All language subtitles for Fleabag (2019).eng

He's ready to see you now.

Thank you.

Thanks for coming in today.

Really appreciate you sending in your CV.

- No problem.
- It was funny.

Okay, that wasn't my intention.

- But okay.
- Great.

Our current situation is unusual

in that we don't have many,
any women working here,

mainly due to the...

- The sexual harassment case.
- ...sexual harassment case.

- Yes, yes, yes.
- Yes.

- Are you all right?
- Yeah. Sorry, I just...

I just ran from the station,
so I'm a bit hot.

- I'm really excited about this...
- Water?

No, no. No, I don't...

- Actually, yeah, water would be great.
- So we're looking for someone

who can handle themselves
in a competitive environment.

It well may give you a following,

but, we have some pretty
good followers here, so...

Yeah.

It also involves updating the website

and throwing up an occasional twit.

It says here you've done
something similar before

-at the cafe that you used to...
-Yeah.

Okay.

Um...

I'm sorry, but I don't think
it was very funny.

No, sorry.

I thought I had a top on underneath.

Yeah, okay.

- But, for the record...
- No, seriously,

in this case, genuine accident.

Look, with honesty here,
I understand what you might be doing.

No, I wasn't trying to...
Jesus, I was hot.

I take this kind of thing
very seriously now.

No, I'm not trying to shag you.

Look at yourself.

Okay, please leave.

What?

- But you don't understand. I need this...
- Please just leave.

- Perv.
- Slut.

Wow!

- Please leave.
- You... please leave.

It's my office.

Yeah?

Okay.

Sorry... Wait!

Three nights ago, I ordered myself
a very slutty pizza.

I mean, the bitch was dripping.

And that dirty little stuffed crust
wanna be in me so bad,

I just ate the little tart
like she meant nothing to me

and she loved it.

And that pretty much nailed that,
and it was pretty late now,

so I dragged myself upstairs
to get into my office.

Well, my bed.

And try to work on the figures
for the cafe.

I run a guinea pig-themed cafe.

But it's out of cash and it's gonna close,

unless a check falls out of the sky,
or a banker cums on my ass.

And neither are gonna happen.

And I don't wanna dignify the banker man
with the proper mentions,

so I'm not gonna talk about him.

Well, how I do sometimes wish
I could own up to not having morals

and let him cum on my ass
for 10,000 pounds.

But, apparently,
we're not supposed to do that.

So...

Okay.

I won't.

Even though it would solve everything.

I won't.

Even though I could.

Lying in my office, the cafe numbers

start to jump, pounce at me
like little ninjas.

So I rationalized it'd be good
to switch off for a bit,

improve my mind.

So I watched a pretty good movie,
actually, called, um, Seventeen Again.

With Zac Efron who is...

He's fit.

I know, but...

I mean, seriously,
he's actually a really good actor.

And the film could have been worse,
Honestly. Check it out.

Then that finished, I lay there, thinking,

"Cafe, numbers, numbers, Zac, numbers."

Googled "Obama."

- To keep up with, um, you know...
- ...to have them in attendance.

-I am so happy to be here today.
-Who, as it turns out, is also...

It is wonderful to see all of...

...attractive.

Lay there, thinking, "Cafe, numbers,

numbers, Obama, numbers, Zac,
Obama, numbers, Zac."

Suddenly, I was on YouPorn
having a horrible wank.

And found just the right
sort of gang bang.

Now, that really knocked me out,

so I put my computer away, leaned over,

kissed my boyfriend, Harry,
good night, and went to sleep.

The next morning, I wake to find a note
from Harry, which reads,

"That was the last straw."

It's a bit out of the blue, to be honest.

Didn't know he was counting straws,
but nice to know he was paying attention.

All of his stuff was gone.

And everything in the fridge.

I was a bit thrilled by his selfishness.

Suddenly fancied him again.

But I was relieved that one of us
did something.

He used to say things to me like,

"You're not like other girls. You can..."

"...keep up."

"Keep up."

I stood staring at a handprint on my wall

of when I had a threesome on my period.

Harry and I break up
every 12 to 18 months.

And when we do, well...

I wish I could tell you my threesome story
was awkward and sticky,

and everyone went home
a little bit sad and empty,

but, it was lovely.

Sorry.

I do admire how much Harry
commits to our breakups.

The fridge is a new detail,
but he does always go the extra mile.

A few times, he's even cleaned
the whole flat.

Like it's a crime scene.

I've often considered timing our breakups

when the flat needs a bit of going-over.

I never know what's gotta set him off.

Keeps me on my toes.

I sit on the loo.

Think about all the people
I can have sex with now.

I'm not obsessed with sex.

I just can't stop thinking about it.

The performance of it.

The awkwardness of it.

The drama of it.

The moment you realize someone wants...

your body.

Not so much the feeling of it.

I reckon I got about a week
before Harry gets back, so...

...better get on it.

Into the shower, boom, bedroom
makeup, boom,

I'm gonna really make an effort.

I take half an hour trying to look nice,

and I end up looking amazing.

I mean, just best in ages.

One of those days! Boom!

Gorgeous! Fresh-faced, heels,
wearing a skirt,

a new top, little bit sexy,
on my way to save my cafe.

And, yes, I am strutting.

And I can see a man coming
towards me from the bus stop.

He just cannot take his eyes off me.

And I am walking like I got
a paintbrush up my ass

thinking, "Yeah, you check me out

because it's never gonna happen,
chub chub."

I opened the cafe with my friend, Boo.

She's dead now.

She accidentally killed herself.

It wasn't her intention,
but it wasn't a total accident.

She didn't think she'd actually die.

She just found out that her boyfriend
fucked someone else

and wanted to punish him
by ending up in hospital

and not letting him visit her for a bit.

She decided to walk
into a busy cycle lane,

wanting to get tangled in a bike,
break a finger maybe.

But as it turns out, bikes go fast
and flip you into the road.

Three people died. She was such a dick.

I never told her parents the truth.

I told her boyfriend.

He cried.

A lot.

Chub chub's getting closer.

Oversize jacket.

Meaty face.

Looks me up and down.

It's like he's confused
about how attractive I am.

Like he can't quite believe it.

I worry, for a second, I'm gonna make
a sex offender out of the poor guy.

He's gonna say something.
Here we fucking go.

This better be good.

He's passing. He's passing.

He brings his hand to his mouth,
and he coughs,

"Walk of shame!"

It's too late for me
to go home and change and...

I have flat shoes in my bag.

And, anyway, he was fat.

And he can't take that off at night.

Harry's a bit fat.

He lightly pats his belly
like he's a little bear,

proud of what he's achieved.

Hunted, gathered, eaten. Pat.

Evidence. Pat, pat.

Makes me laugh.

A pretty girl at a party once asked me

if I secretly liked
that Harry had a little paunch

'cause it made him less attractive
to other women.

Her boyfriend was a whale in the corner,

blocking the doors to the toilets.

I asked her if he made her
wash the bits he can't reach.

She slapped me!

Actual slap.

Which means he did.

Boo's death hit the papers.

"Local cafe girl gets hit
by a bike and a car...

and another bike."

There was a buzz around the cafe
all of a sudden. Notes. Flowers.

Guinea pig memorabilia
were left in her memory.

Boo made sense of the guinea pig theme.

She was all small and cute

and put pictures of guinea pigs
everywhere.

I pretend they're not there,

which I suspect makes the whole
guinea pig cafe experience a bit creepy.

Boo was built a bit like a guinea pig.

No waist or hips. Just...

Straight down!

But she rocked it.

And she was beautiful.

Tricky though.

Jealous.

Sensitive.

But beautiful.

And my best friend.

Ten past eleven at the cafe.

Quiet.

Eerily so.

Boo always used to play music,
read out horoscopes,

and shrivel crisp packets
in the microwave.

It used to make the place stink,

but she turned the little packets
into key rings

and give them to the people
who were especially polite.

One guy in the corner

drinking tap water and using the plug.

He should buy something,
but it's just nice to have someone around.

He's reading.

He's quite attractive, actually.

But he doesn't look at me.

Even when I purposely drop a cucumber

just so I have something to bend over for.

Even Joe hasn't turned up.

Joe is always here at 11:00.

Proper old geezer, coggly
from the toes up.

One of life's good people.

Huge teeth!

White hair, ludicrous grin,

and a joy that slaps you in the face
until you can't help but smile at it.

Even the fucking furniture loves Joe.

I swear the door swings open voluntarily
when he arrives,

if only to give the man an entrance.

Suddenly, he'll just be there.

Crash!

It almost clatters off its hinges

with the force of him.

Nothing...

touches Joe.

He's invincible.

You can hear him bellowing,

"Hello, sweet pea," to the whole street

before he swaggers in,
long white hair blowing behind him,

cut off checkered trousers,
white T-shirt, braces,

dripping wet from the rain, all,

"What magic! What a beautiful morning.

I can't... I can't actually get over
how glorious it is out there.

Lucky to live?

Lucky to live."

I don't know what he does.

I just know he comes in at 11:00.

Usually.

I find myself watching the door.

I never really noticed he was such
a regular when Boo was here, but now...

But then, it's okay.

'Cause I see his silhouette
take up the window,

and wait for the door to crash open,

but today, it just flops to its side
with a whimper.

And Joe limply shuffles to the counter.

I'm not prepared for this.

"All right, Joe?"

"Yeah, yeah, ducky, yeah.

Yeah, I'm all right."

"Tea, Joe?"

"Yeah, darling, yeah,
that would be lovely. Thank you.

I'll just, um...

I'll just be at the back."

I make his tea. Six sugars.

I take it outside,
place it on his little table.

He rolls a fag and watches the cup steam.

"Now, ain't that a beautiful thing."

I'm not sure what to, um...

I asked him for a rollie.

I don't smoke. Well, I do, but...

Shut up!

Um...

"Can I have a rollie, Joe?"

"Sugarplum, you can have
anything you want.

May I have the honor?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He rolls it for me
with his spindly inky fingers.

It takes four seconds. Proper pro.

I take it from him.

Light it.

We smoke.

I sit beside him, two of us
on these tiny little kids chairs,

sort of a gimmick thing,
but, really, they were cheaper.

He looks ridiculous.

"I love these chairs, you know?"

"What's wrong, Joe?"

"My girl.

My girl.

I love people.

I love people.

But they get me down."

"Yeah.

Yeah, people are shit."

He turns to me.

I can see into every deep line
of his face.

"No, darlin'. No!

People are amazing.

But when will people realize

that people are all we got?"

He smiles at me,
but I feel a bit ambushed.

So I pretend I have to wash
the cappuccino machine,

just go inside and wipe the nozzle a bit.

Five o'clock. Northern line.

I'm trying to read an article

about how the word "feminist"
has apparently become dirty.

I try to engage,

but all it makes me think of
is a bunch of dirty little feminists.

Yes.

I snort laugh at myself.

And then catch the eye
of an attractive looking man.

Well, he is attractive
and holding his paper to about here.

It all gets a bit rodenty
from the nose down,

but it's good enough
for some eye-fucking on the tube.

He smiles at me with his tiny mouth.

I smile back.

He looks down.

I look down.

And then we both look up at the same time.

Little giggle.

Other people on the carriage
start to notice.

Charmed by the moment.

It's revolting.

The tube pulls in Tottenham Court Road

and we both stand up at the same time.

I could vomit.

He says to me,

"Um...

Well, this doesn't happen
very often, does it?"

I give a horribly giggly,

"No, no, it's..."

"I, I suppose it's quite rare. Yeah."

He says it might sound a bit crazy,

but he's got this "crazy" idea,

and the "crazy" idea is to take my number.

We give credit to the moment
and exchange numbers.

I leave the tube.

Suddenly have a Harry panic.

He just won't be there anymore.

Madam Ovary is telling me to,
"Run back to safe place.

You can make baby in safe place."

But gotta ride it out.
The fridge means nothing.

He'll text me later. Ride it out.

I met a nice rodent on the tube.
I have a lot to be thankful for.

Welcome to Women Speak.

The lecture will commence in five minutes.

Please have your tickets ready.

I find my sister outside the lecture hall.

She's uptight and beautiful
and probably anorexic,

but clothes look awesome on her, so...

Mom died two years ago.

She had a double mastectomy,
but never really recovered.

It was particularly hard
'cause she had amazing boobs.

She used to tell me I was lucky

'cause mine would never "get in the way."

When I asked her what she meant,

she used to demonstrate by pretend
struggling to open a fridge door.

"And then you can't."

"This is all good. This is fine.

I wonder if I can..."

"Yeah."

Or pretending not to be able to see
what's on the floor.

"A fucking nightmare, darling.

Sorry, I... I can't see anything.

I have no idea what's there.

Damn it.

Is it...

Is there something there?

I don't know,
but you know you're very lucky."

My sister's got whoppers.

But she got all of Mom's good bits.

Dad's way of coping
with two motherless daughters

was to buy us tickets to feminist lectures

and start fucking our godmother,
and, eventually, stop calling.

These lectures are every three months.

It's virtually the only time
I see my sister.

She looks tired.

We sit in the waiting room.

I realize I'm wearing the top

that she "lost" years ago, so...

Yes, this is gonna be tense.

She really fucking loved this top.

Her eyes fixed on it.

But... And I can see her brain ticking.

She decides to bank it for later.

Makes me nervous.

Ammo.

She's reading her Kindle.

She's done her hair a bit fancy.

I wonder if she's going out after
the lecture, or she just got her period.

She always does something
a bit different around her period.

She gets really bad PMT.

Mom used to call it
her monthly confidence crisis.

But it's PMT.

The only way she can get through it

is to reinvent herself in some small way.

One particularly bad month,

she came into the kitchen
on the brink of tears,

in full Lycra.

Even Dad had to leave the room.

It looked like she climbed into a condom.

That was an emotionally complex
couple of days

that we are not allowed
to talk about anymore.

She's sitting so still.

She's definitely having
a monthly confidence crisis.

I mean, it's in plaits.

Both sides that are tied to the top,
it's unbearable.

I can't resist.

"Hair looks nice."

"Fuck off!"

Brilliant!

She asked me about work
and I get a little spiky.

I tell her the cafe leases up
in a couple of days

unless I can find at least five grand,
which is impossible.

So I'm having to deal with letting go
of the only thing that I have left of Boo,

the only thing that's stopping me

from becoming a corporate
lady slave like her.

And I know that everyone thought
I was gonna fuck it up.

But now, it looks like
I've surpassed everyone's expectations.

Which I didn't mean to say,
it just falls out,

and I'm gonna get her smugness
all up on my face.

But she just looks at me.

No reaction.

I know the rules.

So I asked her about her super
high-powered perfect job work, super life.

She tells me she's finally been offered
the wet dream of a job in Finland,

where they want to overpay
and underwork her

and she doesn't have to wear
powersuits anymore.

"Wow!

Finland."

But she's turning it down

because her husband says
she shouldn't go because of Jake.

Jake's her stepson. He's really weird.

Probably clinically,
but no one really talks about that.

He freaks out,
if she's gone for longer than a day.

And he's got this thing about
trying to get in the bath with her.

He's 15.

I tell her, "He's not your son."

"That's not the point."

"Don't make a face."

"I didn't make a face.

Go!

This is about you."

"I knew you'd say that."

I tell her she's making
a terrible mistake.

She shouldn't let other people
get in the way of what she really wants,

and Finland's what she really wants.

She tells me that, okay, her husband...

isn't "other people."

Her husband...

is her life.

So I tell her that her husband
tried to touch me up at Christmas.

I don't know why I said it.

It's true, but he was drunk, so...

Martin's always drunk,

which is odd, because she's so straight.

Or maybe that's not odd.

But he's very good at being drunk

and that he's a fun drunk.

No one wants to admit there's a problem,

because, then, they don't get
to have crazy nights out

with fun, drunk Martin anymore.

Martin.

He's one of those men...

who is explosively sexually inappropriate
with everyone

that makes you feel bad,
if you take offense,

'cause he was just being "fun."

Honestly, you could tell him you're
gonna pop to the loo, and he'll say,

"Aye, aye, you pop to the loo.

Pull your little knickers down,

and I'll come in and fuck you!"

Clare always tries to sort of...

Half laugh like she gets the joke.

Which isn't even a joke.

Welcome to Women Speak.

Sorry for the delay.

The lecture will begin shortly.

Those who may have food or drink
can eat it in the auditorium.

She just stares at me.

And then her neck goes red.

I've only seen that happen once before.

Then she looks ahead of her.

I give her half my sandwich,
which she eats.

Maybe she's not anorexic.

Maybe clothes just...

Bitch.

We sit and wait, eating the sandwich.

I can't read her.

I've never been able to read her.

She pulls out a card from Dad,
puts it on the seat between us.

It's probably still there.

Women Speak
is about to commence.

Please enter the auditorium.

The lecture hall is huge.

We go right to the front and sit down.

Still can't read her.

Suddenly, she says...

"I'm gonna go to fucking Finland."

"Okay."

"I hate these suits."

"Okay."

"How much do you need to save Boo's cafe?"

"About five grand."

"Okay.

I'll transfer the money tomorrow.

But I don't wanna come to these anymore."

"Okay."

"And I want my top back."

"Okay."

"Thanks, Clare."

Thank you.

Gosh, look at you all.

Thank you so much for coming.

I'm overwhelmed
by how many faces I see before me.

I hope I do your efforts justice
with what I have to say this evening.

But before I begin,
I want to ask you a question.

The same question that inspired me
to give this lecture.

The same question that was posed
to women all around this country

with, frankly, shocking results.

Now, I don't know about you,
but I need some reassurance.

So.

I pose the same question
to the women in this room today.

Please raise your hands,

if you would trade five years of your life

for the so-called perfect body?

Four hundred women stare at us.

Horrified.

We are bad feminists.

After the lecture,
Clare says she's going home

to talk to Martin.

I want to ask her to have a drink with me
before she goes, but...

I don't know how, so...

I just watched her plaits disappear
into the crowd outside the tube.

Text from rodent.

Still smiling, smiley face.

God.

I text back, "You free now?"

He is. We meet up
and get very, very drunk.

I can't stop staring at his tiny mouth.

He's telling a story
like he doesn't wanna let the words out.

"You know..."

He tells me that his sister is deaf,

which is his way of letting me know

that he's interesting and sensitive,
which is fine.

But then, he is the only one in his family

who didn't learn sign language.

Apparently, because they grew up together,

she can lip-read him brilliantly.

Which makes me wonder
what she thinks he's saying all the time.

Because, to me, it just looks like...

"...up the stairs,

and he's been fooled, really.

And he didn't even know.

You know, what two, two of my friends
are doing right now?

I'd say this one is a good restaurant."

He tells me his sister is so instinctive.

How she can read people brilliantly.

How she'd be able to read me.

He's having an excellent time.

Harry has terrible instincts.

Once. I think this might be
the best thing he's ever done.

Once, he was in a restaurant,
he's quite shy, really.

He was in a restaurant,

having had a filthy night out with me
the night before.

I mean, the man was hanging.

And he was having lunch
with these really important website bots.

When, suddenly, it hit him.

Halfway through the starter, the...

"Yeah.

Yeah, he was gonna be sick.

Yeah, like now."

So he excused himself.

And Harry walks to the loo,
only to burst in to discover

that all the cubicles were locked
and all the urinals were taken

and he couldn't bring himself
to spew in one of the sinks.

So, in a panic, he kicked down
one of the cubicle doors,

revealing a man having a shit.

And then, boom!

It just all came out.

He puked all over this guy.

His face, his chest, his balls,

his feet, on the walls.

Drenched him.

But then, and this is the best bit.

In the frenzy of it all,
Harry rationalized,

"God, I just puked on this guy,

He's gonna punch me."

So he smacked him in the face!

Isn't it beautiful?

It was particularly good

'cause when he first told me and Boo,
he didn't know...

"It was a funny story?"

It will never be heard like that again.

"It was such a serious story."

And he was mortified.

Boo loved poo stories.

So she couldn't actually deal
with the glory of this one.

She just stared open-mouthed,

paralyzed with joy, as he told him.

A few weeks ago,

when Harry thought I was sleeping,

he rolled over, stroked my hair,
and whispered,

"Where have you gone?"

"Where have you gone?"

He thinks I'm neglecting him.

But when your heart is...

I wish he'd just fuck me.

All he wants to do is make love.

He's wasting me.

I was once fucking this guy
who would breathe with every thrust.

"You're so young!"

"You're so young!"

I masturbate about that all the time.

I masturbate a lot these days.

Especially when I'm bored.

Or angry.

Or upset.

Or happy.

Last tube.

Attempting to kiss tube rodent,
but it's like target practice

with a very small moving target.

I asked him if he wants
to come back to mine,

he said he's got work tomorrow.

I say I can go back to his.

He said it's an early start.

I tell him I'll get him a cab to work
in the morning.

He says, "That's ridiculous."

I say, "What the fuck is your problem?"

He says, "Nothing." He just wants
to see me again, not rush.

I tell him he's a prick. He says he's...

"Not sure what's going on."

I tell him he's a pathetic excuse
for a man,

and I leave him at the barriers, ha!

It's a bit weird, then, because we both
have to come down the same escalator.

I push my bum out a bit.

Give him some perspective.

I turn around when I get
to the platform, but...

he's gone.

The end of the platform,

sat on this sort of bench thing,

is the drunkest girl I have ever seen.

Head rolled forward.

Tit hanging out.

Bag sprawled.

Nicely dressed. Normal-looking girl

who clearly just had one hell of a night.

Last tube rolls in.

She doesn't move.

I nudge her awake.

She gets up, only to stumble on
to the carriage,

slump into another seat,

head still rolling.

Other tit folded out now.

Bag tangled in her feet.

I asked her where she needs to get off.

And she says...

"Waterloo."

Great. My stop. I help her off.

I ask her where she needs to get to next.
And she says...

"London Bridge."

"Okay."

"And then, Kent."

The tubes are finished. They were finding
an overground to London Bridge.

At one point, we're walking,
she just falls flat on her face.

Get her up, keep going.

Try and keep her talking.

Her head's going all over the place.

After about 45 minutes...

Forty-five.

We're on an escalator.

There's a bit of a lull.

And she turns to me and she says,

"Aww."

"You're such a lovely man."

Her train pulls in,
but I don't let go of her.

I asked her if she'd rather spend
the night with me, and she says,

"How dare you, naughty boy!

No!"

So I push her on the carriage
and she's gone.

I leave the station thinking,
"What's one more?"

I go to a bar.

It's a "business" bar.

People are doing "business."

I drink a lot
and pretend that I'm in business.

A bald, sweaty man cups my vagina

from behind at the bar.

But he buys me a drink, so...

He's nice, actually.

After a while, he disappears.

And the business bar closes.

Closed for business.

Shutting up shop.

That's what Boo used to say
whenever she closed the cafe.

"Shutting up shop!"

Like she was drunk.

Which we often were.

We'd look up, sink a bottle of wine.

She'd play the ukulele
and we'd make up filthy songs for hours.

♪ Another lunch break ♪

♪ Another abortion ♪

♪ Another piece of cake ♪

♪ Another 2 fuckin' 20 cigarettes ♪

♪ And we're happy ♪

♪ We're so happy ♪

♪ To be modern women ♪

Suddenly, I'm at a familiar doorstep.

I ring the bell and ring the bell,

and hammer on the door,
and yell like a goat.

This should be

a humiliating experience.

Howling through a man's letterbox

in the middle of the night,
but I am rolling with it.

A light goes on.

I see his silhouette
as he trudges down the stairs.

He must have recognized mine
through the door

because his body language
changes suddenly.

He slowly unhooks the latch.

Opens the door.

He looks like shit.

I place my hand...

right over his face...

and I push it a bit.

Strikes me as something I never
thought I'd do to a parent, but...

Feels right at the time.

He stands in the doorway.

Boxer shorts, T-shirt.

I can see the shape
of his little man boobs.

"All right, Dad."

"Um, what's going on?"

"No, no! I'm absolutely fine."

"Okay."

"I just...

I just...

"Yeah?"

"Nothing.

I didn't even, um...

Ooh, gay.

I just...

Ooh, sorry.

I'll just...

Fuck it. I have a horrible feeling

that I'm a greedy, perverted,
selfish, apathetic,

cynical, depraved, mannish looking,
morally bankrupt woman

who can't even call herself a feminist."

He just looks at me.

"Well...

You get all that from your mother."

"Good one."

I wonder if he'd find me attractive

if I wasn't his daughter.

"If you saw me on the internet...

would you click on me?"

"I'm gonna call you a cab, darling."

He lets me wait in his living room
as he calls me a cab.

I could hear my godmother trying
to be quiet at the top of the stairs.

When the cab comes,

he gently puts me into it,

gives me 20 quid.

I'm in a cab.

I can go anywhere.

So I tell him to take me to...

my flat.

Already thinking about
what I'm gonna look up.

Back at the flat,

I turn on the TV and cry for a bit.

I started thinking
about this girl called Lily

I used to touch a bit when we were drunk.

Harry didn't know, but girls don't count.

I text her. She was quite close, I think.

Suddenly, I'm on Pornhub,

wet as a beach towel,
but I can't get there

'cause the girl's got spots on her ass.

Some of them just don't make the effort.

Nothing back from Lily.

I start thinking about this ginger guy
I met at the festival last summer.

It was about a month after Boo had died.

I had taken a pill and flown off
into the woods.

I was desperate to get away from Harry.

He started to relentlessly hug me,
telling me how much he loved me,

asking how much I loved him,

and checking if I was okay.

There was a rave in the woods.

And I was panicking
and, and I'm touching my face a lot.

And, suddenly, he was there.

Ginger guy.

He told me that I could follow him

and he would take me back to my tent.

We were walking for ages.

He was holding me by my wrist.

It was very dark.

I couldn't work out where we were.

At one point, he even picked me up,

he was holding my legs really tightly,

said that I was too weak to walk
and I had to trust him.

Eventually, we stopped.

I felt him lying me down
on my back in a tent.

And then he...

He...

He put a cover over me

and a bottle of water next to my arm

and he sat outside till I fell asleep.

Though he could have at least tried
to touch me up a bit.

I never quite let that go.

I text him, tell him I'm single and horny.

He says he's out
and can be here in 20 minutes.

Great. Quickly drink half bottle of wine,

get in the shower, shave everything.

Decide I'm gonna up my game a little bit,

pull out some Asian provocateur business,
suspender belt, the whole bit,

open the door to him, "Hello."

We get to it immediately.

After some pretty standard bouncing,

I realize he's edging towards my asshole.

But I'm drunk and I owe him a thank you

for being nice to me
at the festival, so...

I let him.

He's thrilled.

The next morning,

I wake to find him...

sitting on the bed,

fully dressed,

gazing at me.

He tells me that last night
was incredible.

Which I think was an overstatement.

But he goes on to say,
it was particularly special

'cause he's never actually managed to...

...up the bum

with anyone before.

To be fair, he does have a large penis.

And even though
it's always been a fancy of his,

he's never found anyone he can do it with.

He touches my hair.

And thanks me with a genuine earnest.

It's sort of moving.

Then he kisses me gently.

I kiss him back.

And then he leaves.

And I spend the rest
of the day wondering...

"Do I have a massive asshole?"

It's five to eleven at the cafe,
I'm still thinking about it.

Haven't heard from my sister.

No transfer yet.

I wonder if Martin's murdered her

and is now stalking the city,
looking for me.

The door smashes open.

Joe.

"Hello, sweet pea!"

His legs are too long for his body.

"Look at this beauty!"

He holds up a ukulele that apparently
someone gave him in a pub last night.

Just gave him a ukulele.

He says he's written a song.

"I don't wanna hear it."

He holds up another ukulele

that, apparently, another person...

gave him in another pub.

"Crazy how the world speaks to you
all at once?"

He says he's gonna sing his song to me.

Then he's gonna teach it to me.

So we can both sing it to Hillary.

I tell him I'm too busy and sit out
the back till I hear him leave.

He tinkles a bit, but...

I don't hear him sing.

Schoolkids used to come into the cafe.

Mainly because of Hillary.

Basically, I'm shit at presents,
and for Boo's birthday two years ago,

I panicked and bought her a guinea pig.

She called it Hillary.
And now, I'm stuck with it.

I didn't feel anything about guinea pigs.
They're pointless.

But Boo took Hillary
very seriously as a gift,

and soon, everything
became guinea pig related.

I think she was just relieved to have
another animal associated with her.

When Boo was about five,

she mentioned,
on a childish whim, that she...

...liked owls.

For the rest of her life, she got owls.

Owl duvet covers.

Owl pens.

Books about owls. Trips to owl sanctuary.

She fucking hated owls.

Show her an owl,
and she would lose her shit.

What she really liked, and I knew this...

was screwdrivers.

Just crazy about them.

We'd spend hours unscrewing things.

Screwing them back on.

She slept with screwdrivers
under her pillow till she was about ten.

Come to think of it,

a screwdriver would have been
a better present than a...

guinea pig.

Midday.

Still nothing from my sister.

Martin's gonna hate me.

I picture his massive Scottish head.

Hope he hasn't beaten
the shit out of her or anything.

Nah, he'd never do anything
as sexy as that.

I'm joking.

I'm joking.

Jesus.

Okay.

Um, Hillary is fat and ginger
with frizzy bits.

Like Annie, the orphan.

If she was grown up and fat
and a guinea pig, which...

Well, who knows what became of her.

She's got this sort of punky bit of fur

that explodes off the crown of her head

and falls down over her eyes.

Makes her look pretty badass.

She has a very straight expression.

Boo always said that
if Hillary was in a band,

she'd be the guitarist
that takes the music really seriously.

She did take music seriously, actually.

Whenever Boo played anything
in the cafe, she'd be all...

♪ Never took your side ♪

♪ Never cursed your name ♪

♪ I keep my lips shut tight ♪

♪ Until you go-o-o-o-o-♪

She's also a sneaky little shit.

She knows how to open her hutch door.

I have seen her do it.

She pushes the little wood stopper
till it just drops out.

And the door swings open.

Then she freezes.

Like she hasn't done anything.

And then, she actually turns
herself around

and lowers herself down onto the counter,

little legs kicking, looking over
her shoulder occasionally, checking.

Checking.

She often does a little poo
in the excitement.

Then, once landed,

she creeps.

All the way along the counter

till she gets to the window.

And then, when she gets there,

in her frenzy of freedom,

she sits down.

And she looks out.

Watching the world.

If she wants me to think that she's
really profound and poetic doing that,

I'm not rising to it.

Apparently, guinea pigs need
other guinea pigs

or they can die of loneliness.

But Hillary never needed a mate.
She got more than enough attention.

The punters loved her.
She was always on someone's lap.

And she had Boo, who never left her alone.

They adored each other.

The morning Boo's boyfriend told her
he'd fuck someone else...

she walked right past me.

Took Hillary out of her hutch

and sat out the back with her for hours.

I once read a story
from the paper to Boo and Hillary

about a little boy who repeatedly stuck
rubber-ended pencils

up the class hamster's asshole,

'cause he liked it
when their eyes popped out.

He was sent to a juvenile boot camp.

I read it out as a bit of a joke, really,
but Boo was distraught.

"What?

They sent him away?

But, but he needs help."

She was a surprising person.

"Yeah, he pencil fucked a hamster.

I mean, what are you gonna do?"

"Yeah, but he's obviously not happy.

Happy people don't do things like that."

"Fair point."

"And, anyway, that's the very reason
they put rubbers on the ends of pencils."

"What?

What, to fuck hamsters?"

"No! No.

Because...

people make mistakes."

But now, Boo's gone.

It's a death cafe,
so no one comes in anymore.

Hillary sits on her hutch like a lump.

Staring at me.

I don't know what to do with her.

Six o'clock.

Two yoga body girls come into the cafe

and order risotto off the menu.

I popped the Tesco,
microwave their economy meal.

The girls are talking about
how they never wanna give birth

because the effect it'll have
on their sex lives.

Still haven't heard from my sister.

I put an empty crisp packet
in the microwave.

Watch it shrivel.

Play with my phone for a bit.

Hi, this is Boo. I can't come
to the phone at the moment.

But leave a message
and I'll get back to you.

Someone should probably disconnect that.

I start texting tube rodent.

I apologize and apologize,

and eventually sent him
a picture of my tits.

He sends me one back.

I think it's of his cock.

My boyfriend before Harry used to
make me send him pictures of my vagina,

wherever I was.

Ten or eleven times a day.

I used to go and have to lunge
in a disabled toilet,

take an attractive picture of my vagina,

which isn't easy on the whole.

Especially as he always wanted
the worm's eye view.

It often looks a bit like

someone had dropped a little bap...

on its side...

on the floor of a hairdresser's.

Then taking a photo of it.

One tempting morning,

he asked me to send him pictures
of my favorite bits of my body.

I go to the disabled loo.

That is so hot.
Send another one, you beautiful bitch.

Now, say something
so dirty you'll shock yourself.

Send me another picture.

God, I'm wanking.

It exhausted me, but you gotta do it.

Can't have them looking elsewhere.

The boss banged on the disabled loo door.

It was my fourth visit that morning.

"Um, is everything all right in there?"

He's Australian.

"Yeah.

I just... I've, I've got cystitis."

"No, you poor chickadee.

I wonder if my wife
gets that all the time.

Cranberry juice, that's what you need.

Buckets of it. Shall I get you some
from the canteen?

Hello?

Are you crying?"

I'm gonna stop waxing.

I met a man once who said...

I say said, it's more of a yell, really.

How much he loved a full bush.

And how rare they are these days.

Even though it was inappropriate,
at the time,

a family friend at Mom's funeral.

It filled me up with something.

Hope.

Relief.

I don't know.

Can't bring myself to actually grow one.

I called tube rodent.

He comes to the cafe
with a bottle of wine.

We drink it. He whispers to me...

Um...

"I have an enormous penis."

I say...

"Really?"

He says...

"Yeah."

I say...

"Well, that's lucky.

Because I have an enormous vagina."

He says...

"Awesome."

We fucked behind the counter.

He's very bony, all corners.

It's like having sex with a protractor.

He doesn't cum.

Says I'm being too intense,
whatever that means.

We turn the lights off,
so it's quite dark now.

He's pulling on his trousers,
trying to find his phone,

see if his friends are going out later.

He's wearing this pink
and purply paisley scarf.

He looks like a lady.

He hops over to the window,

leans on the sill,

turns his phone on, then he screams.

Really high-pitched.

The light from his phone had made
Hillary's eyes flash red in the darkness.

She must have wandered over
to the window when we were having sex.

For a second, I laugh at his reaction.

But she moved and he screams again.

She tries to run towards me, but panics,
and sort of slips off the side.

She lands on her stomach
and struggles a bit.

But tube rodent sees red and kicks her.

She flies against the wall with a thud.

He just stares at the furry pile
on the floor.

But she twitches. It makes him jump
and he kicks her again,

and she goes flying across the floor.

I can't move.

I think about Boo.

I think about them playing together.

Tube rodent's panicking,
mumbling something about a rat phobia.

I tell him he can go and he disappeared.

Hillary's on her front,
but her back is to me.

She looks like a...

a furry bullet.

She's still alive, but...

I put her back in her hutch
and we sit for a bit.

I text asshole guy.

He gets back, saying he's got a girlfriend
who was really drunk the other night,

would love to hang out in a non-sex way.
Sorry if he led me on.

I sent my ex a picture of my vagina.

I sent Harry a picture of my vagina.

I text Lily. Still nothing from my sister.

Hillary's not moving.

Hi, this is Boo. I can't come
to the phone at the moment.

But leave a message
and I'll get back to you.

Hillary's making this horrible
chattering noise.

I take her out of her hutch,

put her on my lap, stroke her.

She doesn't stop.

I put her back.

I go to the Rabbit and Winslow pub.

I smoke outside. There were
three people laughing by the door.

I can just make out the white hair
and the braces through the crowd.

I can hear him.

Someone's let him on stage
with his ukulele.

He's singing his song.

People are laughing and clapping.

I listen to it from outside.

It's about a train journey
he once took through Ireland,

where he met a man
who told stories to everyone

about love and home,
and romance and adventure,

and beautiful women and beautiful men,

and mothers and daughters,
and fathers and sons,

monsters and fairies,
and parties and wishes.

All the usual crap.

The whole scene is like something
out of a revolting rom-com,

but he's nailing it.

He goes to the bar after.

Everyone buys him drinks.

The man doesn't need to work.

I realized I've forgotten
to give Hillary her Earl Grey.

Ten-thirty that night.

I hammer and hammer and ring the bell.

I see his silhouette
at the top of the stairs, but...

he doesn't open the door.

Back at the flat,

Harry's obviously been around.

The TV is gone.
It smells like he did a shit.

He never used to shit in the flat.
He was really weird about it.

He used to go to the pub across the road.

I sit on my stripy sofa.

Open my laptop.

Anal, gangbang, mature, big cocks,

small tits, hentai, Asian, teen,

MILF, big butts, gay, lesbian,

facial, fetish, young and old, swallow,

rough, voyeur, public.

Suddenly, the sun's creeping in
and I'm raw.

Lease is up today,
still nothing from my sister.

- I leave the flat.
- Hey, this is Boo.

I put the closing sign up
outside the cafe.

It's three minutes past eleven.

He's not here yet.

Ten past, the door flies open.

"All right, baba ganoush,
forgive me. I'm a little late,

but have I got a morning story
for you or what. Listen to this."

I tell him to shut up and close the door.

He looks confused, but he does it.

"Why do you come here, Joe?"

"What?"

I lock the door, close the blinds.

"Why do you come here, Joe?"

"Tea, love.

See my ladies."

Hillary's not moving.

"It's okay, Joe.

I understand.

There's nothing wrong with you."

I take off my top, unhook my bra,
place them gently on the counter.

He stares at me.

I step forward,

showing him my young tits.

He shuffles a bit.

His breathing changes.

He's trembling.

He moves his hand up.

Nine o'clock that morning,
my sister's door.

Martin looking down at me.

"Hello, you."

"Is Clare here?"

"Aye."

I tried to get past him
into the house, but he won't let me.

Clare comes to the door.

She's crimped her fringe.

I deliver a beautifully
constructed joke about it.

But she snaps at me.

Tells me I've got to stop
talking to people

like I'm doing a stand-up routine.

That some things
just aren't fucking funny.

I laugh.

And then I don't laugh.

And then my throat goes dry.

No one says anything for a bit.

"You didn't transfer the money."

"No."

"You're not going to Finland."

"No."

"Why is he still here?"

"He didn't touch you."

"He tried!"

"He said it was more like
the other way around."

"What?

But that's just not true."

"How can I believe you?"

"What? How...

Well, because I'm your..."

"After what you did to Boo."

"That wasn't my fault.

He wanted me.

He wanted me.

So..."

It's 11:15 now.

Joe's shaking.

I'm standing topless,
just the right angle.

His hand keeps rising...

till it rests on his eyes.

"Ooh!

Put your clothes back on, darlin'."

"What?"

"Put your clothes back on."

"It's okay, Joe.

I'm not gonna judge you."

"Yeah...

I come here for my tea, darlin'.

And to see you.

That was a sad thing
that happened to your friend."

"You're weak."

"Yeah, that maybe true, but...

I'm gonna go now."

"Come on, Joe, stay.

Please.

I'm nearly half your age."

He stops.

He brings his hand down from his eyes
and he finally looks at me.

"Go home, darlin'.

I'm sorry, but...

this ain't my bag."

I grab his arm as he walks past me.

He's thin but baggy. His skin pinches
in my grasp. It's disgusting.

I sit on Joe's chair for a bit.

There's something not right
about that man.

Hillary's teeth are going again,
crashing against each other.

The noise is unbearable.
It's relentless, relentless chattering.

They do that when they're in pain
or distressed, or...

I can't listen to it.

I take her out of her hutch.

I hold her little body to my naked chest.

I can feel her claws.

Her bones feel bent

and her breathing is shallow,
but her teeth are going like...

I can't...

I look into her face
through her little punky bit.

I imagine sticking my finger in
to make her eyes pop out.

No, I imagine that. I imagine doing that.

And as my hand moves down her body, I...

I...

When I first gave her to Boo,

she was so tiny,

I put her in this little gift box
from a crappy card shop.

She just sat on this bit of cotton wool,

looking out through her tiny punky bit.

She was ridiculous.

This overexcited little fuzzball.

She just sit in your hand like...

Boo's face.

Boo's face when she opened that box.

A huge grin spread over her whole body.

"Is this a...

Is this... Did you...

Is this a guinea pig? What?

Did you get... What is this?"

"I don't know.

Something to love?"

I'm crying.

My fingers are gripping her.

But I can't...

I can feel how scared she is.

How much pain she's in.

But I can't...

I hold her to me tightly.

I hold her to me tighter.

I hold her to me tighter
until I feel her bones crack against me

and the chattering stop.

Everything is quiet.

And she is safe.

Okay, please leave.

What? But...

- But you don't understand. I need this...
- Please just leave.

- Perv.
- Slut.

Wow!

- Please leave.
- You... please leave.

It's my office.

Yeah?

Okay.

Wait!

What made you laugh?

What?

On my CV.

You said it was funny.

Um, you owned
the only cafe for guinea pigs.

Right, okay, that's not strictly...
Right, okay.

Yeah, but that made you laugh?

Yes, I suppose.
I never thought guinea pig...

- It was guinea pig-themed cafe.
- Right.

- Yeah. Yeah.
- That makes sense.

What if I wrote that I fucked
that cafe into liquidation?

That I fucked up my family?

That I fucked my friend
by fucking her boyfriend?

That I don't feel alive
unless I'm being fucked.

I don't feel in control unless I'm fucking

'cause fucking makes the world
tighten around me.

And I've been watching people fuck

for as long as I've been able
to search for it.

And I know that my body, as it is now,

really is the only thing that I have.

And when that gets old and unfuckable,
I may as well just kill it.

And then, sometimes, I wish that
I didn't even know that fucking existed

'cause, somehow,
there isn't anything worse

than someone who doesn't wanna fuck me.

That I fucked everything.

But this time, this time,
I really wasn't... I genuinely...

Either everyone feels
like this a little bit...

and they're just not talking about it.

Or I am completely fucking alone.

Which isn't fucking funny.

That really wasn't appropriate.

Right, yeah.

Sorry.

Look.

Three months ago, I touched
a colleague's breast at a party.

Not for the first time.

It's really the reputation of the business

I've been doing my whole life

and has completely alienated me
from my family.

Why did you do it?

It was a terrible...

mistake.

- People make mistakes.
- Yes, they do.

That's why they put rubbers
on the ends of pencils.

Is that a joke?

I don't know.

Shall we start
this interview again?

Okay.

Thanks for coming in.
Really appreciate you sending in your CV.

No problem.

It was funny.

Fuck you!

Thank you!

Thanks.

Thank you!