Apparently this is one area of the house where naked flames are allowed, as events become positively pyrotechnic, although it’s not at that stage of the night where people will try to set fire to anything (and drink it), though there are some peculiar combinations tried out. Kira and Katherine, in particular, seem bent on competing, and there is one potential nostril-hair-losing moment when they link arms to down flaming shots opposite each other, eyes locked. This marks the zenith (or nadir) of the fiery part of the evening, although the volume in the kitchen is now very loud. Various blokes have wandered by, looked in the doorway, generally either grinned or looked appalled, but all cursed, and moved on. JJ has taught several new people the rules to Nun Rally and has stepped back to watch (and listen to) it run.
J casts around, and spots a multipack of crisps of varying species. She rips them open and immediately proves how drunk she isn’t yet by pawing through to find a flavour that doesn’t involve vinegar. Katherine swings around the corner of the table and lands in front of Sal, gyrating victoriously until she, too, spots the crisps and hustles over. There is a whispered conversation, during which it is clearly decided that Sal looks too damned miserable in the chair and she is hauled up, protesting, and a packet of crisps thrust into her hand. She gives this phenomenon wry consideration.
“C’mon, Sal!” bellows Kath, warm breath cheese-and-onion laden.
Sal rolls her eyes. “Where?”
“Where what?”
“Am I coming to?”
Kath sticks her tongue out. “Bah! Crisps!” She shakes them.
Sal grimaces and her hand steals to her belly. JJ frowns in concern, and Kath runs to the table and comes back waving a suspiciously amber-sloshing glass.
“For what ails yeh!”
Sal looks at her for a long moment.
“What?”
“Kath, my lovely, I may not be the world’s best Muslim, but still and all...”
“Shit, man, sorry.”
JJ removes the offending beverage and roots through the pockets of her jacket.
“Aren’t you going to take that off?” demands Kath.
J sticks her tongue out, then proffers a silver packet to Sal who takes it with what can only be described as melting relief. “Hear while I sing, O Muse,” says J, half-chantish, “of salicylic miracle, fruit of the willow.”
“Amen,” says Sal thickly, dry-swallowing. She then spots, with an expression of chagrin, a bottle of water on the side. “Bah.” She tests the seal, then cracks it with determination, while moving to rest the small of her spongy back against the work surface’s rounded edge. J rests her left side against it, slightly hip-shot. Kath is kind of jogging gently on the spot. The others know pretty much what this means...
“Oh,” says J, “talking of which,” she nods to Sal, “have any of you met Fig yet?”
“Fig?”
“What -?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Oh.”
“No.”
“Hmmm. She wants me to donate my menses for an art project about strong women.”
“Why?”
“How?”
“Apparently I’m a Pictish warrior woman, and apparently I’ve not to let it touch any oppressively male or otherwise phallic things before it reaches her.”
“Eh?”
“So, no tampons then,” says Sal. J nods, and hitches one corner of her mouth, frowning. “You could try a mooncup,” Sal continues.
“You what?”
“Oh yeah,” says Kath, “I saw one of them on a website, right?”
“Yeah, but they do them in Boots now. Expensive, mind.”
“The whole fucking business is expensive,” says JJ. The accountant and the lawyer look sympathetic. “And yet we get paid less - and if we just stayed home for seven days a month or left a trail down the street we’d soon get gyp!”
There is a commotion by the front door. P has clearly arrived. And, indeed, wanders shortly to the kitchen, greeted by an unmistakable wave of warmth and alcohol fumes and an almost equal mixture of grins and rolled eyes. It’s like that with P. Some of the rolled eyes are above grins. See?
P strolls over to JJ, Kath and Sal. Says “Yo. Peeps. S’up?” deadpan.
Kath grins slightly, one-sided and lazy. “Innit,” she ripostes, and then she, JJ and P do gunfingers and sag at the knees. Sal rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, you lot. You’re so ghetto.”
“Innit,” says P, irrepressibly. “Who wants what?”
“We’re good,” says JJ. They wave drinks or at drinks, and P dives into a bag, saying “Beeeeer.” The rest goes into the fridge, and half a bottle goes down P’s throat, followed in short order by the other half. The second bottle is opened and P gives a shit-eating grin. “Nice.”
“Shit,” says Kath. “You can take the queer out of Manchester...”
“It’s all true,” says P, chugging a little more. “And when I am a long-term lecturer in God’s own most useless academic subject, drinking red wine and listening exclusively to Classic FM, you can remind me of my sullied youth and marvel at my hypocrisy. Here’s” raised bottle “to the future.”
“Amen,” choruses Kath and J, while Sal winces and pulls at her water. P’s eyes flicker over her and to the packet of painkillers on the side.
“You okay, Salwa-lass?”
“Yeah, nothing that time, chocolate and drugs won’t cure.”
“Ah,” nods P wisely. “Men or menstruation?”
Sal’s eyes widen briefly, and a strange expression flits across her face, which then hardens: “Bleeding suffices for pain. And, by my mothers, does it ever.”
“Sorry,” says P, inadequately. Clears throat and sucks on beer. “What did I interrupt, anyway? Not,” adding swiftly, “that I’m apologising, of course...”
“Of course,” says Kath.
“... I’m just nosy.”
“Naturally.”
“Un-naturally...”
“But an honest sprite, Puck, so where’s the offence?”
“None i’th world. So go on, then.”
“More of the same,” says JJ - “bloody periods (excuse me) and economic unfairness.”
“Might as well ramp it up then wrap it up,” says P.
“It will never be settled,” says JJ, orating slightly through her rum. Dark rum always makes her belligerent, which is possibly why she’s drunk a little tonight, feeling the need for that kind of release. “We are doomed by chromosomes to take on the mantle of economic unfairness by means of a constant apologia for the supposed insalubrious nature of our gender.”
“No doubt good old Fig would have something to say on that score.”
P frowns. The others furnish a synopsis. “Oh.”
“Presumably, in her terms, this makes us stronger and more natural, or something, more in tune with...”
“‘Closer to the Cycle of Nature.’“
“Heh, she would say that.”
“She didn’t,” snarls J.
“Oh?” Kath looks discomfited. “Then...”
“He did.”
They all look around the room, as one.
“Him. Jim-bob ginger-pants.”
“Oh,” says P. “Dan...”
“Yeah, Dan the Man. Bah. Told me, the first time I was suffering sore with the Bleedy Monster after we got together, that women are lucky to menstruate because it keeps them closer to the Cycle of Nature.”
The others take an in-drawn breath through their teeth. There seems little else to say to that.
“He...” says Sal, then starts again: “He didn’t.”
“He bloody did. As if I’d forget!”
“I didn’t say...”
“It’s easy for a bloke to say something like that,” says Kath. “It’s all no more than a theory to them. Like me talking about racism to Sal, or J talking about ableism to Dolly. I could wax lyrical about cultural richness, and J about unique perspectives on the sensory world, but we’d be fucking eejits because we don’t actually know.”
“Good point,” says P.
“But all the time it’s choosing which tampon you’ll buy or which landfill-filling pad absorbs thin blue liquid on the telly better; or god-help-us vaginal deodorisers, day-on-day pantyliners,” J spits the first syllable with as much vitriol as she can must, “in case we make the terrible mistake of smelling like women and doctors saying ‘Oh well, we just have to put up with these things’ and not daring to mention period pains or symptoms in mixed company but soldiering fucking well on.”
She takes a deep breath. “And god-damn me,” she says, “if it was a bloke going through that much pain, nausea, debility and sheer nastiness, he wouldn’t a) be made to feel shame over it, b) be told to just put up with it.”
“Of course,” says Katherine, “maybe if blokes had that regularly, sexism wouldn’t exist, coz there’d be no God-given proof of superiority...”
“Heh, yeah.” Then: “‘Closer to the Cycle of Nature’...! Moron...”
“And if there was a way to strap him to that wheel...”
“Oh yeah!”
“Men,” says P, “what are they like?!”
Katherine, J and Sal all stare at P for one gob-smacked moment of gathering rage. Katherine finds her voice first.
“And what, you know, exactly would you know about this, P?”
“I mean really?” says Sal.
“Well, I...” says P, uncharacteristically feebly.
“Coz at the end of the day, you’re never going to know what menstruation feels like, are you? You’re never going to know that gut-wrenching agony, that regular gut-wrenching agony because that,” she says, pointing to P’s crotch, “is a cock, and only under particularly bizarre circumstances does it bleed.”
P’s face is gathering an interesting mix of emotional expressions.
“Don’t want to out you or nuthin,” says Sal.
“Coz at the end of the day,” says Katherine again, “you don’t know what sexism really feels like.”
“That’s not exactly true,” says J, quietly. P nods.
“Oh, come on!“ scoffs Sal.
“Zackly,” says Katherine. “P, mate, you’re six foot three tall and broad-shouldered, you wear your hair real short. No-one meeting you for the first time is going to treat you with that automatic disregard and contempt, that immediate assumption that you’re somehow less able because you’ve got tits. And you know what?” she says, waving her finger in the air, “I’m not just talking about getting that from blokes - the most annoying fucking sexism is from women. Women who’ve been trained by this fucking culture to hate and despise other women! And that’s why...”
“Listen,” says P, clearly trying very hard not to talk through gritted teeth, “I’m not denying any of that, but you’re denying me...”
“What?!“ says Katherine at high pitch.
“... my rights to feel how I do...”
“That’s not true...”
“... that it’s less important coz it’s not backed up by anatomy...”
“... that’s not what I’m saying...”
“... and how do you think that feels that I’m not...”
“We’re just saying,” says Sal, “that unless you cut your cock off, and or find a way to bloat and bleed once a month, you’re never going to know how it feels...”
P rounds on her. “And you think that makes how I feel about my gender less valid, yeah? Cut my cock off?! Oh, lovely! And I thought true modern feminists didn’t hate men, they hated the system, that Freud was wrong and women don’t actually want a penis, they just want equality. Doesn’t fucking sound like it to me!”
“Hey!” says Katherine softly, brows creasing upwards in the middle. She starts to reach forward. P shies back.
“I’ve just been attacked, Greely. And not only that, I find out I’ve been wrong all this time and you don’t support... you’ve never meant...”
“That’s not true, P! I’ll defend your rights to the fucking death - you don’t recall me bitchslapping Steven Whatsit only last night?!”
P’s mouth curls briefly in a reluctant smile.
“Eh?” says J.
“Nob,” says P. Katherine turns to her and Sal. “This Steven Whosis is doing this terminal kind of fucking showing-off about some fucking Art Thing and starts blithering on about how he sees himself as... what was it?”
“‘Redefining...’“ says P.
“Oh yeah,” she nods at P, “‘Redefining the boundary between installation, construction and exhibition, essentially changing the definition of physical and visual art...’“
“This is a guy,” explains P to J and Sal, “who does broken clockwork pieces...”
Katherine raises an eyebrow. “Right. And he then stops wanking long enough to ask what we do. Yanno, like foreplay or something.”
Sal grins sideways and J does that frowning smile of “Oh boy, what?” P chuckles. “Zackly.”
“So. Jane’s said about teaching...”
“... at which he looks frankly disbelieving...”
“... her hair’s gone orange again...”
“Still Number Four?”
“Still pretty suede, yeah... I thought she’s be here tonight...”
“Meh,” shrugs P, “go on.”
“And I start about accounting for charities and how I’ve recently started a new project for that nursery...”
“Oh, that went through, did it?” asks Sal.
“Yeah, two days ago. A fantastic nightmare of poor book-keeping, optimism and high profile special provision.” The others grin, knowing full well that Kath means this is exactly the sort of project that she finds eminently biteable and very tasty. “Anyway, and P starts about the PhD being approved and this prick is like ‘yes, but what do you do,’ and gestures at the Art. P’s like ‘what?’ but Martin chips in going ‘Oh, P is redefining the boundaries between gender, sexuality and élan, essentially changing the nature of...’“
“‘Are you queer?’ says this bloke,” says P. “And I say ‘Well, er...’ and Martin goes to get drinks at this point.”
“‘And what’s P short for, anyway?’“
“ ‘Nothing.’“
“And Jane says: ‘P insists we call P “P” because it doesn’t tie P down to the constraints of a falsely-imposed gender role.’“
“And this bloke just stares at my crotch and goes ‘You mean...’ and I say ‘That’s a pretty big assumption’ and...” P sighs dramatically, “make the mistake of winking at him.”
“On the word big,” adds Katherine, demonstrating.
“At which point he starts giving off at eighty miles per hour that I’m a bloke, look at me, and I must be taking the piss and I say no, I’m deadly fucking serious - I am not a fucking bloke, and then he... the perpetrator of broken clockwork art... accuses me of being attention-seeking and pretentious.”
“At which point I step up and slap the wanker.”
“Which I thought was unnecessarily violent.”
“I concede, in fact, but vodka does bad things.”
“Vodka is the devil’s urine,” intones Sal portentously, as she always does.
P does a bit of a double-take at Katherine. “There wasn’t any vodka at that party - it was all herbal drinks and buck’s-fucking-fizz.”
“Darling,” purrs Katherine, “if I’m there, there’s always vodka at a party.”
“Oh boy.”
J’s phone intones, buzzing for a text message. As she reads it, she steps away from the group, muttering “... need the loo...” and takes her shock off up to the second floor.
I’d looked down at the display:
1 message received
Click.
* Sandra (tp)
Who...? Oh, shit...
Click
Ru ok? Txt me. S_x
Ohhh, seriously shit...
I’d wandered out, with some excuse about needing the loo, and then wandered, glazed, phone clutched tight in my hand until I noticed and stuffed it in my pocket. Everywhere were artists, friends and hangers-on determinedly partying. The pitch of conversation was deafening. I wondered vaguely if background music would have made it worse or better. Some of the rooms had music in them, I knew that much, but avoided the dancing creatives with a jaw-clenched determination.
I passed through layers of interactions as I skirted through, searching for quiet:
“I like to keep people on their toes... it keeps them off mine.” I made a mental note to share this later, thinking it was suitably P-like. P would be gutted that someone else had thought of it first.
“You have... the most amazing eyes.” Remarkably, she neither swooned nor laughed, but looked on at him, steadily. “You, er, you’ll hear that all the time.”
“Less than you might think.”
I looked - she did, indeed, have the most incredibly intense eyes I’d ever seen - a kind of goldish green. I shook my head and moved on, plunging through the waves of people.
There was also this gem, heard from ahead of me:
“What about the new ending?”
“I wasn’t sure about that - I quite liked the original.”
There was a pause. Then: “You lying toad, you haven’t bloody read it!”
“Eh?” I was level with them and trying valiantly not to stare.
“I didn’t change the ending at all!”
“Maybe it’s just me then - the significantly altered nuances on page 37 make the ending now interpretable in an utterly different way.”
“Oh.”
Now that’s the kind of bullshit I can admire. I smirked briefly and fought through to the stairs.
They clanged mutedly beneath my boots and I looked down - no stair parties in this part of the building - the stairs reflected its industrial ancestry more unequivocally than any other part I’d seen so far. I guessed that the working space was probably more obvious again.