The Rubber Ball

October 28th was to be the night I switched Google Locate off my phone to scratch the second itch of my life. With only a few days to go, I was hiding in my airing cupboard, knee-deep in my teenage son's sports gear, with a mobile phone jammed against my ear.

Photographs at the Pink Coconut Club are forbidden. The deep male voice at the end of the phone yawned as they spoke.

Why not just ban phones altogether? I snapped, frustrated by the person's clear ambivalence to such an important topic as discretion. I hadn't nested into the bowels of my airing cupboard to make this call to be greeted with flippancy.

What if you were a Doctor on call? The voice at the end of the line stiffened. Doctors deserve to get their kicks too, don't they?

Of course, they did.

As did mothers of two.

I clenched my teeth to stop myself from biting back and punched a teetering pile of bed linens.

Are you still there? The voice enquired.

Sorry, yeah, still here. Erm, I hesitated, unsure quite how my next question would land... I was wondering... Can I pay with cash on the night?

Love, you can pay any way you like so long as it ain't in kind. The voice sang the words like they were doing cabaret. I could feel the accompanying eye rolls from Lancashire.

Great. Well, thank you then. My voice came out clipped and sharp. I hung up and pulled a large green towel from the shelf onto my head to smother my screams.

The conversation had gone about as well as a fart at dinner. A person was meant to be cool in such circles; they were meant to sashay into conversation, not stomp.

I stared at my phone.

There was always Google...?

No sooner had the thought rumbled into my head than I'd booted it out. The last time I'd foraged for information in cyberspace, I'd ended up with a potential safeguarding disaster. No way was I risking weird shit showing up amongst Bluey reruns again; besides, Josh, my eldest, was far too tech-savvy to believe that the random search results popping up on YouTube were down to Yvonne, our seventy-year-old hippie neighbour, hacking our internet connection. No, the sensible way forward was to regroup, call again, smooth out the creases, and ask the questions I needed to ask in an upfront adult-to-adult way.

Ugh! I was so far out of my element. On the one hand, I did not want to make a name for myself as the mithering woman who over-thought a night out at a fetish club. Of course, I am that woman, Minutia is practically my middle name, but that was the whole point of Operation Glad Rags- to not be that woman. The point was to leave Local Councillor and mother of two, Molly Webber, Shadsworth Village pot-hole fixer, nuisance neighbour negotiator, and Parent Teacher Association Treasurer at home for the night. To go out and... well... let it all hang out. On the other hand, wading into a night at the Pink Coconut from a cold start felt just a little too far on the dark side of terrifying.

I stroked the wall to my right, leaned back and tapped my head against the wall behind me, trying to knock a little bit of sense into it. Was all this worth it? All this ducking and diving and making secret calls in airing cupboards? I could simply live with the itch; I'd managed okay with it for forty years.

I flicked on my phone's torch and stared up at the four-by-four ceiling. An old, baggy strand of cobweb dangled down. I framed it in the light of my torch, filled my lungs and blew, watching as it delicately trembled in the disturbed air, dropping specks of dust like fairy snow. Around us, the macabre shadows of rogue lone socks and forgotten underwear reached up from their benches like ghoulish cheerleaders.

I sank into them, soothed to be one of them.

Other people could keep their open-plan living spaces with vaulted ceilings and bi-folding patio doors. There, tucked away in my dark little nook, surrounded by the sweet smell of freshly washed linens, in the company of shadows, I knew where I began and where I ended. A luxury I never take for granted.

I ran my fingers along a stack of folded towels by my ankles, slipping my hand underneath the bottom one and smiling as my fingers came into contact with the familiar thin edge of my favourite magazine, my twenty-year-old copy of the fetish mag Skin Two.

Casting the shadows back into the dark, I held my phone over the cover and stared into the dark brown, masked eyes that glinted like portholes to freedom. Tenderly I turned the pages, stopping at the double-page spread on 6 and 7. Slowly, I traced my finger along the curve of the model's hourglass silhouette, hovering momentarily over their miraculously cinched-in waist. Their stunning, glossy red corset was pulled tight, almost disappearing into a vanishing point. I touched my stomach, where the waistband of my jeans cut in. Once my midriff could have squeezed into a shape like that, now if I were ever to go to The Rubber Ball at The Pink Coconut, I would have to find an outfit to compensate for an over-hanging muffin top.

I put my treasured magazine back underneath my towels and stared up at the strand of cobweb, watching it settle as stillness returned. What was I thinking? These events, these places were for the young and the fabulous, not for forty-something mothers having a midlife crisis. What would the girls down at the pony club make of this? How scandalised would the local council be if they got wind of it? What would the parents on the PTA say if they knew? I grabbed the green towel and whipped it up at the strand of muck. Sometimes it was better for something not to exist at all. Life was cleaner that way.

Mum, Mum! Elliot, my youngest, called out from downstairs.

What's up, Elliot? I emerged into the cool air of our landing wearing my mum-game-face.

Dave the Dog has just done a massive wee in the kitchen!

Wonderful; such were the joys of looking after your neighbour's incontinent Dalmation.

Coming!

***

That night, with Operation Glad Rags relegated to a pipedream; I threw myself into a number of distractions. After mopping up a lake of Dalmatian pee, wading through half a tonne of ironing, making tea for three, or more appropriately, making three teas as nobody could agree on what to have, I prepared the school lunches, ran baths for both boys and put them to bed. Finally, I drank two bottles of wine and passed out.

It did the job.

Until the next day, when the itch returned like an undammable phoenix, kicking back with a savage hangover and a school run akin to a walk of shame.

By 9.30 am, I was ready to open another bottle.

That's the thing with itches. They don't die from being drowned. You do.

I stared at the bottle of red on the kitchen table.

Woof! Woof!

What? I looked down at Dave the Dog. You have already been out for a wee and a walk. What is it?

Woof! Woof!

Oh, Dave, my head! What is the matter?

I listened. There was a noise coming from outside. It sounded like a beast snarling and grunting in agony. I walked into the living room and looked out the bay window to see Yvonne trying to find the right gear to reverse her lime green flower power campervan into her narrow driveway.

Barely missing her largest gnome and perilously close to her treasured busy lizzie pots, Yvonne finally succeeded in parking the psychedelic beast. Within a tick, she had clambered out and was waddling towards us, her arms waving like a haphazard windmill and her bright yellow kaftan flapping in the breeze, leaving little to the imagination.

She looked as dotty as her dog.

Dave went bonkers; his tail turned into a propeller. I opened the front door, and he bounded out like a puppy.

Oh, my darling boy! Yvonne lavished him with kisses. Has he been good? She called out to me.

I nodded. Did you enjoy your retreat?

Oh darling, it was wonderful. She gushed, throwing her head back, her arms animatedly illustrating her joy. I laughed and danced and swam naked in a pool by a waterfall. It was divine. I have wanted to do this for years. I feel so refreshed, so alive! You should try it, Molly.

I nodded.

Thank you for looking after Dave. Let me know if I can return the favour. She paused, giggling, as Dave licked her face. What are your plans for the day, my darling?

I looked at seventy-year-old Yvonne, rolling around with her hat-stand dog, and thought about the wine.

A smile crept onto my lips. I am going clothes shopping. I need a new dress for an event.

Oh, wonderful. I hope you get something fabulous!

I grinned. Me too!

If seventy-somethings could get their kicks, so could I.

Operation Glad Rags was on.

***

I knew a place in the city. A place I had never dared go in before. It was hidden down a backstreet in the Northern Quarter, the type of place that you only saw if you were looking for it. It didn't have a shop front, just a few small windows placed too high up the building's red brick wall for any passer-by to see into. I didn't even know the name of it; I just knew it was there. It was the type of place my itch sought out.

Inside the hour, I was standing outside wondering whether I needed a story as a cover for going in. I looked up and down the grey higgledy-piggledy street. There was one man on a fire escape smoking a cigarette, who looked, as my Dad would have said, like a man who had travelled around the block a few times and been troubled by all of it. It was highly unlikely that man would be reporting back to Shadsworth Village Council or the PTA. As if to confirm my logic, the man, seemingly oblivious to being watched, hacked up a large quantity of catarrh and gobbed it onto the street below. I turned away to give him and his troubles some privacy, walked up the stone concrete steps and dissolved into the building.

Inside the dark and dingy vestibule, a small metal plaque with the words LATE-X told me I was in the right place. I walked across the small expanse of tiled floor and crept through the door at the end into the brightest room I have ever seen. My eyes nearly melted in its glare.

Slices of white strip lighting ran in clinical parallel lines over a glossed ceiling, and every five feet along the white-washed walls, a cluster of spotlights needled into the room. Even the white vinyl floor was framed by tram lines of LED. Dotted everywhere, to the point of absurdity, twinkled mirror balls, all serving no purpose as there were no shadows to cast any more light into.

Thankfully, like a holy antithesis to the full-frontal onslaught of light, sprawling out across the searing abyss was rail upon rail of black lace, leather, PVC, and rubber clothing. It was like walking into Aladdin's fetish cave.

A husky female voice called out from behind the maze of rails.

Shout me if you need me!

I resisted the urge to shout need you now, thank you and had a brief word with my slackened jaw before slowly moseying down to the nearest rail to browse.

Within a matter of moments, the voice from beyond became the voice at my elbow.

Hi there. I'm Cindy. Can I help you find what you are looking for?

I looked down, and beside me, wearing thigh-high boots, fishnets, hot pants, and a short top with the word "MIA-OW!" emblazoned across her chest, was Cindy.

Feeling incredibly over-dressed, I pulled my coat around me and blurted out, I need an outfit for The Rubber Ball at The Pink Coconut this Saturday, and then, having forgotten my manners, threw in an awkwardly late, Please.

How exciting! Cindy looked genuinely thrilled. Have you been before?

I hesitated, bracing myself for the newbie damp squib moment. I shook my head.

Ok then! No bother. You are in the right place to get kitted out. Cindy purred. Her delight never flickered from her face. So, what are you into then?

Nobody had ever asked me that, and I had been married for ten years.

I stared at her. Was there a right thing to say?

Let me help you out, honey. Her smile grew wider, her eyes softer. Sub or dom?

She may as well have said open bloody sesame because the effect of her words was the same. I gawped, gaped, and then every stopper, emotional bung, and blocked pore of my being simultaneously sprung open. In a mashed-up, fledgling, all-around-the-houses way, I shared with Cindy intimate details of my psyche that I had never shared with anyone; and all within the first ten minutes of meeting her. It was as natural as a chat about the weather.

Taking every word in her stride, Cindy showed me to a dressing room behind a white-panelled door and instructed me to strip. Then she went off trotting around the room of rails, talking loudly to herself about how best to dress me.

Ok, I am thinking maybe a latex dress and some kick-ass killer heels. I mean, we could try catsuits, but everyone is wearing them! Ha! I am sure we can take a few steps beyond blah. This is a Ball, after all.. let's flaunt what you got, girl. If you have waited this long to get there, you may as well go all out! Now then... oh yes!. Your long hair will look amazing cascading down the back of this. Now shoes, ah yes... let's go transparent, very in right now, and the foot fetishists will adore them! Mmmm, do I have your size? Yes, I do! Girl... damn... this is destiny!

Cindy shoved an arm full of black rubber around the door and pushed a box of shoes underneath with the direction to get this lot on yer!

I did as I was told, wiggled and squeezed into the long black skin-tight rubber dress and slipped my feet into the towering transparent plastic shoes. I glided out of the dressing room on cloud sixty-nine.

Oh my God! Wowweee! Cindy gave me a round of applause. You know what, girl... sorry, what was your name again?

Molly.

You know what, Molly, you shall go to that ball. Babes, you look incredible; you will be the God damned Belle of it!

***

The dress, the most fundamental part of Operation Glad Rags, was in the bag.

I had done it. I had walked into a new world, gotten the goods and walked back out again. I felt liberated. Animated. I felt like I had been on a retreat and swam naked in waterfalls.

Now, all I had to do was hatch a plan to actually get to The Pink Coconut.

With the event only a couple of days away, all the hotels near the venue were full. This was unfortunate, but I was not going to let such details get in the way. What I needed, I decided, was a plain white van. Something big enough to get dressed in. I did not fancy trotting down my driveway dressed in my regalia with Shadsworth's judgemental vanilla lips milling about. I also wanted something discreet that could be parked near the club without raising an eyebrow.

So, the next day, I put my big girl knickers on again and walked into the lion's den, aka Shadsworth's very own, imaginatively titled Dan's Vans, owned by Dan, a man who happened to be a good friend of my ex and about as open-minded as a chastity belt.

The reception area looked as I remembered it; sterile and beiger than beige. Walking in, I felt as conspicuous as a unicorn in a laboratory. For a moment, I tried to hide behind the grubby-looking, dark brown coffee machine in the corner.

Dan was sat, splayed out behind the large serving desk. His head was down, but I could see he was not in the best mood. A puce glow emanated from his starched white collar; even the bald spot on top of his head had a rouge tinge to it. He was muttering as two of his minions clucked aimlessly on either side.

He looked up. Clocked me and, without hesitation, said What the fuck do you want?

I quickly became the attention of all six of their beady eyes.

Hi Dan, lovely to see you. I smiled at him, ignoring the nasty.

Cut the shit. What the fuck do you want? He glared at me like he was a moment away from diving over the desk to punch me.

I carried on smiling. Long time. I said, trying to get an in.

Silence.

I need a van... please. I cut to the chase.

No way. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The minions followed suit.

How else am I going to collect Elliot's new bedroom furniture? Yes, it was a lie. However, knowing Dan of old, and despite the water that had passed under the bridge between us, I knew he would not deprive the kids of anything.

Fucking hell. When? He stared at me like he was trying to bore a hole.

Day after tomorrow. I am collecting from Birmingham and staying with friends...

I do not give a fuck what you are doing. He cut me off, then paused. You need the van for Elliot?

I do. I cringed at sealing the lie.

Give me your license.

I passed it over.

Dan looked at it. Fucking hell, you changed your name fast.

It had been two years.

I said nothing and continued to smile.

No, not helping you. He flicked my license at me and held his hand toward the door to highlight where the exit was. The minion to his left stood up as though looking for an excuse to come round from behind the counter to escort me out.

Well, that's a shame. I said, trying to retain my poise as internal wounds from scratching my first itch opened and wept.

***

I held it together long enough to get in my mini and drive home. But I couldn't get out of the car when I got there. My head was gone. I just kept thinking how once we had been friends, how our kids used to have playdates.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I had no clue how long I had sat there— an hour, maybe two. I turned my head toward the tapping and saw the blur of Yvonne's bright red and purple hair flying around her face like deranged candyfloss, her kind eyes full of concern.

You alright, love? She shouted through the glass.

I slowly shook my head.

She opened the passenger door, fought the flounce of a bright pink kaftan to get it out of the wind and into the car, and joined me in my numb.

After a few minutes of silence, she said, You don't have to tell me. I am happy to sit here, but if you want to tell me, I promise you I am a great listener.

Dan... I spoke his name and drifted...

What a bastard! She said, hitting the dashboard with a slap of her hand.

I felt the world jolt into focus.

But I haven't... I began.

No need to say anymore, my lovely. I know how he can be. I go on those Shadsworth Facebook natter groups. I see. She paused, rubbed my arm, and said, Cup of tea?

We went into my house. I sat at the kitchen table, and Yvonne put the kettle on.

Now then, tell me; she smiled and winked as she set out our teacups. Did you get a dress?

Nodding, I leaned forward, put my elbows on the table and rested my full face in the palms of my hands.

Well, come now, a new dress is nothing to look so distressed about. The kettle whistled on the stove, and she wrapped a towel around the handle to lift and pour the hot water into the pot.

It's not the dress. The dress is fabulous. I could not lift my face to look at Yvonne. I felt like running to my pantry and closing the door.

So, it is where you are going to be wearing this dress. Yvonne carried the pot to the table and sat down.

Slowly dying inside, I nodded.

Ok. Yvonne poured the milk into our teacups and stirred the tea in the pot. I think I can guess what type of dress this is and what sort of event. Am I right when I say that you specifically wanted a plain white van from Dan?

I opened one eye and turned it upward to look at her.

Thought so. Am I also correct that you perhaps wanted to get dressed in the van?

Oh, God. She knew. She saw me. I was ready to slide under the table.

Now, let me be mother. She said, lifting the pot to pour our tea. What if I told you that I could get you to your event in style and in a way that you could even tell your kids where you are going and probably make all of Shadsworth jealous?

I'd say that it was not possible.

Well, she began, there is this man I know called Derrick from my Campervan Club...

Derrick? From Campervan Club! Seriously? I wrapped my hands around my teacup and looked into it, wondering if there was some way it could drown me.

Trust me. She waved her hands around as though she was stirring up magic. This is going to be incredible.

***

I was grateful for the tea and sympathy, but I thought Yvonne must have been on the magic mushrooms again. It was the season after all.

That night, I hung my dress in the back of my wardrobe, put the boxed shoes into the cupboard and comforted myself that at least I had them and that I could dress up and pretend sometimes. What did I care if nobody ever saw me in it? I'd see myself in it. I could make peace with that.

On the 28th of October, I got up, dressed in my pink joggers and old trainers and tied my hair up in braids. The boys wanted to go and play football, so I took them down to the park for the afternoon; we had a great time, and I treated them to hotdogs and chips for dinner. We could all agree on that meal!

It was already dark as we drove home, and you could feel the talons of winter reaching in. Jack-o-lanterns glimmered from windows, and the old street lights burned hazy orange hues onto the pavements. A few children were out trick or treating, running from house to house with torches and buckets of sweets.

I turned the car onto our road, Elliot was already nodding in the back, and Josh was lost in a game on his phone. I was looking forward to a film night with popcorn. Dan, Yvonne, The Rubber Ball, and my itch all felt like distant memories.

Oh my God! Josh cried out, disrupting my serenity. Look, mum. Look! What is that outside our house?

I was not sure, but it had attracted a lot of attention from our neighbours.

Yvonne, in a voluminous white coat, was shouting They are here, They are here!

I pulled up outside, and the three of us got out of our car like bunnies in the giant headlights of the behemoth parked before us.

It was a recreational vehicle the like of which I had never seen. It must have been forty-foot long and glossier than the night with all its stars. Pink neon glowed from its undercarriage, and its shiny chrome wheels had giant bats in their centre.

Yvonne was hopping around like a giddy fish shouting Molly, what do you think of your carriage?

Josh had his phone out videoing everything.

I had no clue what to say. With each passing second, I was alternating from feeling like I was being spanked in public to utter elation.

Then Derrick stepped out from behind the monolithic van. Molly, lovely to meet you. It will be my pleasure to chauffer you tonight. He saluted like he was John Wayne in a Western, slid a zippo lighter along his leather-clad thigh and lit a cigarette.

I resisted the urge to shout, not in front of the children!

Oh My God, Mum. I have just Googled this van. Josh was popping with whatever he had seen. This was Black Sabbath's tour bus. Holy shit. Mum. Do you know how cool this is?

I shook my head; how cool it was had not yet filtered into my consciousness.

You better not be getting in that van in those pink joggers, mum! Josh looked at me like my clothes were an affront.

I was speechless.

Yvonne cut in.

Molly, go and get your glad rags on love. You are going to that ball!

But what about the... I shouted down the path as Josh dragged me inside.

Yvonne called after me. Darling, I am babysitting. Now come on, you don't want to miss the red carpet.

Josh nearly fell over as she said the words. Red carpet! Mum, you seriously better have a killer dress to put on!

Of course, I did.

***

Apparently, I looked like Rihanna, or Lady GaGa, or some such magazine cover superstar. Both Josh and Elliot were suitably impressed anyway. Many of our neighbours had cameras out filming as I hopped into the van alongside Derrick. I confess I posed a little. There were wolf whistles and cheers. Even from a member of the pony club!

It took a couple of hours to drive there, but as Derrick kept reminding me: Nobody who is anybody gets there until after ten.

As we arrived, the Industrial Estate that housed the Pink Coconut Club was pulsating with people. An eclectic mass of hats, heels, chains, and leather were streaming toward two giant illuminated palm trees with flashing pink coconuts.

I had a brief panic that we would not be able to park. Derrick laughed and pressed a button on the dashboard. The song Paranoid by Black Sabbath came belting out of the seams of the van like a musical aura.

The crowds duly parted, and we rolled right up to the edge of the red carpet directly in front of the sparkly black doors of the Pink Coconut Club. A person in a bikini, festooned in multi-coloured feathers, trotted toward us, and my door slid open.

Evening Derrick. The bird of paradise cooed.

Derrick saluted, and I slid out of the van onto the arm of the magnificent creature. I felt like a rock star. People were cheering. I felt like crying.

Beyond the black sparkly doors, a world of multi-coloured light and extreme darkness exploded. I walked down a glittering cascading staircase, straight to the dance floor into a throng of people already letting everything they had hang out. It was a no-holds-barred flesh fest of shadows and light. No inch was spared for inhibition.

On stage, a man in tiny PVC shorts and huge mirrored glasses blasted out music from every genre while three acrobatic dancers performed on ropes above us. A woman in pink stiletto Doc Martins and a sequinned bodysuit started dancing with me. I felt like I was in a music video.

After an hour of dancing, the woman in pink stilettoes asked me if I would like a drink, and we headed back up the giant staircase toward the gallery of bars, watched every step of the way by a hundred appreciative eyes.

I remember giggling. I remember complimenting my dance partner. I remember the lights swirling, the music blurring, the room rotating.

I felt a crack, and then there was dark.

***

I woke to the smell of antiseptic and a blaze of harsh lights, with a quiet mumble of voices rumbling between the ringing in my ears.

I was in a hospital ward. I looked over to my right, and next to me in a small UPVC maroon chair was an oversized black coat with a pair of pink Doc Marten stilettoes sticking out.

I tried to sit up.

The coat moved, and a concerned head popped out.

A nurse came over and felt my brow. Good to see you back with us. He said. You gave us quite the scare.

What? I looked under the sheets. My dress was gone, and I was wearing a hospital gown.

You had a fall and passed out. He said. You have a concussion, but you'll be ok. Your friend here has been looking out for you since she arrived.

I looked at her. How did you find me here in this ward?

She held up one of my transparent shoes. It's a rare woman that has size eleven feet.