Pride and Premiership

by Michelle Gayle

  “I tell you where I’m going – no, where WE are going. We’re going for a free personal training session at Canon’s tomorrow morning.” She announced it as if I’d won the bloody lottery.

  I’d usually thank someone for doing something so considerate, but I know Kellie too well.

  “Who is he, Kel?”

  “What’s wrong with you? Why’ve you got to be so cynical?”

  “I’m not going unless you tell me who he is,” I insisted.

  She gave a big sigh. “Ugh, all right then. I spotted the buffest boy on the planet yesterday, straight after I left you at Nando’s. I’m talking muscles on muscles. So I speeched him – of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And it turns out he’s a fitness trainer. So guess what I said?”

  “What?”

  “ ‘I’d love to have a session with you.’ Get it? SESSION!”

  “Duh. You don’t need to explain,” I replied.

  “But I wasn’t selfish, Rem. When he agreed, I told him that I wanted to bring a friend.”

  “And I suppose he’s bringing a friend for me, is he?” I asked sarcastically.

  “NO. I swear. It’s just going to be us two,” she said. “And him.”

  I groaned.

  “Come on,” she urged. “He says they’ve got machines that can tone us up in twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES! Even if you don’t like it, at least you’ll be looking tight for when Robbie gets back.”

  Kellie knows how to play me so–oo well. “Oh, all right then. I’m in,” I told her.

  1.30 p.m.

  Posed in the mirror to see what I’ll look like after my gym session. I turned to the side and clenched my bum in tight. Then even tighter. Fantastico! (Even if I say so myself.)

  2.45 p.m.

  Watched a Jeremy Kyle repeat on ITV2 called “Fifth show, fourth girl … second DNA test!” Really cheered me up. I don’t have problems. THOSE people have problems.

  6.35 p.m.

  I was in my room and Malibu was in hers (gassing on the house phone) when Mum called us for dinner at six-thirty on the dot. She said we have to eat together as a family, but Dad wasn’t even home yet. So I did something sly. I told her that Dad couldn’t get through to the house phone so he sent me a text to say he was running late.

  “He asked us to wait for him,” I added.

  “Really?” she replied, surprised.

  I know it was wrong, but someone has to do something to salvage their marriage. Anyway, I’ve got a plan but first I’m just going to check if Godfather Alan has got back to me. (He might have a better idea.)

  6.40 p.m.

  No. Still no email from Alan. I’ll have to solve this parental marriage crisis on my own.

  Here’s the plan: the dinner Mum’s just made is destined for the fridge because I’m going to blow a massive chunk of my wages and get my mum and dad’s favourite food from Wong Man Chu delivered to our house. (They always go there for their anniversaries, and this will remind them of the love they can’t afford to lose.) Perfecto!

  But first I have to get Dad home.

  6.50 p.m.

  I called Dad and told him to hurry home because I needed to speak to him. Now, as lies go, technically that wasn’t one, because I needed to get him to pretend HE ordered the Chinese takeaway to win Mum back.

  He was umming and ahhhing about when he’d get here, so I got emotional and made out it had something to do with Tara (spit, spit) Reid. Technically, as lies go, that was a humongous fat one. But sometimes you have to do what it takes.

  I’m about to place the order with Wong Man Chu and get them to deliver the food at eight. Yay!

  7.30 p.m.

  I’ve had a proper heart-to-heart with Dad.

  “Dad,” I said, “you and Mum have got complacent. And THAT is the beginning of the end of a relationship.”

  He nodded like he was majorly disappointed with himself and then said, “So I take it Tara Reid isn’t about to kill you?”

  “Erm … no,” I admitted. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to—”

  But before I could tell him about my plan he said, “Remy, you know I love you, don’t you.”

  The “L” word AGAIN. What’s got into my parents?

  “Dad, are you sick or something?” I asked him.

  “No, don’t be daft!” he said.

  “OK. Is Mum?”

  “We’re as fit as two fiddles,” he assured me.

  “Oh. Well then… In that case… Yeah, I er … love you, too.”

  After that he looked even more embarrassed than me. He dropped his head, shuffled his feet about and then eventually said, “Look, I know how special your half-birthdays are. So … I’m sorry for throwing away your card from Alan, OK?”

  “YOU?” So clean-up-mad Mum was telling the truth! Her nagging must have turned the man she says is allergic to the Hoover into clean-up-mad Dad!

  “Yes. I was having a little…” He stopped.

  “Personality transplant?” I nearly said.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry,” he told me, then turned on his heels and scarpered.

  7.58 p.m.

  My (well, Malibu’s) little complacency speech must have worked a treat, it sounds as though Mum and Dad have made up – I can hear them kissing in the hallway. Eugh! There should be a law against hearing your parents snog!

  The front door’s opening. Yes–ss! This must be the Chinese takeaway arriving, to make their night even better.

  I can’t resist having a look.

  8.01 p.m.

  It wasn’t the Wong Man Chu delivery man at the front door. My loved-up parents had opened it for themselves and were about to step out.

  “Where’re you going?” I asked.

  “I’m taking your mum out for dinner,” Dad said. “She deserves it.”

  “Oh, Reg.” Mum sighed.

  Just then, the delivery man did arrive. He got off his moped and walked up the path with four white plastic bags in his hand. “Delivery for—”

  “Me!” I screeched quickly.

  “Bloody hell, Remy. You feeding the bloody five thousand?” said Dad.

  “Er … something like that.”

  Then Mum took Dad’s arm and they went off like a pair of lovesick teenagers.

  That’s most of my wages down the drain. But solving parental marriage crisis does make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  Friday 4 July – 7.10 a.m.

  Aa–aaargh, my stomach! It feels like I’ve swallowed a boulder. A boulder that was airlifted from the bottom of Lake Grease. OMG. Why couldn’t I resist that Chinese? It was a three-course meal for two that was meant for my blooming parents and I still managed to stuff most of it!

  Oh well, I’m minutes away from the personal training session that Kellie sorted out. I’m sure I’ll run it off.

  7.20 a.m.

  Tracksuit? Check! iPod shuffle? Check! Work clothes? Check!

  Right, ready to – ugh! My stomach again. Need the loo!

  7.25 a.m.

  OMG. I look paler than a goth. I’ll have to sack the training.

  7.27 a.m.

  Eek! Just remembered Kellie said I’d have a toned bum in twenty minutes.

  Robbie’s back tomorrow – I want his eyes to pop out of his head when he sees me. Definitely have to go. How bad can it be?

  8.25 a.m.

  Disaster! No, an absolute shameful catastrophe. It was so bad that Kevin, our trainer (who was just as fit as Kellie said), has sent me home to “recuperate”.

  “Don’t worry, it happens sometimes,” he told me.

  How could he be so nice to someone who had just covered him in projectile sweet-and-sour prawns?

  Oh no. I’m cringing just thinking about it.

  I didn’t even get to use the machine that would have toned me to within an inch of my life. What’s wrong with me? I’m a disaster if I don’t eat and a disaster if I do.

  9.00 a.m.

  I was going to take Kevin’s advice and s
tay at home to recuperate, but then I realized that he thinks I threw up because I’d overdone it, rather than because I’d stuffed my face with Chinese food last night. So I’ve rushed to get ready for work. Just about to phone the Feminazi to let her know I’ll be half an hour late. I’ll say it’s because of women’s problems. Need to play my cards right to make sure she gives good marks for my NVQ.

  9.10 a.m.

  Well … I’m still home. There’s been a change of plan and it’s Kellie’s fault. When she called to check how I was doing, I was about to phone work.

  “I’m OK,” I told her. “Just proper embarrassed.”

  “I would’ve come home with you,” she said, “but I thought it would be bad if both of us dropped out.”

  “Yeah, right. I know exactly why you didn’t drop out … KEVIN.”

  She started to giggle. “Busted. He’s fit, though, isn’t he?”

  “Yep,” I admitted.

  “He’ll show you around again when you’re up to it,” she told me. “And you never know, he might be mine by then.”

  “I bet he will.” I laughed.

  Kellie’s amazing. She never misses an opportunity. While I stand there, willing a fit boy to come over and talk to me, Kellie’s like an Exocet missile – she seeks and destroys. And it’s not like she needs to do the chasing, either. To go with her perfect brown skin, Kellie has hair that drops down to her shoulders in big black spirals and the cutest little freckles running across her nose. She’s so–oo pretty.

  “Anyway, I’m going shopping. Coming?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I can’t piss Kara off. I’m still waiting for my NVQ.”

  “Come on, you’ve got the perfect excuse.”

  “I feel better now, though.”

  Then I looked out of the window. Yep, still sunny. The kind of day that rips out your heart when you’re stuck at a boring reception desk.

  “Well… I suppose I DID throw up,” I added.

  “Uh-huh. Which means technically you ARE ill.”

  “And it was at the gym, so there’ll be witnesses, won’t there?”

  “Exactly. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

  All I have to do now is phone the Feminazi and pull an Oscar-winning sickie.

  9.20 a.m.

  Aa–aaaarghhhh! Will somebody please put Kara Feminazi Cooper out of her misery? There’s something seriously wrong with that woman. Why does she have to be so sarky? Suppose I really did have the first signs of swine flu?

  OK, I exaggerated an ickle bit – but only because I knew that if I’d told the truth, she’d come up with a story like: “My grandmother, the late, great Kara Cooper the Second, broke two legs and an arm, and still carried on working through the Blitz.”

  Whatever. Please just give me my NVQ and go away.

  Actually, she’s done me a favour. She’s highlighted the fact that I don’t want to work for her for the rest of my life. I want to be my own boss, in my OWN beauty salon. And even though it’s probably ages away, I’m going to start a business plan right now. I can look at it whenever she does my head in and think, It’s only a matter of time.

  9.35 a.m.

  Er … what does a business plan actually look like?

  Google to the rescue.

  10.00 a.m.

  Grr. This is driving me mad! Hundreds of sites came up saying I could download a business plan sample. Perfect, I thought. But I don’t understand a bloody word of any them. They’re full of terms like “gross margin” and “quantify your market”. WTF?!?!

  I’m going to take a break and update my Facebook photos instead.

  10.30 a.m.

  Aha! Godfather Alan has finally emailed back.

  Hey Remy,

  How are you? Glad you liked the card. Are things any better there now?

  Alan x

  Wow. He’s later than late.

  10.33 a.m.

  I replied straight away:

  Hi Alan,

  I’m fine. You’ll be glad to know that Mum and Dad are no longer at war. Early days, though. You know what they’re like.

  You’re still the best godfather ever, even though you took for ever to email back.

  Love Remy x

  10.35 a.m.

  Alan’s reply:

  Stopped arguing? Do you think that’s it, or are they likely to start again?

  From best godfather ever, who’s very sorry about late response. x

  10.36 a.m.

  I sent:

  Is the Pope Catholic?

  R x

  10.37 a.m.

  Alan’s reply:

  It’s a shame they can’t get on. Hope you’re not too upset. I remember how badly you took it last time. Do you have someone to talk to?

  Alan x

  I hate being patronized!

  10.38 a.m.

  I’ll live! Happen to be seventeen now – practically an ADULT.

  Remy

  10.39 a.m.

  Alan’s reply:

  Yes, of course. I suppose I’m treating you like the ten-year-old you were when I last saw you. Forgive me. Time goes so fast.

  A x

  Ah, now I feel guilty. I’ll write something nice.

  10.40 a.m.

  I sent:

  You’re forgiven! Anyhoo, how are you? Been sunning yourself? Having barbies and plenty of tinnies? (Ha, ha!)

  R x

  10.42 a.m.

  Alan’s reply:

  I take it “Neighbours” is still big out there! Actually, been doing all of the above. But I’ve had seven years of it now and I’m missing home. Seriously thinking about coming back.

  A x

  10.43 a.m.

  I’ve just sent:

  When? When? When?!

  R x

  10.44 a.m.

  His reply:

  Pretty soon.

  A x

  PS Please don’t tell your parents. I want to surprise them.

  Yippee! I’m so happy Godfather Alan’s coming back but a tiny part of me is thinking, Oh no, I’m rubbish at keeping secrets.

  3 p.m.

  I met Kellie at Westfield. That place is so–oo massive. Still takes my breath away. It was full of loafing sixth-formers because most exams are over. Kellie charmed a sales assistant in the Apple store and he gave her a pink silicone iPod case! Another one was eyeing me up and Kellie dared me to work some magic on him. He was cute-ish but I just haven’t got it in me. Besides, I’m saving myself for Robbie.

  I bought some lip gloss from MAC, and Kellie bought some gladiator sandals, then we just mooched around for a couple of hours until Kellie had to go off to an interview for a Saturday job in Topshop. She’s been working in Superdrug up until now, so this is a massive step up.

  “You’ll get it,” I told her when she said she was feeling nervous. “Use the same skills that just got you a new iPod case.”

  Been home for over an hour now and I’m bored. Bored. BORED. Daytime TV’s crap and they keep muting the sound on Big Brother. So–oo annoying.

  Never thought I’d say this, but I actually wish I’d gone to work today. I think I’ve missed the laughs we have. I’ve even missed Malibu boasting about Goldenballs – how duh is that?

  I’m going down the newsagent’s. Flicking through mags will be far more entertaining.

  3.30 p.m.

  OMG. I have the juiciest gossip ever. I cut through the park on the way back from the newsagent’s and saw Lance Wilson kissing a girl on a park bench. Not just any girl – AMY FITZGERALD! He should be ashamed of himself. He’s gone from dating my beautiful big sister to publicly snogging the local bike. (The same local bike that he used to call ugly whenever Malibu accused him of fancying her.)

  Well, he obviously doesn’t think Amy’s ugly any more, because he was so into her that he didn’t even notice me. I was really tempted to say something, or at least to stand behind them and start clearing my throat: Ahem. Ahem. AHEM. But it started to rain – this country’s so–oo random. And I on
ly had a little summer dress on, so I ran the rest of the way home.

  Anyhoo, I bought four magazines and I’m going to scan through them to find a look that rocks for my date with Robbie tomorrow. But first I’m going to phone Malibu to tell her about Lance and Amy. This is going to be the bitchfest of all bitchfests!

  7 p.m.

  I’m so stupid! Watching Home and Away with Mum earlier reminded me about Godfather Alan coming back, so I blurted out, “Alan’s mad to want to—”

  I was going to say “come home” but I quickly stopped myself when I remembered it was SUPPOSED TO BE A SECRET.

  “To want to what?” asked Mum, frowning.

  “Um…” It felt like it took twelve hours to dig myself out of the hole. “Um… To want to … stay in Australia when he could be in rainy old England. Ha, ha!”

  The Jedi mind trick must have worked because Mum just looked out the window, saw the rain lashing down and sighed. “Yeah.”

  Phew!

  7.10 p.m.

  It’s official. I have the biggest mouth ever. I’ve already told Malibu that Godfather Alan is coming back. And I didn’t even mean to, it just fell from my lips.

  “When?” she asked.

  “He said pretty soon. But don’t tell Mum and Dad. He wants to surprise them.”