The Club

It was all over, in a matter of minutes. That's the ironic part.

There were three of us: my best mates, Catherine and Vanessa, and myself. We'd been going to the local youth club for a couple of years, at the time.

It was okay. I mean, there were trendier places to hang out, on a Friday night. But, when you're thirteen, and have the misfortune to look it...

Remember those Panda drinks? Coke or shandy – take your pick. Both were cheap, and somewhat nasty. That was what they served at what they termed “the bar”, although it wasn't one, as far as I was concerned – not if you couldn't purchase a pint of Stella or a bottle of Bud there.

They did, however, sell barely edible “Pink Shrimps”, which retailed at 2p each. Alternatively, there were “White Mice” - a totally inedible bargain, at 1p per “Mouse”. Ideal for lobbing at the acne-covered twelve- to fifteen-year-old “hunks”, whom my friends and I were far too shy to chat up, as such.

The Club held discos, once a month. The three of us would dutifully, and somewhat unconvincingly, prance around, pretending to be Madonna, whenever the DJ played her latest hits, such as “Like a Virgin”, “Material Girl”, and “Into the Groove”. In retrospect, he didn't play much else.

Well, there were the slow songs, of course. As none of us had boyfriends, we'd sit those ones out. Along with the inevitable “Crazy For You”, there were “Careless Whisper” and “Move Closer”.

I don't think the DJ could have had a particularly large record collection. Probably worked for our local radio station, come to think of it, as the playlist was almost identical.

Cath's elder sister, Tracy, helped out at the club, on a voluntary basis. Vanessa was, of late, incapable of acting like a sane human being, in Tracy's presence. This was on account of her jealousy – of Tracy's, unquestionably gorgeous, fiance, Matt. Catherine fancied him, too. I was the only one who didn't.

I didn't even especially like the guy, although I couldn't have told you why.

Catherine was playing pinball, as per usual. That girl was seriously hooked. And I, for my part, was becoming seriously bored, watching her. She could at least have had the credibility to get addicted to Space Invaders.

“Fancy buying some White Mice to lob at you-know-who?” whispered Vanessa, self-consciously tugging at what there was of that blood-red, PVC miniskirt, which Cath and I had failed to talk her out of purchasing. The item of clothing in question had been drastically reduced in price, and not without reason.

“Don't you think he's a bit old for us, Vanessa?” I suggested, tentatively.

“He's not old, Leila. He's younger than Tracy.”

I stifled a sigh. Not this again. Yeah, okay, so Matt was younger than Tracy. He was nineteen, and Cath's sister would be twenty-two next month. Not underage though, was he?

But try telling that to Vanessa!

“Maybe you ought to take up pinball, like Cath,” I muttered. “It's a lot safer.”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind! Hey, Nessa - wait up, can't you? You know I can't run in these heels!”

My friend and I were both out of breath, sweaty, and flustered, by the time we reached “the bar”. We turned out our pockets, searching for change to squander on sweets we had no intention of eating. Not necessarily advisable, when you're existing on paper round wages, topped up by very minimal “pocket money”, but there you go. Vanessa would probably have considered the “Mice” an investment.

Some “investment”.

I've been over it so many times, over the years – what happened to me, that night. If only I'd realised then, what Vanessa's idol – Tracy's fiance – was really like.

We should have stayed together. That was what Mum and Dad were always banging on about, wasn't it?

And it was true.

I was the only one who hadn't had some stupid crush on Matt. I hadn't even fantasized about having him ping my bra, like the other boys did. The boys my own age – the ones I'd still enjoyed flirting with, back then, before I'd known what any of it was really all about.

***

“What's the matter with you, Leila?” demands my boyfriend, as I roll on to my side, away from him, in the bed in which Tom and I have been sleeping together for – shit, it must be five years now, mustn't it?

And it was over in a matter of minutes, what Matt did to me.

Who the hell did I think I was kidding?


Paula Writes