The musky smell of tan filled the room, as it did every other weekend. The dressing table in front of her was smothered in makeup palettes, three unfinished mugs of tea and a bowl of cheesy pasta – all of which vibrated as her phone kept going off. Four Snapchats, six Instagram likes and absolutely none of which were from the man she hoped for. Of course why would they be? There was a bloody good chance that after a situation which could only be described as World War 3, and the casual throwing around of the “Gobsh**e” adjective that she was likely to never hear from him again. She couldn’t really blame him, although he did provide the fuel on the journey to borderline insanity. There was absolutely no way she was making contact with him first though. Well, she hoped, although it was too early to detect who she would be in nine hours time.
After sticking her eyelashes together, making the pathetic (and failed) attempt to contour out her chins and contour in her collarbone, sending the classic “leaving now” lie text to her mates, and the four minute struggle to do up the jeans she had taken from her sisters wardrobe, she was pretty much good to go. She grabbed the bottle of €3.99 wine from the fridge and waddled up the garden in her rip-off Valentinos from Penneys. There was nothing classy about this of course, each step in the darkness was either going into mud or cat poo. Her lift in was equally as unclassy. Her carriage was her dad’s white transit van. Not only that, the passenger door doesn’t work so she had to climb over the driver’s seat, meaning her thunder thighs had slight trouble. After the most awkward attempt to shuffle over seats, she was in and now all she faced was the lecture in from her dad. “Watch out for those gurriers now tonight.” This was the type of man she was always warned by her father to avoid, although she had no idea what it meant. “How you getting home?” he added. She really wanted to say “Hopefully with a charming, bearded, multimillionaire” but she was sure her dad would manage to somehow throw him into the gurrier category so she left her response at “I dunno, I’ll just book a taxi or something.” Also, her usual weekend spot tended to be lacking those types.
Now before anyone gets too excited, her local club isn’t a club at all. It is a late bar. It isn’t full of Mr Big or Chuck Bass types, it is full of the boys she grew up with – the awkward teenage shifts in the park and the boy who told her she had a moustache in 6th class. Her local really is local. For a 22-year-old woman who was emotionally damaged by the Disney ideal, the pool of eligible bachelors at times seems both shallow and polluted. This doesn’t mean there isn’t drama though.
This is the world of Frankie. Somewhere hidden on the map of Ireland, she resides in the cottage she grew up in after moving over from England when she was four. She has held onto the love of writing which she has had since her youth and she has also held onto the same sense of style. A keen bargain hunter and tea enthusiast, you will find her on weekends digging through the Penney’s €3 rail or sipping on her 17th cup of tea of the day. On Saturday night, you will find her wobbling through the door of her home at 3am, often in tears or with a mouth full of kebab. In public, you will find her people watching, on the hunt for writing inspiration. Every part of her past is too long to write here, but I’m sure it will all pop up again somewhere along the line.
Fenella Frances Fox, a name you would expect to find in Hollywood or the main star in an adult movie. However, Fenella is neither of these. Fenella Fox is a 22-year-old disaster magnet. Her ever changing coloured hair sits on her far-from-chiseled shoulders and her body shape can only be described as “Big enough boobs, but sure loves sausage rolls!” Her size 10/12 frame (currently a size 12, she gave up on the gym after two visits) can often be seen draped in faux fur and oversized denim. Underneath the edgy, messy exterior is a layer of anxiety which manages to add nerves to every aspect of her life. However, there is also a love of writing, a love of laughter, plenty of girlfriends and a fairly long hit list of men between them. Oh, and this woman is fairly hot headed, a trait which was probably inherited from her father. To most of her friends, she is known as Frankie – a nickname from her middle name, Frances, which she has always disliked. In her head, it was just never really her.
Living a life of financial uncertainty, with a lack of romance and an extreme amount of backcombing, Frankie is a far cry from the girl next door. In fact, if she does ever end up next door it is probably best to avoid introducing yourself unless you are prepared for the reckless aftermath that will follow. If you ever meet this woman, you will know it. As she stumbles through her early twenties, her stories are lived to be shared. She is far from perfect and has no bloody idea where her life is going, but she knows everything will eventually fall into place and wants to take you along on the journey with her. She is your new best friend, and as I said before, if you ever meet this woman, you will know it.
Until next time xx