“I know, I know,” I admitted.
Anyway, she convinced me to go to Camden Market with her. Just off to get ready.
5 p.m.
Camden was great. I bought a Shia La“Buff” T-shirt, a leather bag that has two long strings to open and close the zipper, and some earrings. Kellie bought some trainers and took two phone numbers. (What a minx!) Then we had lunch at the Loveshack, a Fifties-style American diner that has red-leather booths and a milkshake bar. Kellie ordered barbecued ribs and chips and a Double-Decker milkshake. It’s the kind of thing I’d usually have, but I went for a chicken Caesar salad and a glass of apple juice instead.
“What’s with the salad?” Kellie asked.
“Just watching my weight, that’s all.”
“If you’re watching your weight, I’d better be double watching mine – with my thunder thighs.”
“Yeah, right. Your legs are great. Not bandy, like mine.”
She frowned. “Bandy? Your legs aren’t bandy. What you talking about?”
“According to Tara Reid, they are. And apparently my arse has elephantitis.”
“That’s crap,” she scoffed, then she sucked hard on her straw and a quarter of her Double-Decker milkshake disappeared.
“Well… I’m watching my weight, anyway,” I said.
“Which is stupid if you’re doing it because of Tara Reid. She’s just jealous of you.”
“It’s not just because of her,” I said.
“Well, who then? Robbie?”
I nodded. “I don’t know what magazines you’ve been reading lately but have you seen any fat WAGs?”
“No. But then you’re not fat.”
“Come on, Kel, Robbie has so much choice, why would he want to be with someone who’s not perfect?”
“Because she’s a great girl who’s perfect for HIM! And if he doesn’t realize that, he can jog on,” she replied.
“Hmm. Maybe Malibu’s right and I should get a fail-safe to keep him on his toes.”
“A what?” asked Kellie. So I explained Malibu’s fail-safe theory to her. “So basically you keep the guy you DO want interested by having another guy you DON’t want on the side?” she said.
“Yep,” I confirmed. “Because that way you’re preoccupied, so the guy you DO want doesn’t think you’re really into him – which makes him want you more. But the fail-safe has to be crazy about you so that if you do run off with the one you really want, the fail-safe will take you back again if it all goes horribly wrong.”
“You’re sister’s gangsta,” Kellie said. “I like her style… But what would happen if she fell for her fail-safe?”
I thought about it for a second. “Nah. She wouldn’t. Roger’s so… Blah.”
“But if she did, that would sort of still be perfect, right?”
“S’pose so, in a way,” I said. “She reckons Spencer should be my fail-safe. But I dunno. I don’t feel right about it. He was good to me. It was only him going to uni that spoilt things.”
“Yeah, I see what y’mean. But if you did play them both, they’d never find out, would they? Robbie and Spencer are from two completely different worlds.”
I still didn’t feel comfortable about it, so Kellie said to give Robbie until 9 p.m. tomorrow evening to call or text.
“If he doesn’t,” she said, “you should take it as sign that he’s not that into you and get back in touch with Spencer. At least then he’ll keep you occupied while Robbie’s away. And if Malibu’s theory’s right, it’ll kick Robbie up the bum too. You can’t lose.”
I see her point. But why am I so hoping that Robbie contacts me by 9 p.m. tomorrow?!
6.30 p.m.
Well, it sounds like Malibu had a star-studded time at the Orchid Bar. She saw Simon from Blue (just as good-looking in real life), Sarah from Girls Aloud (much smaller than she thought) and JLS (those boys are everywhere).
“It’s amazing. You’ve never seen nothing like it,” she said. “And I even got my picture taken by the paparazzi!”
“No way! Did you do the pout?”
But she didn’t reply because her phone rang. She answered it, then turned to me and said, “Um … this is gonna be a long one.” So I took the hint and went.
7.30 p.m.
Malibu’s still on the phone. It’s been an hour! I’ve been flicking through mags, sort of waiting for her to finish talking so she could tell me more about the Orchid Bar. Now I feel like a right twot.
Right, that’s it. I’m going to watch my DVD box set of Friends, and there’s no distracting me once I get into Friends, so she can jog on.
I’ll watch it in my room, though, because the living room is a war zone – Mum is sitting on the sofa on one side of the room and Dad is sitting in an armchair on the other. She has a book held to her face and he has a newspaper. The silence is deafening. (To think I’d been convinced they’d make up by today.) It’s official – my family are a joke!
9 p.m.
Just watched the episode where Rachel realizes that she wants Ross and goes to the airport to meet him from China, but he arrives with a girl. Rachel looked gutted.
Come on, Robbie. You have twenty-four hours to pull your finger out!
Scan the code to read Gary’s texts to Malibu:
Monday 30 June – 8.05 a.m.
The phone rang at 8 a.m. and I rushed to it, hoping it was Robbie, and groaned when I realized it was Kel.
“Has he called yet?” she asked without even saying hello.
“No,” I replied. “But there’s still, like, thirteen hours to go.”
“Bet you’re bricking it, though, aren’t you?”
“Kel, have you actually called for a reason or did you just want to torture me?” I asked.
“What d’ya mean?” she protested. “I woke up specially for this … torture.”
“It’s not funny,” I said over her giggling, but I must admit I did have a little smile on my face. I mean, who else but Kel could be that twisted?
8.20 a.m.
I’ve been looking at my naked bod in the mirror because I don’t care what Kel says, Tara (spit, spit) Reid must have said those things about me for a reason. Anyway, I’ve decided: I need to lose weight on my bum and legs. End of.
7 p.m.
Staying in my room. Mum and Dad are making the atmosphere in this house bloody unbearable and I don’t need it. Especially tonight. Hated every minute of being in the salon today. It was all about Malibu. Her and Goldenballs and the Orchid Bar. I think I know every detail, from the way that she posed for the paparazzi down to the colour of her knickers. Even Natasha looked impressed, and Blow-dry Sarah (whose hair, by the way, looked even bigger and fluffier than usual) said she was going to buy every magazine for the next two weeks to see whether Malibu’s picture was in one of them. And she will as well. If Malibu told her to jump out of a plane, she’d do it.
Anyway, because I was so nervous about Robbie making the deadline, I kept going to the toilet to check my phone, and got a little more gutted every time I saw there were no messages.
7.05 p.m.
PS There was one decent thing about today – I was good with foodage. Only ate a packet of crisps and an apple. And I fobbed off Mum when she offered me dinner by saying I’d have it later. I feel a little bit light-headed but that’s probably just my body adjusting. I’ll get used to it.
7.30 p.m.
Kellie just called. “Has he phoned yet?”
“How can he, Kel, if you’re always on the line?” I complained.
“All right, all right, keep your hair on.”
Ugh! I feel like I’m sitting here waiting when I already know how it’s going to end. Robbie’s not going to phone. I can feel it in my bones.
8 p.m.
Mum called up to tell me it’s getting late to have my dinner. I shouted back that I didn’t want it, so she came into my room and said, “What’re you going to eat then?”
“Nothing,” I answered.
“Nothing?” she
barked.
“OK. Something then,” I said, annoyed.
“Something like what?” she snapped.
“Something like whatever I feel like eating, Mum, because I’m practically an adult!” I snapped back.
She glared at me and said, “This is MY house and you’d better watch how you speak to me. Otherwise, if you’re such an adult, you can get up and go.”
Whatever, I thought.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mum. GOT IT.”
Usually she’d run off to Dad and complain about my attitude, and then Dad – the voice of reason – would come in, give me a bit of a talking-to (without ever raising his voice), then convince me to apologize. But she’s burnt that bridge now – she can’t look for support from someone she’s relegated to the sofa.
8.30 p.m.
Half an hour away from the deadline. I’m so–oo nervous. I even knocked on Malibu’s door to have a little chat, but she was having one of her marathon calls again. She’ll give herself a brain tumour if she’s not careful. I suppose that’s what it’s like when you’ve got two blokes.
Come on, Robbie. You’ve now got twenty-eight minutes and fifty seconds!
8.59 p.m.!
It’s no use. Staring at your mobile, willing someone to ring it, almost guarantees that everyone under the sun will phone apart from the person you’re hoping for. First, the Feminazi called to tell me to come in early (there’s something she wants to discuss). Usually I’d ask a few questions – “Oh, really? Something to do with work or my NVQ?” – so I can be prepared. Tonight I couldn’t get her off the phone quick enough. “Yeah, sure, quarter to nine. OK, bye.”
The next person was James. “How ya doin’?”
I said, “Um … can I call you back later, babe? Please?” And I ended the call before he could answer.
Then it was Nicole Walker looking for drama as usual. “Hey, what happened? I heard it kicked off with you and Tara Reid the other night.”
“I’m in the middle of something, Nic, I’ll bell you back, OK?” I said.
But for all my rushing everyone off the line, still nothing from Robbie. No missed call, voicemail message or text. And I can feel myself getting angry with him, even though I know there’s no logic to it because he didn’t even know he had a deadline.
Eek! Phone’s ringing!
9.10 p.m.
It was Kellie. “Has he phoned yet?”
“Nope.” I sighed.
“Come on, Rem, at least you’ve got a plan B. And as things go, Spencer’s quite a good plan B to have.”
I explained to her that I like Spence but only as a friend. And if I’m honest, I knew that before he went off to Loughborough, so I sort of used it as an excuse to break up.
“He was gutted enough then. Why make things worse?” I said.
“Remy, just phone the guy and see where it goes from there – and stop being so dramatic about it,” she told me.
So I’ve just sent Spencer this text: Hey you. Long time. Did you miss me (ha ha)? Maybe we can hook up before you go back to uni? Luv Remy x
9.15 p.m.
Spencer called straight away and said he’d just been talking about me, which made me feel really good (see, this is what happens when somebody’s into you) but also a bit guilty (I so don’t want to break his heart). He asked whether I’d be around tomorrow night and said maybe we could meet up at the Milkshake Bar (our old hang-out).
“Sure,” I said. “What time?” We agreed to meet at seven-thirty. But I’m still feeling a bit guilty about it.
10 p.m.
I don’t get it. If I’m Robbie’s “perfect” girl, why hasn’t he called by now?
10.02 p.m.
Doh! I know why he hasn’t phoned – he’s met some hot girl in Ayia Napa who doesn’t have a bum that spreads from here to Timbuktu!
Right. Tomorrow I’m skipping breakfast, having an apple for lunch and then I’ll see what I feel like eating when I get to the Milkshake Bar. I need bum shrinkage. And I need it right now.
Yikes! Text message!
10.04 p.m.
Only Spencer: Really looking forward to seeing you Rem. Need to ask you something. No pressure. x
Oh no–ooooo. Dear God, please don’t let Spencer ask me to get back with him.
Tuesday 1 July 7.30 a.m.
My stomach’s rumbling so loud, it woke me up before my bloody alarm did. WTF?
7.35 a.m.
OMG. I didn’t have dinner last night, that’s why! Oh well, I’m still sticking to my plan: no breakfast.
Bum shrinkage takes sacrifice.
8.15 a.m.
Nothing from Robbie.
Beginning to feel glad about trying Malibu’s fail-safe theory, because at least when I’m with Spencer tonight I won’t be checking my phone every five seconds. It’s doing my head in.
Right, I’m outta here. Need to be at work fifteen minutes early for my “talk” with the Feminazi.
6.30 p.m.
I feel awful. Weak. Knackered. Moody. Make that double moody, because only having an apple for the day is one thing but having to deal with Robbie not phoning PLUS the Feminazi is beyond punishment. Especially as our little “talk” wasn’t a talk at all – she wanted me to give her a manicure. I’ve done treatments on all the beauticians at Kara’s but NEVER the Feminazi herself. I knew she’d be judging me for my NVQ.
Don’t think I would have minded any other time, but why did it have to be today, when my stomach was growling like a grizzly and my brain was 200% on Robbie?
Anyway, I knew I couldn’t back out, so I did my best. And it was going well until she asked me to cut back her cuticles. I frowned. At college I’ve been taught that you’re not supposed to cut back cuticles. You’re supposed to push them back instead. The Feminazi even says it herself. But she didn’t have any dead skin, so I told her that. And it probably came across a bit aggressive because I was STARVING. (I get the right hump when I’m hungry.)
“So?” she said.
“So I don’t think I should,” I replied, and then realized that might not have sounded too clever either. I quickly tried to redeem myself. “Because… It won’t help you in the long run – they’ll only end up sticking to your nail. I’ll push them … back … though.” I started to trail off when I clicked that I was digging a bigger hole for myself. The Feminazi already knew all this – she owns a bloody salon. And from the look on her face it was obvious that there was one rule for her and another for the rest of us.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll get Natasha to finish up.”
I now expect her to mark my NVQ with a big fat zero.
6.45 p.m.
Even though I’m not really in the mood, I’m going to make an effort tonight (so Spencer thinks “hot” when he sees me). It calls for my dark-blue skinny jeans, my sparkly top from New Look and my Primarni mules – Blow-dry gave me a pedicure in the lunch break and I want to show off my Lush Pink toenails. If Spencer does ask me to get back with him, I’m not going to give him a yes or no answer. I’ll say something open-ended, like “Let’s see how things go.”
7.10 p.m.
My head’s spinning. I wish it was spinning with excitement about meeting Spencer, but the truth is, I think it’s because I’m so bloody hungry. And I’ve hardly any energy.
OMG. I need about twenty Red Bulls to feel human again.
Right, I’m going to stuff my face at the Milkshake Bar – and not with bloody salad, either.
9.35 p.m.
My life is a disaster movie. Right up there with The Day After Tomorrow, 2012, Armageddon and that one about the meteor. Here’s why.
I get to the Milkshake Bar and Spencer’s there – so far so good.
“You look amazing,” he tells me. And he doesn’t look too bad himself – black jeans, blue Fred Perry polo shirt, fresh new haircut. So far so better.
The waiter shows us to a booth, we sit down, and before we’ve even ordered, my mobile starts to ring. I scramble arou
nd in my bag like a crackhead looking for a pipe, because I just know it’s going to be Robbie. It’s Murphy’s Law (which Miss Stevens taught us about once in a creative writing lesson) – i.e. if things can go wrong, they will. And they bloody well did!
Anyway, I finally grab my phone, having had to take my front-door keys and make-up bag out of the bag first, and (surprise, surprise) Robbie’s name is flashing up on the screen.
“Er… Um… Um… I’ve got to take this call,” I stutter, panicking. And before Spencer can answer, I jump up and start running to the door so I can speak to Robbie outside. (I couldn’t lurve-chat with him in front of Spencer.)
But I don’t even get to hear Robbie’s voice. Just as I reach the door, I only go and bloody faint!
I don’t know how long I was out for, but I opened my eyes to find about six people gawping down at me. I smiled when I realized one of them was Spencer.
“You all right, babe?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I groaned. “My phone. Where’s my phone?”
“Don’t worry about that for now, love,” said a balding man I’d never seen before. He was about forty, with a northern accent, and he was wearing a Milkshake Bar uniform with a badge on his shirt that said “Manager Harry Lewis”. “You’ve … faint-ed,” he said loud and slow, as if I was deaf.
Yeah, I kind of gathered that.
“Now, we’ll help you to sit up slowly and see how you feel. Then we’ll help you to your feet and see how you feel, and then you can decide whether you want your man here to take you to the hospital.”
Pride and Premiership Page 5