Page 73 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter Twenty
Dancing with a chap is a terrific way to engage in chatter, while making the best of your figure. A Good Woman moves gracefully, elegantly across the dance floor. She avoids complicated or exuberant moves and always, always lets the gentleman lead.
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
‘Here’s to pear cider!’ I hold up my bottle in a toast.
‘And to the United States of America!’ Peach adds, happily clinking her bottle to mine.
Following a cheap and tasty chippy dinner, then a pub crawl round Soho, we settle in to a small booth at Twisted Spin, a trendy basement club that the popular Love/London blog calls ‘London’s freshest indie and rock venue’. The music is well selected and loud − but not so loud that you can’t hear anything else, the cider is reasonably priced, and it’s got the kind of dark, sexy, industrial vibe that completely disconnects you from the outside world and all of its crap. Here is my utopia.
It’s taken Peach a while to warm up − for the first hour or so our conversation was pretty stilted and mostly based on the recent heatwave and what types of weather we both liked or disliked or didn’t mind. Thankfully, by the time we reached the third pub, the beers had loosened her up a little and she is, as I hoped, turning into an excellent going-out companion, if ateensybit of an unusual one.
‘Jess!’ she yells over the sounds of Arcade Fire blasting out through the club speakers. ‘Shall we think of a nickname for you?’
‘Huh?’ I squint at her.
‘To call each other.’ She muffles a burp. ‘Like friends do. Everyone inThe Goonieshad a nickname and they were the best of friends. Chunk. Mouth. Data. I’m Lady P. What do you want to be called?’
Earlier, Peach confessed that she’s always found it difficult to meet new people because of her social anxiety and shyness. As such, all her information on how to make friends seems to be based on TV and films she’s seen rather than real life. With her beer-induced confidence, and in a bid to bond by finding out ‘what makes me tick’, she’s been asking me a series of questions. Including what my favourite colour is (green), if I had any pets as a kid (no – Mum always said that it was extra responsibility we didn’t need), and best and worst things that have ever happened to me (a question I gracefully avoided by suddenly needing a wee). And now she wants us to think of nicknames to call each other. So, yes, fairly odd. But between the bizarre questions and beneath the hunched shoulders, Peach seems funny and intelligent and sweet. I feel a bit bad that I probably won’t be around long enough to develop the kind of deeper friendship she seems to be looking for. Besides which, even if I wanted to – which I don’t − after what happened with Summer, I’m not sure of my capacity to be anything other than a ‘super-cool fun-times’ mate. But if Peach wants to practise being friends on me, I don’t mind. Especially if it means a nice break from theHow to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955project.
‘I don’t know about a nickname, but I’ll have a good think about it. I do know one thing, though, Peach,’ I grin, taking a hefty swig from my bottle. ‘It’s about time we were dancing.’
Before I’ve even finished the sentence, Peach is out of the booth and shaking her sizeable backside over towards the dance floor. A Klaxons song blasts out across the club. At the opening riffs, she whips her thick curls around and starts air-drumming. I cheer and whoop, impressed by her unexpectedly awesome moves, before joining her on the floor, where we proceed to jump about the place like a couple of giddy fools.
Iknewshe had potential.
* * *
We dance for ages, and though it’s kind of difficult to move freely bound up in all this underwear, it feels brilliant to let go and laugh and be silly and loud without judgement. We take a breather so that Peach can nip to the loo while I buy us another round of the delicious flavoured vodka shots that are on offer. Carrying the drinks over to a bench by the dance floor, I almost drop them when I spot, not two feet away and chatting to a crowd of glam people who look totally out of place in this club, Summer.
As inmySummer.
What the actual fuck? Why is she at Twisted Spin? And what the hell is she doing inLondon? Summer spots me and does a double-take, her eyes widening in an expression of shock that I’m guessing mirrors mine exactly.
‘Jess?’ I can’t hear her but I see her mouth my name. She stalks over, icy Mojito in hand, looking extra amazing in a tiny white playsuit and towering nude patent heels. She nudges her way through the other revellers to get to me.
Great.
I was having such a lovely time too. What the chuff am I supposed to say to her? Could I just forgo all civil conversation and mini-pinch her instead? I mean, surely she deserves it for being such an absolute turd.
No. Violence is never the answer.
When Summer reaches me, she air kisses both of my cheeks, something she only ever does when she’s had a few drinks, and even then only with people she doesn’t know that well. We used to greet each other with a cool fist-bump.
‘I can’t believe you’re here! It’s sooo good to see you!’ she chirrups, casually wiggling her almost-prizewinning bum to the music. She’s acting as if shehasn’trecently ruined my life, like shedidn’tscrew me over to get a TV show and then kick me out of my home. ‘What are you doing in London? How long have you been here for? I’m here for meetings about my show.’ She thumbs at the crowd of shiny people she just left. ‘Those guys are from the production company. They’regreat. Just, like, so clever and super full of ideas for the SITC brand.’
‘Oh,’ I say flatly, casually bopping my head to the music in a way I hope indicates how little of a fuck I give and how sonotjealous I am.
‘Yeah, I’m not sure this club was quite the best place to bring them, though.’ She grimaces. ‘Love/London said Twisted Spin is one of 2014s freshest indie and rock venues, but it’s actually a bit of a dive, isn’t it?’
I roll my eyes.
‘So we’ll probably end up at Soho House anyway. That’s where all these TV and film types hang out. Anderson always said it was his favourite place to go for a drink in London. He’s in town, you know? He’s doing Graham Norton this week, so he might be there tonight. Not that I’m bothered or anything. I’m with Holden now,obviously.’
Why is she telling me this? I give her a blank look and neck my shot. And then Peach’s shot.
‘You look different,’ she announces, taking in my new strawberry blonde hairdo and tiny waist with narrowed eyes, a flicker of something – annoyance, maybe − crossing her pretty features.
