No no no no no no no no no.
I smiled through my teeth. “Great.”
She whinged on as we made our way to the college toilets and it grated on me. I was already mad at her for joining me, for ruining my plan…
“I hate that I’m so tall, it’s like I can’t enjoy any gigs, you know? I just know everyone behind me is thinking ‘oh great, we’re behind the ginger giraffe’… And yet I can’t get served by that Teddy bloke. It’s ’cause Lottie has tits, isn’t it? But then it wouldn’t work if I had tits, they’d just be right at everyone’s eye level…”
There was a queue, as always. Never, in the history of the universe, have there been sufficiently-sized ladies toilets.
“That band was good though, wasn’t it? Don’t listen to stupid Guy. I’d much rather listen to covers than his crap. Oh God, they’re on next. Are you going to fall for him even more once he’s up onstage?”
“Amber, I’m not that predictable.”
“You’re a girl, he’s a guy onstage. Everything that happens afterwards is predictable.”
A cubicle came free and I locked myself in, counting to sixty under my breath. It usually took about sixty seconds to pee, didn’t it? Then, without having done anything, I unlocked the door and washed my hands. But not properly. I couldn’t do them properly, especially with Amber washing hers right next to me. She didn’t even use soap. Just water. What was water going to do?
I could hardly hear her as we emerged back into the cafeteria.
BAD THOUGHT
Go back, go back, you’re not finished, you need to go back.
“…Oh look, they’re about to start. Christ, Jane looks like she’s going to piss herself. Thanks for breaking it up between us earlier. I’m sorry I was a bitch…she’s just so…I dunno…but I get that you’re friends…”
“Oh no,” I gasped, whacking my hands to my face dramatically, stopping me in my tracks.
Amber stopped too. “What is it?”
I hit my pockets, all over-the-top. “I’m such an idiot. I think I left my purse in the loo.”
My purse was in my clutch bag. It had been there all night.
“Do you want me to come back with you?” Amber said. Just as she said it the lights dimmed again. A scratch of chords ripped through the air. I looked up, it’d come from Joel’s guitar. They were starting.
“No, it’s fine, I’ll meet you there.”
Before she could argue, I’d been swallowed by the crowd and deafening music.
The angry start to “Die Bitch Die” echoed dimly around the toilet walls. I pumped the soap, one, two, three, four, five, six…hang on, did I count right? Stupid vodka. I sighed, scraped the soap off and began again.
One. Two. Three. Four… Did I pump on three? Really? Was I sure? I had to be sure.
I scraped the soap off and started again, counting out loud with each push of the soap dispenser.
“One,” I said, slowly and deliberately. “Two. Three…” Thank God no one was in there and they were all watching the band. Then I swished and circled and rubbed the backs of my hands together and interlaced my fingers and did all the things you’re supposed to do if you don’t want norovirus if you work in a hospital.
I felt so relieved. Yet, just as I was about to push through the door…
BAD THOUGHT
Do it again, Evie, just to make sure.
That was the point where I was supposed to use my “coping strategies” – to put things through my “worry tree” again. To acknowledge the thought, bring myself back to the present moment, and walk back out into the band competition – anxious, yes, but knowing I wasn’t letting it win.
Have you ever noticed that sentences that begin with “that was the point where” never end with someone doing the point?
All the relief of ten seconds ago drained away, replaced with an urgent need to wash again. It was like when you need to pee so badly you’re hopping on one leg. But I knew that if I did it again, the relief wouldn’t last long. And the next time, it would last even less.
My face crumpled in on itself and I let out such a hollow empty sob that it didn’t even sound like me. My sob drained slowly down the white shiny tiles of the empty bathroom before dissolving into the thudding music of Guy’s band.
Another sob erupted in my throat and tumbled from my mouth. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, twisted in knots of nerves and disappointment and feeling lost – just so lost – and there was only one way to make it go away…
I used the back of my hand to push tears back into my eyes and walked slowly to the nearest basin.
I washed my hands again.
It felt so good. So so good.
I finished and smiled at myself in the mirror. There – all done, Evie – out you go now, go back and have fun with your friends.
BAD THOUGHT
Touch the tap of every basin six times and then you’ll have a good night.
The tears sprang back. I watched my reflection cry – this wretched girl staring madly at the mirror, her arms wrapped around herself.
“No, I won’t,” I told the girl in the mirror. It came out like a whimper. If anyone came in they would’ve probably sectioned me, straight away.
BAD THOUGHT
Go on, it’s just touching a few things. Then you know you’ll have a good night.
I was too exhausted to fight. I watched myself as I moved from basin to basin, tapping the taps, counting under my breath.
The relief settled in my belly once more. I was all done now. I was going to have a good night. I was going to go out there and be with my friends and listen to the not-very-good band and pretend yes-they-are-actually-okay, just like everybody else.
I fluffed my hair, blew myself a kiss and went to – finally – leave the bathroom.
Just as I pushed open the door…
BAD THOUGHT
You’ve made your hands dirty touching all those taps. Go and wash them again. Go on, just once more. Just. In. Case.
I cried for ten minutes before I gave in again.
I missed most of the set.
I missed yet more of my life, because of myself.
And yet, when I emerged from the bathroom, my make-up was perfect.
Thirty-two
Guy and co were on their last song. The crowd were…umm…sort of into it. There was a bit of a divide. Some hardcore metallers, i.e. Joel and Guy’s mates, had claimed the area in front of the stage. Some actually held onto the edge as support as they tried to dislodge their brains through their noses using violent force…or “head banging” as it’s otherwise known. The rest of the hardcores had started a mini mosh pit – swooping around in a violent circle, pushing and grabbing each other’s T-shirts. Lottie and Amber stood reluctantly on the edge of the pit, trying their best to look after Jane, who kept flinging herself into the centre of all the unnecessary violence, screaming, “Joel, I love you.”
But the rest of the crowd appeared bemused, or plain unimpressed. There was a long queue for Teddy’s bar, and the cafeteria was much emptier than when The Imposters was playing.
My eyes travelled to the stage. To Guy. His eyes were closed, his fingers gripping the microphone. My stomach dived in on itself. I stopped really hearing the music, which is just as well because, of all the things I fancied about Guy, His Music wasn’t one of them.
I was just contemplating joining my mates – weighing up how likely it was I’d be splattered with a stranger’s sweat, when I was poked on each side of my ribs.
“Hey.” I spun round to see Ethan. His stubbly face glowed with post-gig high. His smile was more contagious than norovirus.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, lighting the entire northern hemisphere with his grin.
I couldn’t not smile back, even with our history. “All right, sex maniac? Great set by the way.”