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The cats here range fae the feral hostile tae too timid and shy tae even purr. One lassie, Judy her name is, she’s a weird yin. Pure says nowt for ages but see, when she starts, she cannae stop spraffin. N it’s sortay likesay, pure personal n aw, things that ah could never talk aboot in public.

Like now, man. Ah’m findin it awfay embarrassin n ah want tae pit ma hands up in front ay ma face like ma wee laddie does when he goes aw shy. — And ah wis a virgin and after we’d made love eh gave me a shot ay smack tae bang up. That wis ma first time . . . the Judy chick says, aw serious.

— Sounds like a cunt tae me, Joey Parke goes. Wee Parkie, ma best mate here, but some boy. Nae brakes, man, even worse thin moi. Good at steyin oaf it, bit cannae allow ehsel jist one tiny slip which wi aw huv fae time tae time. Ah mean, one wee gless ay wine wi ehs burd ower a nice candlelit dinner fir two, in fact, jist one
wee sip
oot ay the gless ay wine, n two weeks later yi’ll find um in some crack den pure rockin n rollin.

The Judy lassie’s well upset at the wee man but. — You don’t know him! You don’t know what a lovely person he is! Don’t you say anything about him!

Judy isnae a bad-lookin lassie n aw, but ye kin see thit the drugs have hagged her oot before her time. We use the powder tae pit a witchy hex oan ye, doll. Sorry.

No like Avril, the chick runnin the show. She’s a thin lassie wi shining blonde-white hair cut in a bob and eyes sortay intense but no wired, like, kind ay energised but untroubled, if ye get ma drift. N Avs disnae like the raised voices. Conflict, this lassie always says, can be dealt with positively. And it’s right n aw when ye think aboot it, but ah suppose only fir some cats, like. Ah mean, ye couldnae huv guys like Franco Begbie or Nelly Hunter or Alec Doyle or Lexo Setterington or some ay the boys ah met in the nick like Chizzie the Beast, or Hammy or Cracked Craigy sayin, ‘Hey, man, let’s just deal with this conflict issue positively.’ Wudnae work, man, just would not work. Nae offence tae they sort ay boys but they’ve aw goat thir ain weys, likes. Avs though, she’s cool enough tae handle the likes ay Joey n Judy. — I think we should take a break here, she says. — How do the others feel about that?

Judy nods sadly, and wee Joey Parke shrugs. One chunky gadgette, Monica she’s called, says nothing, just sucks her hair and bites her finger. Sortay they big ham-shank type airms, ken, no that it’s anything tae be ashamed ay or nowt like that. Ah smile at Avs n say: — That’s sound by me. Could handle a coffee n snout, like. The caffeine injection, man, com-pul-sor-ee, or what?

Avs returns the smile and ah get a wee flutter in ma chest, cause it’s barry havin a lassie smile at ye. N this feelin ay bliss disnae really last, as ah realise that it’s a long time since ah made ma Alison smile like thon.

11

‘. . . ugly . . .’

— You fucking horror show, I sneer at my image in the mirror. I’m looking at my naked body and then at the model in the magazine, holding it up trying to scale it to my size in my mind’s eye, comparing the shape and curves. There’s no way mine is as perfect as hers. My breasts are too small. I will never be in the magazine, cause I’m not magazine material, I don’t look like her.

I’M NOTHING FUCKING LIKE HER.

The most horrible thing a man can say to me is that I’ve got a great body. Because I don’t want a good, great, lovely, beautiful body. I want a body good enough to be in the magazines and if I had one I would be in them and I’m not cause I don’t. My mascara’s running with my tears, and why am I crying? Cause I’m going nowhere, that’s why.

I’M NOT IN THE MAGAZINES.

And they tell me I’ve a great body cause they want to shag me, cause they’re aroused by me. But if one of the girls in that magazine wanted to fuck them, they wouldn’t even look at me. So here I am, and I know what I’m doing, I
know
I’m constantly fighting off negative images of perfection showered on me by a media I’m totally obsessed with. And I know that the more men are turned on by me, the more I have to compare myself to others.

I rip the page out of the magazine and screw it into a ball.

I should be in the library studying or working on my essay instead of spending half my time in W.H. Smith’s skimming that rack shamelessly:
Elle
,
Cosmo
,
New Woman
,
Vanity Fair
, looking at them all; the men’s as well,
GQ
,
Loaded
,
Maxim
, gaping at all those bodies; obdurately scanning the airbrushed perfection of them all, until one of them, just one, induces a hateful self-loathing that I’ll never be like that, never look like that. Oh yeah, knowing, on a cognitive, intellectual level that those images are compositions, they’re made up, airbrushed, the one good picture a result of the photographer using make-up on the model, lots of sympathetic lighting and shooting rolls and rolls of film. And knowing that the model, actress, pop starlet is a fucked-up neurotic bitch just like me, who shits and dribbles in her pants, erupts in pus-filled spots under stress, has chronic halitosis as she’s thrown up the contents of her guts so many times, has no septum from the coke she’s snorted to keep going, and has a dark, stagnant monthly discharge dripping from her. Yes. But knowing intellectually is not enough, because ‘real’ isn’t ‘fact’ any more. Real knowledge is emotional and in
feeling
and real feelings are engendered by the airbrushed image, the slogan and the soundbite.

I’M NOT A LOSER.

A quarter of a century almost gone, the best quarter, and I’ve done nothing, nothing, nothing . . .

I’M NOT A FUCKING LOSER.

I am beautiful Nicola Fuller-Smith who any man in his right mind would want to sleep with because my beauty would complement the highest image of his self he could have.

And now I’m thinking about Rab, about that disc of almost amberish-brown in his eye, and how when he smiles I want him, and he does not fucking want me, who does he think he is, he should be pleased that a gorgeous girl younger than him wants . . . no, an UGLY UGLY UGLY GIRL, A FUCKING REPULSIVE WHORE . . .

The door. I pull my dressing gown around me and head through to my essay, abandoned on the table in the front room, as the keys turn in the lock.

It’s Lauren.

Little, stupid, slight, beautiful Lauren, who is SIX YEARS younger than me and behind her silly clothes and daft specs she’s a fucking little fresh-meat goddess and she doesn’t even realise it, nor do most of the equally blind and stupid men around her.

Those six years. What old, ugly Nicola Fuller-Smith here would give for even one or two of those six years that she, silly little Lauren Fuckall, will just waste away without ever even realising that she had them.

Oh-Oh-O-L-D, keep the fuck away from me.

— Hi, Nikki, she says enthusiastically. — I found a great text in the library and . . . she looks at me for the first time. — What’s up with you?

— Can’t get into this fucking essay for McClymont, I tell her. She can see that my book and papers are in exactly the same spot they’ve been in for the last week or so. She can also see the magazines on the table.

— There’s a great new film website, some brilliant reviews, really analytical without being up themselves, if you know what I mean . . . she babbles, but she knows I’m not interested.

— Seen Dianne? I ask.

Lauren looks sniffily at me. — She was in the library when I last saw her, working on that dissertation. She’s very focused, she purrs admiringly. So now she’s got a new big sister and I’m stuck with a couple of swots. She starts to speak, falters, and then goes ahead anyway. — So what’s the big problem with McClymont’s essay? You used to be able to knock them off in no time.

So I’m telling her exactly what the problem is. — The big problem is not one of understanding or intellect. It’s direction; I’m doing shit I don’t want to do. The only way it’ll happen for me is to be there, on the cover of the magazines, I tell her, slamming the
Elle
down on the coffee table, knocking some skins and tobacco on to the floor. — And that won’t happen doing an essay on seventeenth-century Scottish immigration for McClymont.

— But it’s self-defeating, Lauren slurs. — Just suppose you were on the magazine cov . . .

She’s saying that so off-handedly and all I’m thinking is: when when when when when? — Do you really think I could be? But she’s not answering me, not responding with what I want and need to know. Instead, she’s telling me shit that will never cause me anything but pain, misery and boredom, because she’s making me face the truths that we need at all costs to avoid in order to survive in this world . . . — you’d feel good for a bit, then next week you’d be older and a younger lassie would be on it. How would you feel then?

As I look at her, an insect coldness running through me, I want to scream:

I’M NOT IN MAGAZINES. I’M NOT ON TELEVISION. I NEVER WILL BE UNTIL I’M A FAT FUCKING LOSER BEING HUMILIATED BY SOME FAT LOSER HUSBAND ON REALITY TV, FOR THE GAWPING AMUSEMENT OF OTHER FAT LOSERS JUST LIKE ME. IS THAT YOUR ‘FEMINISM’? IS THAT IT? CAUSE THAT’S THE FUCKING BEST-CASE SCENARIO FOR ME AND COUNTLESS OTHERS UNLESS WE TAKE REAL CONTROL.

But instead I compose myself and tell her: — I would feel great because at least I would have been there. At least I would have achieved something. That’s what it’s all about. I want to be up there. I want to act, sing and dance. Me. I want them to see that I lived. Nikki Fuller-Smith fucking well lived.

Lauren’s looking at me with great concern, like a mother does to a kid who says ‘I don’t feel like going to school today . . .’ — But you do live . . .

But I’m ranting now, spouting stupid nonsense, yet of the type within which the real truth must always lie. — And after doing stag films, I want to do real porn, then I want to produce or direct. To be the one in control. Me. A woman. And I’ll tell you this right now, the only industry in the world where you have that control to any meaningful extent is pornography.

— Bullshit, Lauren shakes her head.

— No bullshit, I tell her firmly. What does she know about pornography? She’s watched none, she’s never studied the production of it, never been a sex worker, never even visited a pornographic website. — You don’t understand, I tell her.

Picking up the skins and baccy, Lauren puts them back on the table. — You’re sounding like somebody else. Probably that mate of Rab’s, she pouts.

— Don’t be stupid. And if it’s Terry you’re on about, I haven’t even shagged him yet, I tell her, feeling bad at disclosing this.

— Yet being the operative word.

— I don’t know if I will. I don’t even fancy him, I snap testily. I talk too much. Lauren knows everything about me, almost everything about me, and I know nothing about her. She does have secrets, and I hope for her sake that they’re interesting ones. Looking sorrowfully at me, the tone of her voice changes. — I don’t know why you feel so bad about yourself, Nikki. You’re the best-looking girl . . . woman I’ve ever met.

— Huh, try telling that to the guy I’ve just made a fool of myself over, I spit, but I’m starting to feel great inside. My response to flattery: I sneer, but I feel that nauseating lift in the muscles in my face, involuntary, controlling me, and then the rush in my stomach which spreads to the extremities of my arms and legs. I’m a sucker for it.

— Who was that, Lauren nearly squeaks, worried, touching the frames of her glasses.

— Oh, just a guy, you know how it is, I smile knowing too fucking well that she doesn’t and she’s about to say something else when we hear Dianne’s key turn in the lock.

12

Czars and Huns

T
he group has become the soup, man. It’s now the main nourishment ay the social kind that the boy Murphy gits. Lying in the kip wi Ali, feeling her recoil when ah touch her, it’s bad, man, pure bad. Mind you, ah suppose she’s jist gittin her ain back, fir aw the times ah’ve lain thaire, too junked tae make love, jist starin at the ceilin, or twisted up intae a foetal baw, saturatin the kip wi sweat as the horror ay withdrawal stepped forward. Now it’s usually me lyin like a surfboard in the bed; wired head racin, no really able tae go tae sleep until she’s taken the wee boy oot tae school.

Been leadin different lives they past few weeks, man. When did it aw start? Monny’s perty? Funny, it eywis begins as a wee session, then spills intae a week, then ye realise that yir lives are pure, like, same space, but parallel universes for, like, yonks. So it’s the group for me, makin an effort, likes, for Ali n the wee man’s sakes, ken?

Eftir coffee Avril gits us thegither again. Ah dinnae really like this room, it’s in an auld school buildin, n it’s goat they uncomfy kind ay dole seats: rid plastic mouldings wi the black frames. Ye huv tae be straight tae sit in thum; it jist widnae be possible if yir twitchy oan drugs or sick. Avs is up at the big whiteboard which stands oan three aluminium legs. She writes wi a blue Magic Marker:

DREAMS

Then she says that dreams are important, it’s likes we gie up oan thum too soon. When ye think aboot it: aye. But that astronaut gig; that first gadges oan Mars thing that me and ma auld mate Rents used tae talk aboot bein whin wi wir sprogs: it wis never really a serious runner, man. Inner space wis a better deal: less ay aw thon trainin required.

Rents but. He wis some boy. Sorted me oot awright.

Avril tells us that we should be prepared tae indulge oor fantasies mair. Joey Parke comes back wi something like: — We’ll git locked up if we dae that. Fuck sakes! Eh turns tae me. — Indulge oor fantasies, eh, Spud! Ah laughs n the Monica lassie, her that bites the knuckles oan her hand, digs in a wee bit harder.

So then Avs is askin us in the group what sort ay job we’d like, in an ideal world, likes, if we could dae absolutely anything. Thing is, ah wis a wee bit bombed. Ah’m no usually like that in the group, it’s jist thit ah hud a bit ay a shock at hame the other day n couldnae stoap thinkin aboot it. Ah pure needed some gear. But oot ay respect ah’d mixed it wi some charlie intae a speedbomb soas ah widnae be seen no tae be participating, sortay for the sake ay the group, likesay. Now though, nae cat’s talkin so it’s like ah’m pitching in tae say that ah’d like tae huv become an agent.