#Toots Read online

  #Toots

  Linh Le James

  To my toots.

  Definition of ‘toots’

  toots

  /tuːts

  noun

  informal

  plural noun: toots

  Besties

  A person’s best friends

  ‘I love hanging out with my toots.’

  Also sisters

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Tongue Tied

  Chapter 2: Voodoo

  Chapter 3: Dill or no Dill

  Chapter 4: About Thyme

  Chapter 5: A Short Trip to Hell

  Chapter 6: Tequila Mockingbird

  Chapter 7: Mudslide

  Chapter 8: Dirty White Mother

  Chapter 9: Moscow Mule

  Chapter 10 : Humble Pie

  Chapter 11: The Incredible Hulk

  Chapter 12: Screaming Orgasm

  Chapter 13: Flaming Giraffe

  Chapter 14: Red-Headed Slut

  Chapter 15: Suck, Bang and Blow

  Chapter 16: Blame It on the Aperol

  Chapter 17: Tootsaw’d

  Chapter 18: The Last Word

  Chapter 1

  Tongue Tied

  Tongue Tied

  Ingredients

  60 ml gin

  30 ml pineapple juice

  15 ml lime juice

  15 ml orange juice

  30 ml sugar syrup

  Shake all ingredients and strain into a martini glass.

  Garnish with a slice of orange.

  August

  Friday. Big Tesco. 1 pm.

  No one in the loo. Good. I sneak in and manage to squeeze myself and all the bags of shopping in the cubicle. Arrgh! Wish I was in one of those handicapped ones large enough to host a family reunion.

  Oh no! Almost one o’clock! How did I ever think it would be humanely possible to fit a weekly food shop in twenty minutes then get to my lunch date on time?

  The Tesco own-brand pregnancy test has five strips for £4.99 – better value than the single unit priced at £3.99. Sold me, although I’m 200% sure I won’t use any of the other four strips. I am not expecting. Not in a gazillion years. I did also splurge on a Clearblue Visual Easy Pregnancy Test at £7.55 in case the cheapo ones don’t work. You never know.

  The instructions – printed very small to ensure the tester slash testee is not under the influence and therefore able to operate the tricky apparatus without danger to self – are not for the faint-hearted.

  The strips check for the presence of HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadotropin).

  Humph. That sounds like a disease.

  Take a clean and dry plastic or glass container

  Shite. None in sight. I need to wee in something. They obviously cannot trust you to aim the – ahem – stream at the one-nanometre-wide strip without getting your hands splashed in the process and potentially suing them for the emotional trauma resulting. Eureka! I’m still clutching my lukewarm takeaway coffee. I can totally use the cup.

  Carefully stepping over my bags of shopping, I extract myself from the cubicle. I down the rest of the coffee, as I’m unsure whether my bladder is full enough to carry out the upcoming task. Eww. Coffee is so meant to be sipped, not gulped.

  Bit of hand soap in cup, good rinse, more water. Let’s make a big show of drinking it for the sake of the lady waiting for the toilet. My polite nod acknowledges, ‘Won’t be a sec! I’m extremely thirsty and simply need a glass of water to rehydrate myself while doing my business in there.’

  I stride back to my cubicle and lock the door behind me, ignoring the bags of groceries spilling over on the other side of it.

  The last hour has been spent drinking uninterrupted, as I was convinced this morning’s liquids had not made their way through my digestive system yet. Only now do I realize – from the force of the jet squirting out – that I was bursting for the loo all along. Damn! Some wee splattered on my hands. Utterly gross.

  Doing this in a public toilet is not ideal, but I wanted to enjoy my girlie lunch without the niggling thought I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind for the past few days. I am a couple of weeks late. Nothing to worry about. It has happened a few times before when I got stressed and my hormones played up. I’m sure it’s just stress. It can only be stress.

  Two lines appear immediately after I dip the strip in and lie it flat on some tissue on my knee.

  Two lines! It can’t be right! Wretched cheap useless piece of rubbish! Bet it’s made in a fourth world country from substandard raw materials.

  Luckily, there’s still the Clearblue pregnancy test. Which will work. I shouldn’t have tried to penny pinch in the first place – not for such an important task. No one can be expected to do a good job without the proper tools.

  I unwrap the test in a rush, dip the testing strip end in my pee cup, count to five, and place the top back on. Looking up at the ceiling, I whisper a little prayer to the non-fertility gods before peering through my fingers at the test which, to my disbelief, spells out PREGNANT.

  No. No no. No no no. Just no.

  This must be a nightmare. I’m going to wake up in a minute, safe and warm under my fluffy duvet. This cannot be happening.

  A black cloud descends on me and wraps me in fear and dread. It chills me to my bones and grabs my insides, twisting my stomach into a rock solid knot. I slump on the floor amid my shopping, and my bum squashes a loaf of granary bread. I shove the cereal boxes and the kitchen rolls away to make some room for my legs in the cramped space and sit motionless on the cold tiles, heart fluttering in my throat like a trapped bird.

  Calm down. Pull yourself together. I need to tell Sasha I can’t make it for lunch. Not in this state. Where’s my handbag? Here, under the fruit, which I shove out of the way. Apples comically come rolling out of the bag under the door. I retrieve my phone and clutch it against my chest, choking back a sob.

  There is no way I can ring anyone now.

  I spot the bottle of Bacardi purchased earlier. It was meant for carefree piña coladas with my toots tonight. I open it and take a long swig. Cough. Tear up. You know it’s bad when even neat rum doesn’t provide you with any relief.

  I need to think. Find a solution.

  No. There’s none. My life is simply over.

  Disconsolate, I grab a cheesecake slice from the plastic tray which popped open when I rummaged in the bag to find the pregnancy tests. I shove it in my mouth, remembering too late that my fingers must still have wee on them.

  There’s a light rasp on the door, and someone timidly ventures, ‘Are you all right in there?’

  A hand reaches under the door and furtively places my three lost apples on the floor. The kind gesture makes my eyes sting with self-pity.

  The cheesecake feels gritty against my teeth and has the salty taste of tears. This must be the first time in my life that chocolate has felt anything but sweet and comforting.

  I wash down the sticky mouthful with more rum, put my head between my knees and go to pieces.

  A few months earlier

  Jess

  As the eldest of the Davies tribe, I make a point of organizing a get-together between us sisters at least once every couple of months. No kids, no other halves, lots of goss and prosecco.

  I:

  - set the date weeks in advance

  - choose a location (99% of the time Chicago Bar because of the discounted drinks)

  - negotiate childcare (Scott) for the night and the morning after

  - nag and remind the girls. Especially Louise, so flaky she’d put any Cadbury choccie to shame. And workaholic Carla, who’d happily ditch us to stay in the office instead. At least Emily never bails out; she’s a good girl like that

  - somehow invariably end up arrivi
ng last.

  Tonight is no exception.

  Management had the rubbish idea of organizing a WebEx with the chaps from the other offices late afternoon. An insane amount of time is spent arguing whether taking home leftover promotional gadgets is technically stealing company property. Next is a debate about the choice of booth location -right next to the fire exit but so far from the toilets you’d need binoculars to spot the sign- and the precedence of safety over bladder needs. By the time they let us leave the office, I feel like repeatedly slamming my forehead on the copy machine.

  Departing ten minutes past five rather than ten to doubles my journey time home. I get stuck on the A3 for a good hour and when I finally open my front door I’m suffering from road rage, hunger and greasy hair, which I didn’t get around to washing in the morning.

  Eszter, my nanny, lazes in the lounge, a shambolic mess, MTV blaring. Mia is stuffing a power socket’s holes with pink sparkly Play-Doh, her tongue sticking out in concentration. Molly stands, one hand holding on to the sofa for balance, the other smearing Nutella on my cream wallpaper.

  ‘Oh God! Eszter, look at Molly!’ I exclaim in distress.

  ‘Hello Jess! Yes! Molly stand now! Molly walk soon!’

  I start scrubbing the wall in panic with a wet rag. ‘No! I mean, look at the mess!’

  Eszter shakes her head indulgently as she walks out of the door. ‘Molly love chocolate. She eat very messy. Szia, Mia! Szia, Molly!’

  Need to hide Nutella jar in toilet cistern in manner of handgun. Giving the kids chocolate is my own favourite method of getting some peace and I do NOT approve of Eszter resorting to it.

  There is just enough time for me to bleach the wall, change Molly’s nappy, which hangs down to her knees, and rush out the door as soon as Scott arrives home to take over the kids.

  Late again! Should I call an Uber? Nah, save the money for drinks and drive to the station. I do my hair on the train – thank God for cordless straighteners – but forego the make-up, as urgent work emails from narcissists bosses bleat from my phone demanding reply.

  Clapham Junction. I nip into EAT between two train changes. Bad call. There must have been a snow announcement or something. Feels like half of London is queuing in here. To top it all off, the woman in front of me and the one behind me know each other, fancy that, and they start an annoying chat over my head while I stand between them like piggy in the middle. The next fifteen minutes are all tales of Trisha’s cat’s lymphoma. Slightly annoyed that my private space is being violated by Trisha, her friend and her cat. Especially her cat. Trisha’s graphic description of her chronic diarrhoea turns my stomach.

  At the till, I realize with consternation that I have picked up a ham, cheese and pickle sandwich, not a plain ham and cheese. Unpickling it is not an option; the bread would still be all vinegary. I go back to swap it, but there isn’t any other filling I fancy. I return to the back of the queue with a pathetic bag of Quavers and a Twix, feeling sorry for myself.

  Everyone else in the queue must be starving as they seem to believe that squeezing themselves against the person ahead of them will get them served faster. The next quarter of an hour feels like an uncomfortable Conga dance. The young lad in front of me, with his stupid massive earphones, bumps into me with his backpack every five seconds. What really takes the biscuit is when the checkout operator calls three times ‘Next please!’ before he wakes up and goes to the till.

  Ages later, I walk out clutching my dinner. My train’s just gone and the next one isn’t until quarter past.

  I am beyond late by the time I arrive at Chicago Bar.

  Louise

  Why on earth does Jess insist on us toots meeting up every two days? We already know everything about each other’s lives.

  We have a WhatsApp sister group and Jess doesn’t let Mia have a poo without us hearing about it ‘Mia did it in the potty again today!’. Is there such thing as oversharing? Yes, there is. Emily is just as bad. We all get to know what she has for lunch, breakfast and dinner. ‘Berry chia porridge!’, ‘Friday Fish n Chips!’.

  Imagine if I was to share what’s about to go in my mouth? ‘‘Flatmate’s oatmeal!’ ‘Guy-met-yesterday’s toothbrush!’ ‘Sergei’s flaccid dick!’. I made a decision. I am leaving the sisters WhatsApp group. Tomorrow.

  Jess loves to order us about. The cheeky cow already texted me twice this week to remind me about our night out. That’s the problem with firstborns. They feel it’s their prerogative to tell people how they should lead their lives. I’m the second oldest but nobody ever listens to me. Wish I’d been born first so I’d get to play Miss Bossy Boots.

  Anyway, there was no better plans for tonight. I shafted my last customer by cutting her facial ten minutes short and left the spa before my official finish time of five o’clock to join Emily at the start of her shift at Chicago Bar. It’s always good to arrive early to get the drinks in and scope out the meat market. Unfortunately, Chicago Bar is not the kind of place you’re likely to find decent boyfriend material. However, you might get lucky and stumble on some short-term distractions.

  I can’t wait to show the girls my new tattoo. A pentagram!

  Nick, a hot guy I met at the last Entrepreneur Meetup, had a pentagram tattoo on his arm. I don’t remember what it means. It sounds like ‘telegram’ but it’s actually something to do with spiritual protection. I was too distracted by the sight of his smooth caramel bicep to focus on his explanation of its origin. He was ranting about transcendental meditation and a spiritual retreat in Tamil Nadu. Some ghost research centre near Brick Lane I assume. Weirdo. After we parted ways, I decided I would look quite cosmopolitan with the same design on my shoulder. It hurt like a bitch but it looks amazing!

  The Entrepreneur Meetups are great for meeting potential dates. They are mostly full of geeks but you get the odd promising hunk. I once dated and dumped a neighbour who went on to Dragons’ Den, won backing for his business and is now a millionaire. Well, listen to this: he used to go to these Entrepreneur Meetups!

  It can be awkward when I’m asked what my project is about, as I have none. I usually say something vague about beauty or fashion and change the subject by grilling them about their idea. It always does the trick; men love to talk about themselves.

  The last Meetup came up trumps. I struck gold when I met the guest speaker, Nick Carlson. He gave me his card, and I Googled him out of curiosity – and found an article about him being a philanthropist bitcoin multi-millionaire. Fit and filthy rich. Come on.

  I scroll down Nick’s Facebook page for clues to his whereabouts. I send him yet another text. There’s no playing coy when you’re going after the top prize.

  Hmm. I could do with another cocktail; these martinis only last two seconds. Emily is polishing a table nearby.

  ‘Em! What on earth are you wearing?’ I blurt out.

  Emily is sporting one of her cheap acrylic black suits, which are so badly cut that she might just as well put a bin bag over herself and be done with it.

  ‘It’s called formal wear, Lou. As per our employee handbook.’

  Emily is the youngest of us sisters. She’s actually quite pretty but doesn’t turn it to her advantage. She always ties her hair in a boring ponytail with a scrunchie straight from the 80s. I mean, those things were old-fashioned before she was even born! She’s paranoid about the cute freckles that dot her face when the sun comes out, and cakes herself in foundation and concealer to hide them. On the other hand, she refuses to subscribe to my trusted Fake Bake. Where is the logic in that?

  This is what years of hand-me-downs as a kid did to her confidence. Everything was passed down from one sister to the next. Emily inherited a wardrobe worn by three girls before her. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

  ‘Why don’t you wear the Versace I gave you? The one that’s too big for me?’

  ‘I will not dress like a Hooters waitress,’ Emily mutters, avoiding eye contact.

  She’s so stubborn it’s unreal.
She hides her body under unsightly baggy clothes. Silly girl. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of meat on the bone. OK, she’s borderline meat and fat on the bone, but if she followed my advice on how to dress, she’d be a hit with the boys. I’ve been trying to explain to her forever that when you have something, you have to flaunt it. Walking around in Amish-type clothes do nothing for her, apart from detracting from her nice features. No wonder she’s single.

  I sigh. ‘Get me another apple martini, please.’

  ‘Lou! I can’t keep asking for free cocktails. This is your third already!’ she protests.

  ‘It’s Lou-i-sa. Not Lou. Remember?’

  I wish I had a powerful and empress-like name: Katarina or Theodora. Obviously not Sisi of Austria. Lou sounds babyish and common and Louise insipid. After much thought I rechristened myself Louisa this year. I wrote an official letter to have my name modified from Louise to Louisa on my birth certificate. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. I unsuccessfully argued that my name had been spelled wrong at birth. They made me apply to change it by deed poll. I tried not to lose my rag when the clerk typed out on the paperwork I was changing from Louis to Louisa. Did he think I was transgender or something?

  Friends were easy to convince. Family is an entirely different matter. I can correct them till the cows come home, they still all call me Lou. Carla, who I spot pushing through the main entrance door, is no exception.

  ‘Hey, Em! Hey, Lou!’ Carla greets Emily with a hug and slides next to me on the seat.

  ‘Lou-i-sa.’

  Carla

  I feel rough.

  Flying back from Portugal with Ben yesterday late in the night was a pain. Charter flights always leave at stupid o’clock. Seemed like a good excuse at the time to knock back a bunch of cheap drinks at the beach bar before leaving for the airport. I’m paying for it now.

  Ben. We met in a little food shack serving laphet thohk somewhere on a dirt road in Burma. We hit it off right away and travelled together for the rest of my backpacking trip in South East Asia. We went through food poisoning, starting a period in the jungle with no tampons in sight (me), catching head lice (Ben), and managing without a shower for as long as five days. We saw each other at our best and our worst.