11.35 p.m.
I was in bed wondering if Robbie really was a lying, cheating scumbag when my phone bleeped and it was a text from him! This coincidence was a sign, proving that he does NOT have a girlfriend.
He wrote: Gagging 2 c u on Wednesday princess x
I wrote back: Can’t wait 2 c u 2 gorgeous
11.45 p.m.
Can’t sleep. Mum and Dad are arguing in that hiss they think we can’t hear. It works up to a point, but every now and then they lose control and the odd word or phrase pops out.
Dad: “IT’s something, something, something, TO GO BEHIND MY BACK!”
Mum: “Something, something WORRY something, something, something, THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY.”
Dad: “YOU’RE ONE TO something PREACH!”
Now Mum’s crying.
Please don’t break up again. At least not until I’ve bought a house and moved out.
Tuesday 24 June – 8.30 a.m.
Can’t believe I ate that Krispy Kreme last night. Especially when I’m going out with Robbie tomorrow. And especially when I know that Fat Girl + Footballer = Impossibility. Doh! This is my chance to shop till I drop, get my own magazine column (like Alex) or my own TV programme (like Coleen) and I’m blowing it. Big time. So, no more thigh-bulging, bum-spreading doughnuts. Today is detox day, which means I will stick strictly to water, lettuce leaves and one apple.
(To the tune of “Rehab”) “Try to make me eat a Krispy and I’ll say, ‘No, no, no.’ ”
6.25 p.m.
Malibu’s a dark horse. Turns out she’s going out with Gary Goldenballs tonight. And I only heard about it at work, when Blow-dry Sarah told me. (We’d gone on a coffee run.)
“Oi!” I hissed to Malibu when I got back. “When did Blow-dry become your news feed?”
Allegedly the date was arranged at the last minute and Blow-dry only knew about it because she was covering Malibu’s 5 p.m. pedicure so that Malibu could leave work early. Blow-dry is Malibu’s lackey. But still, I’m her sister – she’s supposed to tell me first!
Anyhoo. Looked for date outfits in my lunch break. And because of my generous godfather, I could actually afford to go into Warehouse and Oasis. Shopping helped take my mind off how starving I was too. How the hell do models live on lettuce leaves? They taste like crap (no matter how much salt you put on them).
I bought an LBD, a flowery maxi dress and some killer heels. And now I’m going to eat an apple. Yesss!
7 p.m.
OMG! Malibu’s wearing high-waisted hot pants with a black vest and black-patent wedges for her date with Goldenballs. Before she left work Natasha topped up her spray tan, so she looks double, triple hot. She put on a French accent and said to me, “Monsieur Gary Johnson weell find me irreeseestible.”
“Remember you’ve got to hold out,” I reminded her.
“Of course. It’s my bloody rule,” she replied.
She’s meeting him at the top of our road because she doesn’t want Mum and Dad sticking their noses in.
I asked her why. Mum would love to know she’s finally pulled a footballer.
“Yeah, but she’ll probably make it really obvious that it’s her dream come true and scare him off. He’s not in the bag yet… Plus Dad will just give him the eyes,” she added, imitating the look Dad gives to boys when we first bring them home. The one that says, “Mess with my girl and I’ll knock you into next week!” And we giggled.
“Good point,” I told her.
When she was leaving, Dad said, “You can’t go out like that!”
And Mum shouted at him, “Just bloody leave her alone,” because she’s still upset with Dad after their (secret) argument last night.
7.45 p.m.
Googled Robbie and zoomed in on a picture of him in his football kit. He has thighs like a Greek god! His birthday’s on 3 November, which makes him a Scorpio – just like Leonardo DiCaprio. And there’s no mention of a girlfriend. Yesss! Move over Leonardo, there’s a new Scorpio in town.
7.51 p.m.
I’m depressed. Went on Robbie’s Facebook page and it’s full of blonde, skinny “friends” with pneumatic bazookas. Need to lose weight, pronto!
Wednesday 25 June – 2.30 a.m.
Malibu woke me up to boast about eating in a posh restaurant called Nobu.
She said Gary has a Bentley convertible and it’s like riding around on a £120,000 sofa. One hundred and twenty grand!! That could buy me a flat!
“What car does Robbie drive?” she asked.
I shrugged, then moaned, “I was sleeping, you know.”
Now feel guilty about cutting her off in her prime, but think I’m still hurt that Blow-dry Sarah knew she was going out with Gary before me.
Plus I’m bloody starving!!
And I need beauty sleep for my big date tomorrow. (Can’t believe I’m going out with an actual Premiership footballer!)
Now I feel like this:
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Date Night!!!! – 8.10 a.m.
Robbie just texted: Will pick you up at 6 princess. Just tell me where. x
So I gave him the salon address. (Malibu’s right – don’t need Mum or Dad getting involved this early.)
It’s so–oo exciting!
8.20 a.m.
Shall I wear the new LBD or the maxi dress? Hmm… I’ll phone Kellie and see what she thinks.
8.22 a.m.
Kellie said she can’t tell without seeing them both. She’s the crappiest best friend ever. I’ll phone my BMF – James is a fashion guru, he’ll know.
8.23 a.m.
Just remembered, James isn’t my best male friend any more – after our little disagreement about me “borrowing” his GHDs. I managed to end the call a microsecond before his phone rang. Phew!
As Robbie’s picking me up from work, I’ll take both dresses in with me and see what the girls think.
1.15 p.m.
Used the lunch break to bring the maxi dress back home because all the girls agreed that the LBD was better. Well, actually, all except that feminazi Kara. She thought I should wear the maxi dress because it left more to the imagination, and when I chose the LBD she went into one and said it was too short.
Why on earth does she think it’s called a LITTLE black dress?!
Whatever.
Now Malibu has just called and wound me up even more. “Look, Remy,” she said, “you know I don’t usually agree with a thing Kara says, and I think you should wear the LBD, OK? But it is a bit … well… All I’m saying is, no matter what he says to you, just remember this rhyme: Play hard to get and you won’t regret. OK? Because men—”
“Are dogs. OK–aaay. I get it,” I told her.
Right. Back to work.
11.30 p.m.
OMG! Robbie is the fittest, sexiest, most amazing boy ever!
He was perfect from the moment he picked me up and he had no idea what I’d been going through. The bloody girls at Kara’s must have been discussing his “throat infection” when I took the maxi dress home, and by the time I got back he was as popular as the credit crunch.
I know they were telling me to be careful to protect me, but it was really doing my head in. And then the Feminazi made things worse by saying, “He sounds like a cad.”
None of us had ever heard of the word “cad”.
“That’s probably because it’s mainly used by the upper classes,” she explained.
No. That’s probably because it was mainly used 150 years ago, I thought.
But I didn’t dare say that out loud. Because Kara’s the same age as Madonna, and looks all right for herself (who wouldn’t if they owned a beauty salon?), she likes to think she’s still young.
Anyway, when she said, “A cad is probably what YOU girls would describe as a player,” the girls loved it and kept saying in fake posh voices, “So, we’ll finally get to meet the cad!”
I laughed it off, but I really wanted them to shut up. Especially the Feminazi. And it was like Robbie read my m
ind, because when he arrived he politely introduced himself to the girls and shook their hands. Then he walked me to his spanking new black Range Rover and held the passenger door open for me like in the movies. His white linen suit was spotless. His hair (with the highlights I’m going to fix) was blowing in the breeze and he looked absolutely drop-dead! But the best bit was that the Feminazi looked like she was actually about to! In. Her. Wannabe Madonna. Face.
Robbie’s car is unbelievable. It has wheel rims I’ve only ever seen on Pimp My Ride, cream leather seats with his initials on the headrests, an Xbox, a DVD player and a satnav that’s actually set IN the dashboard!
“It’s a secret, princess,” he said when I asked where he was taking me. And I really did feel like one – Princess Remy Louise (Wilkins) Bennet.
Robbie weaved his way through rush-hour traffic and then we hit a chock-a-blocked M1, but I wouldn’t have cared if it had taken for ever to get there, because he was full of banter and kept telling me how nice I looked. He had me laughing and blushing all the way, until we finally turned into a gravel drive that took us past a golf course and led us up to the front of a HUGE cream-stoned mansion.
A doorman dressed in a smart grey uniform said, “Welcome to Le Grove, madam,” and it was so–oo unbelievable – him calling ME madam – that I had to fight off the giggles.
“We’re eating in the restaurant,” Robbie told him, getting out of the car and handing him his keys.
The restaurant was amazing, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and I swear it was fit for royalty. I scanned the room as we were shown to our table – gorgeous girls dressed to kill were having dinner with grey-haired old men. He–eeeelp! I thought, convinced they were all staring at me. Then my LBD kept riding up as I walked (which made my nerves even worse) and I had to keep tugging it back down. It was a relief when I finally made it to our table without exposing my backside to the world.
As we looked through the menu, Robbie cracked a few jokes about being the youngest bloke in the room. Then the waiter came for our order and I asked for the steak.
“Make that two,” Robbie said.
SEE, he CAN read my mind. He even ordered the same food!
When he asked for an expensive bottle of wine, I wanted to down it with him so–oo badly but only had one glass, remembering the WAG Charter. (Obviously, I’m a mess after two.)
“Don’t you like it?” he asked.
“Love it, but I’m … not a big drinker,” I said.
He looked well impressed with that. His blue eyes sparkled for Christmas. “If I’m gonna drink all this wine, I’ll have to book a room and drive home in the morning,” he said.
Book a room? I thought. Methinks you’re trying to seduce me. Yes–ss. NO. Yes–ss. NO. Yes–ss – damn the WAG Charter. It’s your life.
“Do you want me for dessert?” asked Robbie.
“Huh?” I gasped.
“I said d’you want coffee or dessert?” he repeated.
Oops! (Must invest in some cotton buds tomorrow.) “Er… Yeah. Dessert. Why not?” I replied.
I had an apple tart that looked delicious, but I couldn’t taste the bloody thing because every part of me was wondering what to do. From: OMG, shall I go up to his room and just go for it? To: But the WAG Charter says I have to wait eight weeks!
Aargh! Then I remembered Malibu’s warning this afternoon. “Right, Remy, do you want to be his plaything for one night? Or” – I glanced up at the chandeliers, then flicked my eyes to the windows and absorbed the acres and acres of immaculate lawnage – “do you want to live like THIS for the rest of your life?”
No-bloody-brainer.
So I told myself: Play hard to get and you won’t regret. And I did it again and again and again. Five times. Eight times. Twenty times. Until Robbie said, “You look exhausted, princess. I’ll call you a cab.”
He walked me to the cab, and before I got in he snogged me to within an inch of my life.
Definitely the best date in the history of the universe!
Thursday 26 June – 3.00 a.m.
I was having a proper hot dream about Robbie. Things were steaming up in the Le Grove hotel room. Then, just as it was getting to the best bit, I sprang up thinking, OMG. He didn’t even TRY to take me up to his hotel room last night. Why? Why? Why?
I’m not saying he should have jumped on me or anything, but he could have at least attempted to get me up those stairs. Asked me up for a coffee. SOMETHING.
I think I need some moral support.
I’ll phone Kellie. We’re allowed to wake each other up in emergencies.
3.15 a.m.
“Do you know what bloody time it is?” Kellie moaned when she eventually answered her phone. (After my fifth try!)
“Don’t get emo on me now, Kel,” I told her. “Not when I need you.” She listened as I told her everything. About Robbie’s car. His suit. The hotel. The kiss. “Things were perfect,” I said. “We even ordered the same food.” Then I told her I practically had a mental breakdown deciding whether or not to go home. “But now I’ve clicked. He didn’t want me to stay anyway.” I gave a big sigh. “I dunno. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy me.”
“Shut up,” she replied, “you’re gorgeous. What did you wear?”
“The LBD.”
“Hmm… LBDs can highlight your worst bits if they don’t fit right, but I read the other day that a maxi dress hides a multitude of sins. Why didn’t you wear that?”
Grr…
“Why didn’t I wear that?” I growled. “I phoned you in the morning and asked you which dress to wear. You said you couldn’t tell without seeing them.”
“Sorry,” she said. “But I had a little thing like AS LEVELS on my mind.”
I’d totally forgotten that this was Kellie’s exam week. Doh! I apologized and admitted, “I’ve been selfish, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she said. “Can I go now?”
3.30 a.m.
I put the LBD back on to check how I looked last night and tried to think positive. There’s nothing to stop you from being the new Colleen Rooney, I told myself. But when I swung round to see how I looked from behind, I thought, Colleen’s bum can’t be this big. It just CAN’T be! It looked like Dumbo’s bum cheeks had been squashed into a piece of black cling film. No wonder Robbie couldn’t wait to see the back of me. (No pun intended.)
3.35 a.m.
Can’t sleep. It’s weird but now Robbie’s dissed me, everything about him seems perfect. Even his highlights and his big nose.
3.40 a.m.
Threw the LBD in the bin (what’s the point in highlighting my worst bits?) then grabbed some Doritos from the kitchen cupboard (thought I might as well console myself). Was going to pig out in front of the TV, but when I opened the living-room door Dad was sleeping on the sofa. Mum always makes him sleep downstairs when she has the hump with him.
Poor Dad. We’re not just joined by blood any more but by major unwantedness!
3.55 a.m.
Dear God, please let me get to sleep. I’m being assessed at the college beauty salon today and I don’t want to see Robbie every time I close my eyes. Ple–eeeeease.
I’ll even tidy my room.
8.15 a.m.
Typical. I finally nod off at five, then Malibu bursts into my room three hours later to ask how it went.
“It was perfect!” I pretended. “We had dinner in a posh hotel in Hertfordshire.”
“A hotel? Hmm…” she said. “I hope you stuck to the WAG Charter.”
“Of course I did!” She asked me to swear on Leo DiCaprio’s life. And when I did, she believed me.
“I bet he was gagging for you, though,” she said.
“Yeah – had to practically beat him down with a stick.”
8.58 a.m.
Right, better get ready for college. Hopefully for the last time. Can’t take being a trainee for much longer. OK, so it means I get an extra hour in bed on Thursdays, but it also means that I have to do a six-day we
ek – major suckation. Plus the clients that come to the college salon think they can criticize my work just because I haven’t qualified yet. Sometimes I feel like shouting, “Shut up! You’re bloody getting this for free!”
Maybe I should have put up with Tara (spit, spit) Reid’s bullying and stayed on for sixth form, because work isn’t a bowl of cherries either. We all have to arrive looking glam and fully made-up, which takes me about an hour so I set the alarm for 7.28 a.m. (need a two-minute snooze). That’s earlier than I had to wake up for school! And on top of that, I’m mainly on reception duty because a trainee is only supposed to do treatments on workmates – and the Feminazi sticks to the rules. That means I have to answer the phone, write appointments in the diary and plaster my face with a smile like an American checkout girl – “Have a Nice Day” – the moment a client walks through the door. The Feminazi demands it. She says I’m the first point of contact and I’m representing her. But if I REALLY represented her, I’d stand on the reception desk and look down on everyone.
Anyway, after this session, and a good report from Kara, I should have enough accreditations for my NVQ and will officially become a beauty therapist. Ye–sss!
9.05 a.m.
Got distracted by Big Brother. Everyone’s in bed. How can those lazy gits win 100k for this? OMG, that Bryan bloke snores like a pig!
Pride and Premiership Page 2