As a child, I’d hated my curly red hair. It’d made me a target for bullies, and I’d had to put up with so much name-calling, it got to the point I’d sworn that as soon as I was old enough, I’d have it straightened and dye it black. But at around the age of fifteen or sixteen, I’d realised my curly red mane made me stand out from the crowd. All of my friends were blonde or brunette, and I enjoyed the sense of individuality it gave me, and I won’t lie, I began to love the attention my red hair garnered.
With the help of a good quality styling product and my GHD’s, tonight I’m wearing my hair in big bouncy, seventies style waves, rather than its natural loose curls.
I’d opted on jeans, tucked into long boots, and a chiffon blouse, with a short leather jacket over the top as my outfit. As I got dressed, Jay’s words from Sunday night and previous times over the past few months play through my head.
‘Useless fat bitch.’
‘Ugly fat fuck.’
‘What the fuck did I ever see in you?’
‘You’ve let yourself go, Lauren. Look at the fucking state of you.’
For a few short moments, I’d felt delighted that everything I put on felt loose, but when I remembered the extra layer of foundation and concealer I’d had to wear to hide the bruise on my cheek and the ugly purple now black bruise covering my hip, the cost of the weight loss caused me to steady myself at the bathroom sink, and draw in a few deep breaths so I wouldn’t cry and ruin my makeup.
I was fortunate to have been blessed with good genes, and with a good skincare regime, a few injections, and a lot of vanity, I’d always looked younger than my forty-four years, but staring at myself in the mirror now, for the first time in my life, I look older than my years. I’d done what I could with my makeup, but as I take in my watery gaze, the dark circles under my eyes, and the hollows under my cheeks, there’s no disguising the amount of weight even I hadn’t realised I’d dropped and the fact that it’s aged me.
Fighting the burn of tears and the tremble of my lips, I stare down at my hands as they grip the marble counter, and I make a decision. Pursing my lips, I blow out a couple of breaths, pull off my wedding, engagement, and eternity rings, and throw them in my makeup bag.
“Fuck Him,” I tell my reflection through gritted teeth.
My phone buzzes from where it sits on the edge of the sink, and I physically jump at the sound.
“Motherfucker.” I laugh at my reflection while pressing my palm to my chest. My eye is instantly drawn to my bare hand. A hand that, until this week, has worn some kind of a mark of my commitment to Jason East since I was eighteen years old.
“Fuck Him,” I repeat, before reading the message from Jo, letting me know she was five minutes away in the cab.
Swiping on my lipstick and giving myself another spray of perfume, I head out to the front of my house.
Sliding into the cab next to Jo, I’m grateful for the darkness as the interior light switches off. As an accountant, Jo has an eye for details, and not much gets past her, and I’m now hyper-aware of the fact, my weight loss is apparent. After we air kiss and exchange ‘how are you’s’, I sit as far back into the corner as possible.
“Hair looks good. It’s got long. How’ve you been?”
A wall of every kind of emotion hits me, causing my resolve not to cry to crumble. It’s the ‘how are you’s,’ and the ‘you okay’s?’ that get to me every time.
I swallow down the ball of emotion attempting to rise from my chest to my throat while staring out the window as views of the beach and Port Phillip Bay appear between the trees that line the foreshore.
“I’ve been good, and thank you. It’s because I straightened it before adding the big curls, it always makes it look longer,” I croak out.
I don’t have to look in Jo’s direction to know that her eyes are burning a path to my face.
“Okay. What’s going on? What’s wrong?” she snaps.
My tears spill and I use the side of my finger under each eye to catch them. I shake my head.
“Loz?” she questions softly, her concern now apparent.
“I’ll explain, I promise, but I don’t want to walk into the pub looking like I’ve been crying.”
I finally turn my gaze to meet hers. “Please? Right now, I just need a drink. Then I’ll talk, and believe me, you’re gonna need a drink for this too.”
She’s nodding before I finish talking. “One drink, and then you spill,” she says as we pull up outside the bar.
Jo grabs my hand, and I walk behind her as we smile at the bouncers and enter the bar. Seeing Jemma and Lou set up at a table in the corner, we head over. They have wine chilling in a bucket with glasses standing to attention and waiting to be filled. After kisses all around, I pour myself and Jo a drink, clink glasses with everyone, say “cheers”, and take a very large swig before sitting on a stool at the high-top table.
“Shit, I so need this,” I declare after almost draining my glass.
“You okay?” asks Jemma. “You look tired, and you’ve lost even more weight.”
Jemma is my oldest friend, and like Jo, never misses a beat. Because we’ve known each other since I first moved to Australia from England as a moody thirteen-year-old, she knows me better than anyone and has seriously been on my case these past few months, constantly asking if everything’s okay with me. I’m hit with a pang of guilt as I recall the many times I’ve come close to telling her everything and then backed out.
Jason and Jem’s husband, Max, are pretty good mates and I know that once Jemma is made aware of what’s going on, there will be no turning back. She’ll tell Max, and knowing him like I do, he’ll have no hesitation in confronting Jay.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I say, not wanting to dampen the mood by telling them about my woes so soon into the night. “Just had a shitty week.”
I catch Jo’s brows raise at my response, but choose to ignore her and look back at Jem as she asks, “Why? What’s happened?”
That’s when I notice Lou’s gaze following our exchange with wide-eyed anticipation. This was planned. When I then look between Jo and Jemma and catch them exchanging raised brow headshakes, I’m hit with the realisation this night has been organised with the purpose of my girls finding out what’s going on with me.
In that moment, I both love and dislike them very much.
Drink in hand, I take a moment to look each of them in the eye. Licking my dry lips, I draw in a deep breath and swallow.
“Okay, ladies, this is how it’s gonna go. I really, really need to have some fun tonight. If you can give me a few hours of that, I promise, I will explain everything.”
My heart thumps against my chest as one pair of brown eyes and two pairs of blue pin me in place.
“We can give you that,” Jemma says. “But before tonight is over, you are gonna tell us whatever the fuck it is that’s going on.”
“I will, I promise,” I agree.
Lou raises her glass. “To the best friends and floors that will always hold us up,” she declares our usual toast.
“To friends and floors,” we join in.