Pride and Premiership

by Michelle Gayle

  “Ugh! What’s wrong with you? You’re like a bloody schizo at the minute!”

  “Have you finished?”

  “No I bloody well haven’t,” I replied. “I want my sister back. On a full-time basis. Not every now and then, like it’s been lately!”

  I waited for her to shout something back at me, but her face crumpled and then she started to cry. I rushed over to hug her but her whole body tensed up and she shrieked, “Don’t touch me! Just go!”

  So I did.

  I don’t know what’s happened, but I reckon Boring Roger has got something to do with it.

  Tuesday 8 July – 8 a.m.

  Malibu’s been crying all night. She wouldn’t talk to Mum, Dad or even me about it. She said she just wanted to be left alone. How can Boring Roger go from being her fail-safe to reducing her to this?

  Anyway, I have to tell the Feminazi she’s not coming to work today.

  1 p.m.

  I’ve come home for lunch because I wanted to check up on Malibu. Not that she’s saying much. She won’t eat a thing, either, and her eyes are red-raw. I told her, “Forget him, Malibu, he isn’t even on your level. He’s nothing compared with Lance.” But that just made her cry again.

  It’s made me realize that things aren’t that bad for me at the moment – Robbie’s been great. My only problem is work. I’m definitely going to jack in Kara’s as soon as I get my NVQ.

  I rushed into work today expecting my NVQ to be handed over, but I got nada. So I had to bite my tongue every time the Feminazi ordered me to do something. The only thing that kept me going was imagining where I’d stick that NVQ as soon as I got it.

  7 p.m.

  James just called and asked me to join him for an NVQ celebration drink at the pub. I told him that I’d like to come (even though I haven’t got mine yet) but I wasn’t sure about leaving Malibu.

  “She can come too, if she likes,” he said.

  “OK, I’ll invite her – but don’t hold your breath.”

  If Malibu would prefer me to stay in with her, I’ll do that instead – after all, she stayed in and watched Titanic with me when I was going mental about Robbie. It’s the least I can do.

  7.15 p.m.

  Malibu didn’t want to come, but she told me to go without her. I feel a bit bad because she looked miserable.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she replied. “It’s over.”

  7.25 p.m.

  Robbie just called and I’m sure I detected jealousy when I said I was going out with James.

  “Who’s this James fella then?”

  “Oh, just a friend.”

  “With benefits?” he asked.

  I laughed and said, “No. A friend with absolutely no benefits. Not now. Not before. And not ever, ever, ever. You have nothing to worry about, believe me.”

  But I didn’t explain why because I quite liked leaving him to stew a little bit. It’s only what I had to do when he was away.

  7.45 p.m.

  OK. I’m dressed and ready to hit the pub. It took ages because James is really critical about clothes, hair, make-up and all that. With most boys you know you can throw on a short skirt or a tight top and they’ll be happy just perving, but that doesn’t work with James – fashion is his number-one priority.

  I decided to wear my harem pants (so–oo now) with a black vest.

  7.50 p.m.

  Nearly forgot my fake ID. Phew!

  11 p.m.

  Well, I can honestly say that I made a proper idiot of myself tonight.

  I was just getting into the celebrations when Boring Roger walked into the pub. With a girl on his arm. The red mist came tumbling down. I stormed up to him and threw my drink in his face.

  “You tosser!” I said. “You absolute—” (I can’t remember the details but I know I called him every swear word I could think of.)

  The girl he was with started to scream and cry, James tried to calm me down and Roger kept shouting things like “You’re mad!” and “What the hell are you on about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m on about!” I shouted back, launching myself at him. And I might even have hit him if James hadn’t grabbed me around the waist and dragged me back.

  “Look, mate,” Roger said to James. “You’d better keep that nutter away from me, because I might not be responsible for what happens next.”

  “What? You gonna hit me? You that weak and pathetic?” I shrieked at him.

  Then he looked me in the eye and said quietly through clenched teeth, “I’d never hit a woman. I think you know what kind of person I am.”

  “What? Like I knew that you wouldn’t dump my sister? She’s at home crying her eyes out because of you!” I yelled.

  “What you on about? No one has shed more tears about your sister than me,” he said. “And let me tell you, she hasn’t returned any of my calls in about two weeks. So if she’s crying, it has nothing to do with me – and everything to do with someone else.”

  I wanted to call him a liar, but his eyes looked like he was telling the truth. I was so–oo confused. Still didn’t apologize when he asked me to, though (just in case). Then he walked off with his date.

  I convinced myself I’d done the right thing when James put me into a cab, and even on the way home. Then I received a text from Kellie: OMG. Have you heard?? Lance and Amy Fitzgerald are getting married!! WTF?!

  Now suddenly everything makes sense. And I feel like a right twot.

  11.30 p.m.

  Everything happens for a reason. If Boring Roger hadn’t walked into the pub tonight, Malibu would probably still be keeping all her pain about Lance Wilson to herself. She looked bloody relieved after I got her to confess.

  “I love him, Rem,” she said. “I’ve always loved him. When he rang me up a couple of weeks ago and gave me a long speech about wanting me back, I said no way because I know what a player he is. Then you saw him kissing Amy and I got jealous, so I called him, ranting and raving. He told me I was the one he wanted to be with, so I fell for it and went over to his house.”

  “But you said you were going to Roger’s that night!”

  “I know. I was just embarrassed about telling you to be strong and then being weak myself. I was going to tell you, I swear. I would’ve had to, with the way things were going, but then … he changed his mind again and…”

  She stopped. Is she going to cry? I thought. And just when I was convinced that Malibu had become a soft-hearted Disney princess, she said, “I mean – dissed for a dog like Amy Fitzgerald? What a fucking cheek!”

  Wednesday 9 July – 7 p.m.

  Malibu looked a bit down first thing, but as soon as she got to work she switched on her personality. Ding!

  Goldenballs called her at about eleven, and after that it was Gary, Gary, Gary for the rest of the day (as if Lance and heartbreak had never existed). It must have been fake but it was bloody convincing.

  I’m pretty fed up myself. Still haven’t heard about my NVQ. At lunchtime I asked the Feminazi if she knew what was going on and she said, “Ask the Royal Mail. I’m not a postman.”

  7.30 p.m.

  Bloody Nosy Knickers Nicole Walker just phoned me.

  “Is it true that Lance Wilson is marrying Amy Fitzgerald?”

  “Yeah… Think so,” I replied.

  “How’s Malibu taking it?” she asked, dying to be filled in. “She must be gutted.”

  “Can we speak later, please, Nicole?” I said. “I’m looking for a job.”

  “A job? Why, what’s happened at Kara’s?”

  “Nothing. Speak soon, OK?” I answered, and put the phone down. Wish I hadn’t said anything – don’t need her spreading the news before I find somewhere else to work.

  8 p.m.

  The only job I can find in the area is one where I’d have to rent a space from the salon owner, and then the money I make will be mine. But you need to have a good customer base before you do somethi
ng like that. I haven’t even got started. So–oo annoying!

  8.03 p.m.

  Mum called me for dinner for the thousandth time, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. Going to stay in my room and wallow in my work depression.

  8.30 p.m.

  James always says that by the time he was ten, he was sure of two things: 1. He was never, ever going to fancy a girl, and 2. He wanted to be a hairdresser.

  It wasn’t until I was thirteen, when Malibu would come back from work buzzing and then use me as her manicure/pedicure guinea pig (that’s all Mum would allow her to try on me), that I decided I wanted to be a beautician too. But at ten there’s one thing I was sure of: whatever I chose to do, I needed to be in charge.

  I hated being bossed about by Malibu only to turn up at school and be bossed about by all the teachers as well (except Mrs Stevens – loved her English lessons). I hated all the petty rules about wearing the correct uniform and not running in the corridors (even if you were dying to go to the loo and the corridor was empty apart from you and the teacher who just happened to spot you – duh!). I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could do things MY way. And not just for the sake of it: I felt sure there was a better way to do most things – and that I could find that better way if I put my mind to it.

  That colour-coded system I devised the other day was bloody genius and the only reason it wasn’t appreciated was because it’s not my salon. Well, you know what? Maybe I do need to be in charge and it’s time to get my own salon RIGHT NOW.

  8.31 p.m.

  Yeah, right. I can’t even understand basic business terms, how the hell am I going to run my own salon?

  Can’t see me having one until I’m old and miserable like the Feminazi.

  9.10 p.m.

  Dad came into my room, worried about me not eating dinner. I told him I had no intention of fainting again any time soon.

  “Good. Well, what’s the matter then?”

  “Nothing,” I grumbled.

  “Of course there bloody well is – look at the face on you! What is it?”

  I sighed. “I think I’ve got a problem with authority.”

  Dad laughed. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Is it Kara again?”

  I nodded and told him I blooming well hate my job, giving him the prime opportunity to start on about how I should have stayed on at school. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Remy, I’ve seen the attention you put into doing your friends’ nails when they come over here. You love making people look good.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to be doing it for the rest of my life,” I told him.

  Dad looked confused. “Please don’t tell me you left school for nothing,” he said – just as I expected. Only he didn’t sound angry – I could have handled that. It was the disappointment in his voice that I couldn’t stand. “Please don’t tell me,” he continued, “that I listened as you stood right there, on that very spot, and told me you wanted to be a beautician – and that I was stupid enough to believe you.”

  “You weren’t stupid,” I answered. “And it isn’t as simple as that.”

  “Yes, it is. Now, do you want to be a beautician or don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes… No. Yes. No. Yes… Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What the hell does ‘sort of’ mean?”

  “It means … I want to have my OWN salon,” I said. And it felt good to actually say it out loud. Then it stopped just being a dream and became real.

  “Really?” Dad suddenly sounded happier. “Remy, that’s great! And you could do it, too.”

  “Not yet. Probably when I’m older.”

  “Of course you can do it now! Deborah Gordon started her first business at sixteen. It’s just whether you’re willing to put the work in.”

  His faith in me made me smile, so I told him I’d even started making a business plan. He offered to take a look at it, because running his own business with Uncle Pete means he knows a thing or two. I explained that it was still at an early stage (no point letting him know that I’d abandoned it to update my Facebook page) and that I’d show it to him when I was happier with it.

  “OK,” he said. “Well, at least let me know the start-up cost.”

  “Huh? Um… I’m still fine-tuning that, too,” I bluffed.

  “Great. Well, I’m really proud of you, Remy.” And he looked it. In fact he looked so proud, I finally realized how gutted he must have felt about me ditching A levels.

  I feel proud of myself too and I haven’t even done anything yet!

  So I’m going to spend the rest of the night on my business plan. Will begin by typing “What is a start-up cost?” into Google.

  Thursday 10 July – Double-Date Day!!! 9 a.m.

  I’ve just woken up. Good job it’s my day off. Stayed up God knows how late last night working out my salon start-up cost – which is basically how much I’ll have to spend up front to be able to open a staffed, furnished and fully equipped salon. Nightmare. It took three hours! (And I’m crap at maths, so three earth hours felt more like six to me.) All to finally work out that I’ll need about forty grand! Where on earth am I going to get forty grand from? Nowhere, that’s where. I have about £200 in the bank and if I keep saving at the rate I do, I won’t be able to open a salon until I’m five hundred and twenty-two! (And I don’t need to be Carol Vorderman to calculate that.)

  Grr.

  It’s depressing, but I’m going to have to knuckle down and keep on working at Kara’s until I win the lottery or something. (Yeah, right.)

  9.30 a.m.

  OMG. I’ve got great big bags under my eyes. I’m going to look awful for DD (double date). Will have to paint on the concealer, because I bet any money that Terry’s girlfriend, Paris, is going to be some glamour model that puts me to shame. Methinks this mission is going to call for some chicken fillets! And on second thoughts, concrete instead of concealer.

  Brainwave! I once read in Grazia that on the day of a photoshoot some models brew two teabags, lie down and then stick them under their eyes to get rid of dark circles. Will try it.

  9.50 a.m.

  Grrr… My “de-bagging” session was interrupted by the Feminazi. She called and asked if I could pop into the salon if I wasn’t too busy. I wanted to say, “Of course I’m too bloody busy, I’ve got eyes to de-bag, a DD outfit to sort out and a Facebook page to update.”

  But I need Kara just now so I said OK.

  2 p.m.

  Today is the best day ever for three reasons:

  1. I passed my NVQ!

  2. When Kara presented me with my certificate she said, “And I’ve decided to continue with your colour-coded booking system.” She even said I could take her colour – green – as she doesn’t need to do treatments now that I’m qualified.

  How could something that simple make me feel like I’d got through the first round of X Factor? Because it did. And all I could do on the way home was daydream about what my own salon would look like (if I lived in a parallel universe and had forty grand in the bank instead of £223.07).

  3. I’m only hours away from my double date with Robbie, Terry and Paris, and I just know it’s going to be fantastico!!

  7 p.m.

  Right, I’ve laid out my DD outfit and am now about to jump into the shower. After much toing and froing I’ve decided to go with the maxi dress because if Paris is a skinny-model type, my bum will look even more massive in a tight-fitting dress or jeans – but if she’s got big bazookas, I can at least pretend that I have a decent pair with my chest-enhancing fillets. I just hope I don’t fall asleep at the table … I still feel bloody knackered.

  Midnight

  I’m home! Thank God. The restaurant was beautiful. Hakkasan, it was called. It’s so–oo lush. By far the poshest Chinese restaurant I’ve ever been to. And it would have been a perfect night if it hadn’t been for Paris. She’s an absolute mentalist! Her lips have been moulded into a pout, her fake tan makes her look like she’s bathed in three cans of Tango, her legs reach up to he
r armpits, the dress she was wearing looked more like a top than a dress, and there is no way she ever thinks before she opens her mouth.

  When we were introduced, I shook her hand and said, “What a lovely dress.”

  “Versace,” she replied. “Twelve hundred quid.”

  When I told the three of them how happy I was about passing my NVQ, Paris turned to Robbie and said, “You ain’t gonna let your bird wax people’s backsides, are ya?” Robbie went bright red.

  She even followed me to the Ladies, saying that she wanted to powder her nose (if she’d put on any more, she’d have looked like a clown – a burnt-orange one). Then she turned to me as soon as we got inside and said, “Remy, a little word of advice. You’re pretty. You’ve got a good pair of boobs. So never, ever go out with a footballer and then dress yourself in a tent.”

  A tent?!

  “Your dress is great,” Robbie said when I asked him what he thought about it on the way home. “Could have been a bit…” He stopped.

  “A bit what?”

  “A bit more sexy then. All right? But it’s nice.”

  “Sexy?” I repeated. “Sexy how? Sexy like Paris?” I spat out her bloody name.

  “God, no. Nothing like Paris. She’s not a proper girl.”

  “No?” I said, slightly relieved. “What is she then?”

  “You’re too innocent for this stuff, princess,” he replied.

  “Is she a prostitute?” I exclaimed, thinking I’d just had my first encounter with a real-life prostitute and she was nothing like the ones on The Bill.