Sweet (12 page)

He gave me a big cheeky grin – gentlemen prefer blondes, my arse they do! – and leaned towards me, giving himself a good view down my carefully customized tunic. ‘Mmm . . . I can only see one thing round here that might be a bit dirty.’

He looked up from my cleavage and we stared at each other for a couple of seconds, eyes sparkling, before we both cracked up laughing.

‘Maria Sweet – you can call me Sugar.’

‘Sweet to meet you, Sugar. I’m Cameron, but you can call me Cam. Or any time!’

I groaned and stuck out my tongue.

‘Can I get you a drink – or are you going to get me one? That’s your job, after all, isn’t it . . . keeping the punters happy no matter what the cost . . .’

I kicked him playfully and he yelped.

‘Oi, Cam,’ a voice boomed in our direction, rudely interrupting our romp. ‘You can’t have ’em both, mate – that’s just greedy. Share the wealth! ’Less of course you want to film a bit of girl-on-girl on your phone and show us all later . . .’

That was when I realized that Barbie Girl was still standing behind me looking quite like she wanted to rip my eyes out and play ping-pong with ’em. I had a choice – I could come out with a poisonous put-down and completely annihilate her, or I could show mercy, save her from total humiliation and get girl-points. Nothing looks less attractive than competing over a man – about as sexy as squabbling about the last seat on a bus; like there won’t be another along in a minute! So more through vanity than virtue, I played nice.

‘’Ey, Barbie, what you drinking – something pink, I bet! Cam’s buyin’, so put your order in. And your mate about to go to the slaughter – sorry, altar. Love the T, by the way!’

She looked at me coldly for a moment like she was about to open fire, but then she seemed to decide like it wasn’t worth it – sooo the right decision! – and gave me a wary smile. ‘Cheers – it’s for my mate’s hen do. We’ve all got one, see?’ She gestured in the direction of her friends.

‘Hey – you lot!’ I shouted over to them. ‘These kiddies are buying us all a drink. Get in there!’ Then I turned and flashed the lads my best I-Bet-It’s-Not-Butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and sat back to enjoy the party.

An hour later and at least three hens had flown the coop, copping off in various dark corners with Cam’s lot while the rest of us shared bottles of Smirnoff Ice and our life stories. ‘So Vic’s the first one of us to get hitched,’ Barbie-Saz was telling me, all teary-eyed as she ruffled the bride-to-be’s hair, ‘but we’ve warned her that she’s definitely not allowed to turn into one of those boring bitches who’s never allowed off her leash to party with the girls. Like that saddo she’s marrying shows every sign of wanting her to.’

‘Do one!’ Vic advised her friend enthusiastically. ‘Like that’s ever gonna happen. No freakin’ way!’ Then her eyes went all soft and her voice all soppy. Sort of like a Bratz doll having the abdabs. ‘But he’s soooo lovely, isn’t he, Saz? He is, Sugar – he’s lovely, not just fit, he’s really sweet and funny too.’

‘You make him sound like one of those effing ice lollies with a joke inside!’ shrieked Saz, finding herself hilarious and not without reason, I thought.

Vic shoved her. Clearly their relationship was based on shoving and sarcasm more than sugar and spice, and it made me think of me and Kim for a moment. I looked at Vic and Saz and I wondered if they’d ever snogged each other after a few WKD Blues too many, but if they had, it was long gone now as Vic continued bigging up her intended.

‘He’s so cool, you’d have to see him to believe him, Sugar – hey, you should come to the wedding! – shouldn’t she come to the wedding, Saz!’

‘Yeah, you should – as good an excuse to get trashed as any!’ She looked as if she was about to start welling up again – all very moving, but it was starting to get a bit wet and windy for me; we were meant to be having FUN, for fuck’s sake!

‘Cheers, chix, but wedding cake makes me feel like heaving – been there and done that before I can vote, and it didn’t exactly end happy ever after. Or even for six months, come to that!’ I snorted with disgust, thinking about Mark and Ren and the whole mess of it. Then I caught the look of alarm on Vic’s face and felt bad about raining on her poor misguided parade. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely marriage and that, but all I’m saying is that it wasn’t like that for me. Here, pass us that.’ I took a massive swig of Ice, drew a deep breath and then embarked on the edited highlights of the whole sorry saga. When I was done with my tale of woe the girls were momentarily mute with outrage. Then the slagging started!

‘Bastard!’ spat Saz, giving my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

‘Yeah, what a cold fucker!’ chorused the other Fallen Angels.

‘Yeah, fucking bastards, they’re all the bleeding same!’ shouted over one of the boys, and then we were back where I wanted us to be, falling and fooling around, laughing out loud at all the crap life kept throwing at you – always and forever, till death us do part – downing our drinks and not giving a damn about anything except right here, right now.

‘Could the last remaining passengers for flight BA1036 to Ibiza PLEASE make their way to GATE SIX IMMEDIATELY, where your plane is READY TO DEPART.’ Even though she said please, it was clear the tannoy voice meant, ‘The fucking idiots who are meant to be on flight BA1036 better get their friggin’ arses to gate six in the next fucking second or I’m going to make those drunken wasters regret it very bitterly indeed . . .’

‘Screw it!’ screeched Saz in my ear, spitting Smirnoff Ice down my neck. ‘That’s our sodding flight – MOVE!’

My blissed-out voddy daze was interrupted by body after body, girls and guys, grabbing me in clumsy hugs and/or planting smackers on my face and swearing they’d call me when they got back and/or see me at the wedding. Then in a hustle of muscle and/or a posse of pink my new friends were gone, clattering their eager way to the departure gate and all points pleasure-bound.

I stood there feeling miserable and/or manky, half-pissed in my polyester uniform, the skivvy who didn’t get to go to the ball after all because her fairy godmother had probably just got on an easyJet to Alicante. Staring out of the huge window on to the runway, I watched as plane after plane took off, the twinkling lights leading the way to some warm and wicked paradise island where the Slow Comfortable Screws never stopped – while all I had to look forward to was a bollocking from Kathleen and a cold, wet trudge back to ASBO Towers.

For a minute I almost wished I was back inside – no work, three meals a day and drugs on tap. The good old days! But my brief pity party was suddenly gatecrashed by a pair of silky dark arms snaking round my neck and a voice so sincere it could strip both your teeth of their enamel and, if you were the soppy sort, your body of its kit in about five seconds flat.

‘You know,’ Asif whispered. ‘I know what you are thinking when you watch the planes. And sometimes England seems cold to me too. And it isn’t even my home, as it is yours. But just because the sun shines in a country doesn’t mean happiness can be found there, as my people know.’

‘And that was a broadcast of behalf of the Christians of Pakistan,’ I said tetchily, knowing I was being a bitch and not being able to help it. Come on, the way I did it, how long and how thoroughly, being a bitch was practically my religion by now!

I felt him edge away from me, and I was sorry I’d added yet another injury to those he’d already suffered, and him so young and sweet. Still, he wasn’t giving up.

‘All I meant to say was that there is more to freedom than the sun shining, and more to sadness than the rain falling. It’s cold here yet you have warmth, with your family, as I do with mine.’ He turned me round to face him; I couldn’t meet his eyes. (So I stared at his crotch instead, to cheer me up.) ‘And I can honestly say, Sugar, even though I don’t speak English so good, that there really is nowhere in the world I’d rather be right now than here with you.’

If I hadn’t swallowed the entire contents of the Smirnoff Ice bottle in my hand, I’d have spewed it all over him. ‘Bloody hell, Asif! Where the freak d’you learn a line like that?!’

With this he looked so sad even I decided that it was time to clock off bitch-duty for the day. I’d had my fun and I’d have more. For now, I had my boy. He’d seen enough nastiness to last him a lifetime – and I never did like following the herd.

I pulled him close. ‘You speak English great. Better than me and I was born here. Come on – let’s see what else you do good.’ And as I helped myself to one of his trademark long kisses – patent pending, probably, they were that good – I couldn’t help thinking that maybe Brighton in the rain wasn’t so bad after all.

14

Well, if Shugs couldn’t go to the ball – the rave in Ibiza, rather – then the ball would have to come to Shugs. Face it, there were worse places to be than Brighton, whatever the weather, and I had my love to keep me warm. Well, my teenage lust.

So I decided to give young Asif Sugar’s Sensational Shagtastic Seaside Tour of Brighton. Like I said, Susie used to drive me mad saying there was no point in going away on holiday when you live in a holiday town, but now I had to admit, maybe she had a point. Let’s not delude ourselves here – if I could choose between caipirinhas at the Café del Mar or coffee at the Western Road Starbucks, I’d be blissed out on that beach before you can say bikini wax. But that was the whole sodding point, wunnit? – I didn’t
have
that choice so I might as well make the most of what I did have. Which was a home-town that was always whoring itself to rich Londoners any chance it got, but which I still had a soft spot for, and a big-eyed boy to share it with. Sweet.

Organized tours of this place are usually one of two things – totally straight, like the Pavilion and stuff, or totally twisted. Like on the main bus tour, right, there’s no warning or anything; one minute this posh bird’s voice is coming through this speaker banging on about that fat royal git that had the Pav built for his married piece or something, and the next minute she’s going into all the gory details about this dude, Tony Mancini, that killed this girl and cut her up and stuffed her in a trunk! I had to talk nineteen to the dozen to keep She-Ra and Evil-Lyn from hearing that stuff when we went on it one day – one of Mum’s cost-cutting day trips – though to be fair it does come in useful whenever I want to make ’em do something they’re not keen on. Like, ‘Go on, Evil, nip down the shop for me, or Tony Mancini’ll come tonight when you’re asleep and cut you up into little bits and stuff you into my new pink Topshop handbag!’ It’s good for people to know their local history, so I’m doing good by doing good, as it were.

‘So. What’s your favourite things?’ I asked Asif when we were changing to go home.

He smiled at me, all soppy like. ‘You. My faith. Though not necessarily in that order . . .’

‘Oi!’ I thumped him. ‘Try getting your Bible to give you a blow job!’

He laughed and caught me by the wrists. I’ve noticed that about proper religious people; they can laugh about their God-bothering, they don’t want to cut your head or hands off like the Muslims always seem to want to. ‘Why are you so interested in my favourite things, anyway?’

‘Wanna take you out, don’t I? On your own unique Shugs-shaped tour. Not the usual tourist stuff and not just a bar-crawl like the hens and slags.’ I laughed appreciatively here, nudging Asif sharply when he didn’t immediately do so as well.

He gave a few swift sniggers in self-defence, then thought about what I’d said. ‘Well . . . I should like to go to a museum. I have never been to English museum, and everybody talks about them.’

‘Hmm . . .’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ What a bunch of sad bastards he must hang out with!

‘So, we could start with a museum . . . ?’

‘And amp it up from there? – OK!’ Face it, if we started with a museum, it could only get better, coun’it!

But which museum? There was the main one down by the Old Steine but I’d been dragged round that one so many times by school that the thought made me want to heave, frankly – even the cute smiling giant pottery cat by the entrance, who purred and said stuff like MMM . . . PUT SOME MONEY IN THE KITTY when you fed him a few coins couldn’t lure me there. Another museum, think, think . . . I laughed at myself racking my brains over one, cos of course if it had been a crack dealer or an after-hours hooch-den, I’d have had a dozen right on speed dial. Museums, though, that was a different kettle of endangered cod.

‘Look, meet me tomorrow morning at ten, the sea end of Ship Street, and we’ll take it from there. And come prepared!’ I jumped up, slapped his bum and gathered my things together.

‘You mean with umbrella?’

‘No, with condoms, of course!’

Even on a breezy winter’s day Brighton seafront sparkled in the sun, and as I leaned against the seafront railings having a quick fag and waiting for Asif to creep in from Crawley, I thought that despite all the crap that had happened to me in my home-town, there was just something magical about it that kept you coming back for more, or in my case never getting around to leaving in the first place. When I was little I used to think that that old hymn actually said ‘All things
Brighton
beautiful’, and even though I’d felt a right teat when I found out what it really was, the words still rang in my mind whenever I went to the seafront on a sunny day. That old saying ‘Hope springs eternal’, which we used to snigger at at school cos it had ‘breast’ in the rest of it could have been written about Brighton – it may have been the accidental OD capital of Britain, but no way could it ever have won in the suicide stakes. There was just something about this place, no matter what the weather was like, which made you feel that life was worth living.

Brighton’s notorious as the place that Londoners come to for uni, or a dirty weekend, or a club night, and never go home from again. And if it looked that good to Londoners, how must it look to Asif, after the heat and dust and hatred of Islamabad?

I was trying to get my head around seeing it from his point of view when he came up behind me and said in my ear, ‘1p for them . . .’