Maya - Chapter six: 9pm

9pm

Mojo’s bar is like a school corridor after the bell has gone. I rest my breasts on the counter and push myself forward trying the catch the bartender’s eye. It works and he slides over whipping his chequered towel over his shoulder and lowering his ear to my lips.

I retrieve our drinks and twist and turn my way to our corner by the speaker. Clare and Ben are leaning against a small rounded table the height of their elbows and whispering conspiratorially. Dark grey wallpaper reaches from floor to ceiling across the back wall of this small, cosy and popular bar, which is covered in pictures and postcards. They are all signed by famous visitors, from Chris Moyles to Elvis Costello. There is a postcard from Andalusia that has been copied and hung next to the picture of a rocky coastline and the phrase ‘Amazing Andalusia!’ The card simply says, ‘The beer is warm and so is my piss. See you soon, Frank.’ Whoever Frank is he’s certainly a man of few words. Our coats are on the floor huddled together like children and I drop my purse on top. “Woo-Woo,” I state and press the cold, dewy glass into Clare’s hand. “And moijto, Mojo’s best for the very special Ben Naylor.” I giggle and sip my drink.

“Mmm, hmm,” Ben exclaims and fixes us with his devilish grin. “One moijto made by one very talented barman. I thank you Miss Philips for bringing us these treats in quick step time. Congrats.”

Ben is like a toddler about this evening. Ben loves two things in life and this evening has them both. The first is moijitos (a Sex and the City obsession), the other is style gazing and with the bar closely resembling a fashion parade, there is much of this to be had.

“Talented in what Ben? What kind of talent would you like from said barman I wonder?” Clare asks, feigning innocence and stoking Ben’s arm in an easy attempt to wind him up.

Ben pinches a section of skin near to a mole under Clare's armpit. “I would hasten to remind you, Miss Thing, that idle gossip is the forte of old and wrinkled women and those of an intellectually moronic disposition. Don’t make me spread vicious rumours about your herpes. I can and I will. I never said to trust me when I took you to the clinic.” Ben swigs dramatically on his ironically dainty drink and adds, “I can down alcohol like the best of the rugby team. So there!”

“Yeah,” laughs Clare, “and I’m sure they’d enjoy your cocktail mixing evenings together crushing mint and making caprioskas.” She winks at me and, then feeling mean, leans into Ben pouting her lips and giggling like a naughty school girl, “mmm, sorry Benny.”

“Hmph, well you may mock me but there will come a point where you will have to take me seriously Mrs. I will be a force to be reckoned with, I tell you. I know you would love nothing more than to label me into a compact little box but no, sorry, pas possible. I am the unboxable; a cocktail drinking, rugby playing, fashionable man! Heaven forbid!”

Ben jokes but his mock haughty face bears the slightest genuine hint of resentment. He’d be an utter hypocrite to not take some flak from any of us since he dishes it out by the bucket-load but all strong jaw and flicky hair that he may be, I know really he’s just a confused 19 year old boy trying to grow up and discover who he is.

Ben’s eyes fall on a passing row of girls. A tall black girl of model proportions wears fur-trimmed boots and an amazing yellow camisole dress. She seems to part the crowd before her as three. Four similarly modelesque girls follow.

‘Great,’ I say, exhaling quickly. ‘Just what we need.’

Clare turns her head to look, ‘Three broomsticks and a twig,’ she declares loudly. I’ve seen more meat on a cheap doner kebab. She turns her steely eyes on mine. ‘Don’t you let them upset our night. Clear?’

As I nod, attempting to look confident and feeling anything but, the group sashay over, seeming as though their feet barely touch the ground.

‘Sasha,’ coos Enya Middleton, the tall black girl and the leader of the group as she swoops her face towards my cheek, her lips and warm breath grazing my skin. Her collective of Amazonian friends pose, vague middle distance looks sweeping gtheir faces, hands on hips, and wearing a variety of see through vests and camisoles, barely covering their boy-like chests. One of them wears a pair of leggings with thigh high boots and somehow manages to avoid looking like a prostitute. Another’s floor length skirt sits so low on her hips that I can see her hipbones jutting out. She’s either got a very low waxed bikini line, I think, or a Brazilian. Probably the latter; these people don’t feel pain; that’s a bonus of not being fully human I guess. The third girl’s sheer vest is in fact a dress, one that stops mid thigh, revealing a San Tropez glistening tan. Of course, streak free. Women like this tan without smelling of biscuits. They ooze an innate confidence that can only come from the type of woman who has spent her whole life being reminded constantly that she is beautiful, only amplified by the reactions of average looking girls like me who, try as I might, can’t help but look at them in awe. When they look back at me it feels as though they can see straight through my carefully applied eye shadow and thick black liner, my meticulously rouged cheeks and painstakingly de-frizzed hair, to the real, plain, ordinary girl underneath.

‘Hi Enya, great to see you,’ I lie and smile as warmly as I can muster, elbowing Clare and Ben to do the same.

‘Great cami,’ exclaims Ben, launching a kiss on her cheek and laughing, high pitched and slightly inane. Oh dear: too much I think. Too obvious.

‘Yeah, very yellow,’ says Clare dryly. ‘Like a… canary.’

I snort in response and then quickly take control of myself. Enya scans the three of us, her face seeming to contort between a sneer and a smile, although becoming more of a sneer as her look passes Clare. She settles on me, knowing that I am the weaker one, her real victim and turns her body inwards, blocking Clare out of the way. I can see her over Enya’s shoulder, a deadly look in her eyes. ‘So,’ she sighs, light as air, ‘seen Ollie yet?’

Tensing my shoulders, I swig on my drink. ‘No,’ I reply, as lightly as possible. ‘Haven’t seen him, not counting on it.’

‘Oh. I’m sure he’s coming here tonight. At least that’s what he said when he called me last night,” she purrs, smiling sweetly.

There it is, the first stab; make sure I know he’s called her and not me.

“We spoke for ages actually,” she laughs. “He mentioned a few places. Gosh, he was on top form, really funny”.

And twist the knife; show me just how close they are, sever an artery perhaps.

“He definitely said he was in cocktail mode. He said he’d spent loads in Victoria Arcade the other day and had a proper hair cut at Toni & Guy. He actually took the initiative to tame that mop of his! Apparently he looks great with his hair short again.” She flicks her chemically straightened hair over her shoulder and her eyes flash.

And pluck out my heart, toss it to the floor and stamp as hard as you can.

She knows I liked him best with short hair. She knows I like him dressed smart. She knows I resent their friendship.

Enya has something so far over me it’s beyond my grasp completely. She has a history, a long history with Ollie. Growing up on opposite sides of a new development estate on the outskirts of Northampton, they went to the same primary and secondary school. They went through all the regular stages together – exams, first relationships, first break ups, driving test - passes and fails. They weren’t best friends through and through he told me. In fact, for much of secondary school they barely spoke. As puberty praised her with cheekbones that could slice ice and her long limbs became something to envy not poke fun at, she was elevated to the in crowd and Ollie, who just played rugby and got on with his work, was not quite in her league anymore. It was only when they both ended up at Leeds and Ollie was a successful part of the rugby team that she started branding them ‘friends’ again, and he became to her ‘Little Ol’, a 3 month age gap giving her free reign to cuddle him anywhere she felt inclined to.

“Well,” I muster, drawing breath. “I’m sure he does look great. We won’t be here all night so I might miss him. Never mind eh?”

She looks at me quizzically and then turns her stare to Ben and Clare. Taking a graceful arm, she pats Clare on the shoulder. “It’s a good job Sasha has you two isn’t it?” Enya is smiling now in an almost sedate manner, her hand still resting on Clare’s shoulder. Clare is frozen quite rigid, like a robot, her eyes wide as though they were pinned open, her arms struggling not to jolt sharply away from Enya’s contact.

“Sasha is fine,” robo-Clare responds.

“We’ll have a hoot,” buts in Ben urgently. He senses that Clare may internally combust any moment and perhaps feels the vibrations from my beating heart. “We always have a hoot, as usual. In fact the last few months have been hilarious,” he persists. “Riotous.”

Riotous? Now she’s clearly going to think we’re nuts, as well as realising that this facade of fun hides the truth that I’ve been doing nothing but mope and move around in a daze since Ollie and I went on our ‘break’.

“Right, ok then,” Enya says, clearing her throat. “Gotta get some cocktails.” She releases her hand from Clare as if an electric shock has just hit. “I have a date with a bellini.” She laughs and there is a chorus of pitiful titters behind her. With military precision, she whips air kisses either side of each of our cheeks before I can utter a response and is gone, calling over her shoulder, “be seeing you. Have a ball!”

There is a silence between us and only the beat of some track I recognise from a Giles Peterson: Worldwide album I have filed in the wrong case somewhere fills the gap.