Lyndsey Bergman. Lyndsey Bergman was not my friend. Lyndsey Bergman was my rival. When I’d sprained my ankle attempting to walk in a pair of 7 inch Kurt Geiger platforms, she’d broken hers in 4 places whilst dancing on a table in a pair of fucking Vivienne Westwoods.
To The Clash, no fucking less.
When I’d finally had a song played on Radio 1 (at 1:46am on a Sunday morning), she’d had a poem of hers used as lyrics by an up and coming hipster band who managed to knock a jailbait faux-lesbian off the number one spot in a matter of days.
When I released my first magazine (self-funded, self-penned, effortlessly cool, effortlessly glamorous), she had a collection of self-portraits displayed in the most celebrated and underground of art galleries, followed by a self-published magaizne in which she cleverly critiqued and tore apart her own work under the pseudonyms of anagrams of her fucking name. The scene kids lapped it up.
When I was dumped by a boy, she’d always go out with them not too long afterwards. And she’d always dump them.
When she threw her chewing gum on the floor, I’d always be the one to walk in it.
Last week, I stole the bitches glasses.
I don’t need them. If there’s one thing I have over that superlative bitch, it’s that I have amazing fucking eyesight. And yes, I suppose that by wearing these, I am in some way destroying my own vision - therefore ridding myself of the one crappy advantage I have over her. But I don’t care - because somewhere out there Lyndsey Bergman is probably licking the gums out of an incredibly ugly boy because she’s too blind to know better.
I think I suit them. Bit of Clark
I’m pondering this over salad. Digging the fork into a spewing tomato. All the pips and substance slushing out periously, like a spawn of eggs. Gross. Sarah’s talking about her weekend. I don’t know when it happened that it became impossible to talk to Sarah, but today is evident of that fact. I’m listening to her - or, at the very least, I’m giving her the signals of listening to her, the nodding and smiling and agreeing - but I can’t focus. The background seems effervescent and inviting; a mirage of colour and opportunity. Sarah is none of these things.
I’m not wearing the glasses right now, I had them on during the walk down the café but then chickened out when approaching the door. But now it seems appropriate. I keep thinking that maybe if I put them on, I’ll be able to focus. The background will look clearer and as it is really is - the collage of some inner-city art student who’s a few years off intermediate, and Sarah will suddenly beam at me. My whole being will open up to her. I’ll listen, be charming and articulate, I’ll stun her with delectably witty anecdotes involving people too cool for her inner circle. Good idea, I think.
“Sorry, I just need to put my glasses on…” I put my fork down and pull out the specs. Ray Bans. Wide and eminent. Frames. Sarah gawps at me, mid sentence, her brows furrowed in confusion.
“You don’t wear glasses….” she comments, in a frankly suspicious tone.
“…I only generally wear them at home. But fuck it.”
She continues gawping at me. Jealousies such an ugly trait.
“So anyway…” I continue stabbing my salad. Homicidal woman found guilty of butchering pleasureless food. “…I was out with Stephen Franco the other night. You remember him don’t you, recorded an album in LA and then caught herpes off an American Apparel model he’d shagged whilst he was over there and came back and gave it to Tracey Flemming after she’d written that review about his brothers band in the paper? Well, anyway, he was just the funniest…” I start snorting through my nose in lieu of actual laughter, and I think of the details of the story I’m about to tell and realise that it isn’t funny at all. He did 5 lines of coke, threw up in a coat and then ate a stale biscuit he found in his bag. “-actually, no, never mind. It wasn’t…” I clear my throat, Sarah’s playing with her phone, she looks blurry. “-isn’t funny. At all.”
“You don’t need glasses do you?”
I take them off. My eyes hurt. Terribly.
“No. I don’t”
“Why wear them?”
I think about the question. I can’t tell her about Lyndsey Bergman. She wouldn’t be impressed. She wouldn’t particularly care. I decide to just wing it.
“well” I begin “They make me feel a bit drunk without the calories.” she gawps at me again. “bit drunk without the calories, and …” I have nothing. Am garbage. Am failure. Sarahs phone goes off. She opens it and reads the message, quickly. She looks back up and nods at me with a patronising, polite smile.
“Ready?” She asks, packing her phone and her cigarettes into bag.
“Yeah…” I respond, dutifully, wishing I’d ate more of my 10 quid salad rather than torturing it.
“I’m off to go meet Lyndsey.”
My blood runs cold. Cold with spite. Cold with posession. Now she was pinching my friends.
“Lyndsey?” I enquire, stuffing a desperate lump of halloumi into my mouth.
“Yeah, you know - Lyndsey Bergman? Had that thing with…”
“I know who she is…” I blurt out, as a verbal belch, rolling my eyes about.
“ She’s got new glasses, so I’m gonna go check them out on her. Good to see you…”
She dashes off.
Bollocks.
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