Lobsters Read online

  Just before seven, we went up to upstairs to get ready. When we were eleven I had been so jealous of Stella’s room, with its purple princess canopy over the bed and lilac fairy lights around the window. Now, every wall and surface was covered with pictures and posters and make-up. Stella collected nail polish. She had so many bottles that they spanned the entire circumference of the room, lined up against the walls like dominoes.

  In Year 10 at a sleepover we had painted the door with a little bit of every colour, and then painted the names of boys we fancied on to it. It had become a tradition. Stella called it the Lobster Door; an ever-growing record of every boy we’d ever considered The One. Once a name was up there, it could never be removed. I studied it for a second, picking out memories from the sprawling chaotic jumble of boys’ names. Luke Adams from St Joseph’s, who I fancied for three weeks in Year 11, because he had hair like Zac Efron. Below him Guillermo the super-hot Spanish boy we’d met on the ski trip who I pulled for five minutes even though I couldn’t understand a single word he said, and to the right of him in huge, green sparkly capital letters …

  Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘Stella!’

  Stella was lying on her unmade bed beneath her princess canopy.

  ‘I’m asleep,’ she replied.

  ‘Guys, come in here!’ I shouted to Grace and Tilly who were getting ready in the spare room.

  A minute later we were all staring at the door.

  ‘You can’t really notice it,’ Grace said.

  Stella nodded. ‘Yeah, when Freddie and Hannah are doing it in here, Freddie definitely won’t notice that his name is written in massive green letters on the door.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’ll just think Stella wrote it, it is her room. It makes logical sense,’ Tilly said.

  ‘Yeah, and Freddie did do Maths A level. So he’s probably really logical,’ Grace said helpfully.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who he thinks wrote it, it’s still weird,’ I said. ‘What if he sees it? What will I say?’

  ‘You could just tell the truth,’ Grace said. Stella rolled her eyes.

  ‘Or we could prop the door open so he can’t see it,’ Tilly said.

  ‘What, so anyone walking past can see … you know …’ I lowered my voice. ‘… me having sex.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ asked Stella.

  ‘I don’t know. Cos it feels weird saying it,’ I said.

  ‘Well, get over it, cos in like two hours you’ll be doing it,’ she replied.

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Grace said.

  Stella picked up a pot of white nail polish and opened it. ‘I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we just paint over the F and the R?’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘So it’ll say Eddie Clemence?’

  ‘Yeah,’ beamed Stella. ‘Problem solved.’

  ‘How is that solving the problem? If anything it’ll be weirder explaining why there is a very similar name to his on the door with two white blotches in front of it.’

  Stella shrugged and put the lid back on the bottle.

  ‘Guys, I’m nervous enough already,’ I said. ‘And my bikini line is bright red and now his name is written on the door. Maybe it’s not meant to be?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Stella, ‘it always goes like that after you get it waxed … it’ll be gone in like an hour and it is meant to be or his house wouldn’t have got burgled and his name wouldn’t be written on the door. His name is on the door, Hannah. How much more meant to be can it be?’

  ‘Yeah but we wrote it,’ I said.

  ‘You wrote it.’

  ‘Like a premonition,’ Grace said, looking upwards.

  We finally decided that the only option was to paint over the whole name.

  ‘Isn’t it weird that the only person we’ve ever erased from the Lobster Door is your actual lobster,’ Tilly said.

  ‘He’s not my lobster,’ I laughed. ‘It’s not like I’m going to marry him or anything.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Stella, shaking her head knowingly. ‘Maybe it’ll be so good that tomorrow you’ll want to.’

  As we all worked away deleting different letters of Freddie’s name I thought about how long I had liked him and how it felt right that it should be him. The person I had wanted for so long and then got with. And even if we never went out, and it wasn’t some big Romeo and Juliet thing, it was the right time and he was a nice person.

  ‘I totally think it’s good that you’re getting it over with before Kavos,’ Stella said.

  ‘Why? Do you think I’m going to go all sex crazed as soon as I’ve done it once?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘Remember how you used to hate custard and then you had it that time at Grace’s and now you love it?’

  Stella spent ages doing my eyes and lent me her blue body-con dress. It was almost nine when she realized she hadn’t got ready herself. I looked good, I thought. For me, anyway. Me and Tilly and Grace went downstairs to put the music on and make cocktails, and ten minutes later Stella appeared. She was in these tight black trousers, flat, distressed boots and this baggy cream boy’s T-shirt that she had cut across at the arms and stomach. You could see her black bra through it, and she was wearing bright-red lipstick. Next to her I just felt prim and boring and pale. Like the paintings of women you see in stately homes. All pink and chubby and wholesome. Not sexy. How can I have sex when I’m not in the least bit sexy? Aren’t the two things related?

  Sam

  We played scissors-paper-stone to decide who would buy the booze. I lost. As usual.

  ‘Let’s play again,’ I said. ‘Best of three.’

  Robin snorted. ‘Fuck off.’

  Chris put his hand on my shoulder and pointed towards the offie. ‘The universe has decided that you’ll be getting the alcohol tonight, Sam. You can’t argue with the universe.’

  I shrugged his hand off. ‘Yeah, but the universe should realize that I’m crap at buying booze. I hardly ever get served.’

  Me, Robin and Chris are pretty much the youngest in our year. Chris doesn’t turn eighteen until July, and Robin and me both have to wait until the end of August. Consequently, buying beer is still a major hassle. The trip to the offie can determine a night; if we don’t get served, a black cloud hangs over the entire evening. If we do, it seems like a sign that anything is possible.

  ‘I look the youngest out of all of us,’ I said, still trying to worm my way out.

  ‘Nah,’ said Robin, sparking up a cigarette. ‘You’re tall. Tall equals old.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve got shit facial hair. That always gives me away.’

  ‘Well, if the bloke in the offie asks about your facial hair, just tell him you got burnt in a fire. That’s why it doesn’t grow properly.’

  ‘Brilliant. He’ll definitely believe that.’

  ‘He’s not going to ask about his facial hair, Robin,’ Chris sighed. ‘He’s a bloke in an offie, not a fucking barber. Anyway, the trick to getting served is not worrying about getting served. Real adults don’t worry about getting served, do they? You just have to inhabit a real adult frame of mind.’

  ‘What do real adults think about?’

  We all considered this.

  ‘Tax?’ suggested Robin. ‘My dad’s always stressing about tax.’

  ‘Tax is good,’ Chris nodded. ‘Or Pink Floyd? My dad talks about Pink Floyd a lot.’

  ‘Who the fuck is Pink Floyd?’ demanded Robin.

  ‘It’s a band. A band that old people like.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Robin nodded, satisfied. ‘Great. So, in summary: use your height, say you were burnt in a fire and talk about tax and Pink Floyd. You’ll be fine. I’ll have six Red Stripes.’

  ‘And I’ll have a bottle of red wine,’ said Chris.

  ‘Fine.’

  I turned and walked towards the offie.

  ‘Use your height!’ yelled Robin, as I opened the door. I stood up as straight as I possibly could and entered.

  The offie was empty except for a
bored-looking man behind the counter. He was watching football on a tiny TV. The door tinkled as I shut it behind me.

  ‘Evening,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘Evening,’ I responded.

  I did two circuits of the shop before I even looked at the beer and wine. I was psyching myself up.

  The man looked up. ‘Can I help with you anything, pal?’ he asked, as I was preparing to embark on my third circuit.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said, and taking a deep breath I grabbed the cheapest bottle of red wine and a twelve-pack of Red Stripe and marched up to the counter. I tried to affect an adult indifference to the whole process. I smiled confidently and whistled as I plonked the booze down.

  ‘Just those please, mate. Cheers.’

  The man looked at the alcohol, then at me.

  ‘How old are you, pal?’

  I gulped. ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Nineteen?’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Yep, nineteen. Just turned nineteen.’

  He studied my face. I noticed his eyes rest on my hairless chin. I panicked.

  ‘I was burnt in a fire,’ I blurted.

  There was a pause.

  ‘You were what, mate?’ asked the man.

  ‘I … If you were wondering about my lack of facial hair … It’s because I was burnt in a fire. That’s why it doesn’t grow properly.’

  The man looked confused. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, it was pretty awful. Not as awful as tax, though. God, I hate tax. Don’t you just hate tax?’

  The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose it can a bit of an arse-ache.’

  Words kept coming out of my mouth. I had no control over them. ‘Sure can. Still, there’s no better feeling than sorting your tax out and then kicking back with a bit of Pink Floyd. Am I right?’

  The man opened his mouth to answer but at that moment the TV exploded into life. Someone had scored a goal.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he yelled, squinting at the tiny screen. ‘You’ve just made me miss a goal.’

  I saw my opportunity.

  ‘Sorry, mate. I’ll get out of your way.’ I slammed a twenty-pound note on the counter. ‘Here you go – keep the change.’

  The man didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he watched the goal he’d missed replayed from six different angles. ‘All right, no worries, cheers.’

  I gathered up my booze and made for the door. Robin and Chris bear hugged me as I emerged, triumphant.

  We jumped on the bus and arrived at the house just after 10 p.m. The house was actually more like a mansion; a massive three-storey palace that looked like it should have servants’ quarters.

  We got there way too early. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about going to parties thrown by people I don’t know, it’s that you should always arrive as late as possible. That way, the host and his/her friends are usually drunk enough that they won’t notice a load of people they’ve never seen before raiding their fridge, vomiting in their airing cupboard and fingering Gemma Bailey in their gazebo.

  If you get there early, you end up being greeted by some incredibly uptight, sober girl who demands to know how you know the person whose house it is. Which was exactly what happened to us. At one point I honestly thought she was going to ask us for ID. Seriously, nightclubs should forget employing massive bald blokes as bouncers and just get in a few posh, teenage girls instead. They’d probably be cheaper and they’re twice as scary.

  It was just lucky that Chris was with us. As soon as she spotted him at the back, she started giggling and opened the door, saying she hoped we’d brought some booze. Chris’s face could get us into any party. He doesn’t seem to realize it, though, so it’s impossible to resent him. If I was properly good-looking like that, I don’t think I’d ever get anything done. I’d just walk the streets all day, enjoying being stared at. Not that I ever get anything done anyway.

  Hannah

  In the end, loads of people came. People from the year below and people from the year above who are at uni now. People from other schools and people we don’t even know. As well as people we do know but don’t even like. The house was full. The garden was full. People were sitting under the trampoline and on the trampoline, and there were even some boys sitting up a tree.

  I felt proud for Stella and happy she was my best friend, but I also felt a bit sick. I don’t think the minge mutilation and the cupcakes and the bouncing had helped, but I was definitely nervous.

  Every time a new group of boys walked in my stomach would lurch in case one of them was Freddie. I kept going into the toilet to check my minge. I’d go in there and pull down my knickers and stare at it. I covered it with some of Stella’s mum’s expensive cream and put a cold deodorant bottle against it to encourage the redness to go away, but nothing happened.

  Back in the garden, Grace even asked me if I was OK. And then she gripped my hand and squeezed it and said, ‘This is so exciting!’ and threw her arms around me. Everyone thought it was my night. I did too, I suppose.

  A bit later, me and Stella were dancing in the living room. Charlie and his stupid hipster hair had just arrived and Stella was doing her best to dance sexily so he would come over, while I avoided eye contact with him to show I thought he was a prick. Then, out of the window, I saw Freddie. I actually felt faint, as if all the blood had drained from my body. For a second I couldn’t move. Stella hadn’t seen him and for some reason I felt relieved.

  I didn’t know what to do so I just went back up to the toilet. I sat there for the longest time, just looking at myself in the mirror. Psyching myself up for it. I think I might have spoken to myself out loud and said, ‘Come on, Hannah.’

  When I walked out of the toilet this boy was standing right there with an odd look on his face. He was probably thinking I was a freak who spends ages in toilets giving myself pep talks and holding deodorant against my minge. Imagine if he had been looking through the keyhole. Or maybe he thought I was being sick and talking myself through it.

  I panicked. ‘I wasn’t being sick,’ I said.

  Sam

  By midnight, the party had livened up considerably. By 1 a.m. it was properly heaving. You couldn’t move for people dancing and shouting and trying to get off with each other. Me, Robin and Chris were out in the garden, smoking a spliff with Robin’s mate, Ben.

  Ben is only a few months older than us but he DJ’s in nightclubs, which automatically makes him around 60 per cent cooler. Robin pretty much worships the ground he walks on, but me and Chris aren’t totally sure about him. He’s all right, but he sometimes wears a trilby.

  ‘Decent party, isn’t it?’ said Ben, gesturing around the crowded garden, as some bloke nearly broke his neck leaping off the trampoline.

  We all nodded in stoned agreement.

  ‘It’s got nothing on The Greatest House Party of All Time, though,’ said Robin.

  Me and Chris nodded our agreement again.

  ‘When was that?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Two summers ago,’ I said. ‘There was a swimming pool in the garden. Chris let Rosie Moss wax his legs and—’

  ‘And I had a threesome, obviously,’ Robin interrupted.

  Me and Chris groaned.

  ‘You did not have a fucking threesome, Robin.’

  Ben looked impressed. ‘Did you?’

  Robin nodded smugly.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Chris. ‘He was getting a blowjob off Sophie Kendry in one of the bedrooms and some girl interrupted them halfway through to try and find some Rizlas.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Robin. ‘I was in a room with two girls and there were sexual things going on. That’s a threesome.’

  ‘It is not,’ I fired back. ‘It’s a twosome with someone looking for Rizlas in the corner. Everyone in the room has to be directly involved in the sexual goings-on for it to qualify as a threesome.’

  Robin wasn’t backing down. ‘It was a sexual encounter which featured me and two girls. You do the mat
hs.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chris, waving his empty wine glass at Robin. ‘So, when my mum burst in on me shagging Laura that time, that was a threesome with my mum, was it?’

  ‘It depends how long she stayed in the room,’ said Robin, diplomatically. ‘If she just popped her head round the door and then left immediately, then no – it’s just an embarrassing interruption of a twosome. However, if she stayed in the room for thirty seconds, rifling through your sock drawer while you were fucking, then yes, I’m afraid you were part of an incestuous three-way.’

  ‘You’re a twat.’

  ‘A twat who’s had a threesome.’

  I handed Chris my beer and stood up. ‘I’ll leave this debate in your hands. I’m going for a piss.’

  I wound my way through the garden, dodging the bodies flying off the trampoline, and wandered upstairs. The bathroom was locked, so I waited outside. The hallway was lined with black-and-white, professional-looking photos of a middle-aged couple (the owners of the house, I presumed), smiling with their arms round each other. I couldn’t imagine myself being that comfortable with another person.

  I thought I heard a female voice from inside the bathroom. I figured I’d be waiting a while – girls always take ages when they’re in the toilet together.

  But when the door finally opened there was only one girl standing there – a pretty blonde girl with a slightly panicked look on her face.

  ‘I wasn’t being sick,’ she said.

  3

  Hannah

  I can’t believe I said that.

  He stood there smiling at me for a second and then said, ‘Yeah, me neither.’

  We both laughed, and I felt a surge of relief as I decided he probably hadn’t been spying through the keyhole at me pressing Stella’s dad’s Right Guard against my minge.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Neither of us has vomited at this party.’

  ‘Yet,’ he said, raising his finger and putting on a mock-stern face. ‘Neither of us has vomited at this party yet. There’s still plenty of time left. Don’t write us both off so easily.’