Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

Be Here Now

2014

As I'm cleaning the last remnants of vomit from an ice bucket in the utility closet, I have one of those moments where I reevaluate my life– have a 'how did I end up here?' existential crisis within the span of sixty seconds. The question lingers in my mind, though of course I know the answer, before I'm back on autopilot, finishing the bucket and returning to the banquet hall.

"Tossers," Rosie says, when she sees me back at her side, clearing the rest of the table.

I shrug, "Why go to the loo, when you can just be sick around your champagne?"

"Yeah," she responds in her raspy, South London chirp. "'ow could'ya miss any of the shite dancing?"

I laugh, folding up the edges of the silky, white tablecloth into a bundle as Rosie grabs the basin of dirty dishes.

"When I get married, the place'll be nuffin' like this."

"We can't afford a place like this," I return, stuffing the tablecloth into a laundry bag as we finally move onto the last table in the hall.

She takes a minute to check her phone as I begin stacking plates and silverware into the bin. "Yeah," she says. "Even if I could– I'm goin' to 'ave it at the beach– in Spain or sumfin'."

Stuffing her mobile phone back into the pocket of her apron, she starts helping me.

"What about ya?" she asks.

"I'm not getting married," I joke. "I'm going to wander the halls of the Mannerly like Miss Havisham, cleaning rooms until I die."

"That's not funny," she says, as if I'm serious. "When's the last time you 'ad a boyfriend, mate?"

I roll my eyes. "I was joking, Ro."

"I'm serious," she continues, and she's stopped cleaning all together, so I stop too, face her. "When was that Greg bloke?"

She's referring to my last boyfriend– of a whole six months– who I broke up with at the end of the summer because his touch was starting to feel like a creepy uncle, and all his mannerisms were making me shut down– to the point where our conversations were completely one-sided. I had to dump him just so I could would stop feeling like such an ungrateful bitch.

"Too long ago," she continues before I can speak, pointing at me. "You need a good shag."

Rosie is only ten years older than me, but we've been cleaning together at the Mannerly Hotel for nearly six years, and sometimes she feels like the mother figure I never had. Other times– like right now– she feels like a pushy, dirty-minded older sister.

I roll my eyes and chuck a napkin at her face, going back to the cleaning.

"My bruvva's fit, mate," she continues, but she's cleaning again at least. "I could set you up."

"As soon as I want that, I will say the word."

We finish the tables in silence, and by the time we're allowed to go home it's nearly four in the morning, and we'll have to be back to do our round of rooms in less than six hours.

"Next time I want the extra cash from cleaning up after a weddin', give me a slap," Rosie calls back to me as we part ways for our respective tube stations, and I wave her away laughing.

We both know we can't say no to the extra cash.

As I walk down the sidewalk toward my station, I'm shivering. The February air is sharp and pointed, cutting into the steam of my breath as it leaves my mouth. It's that time of night that is so late that it's also early, so strange that I can't tell if I want a cigarette, a whiskey, or a coffee. I shove my hands into my pockets and hunch my shoulders against the cold, aching so badly for my tiny flat, my tiny bed, that it's almost painful.