Drag
by Melissa Mann
It’s like coating your tongue in sherbet looking at Denise in that frock she’s wearing. Acid lemon it is with spangly sequin jobs all over it.
“Deludin’ the’selves they are,” mutters Denise, struggling to open the door.
She tugs the train of her frock into the loo then kicks the door shut with her platform shoe, in her hands, a bouquet of plastic lilies. She looks about for somewhere to put them then ends up shoving them down the loo. In the cracked mirror above the sink her face is the scribbled drawing of a disturbed child.
“I mean, ’ho are they kiddin’ – “soul mates together forever.” Worra load o’bollocks.” She gurns at the mirror, teeth yellow and speckled with black lipstick like cheap dominoes.
Seams grit their teeth as she hoists the frock up past her hips. Her knickers’re off-white with ‘Teaser’ written on the front and elastic maggots wriggling out the frayed waistband.
The loo lurches to the left throwing Denise off balance. She scrabbles for the seat and sits down. A fist pounds on the door. “Ere’ Nise, you in there? It’s Sand. Quick, let me in before I wet me sen.”
“’ang on a sec, am ‘avin’ a wazz meself!” says Denise, looking between her legs at the lilies. Their red tongues are gagging like a kid after a bag of gobstoppers.
Sand walks into the loo like she’s climbing into a wetsuit. She’s wearing the same frock as Denise. Next thing she’s on the sink, fishnets stretched between her ankles.
“Wha’?!” says Sand, her wee jetting into the metal basin. “If yer’ave to go, yer’ave to bloody go, s’all there is to it. Any road, look sharp. We’ll be comin’ into Keighley soon - can’t ‘ave folk seein’t bridesmaids’ piss leakin’ out ont’platform can we. Wun’t be very lady-like that now would it.”
Sand hops down from the sink and pulls up her tights. “Is this givin’ you gyp an’all?” She runs a finger round the pink leather dog collar with silver studs. “Oh eh, that channel number five yer got there Nise?” she says, seeing her mate fumigating herself with perfume.
“Six,” says Denise, slapping the lid on.
“Channel number six? Din’t know they did one.”
“They don’t. It’s a knock-off. Gorrit off Bradford market wi’ that ‘erpes scarf me mam’s wearin’,” says Denise.
“Smells dead classy dun’t it,” says Sand. “Best man won’t stand a chance now, poor bugger. Yeah, I saw yer, eyeing ‘im up, yer slag. Give us a squirt then.”
The train enters a tunnel and farts metallically. Denise jumps, hand pressed to her stomach like the train’s about to come out her belly button.
“So, ‘ow many times yer bin a bridesmaid then Nise?” shouts Sand.
“Me? Lost count. Nine, mebbe ten,” says Denise, squeezing a spot on her chin. “Five o’them were me mam’s.”
“’ell fire. Still, first time dressed like a drag queen though eh?” says Sand, laughing. “Bloody beautiful though want it, the ceremony an’ that? And’t bloke doin’t vicar bit were brilliant; never even batted an eyelid.”
“Been to worse I s’pose,” says Denise yawning. “Bit crap though wa’nt it, them ‘avin’ to walk one behind t’other back up the aisle; Dave’s frock were that big.”
Sand grips the sink as the train pulls her round a bend in the track. “Well yer can say what yer like Nise, I thought it were brilliant,” shouts Sand over the screech of wheels on rails. “And right classy ‘avin’ it on a train.”
“I give it six month, me,” says Denise, batting at a stray feather that’s come off her boa.
“What yer talkin’ about? They’re bloody made fer each other them two,” says Sand, folding her arms under her bust. Pink Andrex blooms over the neckline.
“Oh give over Sand, yer’ve been watching too many o’them mushy films, you ‘ave,” says Denise, gripping her elbows. “All that one true love stuff’s a load o’bollocks. Yer lucky if yer can gerra bloke to stop round fo’ a month, never mind ‘til death do us part. No, make do with ‘oever yer with an’ enjoy it while it lasts, that’s what I say.” Denise straightens her plastic tiara.
“Tha’s rubbish tharr’is!” says Sand, as the train judders and starts to slow. “Teck me and our Kev. Soul mates we was. Still be together now if ‘e hadn’t gone an’ got ‘eself killed.”
“Yeah, by ‘is fancy woman,” says Denise, picking at her teeth.
“’Ow many bloody times, she were just some mad lass ‘e worked wi’! Anyway, I think it’s a miracle folk like Dave and Mand findin’ each other. I mean it’s nor’as if they’re two a penny now is it eh, their sort? No, no’ a’ all. Norri’Bradford any road.”
Denise rolls her eyes.
“If Dave and Mand aren’t livin’ proof there’s someone out there fer us all Nise, I don’t know whar’is,” says Sand, pulling on a lacquered tendril of hair. “Right, am off me now,” she says, smoothing her dress. “S’gonna be a right bloody scrum for’t coach teckin’ us t‘otel. You comin’ Nise or wha’?” Denise shrugs. “Oh, well suit yer sen. Train’s goin’ back i’service soon as we gerroff though so think on – s’the 15.14 to Bradford.”
Sand shuffles to the door and opens it. “Ooh ‘ello Dave. You need a pee an’all?” says Sand. “Yer’ll ‘ave to use the sink mind cos Nise’s gone and blocked the bog wi’ ‘er bouquet the mad cow.”
Sand heads down the carriage, shoes clacking like false teeth. Dave’s in the loo now, winding in his veil parachute-style, arms disappearing in a muff of white lace.
“Give us an ‘and wi’ this will yer love,” says Dave, pressing on the hoops of his skirt. Denise holds it up, looking away at the frosted window while he ferrets around inside his tights. It’s like the world outside the train’s been Tippexed out like a typo.
“Ooh, that’s better,” he says, jiggling his willy. “So this is where yer’ve bin hiding. We’ve bin looking all over fo’ yer. Mandy’s bow tie’s come undone. Need yer to tie it up again fo’ ‘er. Can’t ‘ave the groom goin’ about wi’out a proper dickie now can we?” says Dave, nudging Denise and giggling.
Denise rummages in her face for a smile and settles for one that looks like she’s got a gobful of broken glass.
“Yer mum’s trying to sort ‘er out,” says Dave, wiping his hands. “She’s getting’ on like an ‘ouse on fire wi’ Roy, your mum is.” Dave winks. “Roy’s the bloke wi’ the tranny shop on Manningham Lane where we gets all us stuff. Yeeess, ‘e’s quite taken wi’ your mum is Roy.” He pokes Denise’s arm with his finger then seeing the look on her face, rests it on his cheek and pouts.
“Might need that frock again afore long the way yer mum’s going. Says she’s gunna ‘ave a swingers’ theme fo’ ‘er next wedding so she can keep ‘er options open fo’t ‘oneymoon!” Laughter bends him in two. “Worra scream yer mum is, God love ‘er.” Black liquid worms squirm out his eyes. Denise rips off a false eyelash and rolls it between her finger and thumb. “Me and our Mandy’ll give it a miss though I think. Not somethin’ yer teck the love o’yer life to is it, a swingers’ wedding.”
Denise flicks the balled eyelash at him. “You and Mand’, I give it six month,” she says, knocking past him out the door.