The Debt & the Doormat (2 page)

‘Look, the only way I’m going to change is if you promise to as well,’ she says, running her hands through her knotted hair.  I suddenly feel un-nerved.  ‘You’re throwing your life away, sitting around waiting for Mr Right to come crashing through your living room on a white horse.’

White horse, how dramatic.  And I’d much prefer a Porsche. 

‘Ok...what would I have to do?’ I ask, my stomach fluttering with sudden fear.

‘Easy.  We swap lives.’

‘We swap lives?’ I say, displeasure showing in my voice.

‘Yep.  We swap houses and start living each other’s lives.  Each of us can’t make a single decision without asking the other first what we should do.  And we have to do what the other says, regardless of whether we like it or not.’  She leans back and smiles triumphantly as if this is the best idea she’s ever had.

‘So wait a minute.  If I say that you have to stay in and watch DVD’s for a whole week you would?’

‘Absolutely,’ she nods.  ‘Just like if I said you needed to go out and get drunk every night you would.’

‘Why the hell would I need to go out and get drunk every night?’

‘Chick, it's time,’ she says, smiling sympathetically.  ‘You need to get back to the old you.’ 

‘What do you mean, the old me?  I’m the same person.’  I cross my arms.

‘Come on chick.  Before...him, well you were so much fun.  You were a force to be reckoned with.  It's like you were a hurricane and now you’re just a gust of wind.’

‘Thanks for the imagery,’ I say sarcastically, smiling despite myself.

‘Seriously though chick.  You’ve become a shadow of yourself.  Stu…I mean...he was too busy keeping you down.  He took over.  Before you met him you used to rule your own world and you were great at it.’

‘I’m fine,’ I snap sharply, wishing she’d just shut up.  She's the one with the problem.   

Yet she starts me thinking.  I mean she’s totally getting the raw end of the deal.  I’m going to be so tight with her money she’ll have that debt paid off in no time and in return I just have to go on a few nights out.  I can just go along with it and pretend to her it's a project for me if it makes her happy.   

And maybe I could do with a change.  I think about my current evenings spent slobbing in my gravy stained velour tracksuit bottoms while I eat a family sized Dairy Milk and consume at least one bottle of wine.  Some evenings I even finish it off with a shot of Night Nurse just so that I’ll be able to get to sleep through the pathetic tears. 

‘Ok, it’s a deal.’

‘Deal.’  She shakes my hand with a wide smile on her face.

I shiver as I suddenly feel I may have made a big mistake....

The bright sun wakes me up, a dazzling white ball shining brightly through the window.  I scrunch my eyes up trying to block out the pain from my banging head.  It's as if an angry obese elf is sat on it, bitch slapping me repeatedly.  My mouth is as dry as a Nun’s vagina, yet I seem to still have dribbled all over my purple silk cushion.  Well, if it wasn’t ruined before now it definitely is.  I sit up and wince from the pain in my lower back.  How did I end up on the sitting room floor?

‘Morning buttercup,’ Jazz sings bounding into the room holding two mugs of tea. 

Why is she shouting?  Or talking to me at all?  She knows the rules in the mornings.  I open my mouth to speak but my mouth is so dry nothing really comes out apart from a croak better suited to a frog.  I feel just as green and slimy.

‘Here.’  She hands a mug over to me. 

Thank God.  I drink it quickly, burning my tongue but not stopping.  I hope the sugar will wake me up and stop me feeling like I want to hug the toilet bowl for the rest of the morning.  I try to ignore the fact that its not in my normal china tea cup, which I see on the coffee table full of wine.

‘How are you walking and talking?’ I ask in a gravelly voice, noticing her sparkling skin and bright eyes.

‘You know me.  I’m out a bit more than you, my little hermit friend.’  She pats me on the head like a dog.  ‘You just can’t handle it anymore.’  She throws her head back and laughs.

I grunt in response.  Talking is too much effort at the moment.  I think I’m going to crawl into bed and stay there for the rest of the day.  Thank God it’s Sunday.

‘So anyway, I’ve packed a bag for you.  There’s all of your toiletries, bras, knickers, make up and all that.  But I’ve decided that you have to wear my clothes and shoes.’

I stare at her in disbelief, rubbing my forehead as if that will help me gather my thoughts.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

She must have lost her mind.  I suppose too much Tequila can do that to someone.

‘The deal, remember?’  She looks back at me as if I’m mentally retarded. 

I close my eyes and try to trace back my mind.  I can remember drinking wine and singing I Will Survive at the top of our lungs, but then it all goes a bit hazy and then nothing.  Actually, now I remember her saying something about debt.  Yes, she’s in some debt.  And she said we should swap lives.  Yes that's it.  I said I would if it made her feel better.

‘Now I remember.  But remind me...what exactly are the terms?’

‘Well, I’ve written a list.’  She holds up my notepad and moves discarded naan bread from the sofa so she can sit down. 

Eugh.  We got another Indian.  I’m seriously gonna have to tell Raj to stop delivering to me.  Yet I’m impressed by Jazz; she’s already becoming so responsible.  I don't think I’ve ever seen her write a list, apart from that time she wrote top ten celebrities she’d like to shag.

‘We swap homes.  I get this place and you move into the house.  Then basically any decision we have to make we should consult the other.  And we have to do what they say,’ she adds, looking at me sternly.

‘Why do we have to swap homes?’  I look towards my bedroom where I know my duvet is all snuggly and warm.

‘Because otherwise I’ll be too tempted to go out.  My housemates are quite persuasive,’ she smiles.  ‘And anyway, it’ll work out perfectly.  You’ll practically halve your commute.’

‘Ok.  But you don’t need a list for that.’  I lie down on the sofa, having decided that sitting up really is too much effort.

‘Oh, but I do!  I’ve written everything that I want you to do,’ she says, smiling mischievously. 

My stomach tenses as I see her flicking through the pages, all scrawled with biro. 

‘Can’t we just start with the basics?’ I beg.  ‘I really don’t feel like hearing loads of stuff right now.’

‘Oh muffin, you do look rough.  Ok fine.  Well, like I said, I’ve packed you a bag, but I want you to wear my clothes and – ‘

‘But I won’t fit your clothes!  You’re miles taller than me!  And thinner!’  I wince from the pain.  Why did I shout?  It's like my head has an echo.

‘Ok, calm down drama queen,’ she says, putting her hands up defensively.  ‘Most things will fit.  We’re roughly the same size and I’m only a few inches taller than you.’

I look up at her slim model like 5 foot 8 stance and laugh at how she expects my 5 foot 4 height to carry her clothes off.  They’ll drown me.

‘So anyway, I thought to make it more fun that we wouldn’t tell my housemates the truth.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my pounding head taking over.  Why tequila? 

‘I mean you should make up a story.  Come up with some funny story about who you are and why you’re there.’

‘This is ridiculous.  Why would I bother lying?’

Why does she always have to be so childish?  It's so irritating.  And, why is she shouting everything?!

‘Because your own life is so boring!  I thought I’d give you an opportunity to start again.  Start an adventure for once!’

‘Ok whatever.’ I say, choosing to ignore the insult, my eyelids feeling heavy.  ‘What happened last night anyway?  I barely remember anything.’

She pouts her lips and sips her tea, as she always does when she’s playing for time.  A smile spreads across my face as I realise.

‘You don't remember either!’ I accuse, a smile spreading on my face.  Jeez, my face is sore. 

‘Yes I do!’ she retorts quickly.  Her face is plastered with a smile she seems to be desperate to hide.

‘Ok.  What happened then?’ I challenge.

‘Well...what's the last thing you remember?’ she asks, clearly trying to get some clues herself.

But I do want to remember.  I try to trace my mind back and concentrate.  It's all so hazy, as if we were dancing around in a bubble machine. 

‘Ok.  I remember dancing around the sitting room...but...nothing else.  Did we just dance and then pass out?’

‘Um...yes.  Yes, that's it.  We just went to bed.’  She sips more tea.

‘You liar!’ 

Oh God.  Don't shout Poppy.  Deep breaths, deep breaths.

‘I’m not lying!’ she says boldly.  ‘Anyway, chop chop.  You best get going.  I’ll stop by tomorrow and pick up my stuff.  Oh and I want you to go out tonight.’

‘Fine!  Well...I want you to stay in and be miserable!’ I growl.

‘Of course I’ll be miserable,’ she says, smiling widely.  ‘We have swapped lives remember.’

She thrusts my sports bag into my hands and pushes me towards the door.  I struggle to walk, each step feeling like I’m on a boat, sea sickness taking over.  I swing open the door to find Raj, the owner of the curry house underneath my flat, looking awkward.  Suffice to say, we know each other more than most people know their local delivery boy.

‘Raj!  Hi.’

‘Hi Poppy darling,’ he says, in this thick Indian accent.  He looks at us both a little nervously.  ‘So...what happened last night?’

I stare back at him, my mind spinning with confusion.  What is he talking about?  Oh my God, were we so loud that we disturbed them last night?   

‘She just said exactly the same thing,’ Jazz laughs wickedly.

‘Sorry Raj.  Were we loud last night?’

He stares back at us perplexed, as if we’re winding him up. 

‘You don't remember last night?’  He looks between me and Jazz.

I turn to stare at Jazz.  She must remember something.  Yet she just looks back at me blankly.

‘To be honest....I don't really remember anything about last night.  Did we see you?’ I ask, taking a deep breath and praying that the sick feeling leaves my body soon.

‘Err, yes.  You...honestly don't remember anything?’ he asks, half smiling as if we’re joking.

‘Raj, I told you!  Seriously, nothing.  Unless...Jazz does?’ I turn to her.

‘Well...no,’ she admits sheepishly.

‘Well, yes, you saw me.  I came up after the fire,’ he smirks.

‘The fire?’

‘Yeah, what the fuck?’ Jazz shouts alarmed.

‘You...really don't remember the fire?’  He puts his hand up to his head in confusion.

‘No!  What fire?’  I look around the flat for any sign of a fire damage.  I knew it would only be a matter of time until I started a fire cooking drunk.  But there’s nothing burnt.

‘Maybe I should come in?’ he offers, shuffling his feet awkwardly, still on the door step.

We sit around the coffee table with more tea and some chocolate biscuits.  God knows I need the sugar. 

‘Ok, well we were in the middle of a busy Saturday night and all of a sudden we see you both walk out into the street with a load of paper.  You put it in the bin outside the restaurant and set it on fire.’

Oh.  My.  God.

‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ I say grimacing from behind my hands.

‘Nope.  I ran outside and tried to put it out.  I tried to ask you both why you did it but you just couldn’t stop laughing and saying you were wetting yourself.’

That would be me and my weak bladder.

‘Oh my God,’ Jazz says, cradling her head in her hands.  ‘I remember.’

‘Remember what?  What the hell did we set on fire?’ I plead.

I can't believe this.  I’m a vandal!  I’m a mindless thug you see on the TV.  I might get an ASBO.

‘My bills,’ Jazz says, shaking her head ashamed.  ‘We thought it’d be funny to set my bills on fire.’

‘What!  That's madness!’ I shout, getting more distressed by the second.

‘Well if I recall, we weren’t actually thinking that clearly at the time,’ she retorts sharply. 

‘Oh God.  Was the fire bad?  Did you put it out easily?’ I ask, looking between Raj and Jazz.

‘Not exactly,’ Jazz says, avoiding my gaze. 

‘The fire brigade had to come,’ Raj adds.

‘Oh my Jesus.  And did they want to speak to us?’ 

Maybe we already have an ASBO?  Maybe we’re due in court today.  We could go to prison.  I’ll have to be someone’s bitch.   

‘They were a bit suspicious and did ask lots of questions,’ Raj says, sighing heavily and taking a biscuit.

‘AND??’ I ask, losing my mind.

‘Well…’  He looks at the floor.  ‘We just told them that some kids did it.  But...you did kind of kiss the fireman.’

‘Jazz!  You can't go around doing that!’ I shout, turning to berate her and then back to Raj.  ‘She can be such a hussy when she’s pissed.’

‘Actually...’ he says shyly.  ‘It wasn’t Jazz.  It was you.’

‘What?’

Oh my God.  I kissed a man and I don't remember.  I’m the hussy, not Jazz.  But wait, he was a fireman.  Maybe he was gorgeous.  Maybe we’ll end up getting married at the fire station surrounded by Dalmatians in fire hats. 

‘What was he like?’ I ask trying not to show how intrigued I am.

‘Well, he was pretty old.’  He smiles from ear to ear.  ‘I think he actually knows your Dad.’

Oh my God.  How did I get so drunk that I ended up kissing a middle aged fireman?  I mean, I only had a bit of wine and tequila.  Didn’t I?

‘Oh my God.  That is too funny!’ Jazz giggles, doubling over in hysterics.

‘Jazz!  It's not funny!’

‘I’m sorry, but it so is!’ she spits, snorting tea out of her nostrils. 

‘This is all your fault Jazz!’ I shout, mortification taking over my body.  How could I have been so reckless!

‘How is it my fault?’ she asks offended.

‘You forced me to drink loads!’

‘Er, sorry, but at no point did I hold you down and force the drink down your neck.’

‘Actually at one point I’m pretty sure you did.’  Flashbacks of Jazz pouring wine into my mouth while I lay on the sofa come into my mind.  She was singing Dancing Queen at the top of her lungs.

‘Anyway,’ Raj says, grabbing our attention again.  ‘So I take it you don't remember anything about me?’

Jazz looks at me with the same confused expression on her face as mine. 

‘Did we...,’ God I’m really clutching at straws here, ‘plan to meet you somewhere?’

He lets out a big sigh.  ‘No.  I suppose if you don't remember that, you won't remember the rest.’

‘There’s more?’  I don’t even want to look at him.

‘Well, we took you girls into the restaurant to try and sober you up for a bit, but you were adamant on coming back up here.  You made us promise that we’d come up after closing.’

‘And you did?’ 

How could I not remember four Indian geezers in my flat?  Maybe I’ve got Alzheimer’s.

‘Yes.  We brought up some left overs.’  He looks disapprovingly at the naan breads strewn on the sofa beside him.  ‘You insisted that we have a few drinks and...’

‘And what?’ I ask, on the edge of my seat.

He squirms in his chair a little uncomfortably.  ‘Well, you made us watch your performance of Spice Girls Wannabe.’

‘Ha!’ Jazz rolls over to her side in hysterics, clapping to herself.