Tales From a Hen Weekend (12 page)
The conversation, over dinner, is pretty predictable. We don’t only talk about Harry, you understand. We’re not
that
sad. There’s a clash of opinion amongst us about whether he’s too full of himself, a show-off, probably a bastard, someone best avoided at any time and certainly on a hen weekend – or whether he’s as gorgeous as he looks, has a terrific sense of humour, is up for a laugh and would be great to get to know better… if only we weren’t on a hen weekend. I’m inclined to think the latter. He seemed like a nice guy. Nothing to do with how he looked.
‘So where
is
he?’ is the constant theme.
‘Sure, he’ll be upstairs with all the lads,’ Jude keeps reassuring us.
Upstairs
is the nightclub, and we’ll be heading up there just as soon as we get this last mouthful down. Indigestion is a small price to pay, trust me.
‘I hope you’re not displaying a bit too much interest in some other guy, so close to your wedding, little sister?’ says Lisa teasingly, after Mum and Auntie Joyce have decided to call it a day and head back to the hotel, and the rest of us finally make for the entrance of the club.
‘Course not!’ I smile back at her. ‘Just joshing.’
I might have said more, but the music hits us as we walk through the doors, and I think that’s it for the night, unless we shout through a megaphone.
We’re attracting quite a lot of attention. Not that we’re the only hen party in here; there’s another group dressed as Red Indians and some girls wearing green tops with bunnies’ ears on their heads, which I can’t quite fathom. But the men are really going for the schoolgirl outfits. Funny how it never seemed to cause such a stir when I was legitimately dressing like this every day. Well, maybe not quite like this. I’m conscious of showing the navy blue knickers almost every time I move.
‘Does yer mammy know you’re out, love?’ breathes a nasty beery slimeball, trying to touch my arse as I weave my way back to our table from the bar. ‘Will I take ya home, an’ we can do our homework together in me room?’
‘Feck off,’ I growl, making all his mates roar with laughter. Easily amused!
We’re several drinks into the evening, and quite a few numbers onto the dance
floor, when we finally spot our stag party. They’re not exactly in fancy dress but it’s easy to pick out the prospective bridegroom, who’s got condoms hanging all the way round his belt, his pockets and even the back of his collar. He’s also got a very glazed look in his eyes and is having trouble co-ordinating his limited dance movements. In fact he might very well fall over pretty soon, and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet.
‘This is my mate Rob!’ shouts a familiar voice close to my ear.
‘I guessed!’ I shout back.
‘This is Katie!’ he bellows at Rob. ‘She’s getting married too!’
‘What?’ slurs Rob, holding onto Harry’s shoulders and squinting at me. ‘Getting married?
I’m
getting married.’
‘We know you are, mate. So’s Katie!’
‘No! Not Katie!’ Rob looks at me anxiously. ‘No – it’s Anna. I’m getting married to
Anna
. She’s… where is she?’ He tries to turn round to survey the dance floor but ends up almost falling into Harry’s arms.
‘Anna’s at home, Rob. Katie’s marrying someone else. She’s… oh, fuck it, never mind,’ he finishes as Rob staggers off, possibly in search of Anna, possibly in search of another drink. ‘How you doing?’ he adds, leaning closer to me to make himself heard above the bass beat.
We’re both trying to dance at the same time as we’re talking. You know what it’s like. Not easy. I’m trying to reply, trying to tell him that I’m doing fine, thank you very much – but he can’t really hear me. That’s the only reason he takes hold of my arm and pulls me closer to him. Obviously. For a couple of minutes we dance like that – close together, but holding each other only very lightly. It’s just so we can finish the conversation, you understand. But I’m tingling all over like I’ve had an electric shock and I feel kind of weak and shaky by the time the music finishes and we step apart from each other. I’m wondering if I’m going down with a dose of flu. That’d be bloody typical, wouldn’t it.
The girls are all on the dance floor with me and I’m getting a few looks – particularly from Helen. I know what she’s thinking.
‘It’s OK, don’t worry!’ I shout. ‘I’m only
talking
to him!’
‘Yes,’ she says.
I don’t like the tone of that
yes.
The music hots up from about midnight. We’re getting a lot of numbers played for us – new favourite girlie ones by The Scissor Sisters, Beyonce and Destiny’s Child as well as all the old traditional ones -
Ladies’ Night, A Night to Remember, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun!
I can’t count how many times I’ve been clubbing, over the years, and joined in the dancing and singing along to these Hen Night favourites – but this time, it’s all about
me.
‘It feels really strange!’ I shout to Emily. ‘All this is about
me
!’
‘Of course it is, you daft cow!’ she laughs. ‘You’re the one getting married!’
By now my school hat is lying somewhere, probably trampled, on the dance floor, my tie has come off, my socks are round my ankles and I seem to have stopped caring about the length of my gymslip. I’m only a little bit drunk – it’s the music, the atmosphere, the party mood that’s really got me going – but the alcohol, as always, has given me the mistaken impression that I’m a great dancer. I’m out in the middle of the dance floor and my mates have formed a ring around me, clapping and cheering me on as, in a state of heightened excitement I’m performing a one-woman show of elaborate and tricky movements that probably bear more resemblance to a chicken laying its eggs than a disco queen going through her routine. Nobody seems to care, though, and when the DJ announces that he’s going to play
School’s Out
by Alice Cooper for
all the naughty schoolgirls on the dance floor
we go wild, screaming and whooping as we grab hold of each other and form a kind of rugby-scrum, arms round each other’s waists, swaying and jigging to the music, singing along with the chorus which is all that we can manage between the lot of us.
‘Need another drink!’ I gasp as the music ends.
I push my way through the crowds to the bar, presuming the other girls, or at least some of them, are following me.
‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself when I get there and realise I’m on my own.
Emily’s got the money for the evening in her purse and where the bloody hell is she?
‘What’s up?’
Wouldn’t you just know it. Right now, as I’m leaning on the bar, probably looking at my least attractive
ever
, with my school shirt sleeves rolled up, collar askew, dripping sweat from everywhere it’s humanly possible to drip it from, is
not
the time I would choose to be spotted by the most sexy man in Dublin.
‘Dying of thirst,’ I tell him, not wanting to meet his eyes in case he’s looking disgusted at the state of me.
‘Can I get you a drink, then?’
‘No! No, you see, Emily’s got the money. The euros. You know, the drinking money. Emily’s in charge, but I… I think I’ve lost Emily.’
I’m only just about sober enough to make sense. Or am I?
‘Well, not to worry. Let me buy you a drink, ’cos I don’t want you to die of thirst. Not before your wedding!’
‘Wedding. Yes.’ That rings a bell. ‘OK, yes please. I’ll have …’ I’m too thirsty for vodka. ‘I’ll have a Becks, please.’
Harry orders this, and a Guinness for himself.
‘Got to drink it while we’re over here,’ he tells me, taking a great slurp from his glass. ‘It’s beautiful.’
I notice he has trouble with the word
beautiful
. So he’s not quite as sober as he seems.
‘Have you been drinking that all night?’
‘Yep. ’S beautiful,’ he repeats. ‘Rob ought to have stuck with the Guinness. Then he might not have been sick.’
‘Poor guy. What happened to him?’ I ask, looking around.
‘Had to go back to the hotel. Being sick all over the…’
‘Ugh. What a shame. On his stag weekend!’
‘Been drinking all day. He won’t remember in the morning.’ He gives me a sudden look. ‘What about your boyfriend, then? Is he away on his stag do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s he gone, then?’
‘Prague. But I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Fair enough. I like Prague, though. Been there twice. Two different stag weekends.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking at me a bit more closely. ‘Sorry, you didn’t want to talk about it. I won’t talk about it, OK?’
‘OK.’
He takes another gulp of his Guinness.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll change the subject, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘I mean, if you’re upset about something, the last thing you want is someone going on and on and on about it, isn’t it.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘You’re not
really
upset, are you? Only, you know, you’re getting married soon, and you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself, so don’t be upset. I won’t say any more about Prague, OK?’
‘OK! For fuck’s sake! Shut the fuck up about fucking
Prague
!’
It’s suddenly gone very quiet at the bar and I realise I was shouting at the top of my voice.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ I say in a whisper, plonking the empty bottle back on the bar and turning to slink away, my face burning red.
‘Hey!’ He’s following me, trying to catch hold of my elbow. I keep going through the crowd. I need to find the other girls. It’s getting late and the club will be closing soon. They’ll be looking for me. And I think I need to get away from this guy. Quickly.
‘Hey, Katie! Don’t be like that! I didn’t mean…’
He’s got me firmly by both arms. I could shake him off, push him away, carry on looking for my friends, but I suddenly feel too drunk to try. At least – I think it’s the drink.
‘I’m sorry, Katie. I’m drunk, and I’m a prat. And I’ve upset you on your hen weekend. If you don’t say you forgive me, I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling guilty that I might have ruined your wedding.’
‘No you won’t.’
I’m smiling now. Can’t help it really.
‘Then we’re friends, yeah?’
Friends? We’re virtually complete strangers. All I know about him is his first name, the fact that he likes Guinness and that he’s been to Prague twice.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nevertheless. ‘OK.’
He only kisses me because of that. You see? Because we’re friends, apparently. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?
But I can understand how it looks when my friends find me a few minutes later… still kissing.
On the way back to the hotel I’m being talked about as if I’m not here.
‘Look, it’s her hen weekend. It’s what people
do
on their hen weekends. Get pissed, kiss a bloke or two.’
‘Not
that
sort of kissing!’
‘Not that any of us would breathe a word to Matt, don’t get me wrong, but…’
‘Of course we wouldn’t! What sort of friends do you take us for?’
‘But even so! How would she feel if
he
was snogging other
girls
over in Prague?’
‘Who’s to say that he isn’t?’
‘It’s our fault – we should have been looking after her. We shouldn’t have let her go off on her own.’
‘For the love of Jesus! Will you ever give her a break, the lot of you? Katie’s fine, so she is, and if she can’t have a little bit of fun on her hen weekend without you eejits all giving out like a shower of holy nuns, sure she might as well be dead and buried instead of going to her wedding!’
‘Thanks, Jude.’
I’ve sobered up alarmingly since the frosty reception I got from a couple of the girls when I surfaced from kissing Harry.
‘You’re welcome, Katie. Fair play to you, girl, he was too gorgeous not to be kissed. I’d have done the same meself, if I could only work up the courage, and I don’t think I’m the only one here who’s a tad jealous of you, if the truth be known.’
There’s a silence, at this, which speaks volumes. I glance at Jude. She’s actually pink and cross with indignation on my behalf. Bless her.
‘Well said, Jude,’ agrees Emily.
‘She’s right, I’m as jealous as hell,’ laughs Lisa. ‘I could give him one as soon as look at him!’
We’re all laughing together about my naughtiness as we totter back into the hotel. All except Helen. Helen’s not saying a word, but I can see from her expression that she’s not amused. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does.
It’s very late when we get to bed, but I can’t sleep. I’m lying here with my eyes shut, listening to Jude trying to tiptoe around the room, doing her cleansing and toning and whatever the hell else she has to do before she undresses, folds her clothes immaculately and finally gets into bed. About another hour goes by. I stare into the darkness, wide awake, thinking my own thoughts, wondering what’s the matter with me – how I can feel the need to snog another bloke if I’m supposed to be totally in love with Matt, how upset he’d be if he knew what I’d done, and how I almost managed to cause World War III on my own hen weekend by doing it. And how I’m ever going to get up in the morning if I don’t go off to sleep soon.