘Christopher, perhaps you’d like to join me over here by the wardrobe, and we can leave Sam to sulk in peace while we select an appropriate shirt.’

  Chris laughed and slouched over, leaving me sat grumpily in the corner, trying, and failing, to forget about exams and Jo and everything.

  Jo. I sometimes wonder if I actually liked Jo. I mean, obviously I liked her enough to talk about her a lot (probably too much, in hindsight), and write that poem (also, admittedly, a mistake), but I’m still not sure if I liked her liked her, you know?

  Sometimes I think I was only obsessing about her because it’s just nice to have some to obsess about. Every time I got the slightest suspicion that she might fancy me back, I started to focus on the things that made me question how much I liked her. Like the fact that she’s ever so slightly cross-eyed, or that when I first asked what her name was short for, she looked confused and said, ‘So I can remember it, I suppose.’

  Then, as soon as she lost interest in me and started flirting with Jeremy Marsh again, I was straight back to imagining what it would be like to wake up next to her. It’s all a bit of a cliché, really. But then, I suppose clichés wouldn’t be clichés if they weren’t based on some sort of tediously predictable truth.

  This was all academic now anyway, since she’d started going out with Toby McCourt from the year above. Toby McCourt. Toby.

  Let’s not beat around the bush: Toby is a dog’s name. I’ve known at least three dogs called Toby. And not even proper dogs, either; I’m talking rubbish, ratty little Paris-Hilton-handbag ones. I don’t think I’m overreacting when I say that kissing someone with a dog’s name is bordering on bestiality. It’s only a short step from dating a boy called Toby to marrying a man called Fido.

  Anyway, fuck it. It was only four months of my life wasted. Thank God I never showed her the poem. If Robin’s reaction was anything to go by, she would have laughed Magners out of her nostrils and fallen on the floor.

  On the other side of the room, the ‘maybe’ pile was down to just two items: Chris’s vote was for a plain white Lacoste polo shirt. Robin was gunning for an unspeakable turquoise T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an evil clown holding his middle finger aloft. And, since it was Robin who had the final say, the clown shirt won.

  ‘Why did you even ask for my advice if you weren’t going to take it?’ asked Chris, flopping back into the chair beside mine.

  ‘It’s always useful to have a second opinion,’ said Robin, hurling the nice, inoffensive Lacoste shirt back into his wardrobe. ‘Even if that second opinion happens to be totally wrong.’

  Chris shot me a glance through narrowed eyes, which I duly returned as Robin unloaded half a can of Lynx Africa over his horrendous clown shirt. I don’t really know why I listen to Robin sometimes. He’s my best mate and everything, but he can be a bit of a twat. He applied to Loughborough Uni, but he doesn’t seem to care whether he gets in because he’s taking a year off to ‘focus on his beatboxing’.

  I especially don’t know why I listen to him about girls. He has some fairly odd theories. He’s always banging on about ears, for some reason. He reckons ears are the best bits on a girl. He once rejected Vicky Parker on the grounds that she had ‘shit ears’. His words, not mine. Her ears look all right to me, although I prefer her face and body and tits. Obviously her tits are part of her body, but I feel they deserve special mention. Vicky Parker is ridiculously hot. I told Robin he was talking bollocks about all this ears stuff, but he just laughed smugly, did a sort of faraway look, and told me I wouldn’t understand.

  When it comes down to it, that’s the worst thing about not having done it yet. The fact that everyone who has done it suddenly thinks they’re Russell fucking Brand. They think they can literally say anything about sex, and us wide-eyed virgins have to humour them because we can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like.

  Robin shagged a French girl with a shaved head from the lycée round the corner from our school. He only did it once. He got a bit of stick for the shaved head thing, but he dealt with it quite well, I thought. I suppose he liked the confidence she showed in fully displaying her ears, rather than covering them up with hair like most girls. To be fair, she did have pretty amazing ears.

  Chris has done it three times. With three different girls. But then, he is six weeks older than me. And about ten times better looking. I know for a fact he’s known as Fit Chris among most of the girls in the neighbouring schools. Even my mum’s friends giggle and go red when they see him. And they’re in their forties. It’s ridiculous. Before he lost his virginity, Chris was never bothered about it, though. Nothing bothers him really. He’s the most laid-back person I know.

  ‘Right,’ said Robin, pulling his triumphant T-shirt over his head, and checking his reflection in the mirror. ‘That’s that sorted.’

  ‘Finally,’ said Chris, springing back up. ‘Shall we go and get the booze now?’

  ‘Are you joking?’ laughed Robin, reaching into his wardrobe and hurling two armfuls of trainers across his bed. ‘I’ve still got to decide on my shoes.’

  Chris crumpled back down into the chair, head in his hands.

  2

  Hannah

  We fantasized for so long about our exams being over. It was our drug. All we had in the no-man’s-land between revising and feeling guilty because we weren’t revising. We would sit in the library with our heads on the desks whispering about days we would waste rummaging for vintage clothes at markets, or not getting up at all and eating ice cream in bed all day. The post-exam world was hazy, idyllic and always sunny. We were going to step out of the school hall and into an American teen movie.

  Except in reality, on the day they were finally over, we walked out on to the high street in the rain and Grace said she had to go to the optician. So instead of anarchic celebrations and mad dancing, we all just went with her and tried on glasses while she waited for her lens prescription.

  Stella’s party was a key player in the dream – it always had been. And now after three days in which all I had done was peel history revision maps off my wall and watch twenty-five episodes of 30 Rock back-to-back, it was actually happening.

  Just after six, Tilly and Grace got to Stella’s. We put up bunting and made punch, and on Grace’s orders cleared out everything really valuable, put it in the laundry room and locked the door. Tilly had brought cupcakes but Stella said it wasn’t Year 9 charity week so we ate most of them before it started. We talked about who we wanted to come and who we hoped wouldn’t turn up.

  Charlie definitely fell in the latter category for all of us except Stella.

  ‘Is Charlie back from uni?’ Tilly said, whilst sitting on the kitchen counter, picking the icing off a cupcake. She tried to sound offhand. We all knew he was back, and Stella knew we knew.

  Stella turned and grabbed a box of cereal out of the cupboard. Tilly sh
ot a look at me and Grace.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Stella shrugged, shaking the box and picking out the chocolate bits.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come later?’ Tilly asked. The air tightened just a fraction.

  ‘I don’t fucking know. I’m not his PA, Tills.’

  This left the question of what exactly she was to him, but all of us knew the answer. It just annoyed me that she had to make out she was fine with it. If she just admitted she was in love with this twat who was using her, we could all be sympathetic, make her tea, watch The Princess Diaries and agree that boys are mean.

  She shook the box again but couldn’t find any more chocolate bits, so put it back. ‘As long as Carmen doesn’t come.’ The name ‘Carmen’ came out of Stella’s mouth as a long groan.

  ‘You always say that, but you invite her because you know she’ll come and then you can bitch about her afterwards,’ I laughed.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m kind of sad she’s not coming to uni with me actually. I’ll need to audition for a new nemesis.’

  We went into the garden to take a picture of us all and Stella climbed on to the trampoline, held up the camera and screamed, ‘The last known picture of Hannah Audrey Brown as a virgin. May she rest in peace.’

  Tilly and Grace bowed respectfully.

  ‘I’m not committing suicide, you freaks,’ I shouted, climbing on to the trampoline and bouncing.

  ‘You sort of are,’ Stella shouted between bounces. ‘Your youth will be over. You’re killing your youth.’

  ‘Was that in Breaking Amish as well? Will you please stop taking life advice from that programme?’ I said.

  Stella is so overdramatic. She has to turn everything into a life-changing moment.

  ‘Anyway, it’s about time I killed it off. I’m eighteen.’ Saying it out loud felt odd.

  We bounced in silence for a bit. Stella had been taking the piss but suddenly it did feel like something. I had been a virgin for eighteen years and later I would cross a line. Whatever it actually was, I wouldn’t have it any more.