Pride and Premiership

by Michelle Gayle

  “Why?”

  “Dunno, but don’t tell. Ple–ease…”

  I feel an ickle bit like a traitor now, but I don’t think she’ll tell. Malibu usually takes everything in her stride. Even me catching Lance and Amy snogging in the park didn’t turn into the bitchfest I thought it would. I expected Malibu to be spitting blood, but there was a long pause and then an ice-cold “Whatever”.

  She’s another level.

  7.20 p.m.

  Mum didn’t cook today – she’s meeting Dad down the gastro pub.

  Before she left she started to say, “I stored last night’s dinner in the fridge. Are you all right to…?” But she got a text before she could finish. She read it straight away and I reckon it was a romantic message from Dad, because she broke into the biggest smile ever.

  “Nuke it?” I finished for her. “Course I am, Mum.”

  “OK then. See you later.” She was positively glowing.

  It’s nice to know Dad can still make her feel that good, even after their arguing. Anyway, I thought it was a good time to give her some advice. Not the complacency speech – Mum wouldn’t have appreciated it like Dad did – so I just said, “Mum, please drop the hair elastic. You look so much better without it.”

  She rolled her eyes but smiled and did it. Her hair dropped to her shoulders – blonde and not perfect, but so much better than before. Next time I’ll work on her letting me make her up.

  7.30 p.m.

  OMG. Malibu isn’t as unflappable as I thought. She’s having a massive barney with someone on the phone. Swearing and everything! I don’t think I’ve ever heard her like this. Wonder who it is…?

  Just overheard “messing me about”. Goldenballs? It must be Goldenballs. Maybe he’s changed his mind. (He’s supposed to be taking her to dinner tomorrow.)

  OMG, they’re not golden after all – they’re paper. Tee-hee.

  OK, I shouldn’t be so happy about it. But I’m only human and I can’t help it after everyone has been so horrible about Robbie.

  She’s stopped now.

  I’ll give it five, then go and investigate.

  7.40 p.m.

  Went into Malibu’s room, looking concerned.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is it Gary?”

  She shook her head.

  “Who then?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Roger?”

  She gave a long sigh. “Yeah, Remy … it was Roger.” Then she grabbed her (fake) Ugg boots from on the floor beside her bed and began to put them on frantically.

  “Where you going?”

  “To bloody sort things out,” she said, then she was off out of the door.

  8 p.m.

  I’m all alone.

  I wonder what Robbie’s up to? I bet he’s in a club somewhere.

  8.01 p.m.

  Bet he’s in a club with his mates having a few drinks.

  8.02 p.m.

  Bet he’s in a club with his mates having a few drinks and some girls are trying to flirt with him.

  8.03 p.m.

  Bet one of those bloody girls has waited for him to get drunk and has thrown herself at him and is about to kiss him RIGHT NOW.

  Grr. I’m going to call him to interrupt her evil plan!

  8.05 p.m.

  He answered! Couldn’t hear him very well (music was too loud). He said, “Remy, listen to this,” and must have held his phone towards the speakers because all I heard next was Tinchy Stryder telling me I was Number One.

  The call ended and a few seconds later a text came up saying: C u tomorrow princess x

  I love him so–oo much. Can’t wait to see him tomorrow!

  Scan the code for extra content:

  Saturday 5 July – 6.15 a.m.

  Up double early today. Must be excitement, because as soon as I opened my eyes I got butterflies about seeing Robbie. Can’t wait! Wish I could fast-forward to tonight.

  6.30 a.m.

  OMG. Malibu’s just creeping in after “sorting things out” with Boring Roger. He obviously isn’t as boring as I thought.

  8.15 a.m.

  Robbie just called!

  “Princess,” he said, “just landed. Fancy the cinema tonight and then a bite to eat?”

  Yes–ss times two thousand!! I thought. “Sure, why not?” I replied.

  This time I’m meeting him there. (Don’t want him to come to the salon and feel the girls’ negativity.)

  6 p.m.

  The first thing I noticed when I got home is that the skirting boards in our hallway had been painted in black gloss (they used to be a matt white). It looks terrible and I know Mum’s the culprit but I’m saying nothing. She can bite someone else’s head off for a change.

  Besides, I happen to be in a v. good mood. The Feminazi made a sarky comment about my “miraculous recovery” when I got into work today, so I decided to get my head down and work double hard. I smiled in a “Have a nice day” way when clients came through the door, answered the phone in my sweetest poshest voice, ran every coffee shop errand as if my life depended on it and still managed to reshape Malibu’s eyebrows in our lunch break. Basically, if I was running a salon, I would have employed me.

  I even managed to revamp the booking system. The appointment times and names of the beauticians are always written in black biro and it can take a while to see who’s free at a certain time, especially when a customer requests a particular beautician. It’s been bugging me for ages. So I decided to make things clearer by giving every beautician a colour code. I even ran to the shops and bought one of those pens that has four different colours in it.

  Malibu’s name and appointments will always be written in blue, Blow-dry Sarah’s in black, Natasha’s in red and Kara’s (who occasionally still does treatments when we’re uberbusy) in green. Now, if someone phones and asks when Natasha’s free, I can just follow the red ink and see in no time. It’s genius and I’m hoping it will make the Feminazi give me extra marks for my NVQ.

  6.30 p.m.

  Dad’s just come through the front door and gasped, “Bloody hell!”

  Methinks he doesn’t like the black-gloss skirting boards.

  “What do you reckon?” Mum asked. “I got the idea from Jazz Up Your Home. It’s a new programme on Living.”

  “Er… Yeah. It looks great.”

  Poor Dad. I’d lie too if I knew that telling the truth would have me sleeping on the sofa.

  6.50 p.m.

  I’ve changed date outfits about four times!

  Now going to rock the casual sexy look – black jeans with my Primarni mules and my tight “I Dig Dead Guys” T-shirt (sneaked some chicken fillets in my bra to make boobage look good too).

  I’m so–oo excited I could barely do up the buttons of my jeans (jangling hands) but apart from that I’ll survive. Aa–aaaaaaaaaaaargh!

  7.20 p.m.

  “Does my bum look massive?” I asked Malibu. (Couldn’t leave the house without checking what she thought.)

  “You’re not starting that anorexic stuff again, are you?”

  “Come on, stop having a laugh. What do you think?”

  “I think you look great,” she told me, and sounded like she meant it too. She actually looked quite happy for a change. And she was done up like the vamp Sandy in Grease (black shiny leggings, high heels and the red Kate Moss top that she wears without a bra, even though she knows it drops down all the time to reveal mega cleavage – what a minx).

  I guessed that whoever she was going out with tonight must have been the one she liked the best.

  “So, who is it tonight then?” I asked. “Roger or Gary?”

  “What are you, the CID?” she snapped.

  That girl’s got major issues.

  Anyway, who cares? Robbie, here I come!!

  Sunday 6 July – 12.15 a.m.

  Ama–aaaaazing night! We went to see Action Movie Part II. Didn’t see much of the film, though – too busy having a tongue-fest (tee-hee.) Then we went to a Lebanese resta
urant called Maroush, on the Edgware Road. They do the best chicken kebab I’ve ever tasted in my whole life!

  Robbie looks even better with a tan. And whenever his big manly hands touched me, I melted. That’s why it was so hard to keep strong when he dropped me home and asked if I was sure I didn’t want to go back to his place.

  Believe me – I really, really wanted to. But I stuck to the WAG Charter because it’s worked perfectly so far.

  “Um… Maybe next time,” I told him.

  10 a.m.

  I was lying in bed, thinking about Robbie, but before I knew it Spencer flashed into my head. Feel a bit guilty, I suppose. I did sort of use him. I admit that I don’t deserve it, but why can’t he just call and say we can be friends? I love Spencer’s friendship. He makes me laugh and we like the same films and everything. In fact, in an ideal world, I’d probably take Spencer’s personality and inject it into Robbie’s HOT body.

  OMG, Robbie looked amazing last night. His hair was perfectly gelled, his white trainers were practically gleaming and his shirt and jeans didn’t have one crease. He’s physical perfection. He also happens to be passionate (especially when he was talking about wanting to earn as much as John Terry). He’s what I want, I know he is. And if Spencer isn’t willing to be just friends, I’ll be gutted but I’ll have to accept it. As Dad says, I can’t have everything.

  Unlike Malibu Amanda Bennet, who seems to have the world at her feet! She came in at six o’clock in the morning AGAIN. And unless she’s broken her own rules and spent the night with Goldenballs (which I doubt very much), it means that she decided to spend a second night on the trot with Boring Roger. WTF?!

  Maybe she’s fallen for him.

  5 p.m.

  Robbie has sent a blaze of texts saying that I’m gorgeous, sexy and hot. OK, they might not have been deep and meaningful, but they made me feel GOOD. And that’s all that matters.

  Someone’s at the door. Maybe Mum’s forgotten her keys. She went to get some white paint to restore the skirting boards to their original colour (after having a right go at us for not telling her that the black gloss looked ridiculous – duh!).

  Please someone go and get it. I’m watching Friends.

  Dad’s calling me. I’d better go and see what he wants.

  5.40 p.m.

  OMG. I went downstairs and standing there in our hallway was Tara (spit, spit) Reid, flanked by her big fat mum! Mrs Reid must be about twenty stone. And her face was sunburnt and sweaty.

  I had no idea what they were doing there. I looked at Dad, then I looked at Tara’s mum, then I looked at the floor. (I couldn’t look at Tara – she psyches me out too much.)

  “I think my Tara ‘as sometin’ to tell ya,” Tara’s mum said in an Irish accent. “Dontcha, Tara?” she growled, glaring at her daughter.

  Tara looked like she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

  “Dontcha, Tara!” her mum repeated.

  And that’s when Tara (spit, spit) Reid, meek as a mouse, looked me in the eye and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

  “Louder!” boomed her mum.

  “I’M SORRY.”

  Just then, Malibu came out of her room and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Dad put a finger to his lips.

  “Now,” Tara’s mum said to me, “I’ve made sure ya da knows how to get hold o’ me on my mobile and email.” She pointed at Tara. “So if SHE so much as texts ya sometin’ untoward, you forward it to me. If you don’t like the way she feckin’ looks at ya, let me know and I’ll give her what for.”

  I know she was being nice, but Tara’s mum was even scarier than Tara!

  “OK. Thanks, Mrs Reid,” I said.

  “A quiet word, please,” Tara’s mum said to Dad, and they went into the kitchen. I could hear her apologizing and saying that Tara had been having a hard time about something, but I couldn’t take it all in because I was too chuffed – Tara Reid apologizing to ME. And all because of Super Dad (tee-hee)!

  I watched Tara standing, shoulders slumped, humiliated, in our hallway, and I didn’t even feel a little bit sorry for her.

  Just before Dad and Mrs Reid came back out of the kitchen, Malibu stepped up to Tara and hissed something in her ear. And funnily enough I heard that loud and clear: “You mess with my sister again and I’ll knock your head off.”

  I really love Malibu sometimes.

  7 p.m.

  Malibu asked me to twirl her hair with the straighteners (I do it better than she does) because she was going out. I was dying to find out who with this time, but I felt funny about asking because she’s been snapping my head off every time I do. I hoped she’d slip up, or tell me, but she kept the conversation strictly on Tara Reid (Tara’s face when her mum shouted at her, Tara’s face when she had to say sorry to me, Tara’s face when Malibu threatened her…). We had a right laugh about it.

  When I finished her hair, she posed – “Ta-dah!” Her make-up was flawless and her mascaraed lashes were so long, they could have been spider legs framing her blue eyes. But most of all she looked happy and relaxed, so I thought what the hell and asked if she was going out with Goldenballs tonight.

  “What makes you think that?” she said with a smirk on her face.

  “Because you’ve made a proper effort.”

  “Oi, I always do, you cheeky thing!”

  Something about the way she said that made me think I was wrong. “Roger then?” I asked, and she went dead quiet.

  BUSTED! I thought, because tonight would make it three nights in a row and prove that she was falling in love with him. “He’s obviously not so boring after all, by the looks of things,” I said.

  And OK, I might not have worded it perfectly but I certainly didn’t deserve her reply: “Mind your own bloody business!”

  Grr.

  Monday 7 July – 6.00 a.m.

  Here comes Malibu sneaking in again. It’s like Groundhog flaming Day!

  7.35 a.m.

  Bet Malibu’s still asleep. Actually, now’s the perfect time to wake her – get her to admit that she’s fallen for Boring Roger and put a stop to this bull. (Much easier to get the truth out of a dozy head.) Still won’t come straight out and ask her, though. I’m going to play the fool. Reel her in. Ask silly, random questions until she feels so in control, she accidentally slips up.

  Basically, methinks I’m going to get Columbo on Malibu’s ass.

  7.40 a.m.

  OMG. That girl is so–ooo bloody rude!

  If she doesn’t want to share a tiny bit of info with her own sister, she can rot in bed for all I care.

  8.29 a.m.

  Malibu’s running late (surprise, surprise) so I’m leaving for work without her. She doesn’t deserve me to wait for her anyway, after the names she just called me.

  Oh well, the day can only get better from here. Actually expecting to have a good one because I’m sure the Feminazi is going to big me up for the new colour-coded booking system.

  7 p.m.

  That’s IT. Don’t think I can stand another second in the same room as the Feminazi!

  Today she lectured me about changing the booking system without checking with her first. So I defended myself by saying I just wanted to improve it. Then she pointed outside and said, “Tell me what the sign says on that door.”

  “Kara’s,” I muttered.

  “That’s right – Kara’s, not REMY’s,” she replied. What a cow!

  I’ve had enough. I’m going to search online for a new job.

  10 p.m.

  Oops! Job-hunting didn’t quite happen. Robbie phoned and we had luv chatter for over an hour. Well, I say luv chatter but a lot of our conversation was about football (which I know absolutely nothing about). His training went well – he’s set himself a target of scoring twenty goals this season (he’s a striker).

  “Oh, like Frank Lampard,” I said, totally winging it.

  “No, not really,” he answered. “Frank Lampard plays central midfield.”

 
“Doh! Yeah, of course he does.” WTF is central midfield?

  I told him I’d had a crap day at work. And when I repeated what Kara had said, he came out with, “Don’t worry about it – it’s typical girls’ stuff, innit. You’ll all be best friends by tomorrow.”

  “Hmm.” I sighed, not convinced.

  “Anyway, whatcha doing Thursday?” he asked, and he turned my day around by inviting me out on a double date with his best friend on the team! His name’s Terry Dawson and his girlfriend is called Paris.

  James phoned straight after, and when I told him about the double date he confirmed what I was thinking: “That’s definitely a girlfriend-boyfriend thing to do. He must be taking you seriously.” Yippee!

  Then he announced that he’d passed his hairdressing NVQ!

  After I congratulated him, we had a right bitch about the Feminazi. And I decided that as I’d probably find out about my NVQ tomorrow, it’d be best to look for a new job then.

  So it’s all good.

  10.30 p.m.

  I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m worried about Malibu. She’s just been arguing with someone on the phone. Shouting. Name-calling. Swearing. The whole lot. So I went into her room when she’d hung up and asked if she was all right.

  “What the hell do you think?” she screamed at me.