London, October 31st, 2011

 

Tonight is going to be a great night. I feel it.

I’m in my flat waiting for my best friend, Matteo. We’re going to ‘Gaylloween’, the super-cool party in Soho. The promo says it’s: ‘Gay, spooky, and stupid fun’. Right up our alley.

We didn’t have money for costumes so we’re both going to wear black and Matteo, who’s studying at the London School of Beauty, is going to give us both a Twilight-vampire makeover. This is our favourite festivity of the year, and our chance to do a bit of drag (especially Matteo, who loves drag queens).

I had to fight with my colleagues at the bar to get the night off, but I wasn’t backing down. I’m a writer, really, but until I finish my novel, I need to pay the rent.

I check the time on my phone. Matteo’s late, as usual.

I’m getting impatient. The anticipation is always a rush, but I need Matteo to come so we can start the party—pre-drinks with Matteo is almost as much fun as going out. I put some music on, loud to get me in the party mood.

I live with two guys, one who’s a flight attendant and is rarely home, and a guy from Newcastle, Kieran, who is always in his room with his music thumping. I’ve never been in Kieran’s room because it’s locked, but he’s stoned all the time and always has weird guys visiting. I joke with Matteo that he has an illegal drug lab in his room. Anyway, this is the only place I can afford until my book’s published, and at least I’m living in London, the city of my dreams!

Finally, the doorbell rings. Matteo! I turn my music up to drown out Iron Maiden which is blaring from my flatmate’s room.

I open the door to Matteo, who has his makeup bag and a bottle of white wine under each arm. He has a new Zac Efron haircut—he literally changes his hair every week. Apparently, they practise on each other at school.

“Hi, Mattie!” I hug him and drag him in from the cold.

“There’s a creepy guy checking out your mailboxes, Harry.” He throws me a weirded-out look and hands me the bottle of warm white wine. “He looked like a gangster. Hoodie, baggy pants, huge trainers . . . very suspicious. Just saying.”

“This is Dalston, Matteo. Everyone looks like that,” I say.

“Is this Paulina’s new album?” Matteo takes off his jacket and sits on my bed.

“It is! Isn’t it great?”

Paulina is our favourite singer and her new album is full of bangers.

Matteo nods but not super-enthusiastically. “Did you buy it?”

“Of course not,” I say, then lower my voice. “Illegal download.”

Matteo sighs, like there’s a dark cloud over him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He leans back on the bed. “It’s Callum . . .” he says. “He isn’t answering my calls.”

Oh. Here we go.

Callum is Matteo’s latest crush. They’ve dated a few times, but from what Matteo’s told me, I already know this is going nowhere. I mean, in London, if a guy doesn’t ask you to go home with him by the third date, believe me, it’s not going to happen. But, in Matteo’s head, Callum’s just shy; wants to take it slowly; scared of his emotions.

“Matteo, isn’t it obvious?” I say carefully. “I mean, I don’t think he’s that into you.”

He looks crushed, blinking back tears, and then he glares at me. “No! We’re made for each other. He’s . . . perfect.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“There are millions of perfect guys like him in London.”

“Ha!” he practically snorts. “Where?” His smile turns dreamy. “He’s so interesting. And he’s broad, and tall, and has cool tattoos.”

“Look,” I say, sitting next to him. “How many times has he texted you?” He opens his mouth to speak, and I raise my hand. “On his own initiative and not replying to a message.”

His head drops. “OK, none . . . but he’s super-busy! You know he’s an assistant for that cool videoclips director. They were shooting last week with Bat For Lashes.”

“Matteo, you know if a guy wants to contact you, he will. Not even Bat For Lashes will stop him.”

“But we dated three times!” he insists.

I shake my head. The first time they met for dinner after finding each other through an online dating app. The second time, Matteo spent two days hanging around Callum’s neighbourhood until they ‘casually’ bumped into each other and grabbed a coffee. The third date, Matteo invited him to the sold-out premiere of a West End musical that Matteo was lucky enough to win two tickets for in a competition.

“I don’t know why people do the things they do. But I think you should try to forget him.” I raise the bottle of wine. “Let’s have fun tonight. We’ve been talking about this party all month!”

“Right,” he finally says, and my party mood comes swinging back.

“Be right back!” I dash to the kitchen, fill an ice bucket with ice cubes, and put the wine in. The wine may be cheap, but it doesn’t mean we can’t do it with style, and if it’s super-cold, it doesn’t taste that bad. Besides, we’ll be listening to music, getting our vamps on and gossiping.

When I’m back, the lights are off. Matteo has lit the candles on my night table, and the music is turned down low.

“Matteo, what are you doing?”

“Harry, before we start. I want you to do something with me.”

My stomach sinks.

Matteo pulls out his latest precious possession: an iPhone his sister Sonia gave him when she bought a new model. The screen is cracked and held together with tape but is still better than my small internet-less pre-paid phone.

“I want you to do a spell with me.”

“A . . . spell?” I say, carefully.

“Yes, it’s Bitchcraft.”

“You mean, witchcraft . . .?”

“No, Bitchcraft.“

Oh lord. Matteo loves this stuff, but I seriously think he’s losing it.

“I downloaded a book about Bitchcraft on my iPhone, and it’s amazing. Tons of spells!”

“A book . . . on your phone?” I frown, still holding the ice bucket.

“It’s an electronic book, Harry.”

“I know what an eBook is. But I still prefer paper, thanks.”

“Anyway . . .” He scrolls through his phone. “Listen to this. ‘For the modern woman who wants to unleash her inner bitch. Spells for sweet revenge.’”

“Please, what revenge?” I say, because now I feel I need to be harsher. “Callum’s not into you. Period. Just move on.”

“You don’t understand!” His cheeks are flushed, and he won’t look at me. “He used me . . .”

This makes me take notice and I set the ice bucket down on the floor. “What are you saying, Matteo?” I ask, worried.

He clears his throat. “Our first date, we went for dinner, and he said he didn’t have any cash, but he would pay the next time . . . implying there would be a second date, right? So, I paid for both of us.”

“OK. He was cheeky, I get it . . . but . . .”

“But then he mentioned this musical that he wanted to see . . .”

The penny drops. “No. Matteo!”

He nods, avoiding my gaze and tugging at the embroidery on my duvet cover.

“You didn’t pay for the tickets, did you? You said you won them in a competition . . .” I say, but I already know the answer.

“I just wanted to spend some quality time with him!” he says, desperately. “I really liked him!”

“Matteo,” I pause, choosing my words. “I understand he took advantage of you, but you didn’t have to buy those tickets. How much were they?”

“140 quid!”

I clamp my hand over my mouth. “140 . . .?”

“Each . . .” He winces, looking away.

“Matteo!”

My poor, poor friend. He always puts his heart, and his soul, and his wallet into each relationship or hint of a relationship. Still, 280 quid—we could’ve been drinking champagne in black velvet cloaks for way less.

I’m outraged for him. OK, he went overboard buying those tickets, but the guy realised Matteo was naïve and blatantly took advantage of him! These shitty guys always get away with it because . . . why not? They’re hot and entitled. Maybe they do deserve payback.

“OK, let’s do this Bitchcraft thing,” I say, rubbing my hands together.

“Great!” Matteo’s face lights up. “You’ll see, it’s the coolest thing. We’ll start with something entry level.” He goes back to his phone and reads out loud. “Spell number 13: Summoning a revenge ghost.”

“That’s entry level?” I ask, surprised.

“We’ll be calling on the ghost of Sharon Viagra.”

“Sharon who?”

“You’ve never heard of her?” His dark eyes widen. “She’s a legend in the gay community!”

I shrug.

Matteo puts on his best storytelling voice. “Sharon Viagra was a famous drag queen. Sharon, boy name Gary, was in love. He was dating a guy; let’s call him John. Gary liked John very much, but he kept the fact that he was a drag queen secret.”

“Why didn’t he just tell him?” I interrupt.

“Shush,” says Matteo. “. . . Until one day, Gary finally confessed to John that by night he was Sharon Viagra—the legendary drag queen!”

The candles are creating mysterious shadows on Matteo’s face and I’m mesmerised.

“So, John said he was fine with it, and Gary felt a weight lifted off his shoulders,” Matteo says, his eyes locked on mine. “But then days went by and John stopped answering Gary’s calls. Eventually, Gary understood that the guy he thought was his boyfriend wasn’t OK with him being a drag queen, after all.”

“That’s sad.”

“It broke his heart,” Matteo says. “One night, Sharon was performing one of her super-successful shows, when John entered the club with a group of guys.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yes. Uh-oh.” Matteo nods solemnly. “Sharon was a professional, so she went on with the show. But the guys were drunk and started jeering and throwing things onto the stage, until Sharon, humiliated, went running backstage in tears . . .”

The story is sad and a real downer, but I’m invested. “And then what happened?”

“Sharon was crushed, obviously, and hid in the loo to have a private cry. But John’s mates found her and locked her in so she couldn’t get out. She screamed and banged on the door, but nobody heard her. Sharon was trapped inside, until . . .”

“Oh no.”

“I’m afraid so,” Matteo says. “Someone set fire to the club, probably the same group of guys, and Sharon couldn’t escape . . .” Matteo closes his eyes for effect.

I gulp, caught up in the moment. Still, I can’t get over the many plot holes in this story. I’m a writer, after all. “That didn’t really happen, did it?”

Matteo shrugs. “It’s all over the Internet.”

“How come nobody heard her?”

“It was a private loo in the basement. Artists only.”

“And why were John’s mates down there, then? And, come on, the loo doors in London’s clubs are paper-thin.”

“It was an old building,” Matteo says firmly. “Floor to ceiling walls, and all that.”

I’m still not convinced, but I let it be. “OK, so what did Sharon do to these guys from beyond her grave?”

“Oh, this is the coolest part,” Matteo says, resuming his narrator voice. “So, Sharon put a spell on John and his friends. Every time any of those guys had sex . . .”

“They saw her face!” I say, feeling smart.

“No, much worse. They could only get a hard-on if they thought of Sharon.”

“Eww . . . gross . . .” Then it hits me. “You don’t want to do the same to Callum, do you?”

He shrugs. “It’s a sweet revenge.”

“Matteo! That’s sick.”

“He deserves it!” Matteo protests. “Anyway, it’s not forever. The effects vanish after a while.”

“Says who?”

“The instructions!” He shoves the phone screen in front of my face.

This is nuts, but if it makes my friend feel better, I’ll play along.

“OK, what do we do?”

Matteo whips out of his jacket pocket a spoon in a plastic bag, like evidence from a cop movie.

“What’s that?” I don’t touch it.

“It’s the coffee-spoon Callum used while we were waiting for the musical to start,” he says, lifting his chin. “A coffee that I also paid for.”

“You stole a spoon?” I ask, grossed out. “Why?”

“We need something with his DNA,” Matteo says, ignoring my question. I mentally facepalm myself—I’m worried for him. “So, this should work.”

Matteo puts his phone, open at the spell, on the bed between us, and I turn off the music.

I’ve been so engrossed in Sharon’s story that I hadn’t even realised my flatmate’s music had stopped. Which is great, because now we’re in silence, with only the candles illuminating us.

Matteo places the spoon between us ceremoniously. “Take my hands.”

I take his hands and close my eyes.

“Oh, Sharon, Mistress of the sex-revenge!” he starts. “We are here, come find us.” He pauses. “Harry, take a deep breath.”

I do so.

“We are invoking you!” he says louder.

We wait, eyes closed, holding hands.

“What now?” I ask in a low voice.

“We repeat her name five times.”

OK, he’s making it up as he goes, but I roll with it. We chant together.

“Sharon . . .”

“. . . Sharon . . .”

“. . . Sharon!”

“SHARON!”

We say it four times and pause. This is bullshit I know, but somehow, the story and the candles have created an atmosphere that’s got my heartrate going.

“Matteo . . .” I say. “One more time.”

“Are you . . . sure?” His voice trembles.

He’s acting, building the suspense, but for heaven’s sake, this is a joke!

“Sharon!” I blurt out. There’s a thud, and I jump. “Did you hear that?”

“Sharon found us,” Matteo whispers.

A chill travels down my spine. I mean, it was probably my flatmate, but the timing was eerie.

“Sharon,” Matteo says in a breathy voice. “We humbly request your permission to perform your famous sexpell . . .”

There are two more thuds.

“That means yes,” Matteo says solemnly.

Now I realise he’s doing the thuds, but I go with it.

“Sharon, please find Callum McKenzie, and inflict upon him the fate that he must see my face or he won’t be able to get a hard-on.” He stops. “I’m Matteo Gigliotti, from London, by the way.”

Another thud, louder this time.

“She agrees,” Matteo says, satisfaction in his voice.

“I thought two thuds meant yes.” I can’t resist.

“Sharon!” he says. “Please confirm. Two thuds mean yes.”

I hear a thud, then a second. He’s good, Matteo.

But then there are more thuds, growing faster and louder.

“Matteo, please stop!”

“It’s not me!” he protests. “Maybe we pissed Sharon off.”

I open my eyes. “OK, enough!”

But Matteo is on the bed and he’s not making a sound. “I promise I didn’t move,” he says.

I follow the thuds and realise they’re coming from my flatmate’s room.

“What the fuck!” I cross the room and put my ear against the wall. It sounds like a fight.

“What’s going on?” Matteo is still on the bed, his shoulders hunched as if bracing himself for the worst.

The sounds grow louder, like two guys beating the shit out of each other.

“I need to check what’s going on,” I say.

“Why?” Matteo asks. “You said your flatmate’s a dealer. Maybe he got mixed up with the wrong gang!” His eyes widen and he shrinks back on the bed. “The guy checking out the mailboxes . . . He was probably looking for your flatmate!” He looks terrified, and his horror is contagious.

I think about it. I’ve heard about the gangs in this neighbourhood, but I never had any issues with them. I didn’t hear the front door open, but I was so invested in Sharon’s story, I didn’t even notice Kieran’s music was off. Would a gang have busted the door down or would they have found another way in?

“We should call the police!” Matteo says, picking up his phone. “They must have found your flatmate’s secret drug lab.”

The noises resume and now it definitely sounds like a punch-up.

I open my door and step into the hallway, where the sounds are even louder.

“Argh!”

“You bastard!”

“Pam!”

“Harry, no!” Matteo has followed me to the door. But I can’t stop now. Kieran needs my help. I mean, I can’t fight, but the police will take ages to arrive, and it might be too late.

I tiptoe to the door.

“Kieran?” I call from outside the room. “Are you OK?”

Nothing. The sounds stop.

“Harry, no!” Matteo says, dramatically clinging to my door.

I grip the doorknob, feeling my pulse behind my eyes. Holding my breath, I push. It’s stuck and I have to use my weight to make it budge.

Slowly, I open the door. I expect to see Kieran tied to a chair. A bad deal gone wrong . . . But instead, inside it’s just Kieran and another guy sitting on the floor. The guy is wearing a hoodie and baggy pants—as Matteo described him earlier. The room is in darkness, illuminated only by the TV. I turn to face the TV screen and see the boxing videogame.

“Take this!” Kieran says, and I notice the control in his hand and the headphones. The room smells like grass.

I exhale in relief.

Not Sharon the scary drag queen ghost, or a drug-gang chasing payment. Just a couple of guys playing videogames.

“Oh hi, Harry, all good?” Kieran watches me like an automaton. His friend doesn’t even notice I’m there.

“All good,” I say, feeling awkward.

Kieran turns back to the game, and I close the door behind me as I leave. His room doesn’t even look like a drug lab. It’s just a normal room, with a bed, a small wardrobe, and a massive TV for videogames.

“And?” Matteo says from my doorway, his face pale. “Was it Sharon? Was she in the wrong room?”

“No, it wasn’t Sharon,” I say, passing Matteo on my way back into my room. “It’s just my flatmate and his friend playing videogames.”

“Thank God!” Matteo says, flopping onto the bed.

I turn the lights back on. This silly game shook me up.

“Look,” I say. “I know you’re upset about Callum. Guys are shit. Most of them. But don’t let it get you down, OK? You’re great, Matteo, and you don’t need spells or weird stuff to get a guy.”

To my surprise, Matteo nods. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Uh? Just like that? The drama is over? I’ll take it.

“Now, can we start the party, please?”

“Yes!” Matteo says, grinning.

The ice has almost melted. “I’ll get more ice. You turn Paulina up!”

As I walk to the kitchen, I smile when I hear Paulina’s new album. Track number one: ‘Shake it to me, guapito’. My favourite.

When I’m back, Matteo is typing on his phone.

“Who are you texting?” I ask warily.

“A guy I just met on the dating app!” he says. “Seriously, Harry, you’re missing out by not having a smartphone.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I fill two glasses with white wine.

Matteo shows me the guy’s picture and I exhale. He could be Callum’s twin brother. “Isn’t he hot?”

I want to take him by the shoulders, shake him hard, and tell him to stop. But this is my friend, always ready to bounce.

“Yes, he’s super-handsome,” I say, relenting.

Matteo smiles, satisfied. “He says he’ll be at the same party tonight! And he’s bringing a friend. Maybe a double date?”

“Let me see . . .” I check his phone. Matteo’s new love interest is posing with a pale, dark-haired guy, rocking a cute nerdy look with black-rimmed glasses. The caption says:

This is my friend, Alistair.

“He looks nice, but he’s not my type,” I say.

Matteo makes a face. “You’re too picky. Anyway, let’s get drunk!” He raises his glass. “To us!”

“To us!”

We drink and the wine tastes actually quite good.

Matteo has forgotten about spells and Callum for now, but something tells me this new Callum will give him a hard time too. But it’s OK. He’s my best friend, and I’ll be there for him.

It occurs to me that we’ll both experience more heartbreaks along the way, but as long as we can cry on each other’s shoulders, listen to music together, and do crazy Bitchcraft spells, we’ll be just fine.