Page 6 of Five Gold Rings

‘Shots, shots, shots, shots,’ one of the hens starts to chant and they all join in. That’s the problem with hen dos. If my dignity is outside, then so are their inhibitions. I reckon Bianca is a respectable primary school teacher in the day but here, with her tribe, she just wants to roar into the night, expressing an appetite for alcohol, and, well, penis. I get it. I have three older sisters so sometimes you do have to own the night, you need to gather your womenfolk, dance to absolutely any damn thing by Beyoncé all in the name of saying down with the patriarchy. They’re still chanting about shots. That’s my job. This is a bottomless brunch. I’d rather they got their money’s worth with the food, but I think salad bars and sliders are the last thing on their minds. I grab at bottles of vodka and cranberry and put a boot to the table, refilling the sea of shot glasses, aware of someone’s hand grabbing one of my butt cheeks. I think that’s an aunt who was initially told that today was going to be a nice Mexican meal. Yes, Aunty Celeste – that’s a different sort of burrito you’re trying to grab. She told me something about her South Pole a while ago that may scar me forever.

‘Dance, dance, dance, dance!’

This is not usually part of my job description. You have to pay extra for the dancing and even then, it’s not really dancing. These ladies have all seen Channing Tatum, and they expect full on thrusting gymnastics. We have a grinding expert at the agency called Julius who is known for his flexibility, even though I know that he bulks his pants out with socks. I look over at Tiffany who puts her hands together in a prayer position, possibly begging.

‘But it’s Christmas!’ one of them squeals.

That it is. I hope Aunty Celeste is carrying cash. I try to just think of the debt this will pay off, the gifts I can buy all my nieces and nephews. I can upgrade their chocolates to Lindt, actually put things in a savings account. I start to shimmy which is a pleasing advancement to proceedings for all of them as it also makes the bells on my shorts ring. I’ll just shimmy and thrust then. Aunty Celeste puts a tenner in my arse crack. I should keep going.

‘Tiffany, get a picture next to his schlong!’ Bianca screams, like it might be on view. It won’t be on view because this isn’t that sort of club and that sort of behaviour will get us thrown out. Tiffany bends over in a fit of giggles. ‘Like you’re sucking him off!’ I fake a smile, inwardly begging them not to simulate that sort of action, here, now. People are eating. Tiffany looks less keen as well, but Bianca reaches over and pushes her head towards me.

‘Bianca! Piss off!’ she shrieks back at her. Looks like we’re at that part of the brunch already. There’s usually a fight at these things, usually over cliques, past beef, laced with jealousy, and the girls bare their nails at each other. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. Tiffany’s head bounces off my thigh but as she pulls her head away, there’s a scream that echoes through this place. I mean, I work on my thighs at the gym, but I hope they haven’t given her concussion.

It’s only then that I see it. A chunk of her hair, stuck in one of my bells.

‘Hold up, don’t yank it!’ I tell her, trying to detangle her, putting a hand to the top of her head as she panics, moving her head back and forth. Bianca is in hysterics and snaps away on her phone.

‘You stupid bitch… Stop taking photos!’ Tiffany says, a perfectly manicured taupe nail pointing in her direction. Someone tries to stop Tiffany as another girl comes over, her face in my crotch trying to free her friend. ‘Has anyone got any scissors?’

I flinch for a moment at the thought of something that sharp down there.

‘How are these bells attached?’ Tiffany squeals at me.

‘I don’t know, I didn’t sew them myself…’ I reply, apologetically.

‘You call yourself family. You’ve always been jealous of Tiffany and now it shows…’ Tiffany swings her head around and my crotch goes with her to hear Aunty Celeste having a pop.

‘Oh, shut up, Aunty Celeste. You’re only here because we mixed up the invites. Dried up old—’

Bianca doesn’t get a chance to finish that because Aunty Celeste gets up and hits her with quite a sizeable handbag. Someone claps. Ouch. That will leave a mark. The table suddenly becomes a sea of arms and spittle and high-pitched insults, and I notice the tears forming in Tiffany’s eyes as she crouches beside me, her hair still caught in my bells.

‘Come with me, there’s a disabled toilet over there… Can you maybe shuffle over with me?’ I ask her. She nods, in a strange crouching position and we sidestep over tentatively. A line of people waiting by a chocolate fountain clock me and burst into hysterics. I flip them the finger. As we enter the toilet, I close the door behind us.

‘I grew my hair out for the wedding,’ she says, tears rolling down her cheeks, one of her fake lashes giving up on her and trying to leave her face. ‘Do you think we’ll have to cut it?’

I look down, the throbbing music outside the door and sweat in my eyes not helping me or bringing any calm to this situation. ‘So I’m going to suggest something. I don’t want you to think anything of it, but I think it’ll be easier if I take the shorts off. I have underwear on underneath and then it’ll be easier to see what I’m doing.’

Big, drunk eyes look up at me and she nods. I’m grateful at this moment for an elasticated waist, trying to be gentle as I step out of the shorts, which are left hanging there off her head of hair. And I am here. In my underwear. I reach over to the sink.

‘I’m just going to use some hand soap to try to loosen the hair and… Please don’t cry…’ I ease my fingers over where her hair is trapped, thinking back to a time we had to do this with my sister who had gum in her hair. I may have put the gum there. The shorts finally fall to the floor.

‘See, no cutting needed,’ I say, relieved, hurriedly redressing, watching her run her fingers through her hair. She collapses to the floor and sits there, backed on to the door.

‘I’m so sorry. What a bloody disaster of a day.’

‘But we detangled you…’

‘I mean the drama out there. Bianca being a total lech…’

‘It’s part of the job. I’m frankly a little more scared of your Aunty Celeste, she’s a handsy one.’

She giggles through her tears and I pass her a bit of hand towel to blot her face.

‘Your name isn’t Douglas, is it? The agency told my sister different.’

‘I’m Joe.’

‘Well, thank you, Joe. I am sorry.’

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