Pride and Premiership

by Michelle Gayle

  Can’t believe that just when I can finally legally go out on the lash, I have to be a sensible businesswoman who’s on top of her game. (Interviewing potential beauticians tomorrow!)

  9 a.m.

  Just been delivered a beautiful bunch of red roses. Fifty of them! They’re from Stephen, and in Mum’s opinion they must have cost him a bomb. I sent him a text: Thanks for the flowers. I love you sooo much!

  And he sent back: You deserve it. And I love you too. X

  10 a.m.

  OMG. I’ve just had a call from Robbie!

  In my head I’d gone through this moment a thousand times. I’d see his name flashing up on my phone, laugh like a cartoon villain – Remy de Vil, hah! – then thrust my hand down on the end call button with all my might.

  In real life I had a bit of a panic. But wanting to hear what he had to say got the better of me, so I answered it but with a bit of attitude. “Yeah?”

  “Happy birthday, princess,” he said. And I admit, hearing his voice made me soften a little (well, on top of him actually remembering my birthday).

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  Then there was a lo–oooong pause when I didn’t know what to say. Then Robbie eventually spoke again.

  “I want you back, princess,” he told me. “And I’m willing to do what it takes. I’ll dump Chloe. OK?”

  That was another moment I’d played in my head – the one where he comes back on his hands and knees begging for another chance and I tell him to go take a running jump. But again, in real life it didn’t feel that simple.

  “Um… I don’t know what to say,” I replied as a feeling of love began to surge through me – only it wasn’t love for Robbie, it was love for Stephen. And if I ever needed proof that I wanted to be with Stephen, I suppose this was it. I knew exactly what girls like Malibu and Paris would say – get back with Robbie and live like a real princess, never having to worry about money again. Yet here I was about to reject a big-earning footballer for a man who’s between jobs … but who just happens to be the man I love. Maybe it was stupid and maybe I’m going to regret it, but I said, “It’s nice that you called, Robbie, but I’ve met someone else.”

  Robbie had the cheek to snap back, “Well, it’s your fuckin’ loss.”

  What a tosser!

  Wednesday 24 December – 10 a.m.

  Christmas Day tomorrow. It’s not usually my favourite time of year (turkey – yuck!, Brussels sprouts – even yuckier, and don’t even mention bloody mince pies!). But this year is different because I’ll finally get a break from work on the salon. Been doing twelve hours a day flat out! Plus, this morning Stephen texted to say his job opportunity has come off and he’s definitely moving to London! He’ll be here on New Year’s Day and it’s the best Christmas present ever.

  Thursday 25 December – 9 a.m.

  Merry Chri–iiiiiiiistma–aaaaas!

  Already sent a dancing Christmas tree text to all my phone contacts. And a loved-up one to Stephen.

  Christmas lunch is at Malibu and Gary’s. Mum and Alan have only been there once before (when I was in Turkey) and I can tell they feel like a massive bridge has been crossed now they’ve been invited for Christmas Day. It’ll be weird spending Christmas with Alan instead of Dad. Wasn’t sure if I should go at first, but when I called to check what Dad’s plans were, he said not to worry about him because he was spending the day with a friend. Something about the way he said that made me ask, “A lady, by any chance?”

  “Could be.”

  “Wow, Dad! Is she hot?” I teased. “I don’t want an ugly stepmother.”

  “Yes.” He chuckled. “She’s very hot.”

  Legend.

  10 p.m.

  Wasn’t sure how today would to turn out when I realized Grandma Robinson was coming too. Obviously couldn’t leave her by herself (she’s always spent Christmas Day with us since Grandad died), but still, it wasn’t ideal. Gary’s mum was doing the cooking (good thing – Malibu could burn a Pot Noodle!) and even though she’s actually closer in age to Grandma Robinson than to Mum, age seems to be the only thing they have in common. Mrs Johnson is very Christian and gentle – never curses or swears – whereas Grandma Robinson is, and always has been, badass.

  The first sign that things might not go smoothly came in the car on the way there.

  “What d’ya reckon she’s gonna cook then?” Grandma Robinson asked, as though Mrs Johnson was from another planet.

  “FOOD?” I suggested.

  “Remy, don’t be so rude to your grandmother.”

  “Well, honestly, Mum,” I groaned, as if Grandma Robinson couldn’t hear me. “She’s from Jamaica, not Mars.”

  “So WHAT?” Grandma Robinson said (she’s never needed anyone to stick up for her). “She’s not English, is she? She might cook something spicy that won’t agree with these blood pressure tablets I’m taking, and I thought I’d check. So get off your bleedin’ high horse.”

  “All right, Gran, sorry,” I said to shut her up.

  She’d never been to the house before, and when we pulled up at the gates she looked v. impressed. “Bleedin’ hell,” she gasped. “Malibu’s done well for herself.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  Then she gave me a look that said, “Poor Remy, this could have been your life too.”

  “Can’t be easy for you,” she said, gently patting my knee.

  “It is, actually,” I growled.

  Grrrrr.

  The golden couple greeted us at the door, Gary dressed in a stylish suit, Malibu in a floaty designer dress. She looks lovely pregnant, all glowing, with the neatest baby bump on earth.

  “On best behaviour, please, Gran,” I heard her whisper.

  “What the bloody hell do you take me for?” Grandma Robinson grumbled.

  The table was already laid when we got there. Eight places – four for us and four for Malibu, Gary, Mrs Johnson and Gary’s older sister, Rochelle. Rochelle is thirty-five (way older than Gary) and was exactly as Malibu described her – a cinnamon colour, slim and quite pretty on the rare occasion she decides to smile. So different from Mrs Johnson, who has chocolate-brown skin and isn’t really attractive at all, except … well, except for the fact that she smiles almost all the time, which makes you warm to her and totally forget that she isn’t that pretty.

  Lunch was kicked off with Mrs Johnson announcing that she would bless the table. We all had to put our hands together and close our eyes. She spoke ve–ry slo–wly, probably thinking we wouldn’t understand her otherwise, and it made me smile the way she said “heverybody”. The worst part was that it went on for way too long and she took loads of pauses, which made me think that she’d finally finished, only to (disappointingly) hear her start up again. But I hid my disappointment – unlike Grandma Robinson, who sighed every time. By the time Mrs Johnson finally said Amen, and Grandma Robinson opened her eyes, Malibu was staring daggers at her.

  Christmas lunch was huge, tasty and traditional – turkey, chicken and lamb with tons of veg (including yucky sprouts), rice and potatoes – and the compliments flowed.

  “Can’t tell you how good it feels to have a proper Christmas meal after years of barbies on the beach,” said Alan.

  “You must tell me how you made your gravy,” said Mum.

  “Yes, lovely,” agreed Grandma Robinson. “And not at all spicy.”

  Like me, Mum and Alan held their breath, and I’m sure I saw a slight roll of Rochelle’s eyes, but Mrs Johnson just chuckled and told her, “Yes, well, I didn’t think your h’English stomachs could take my pepper.” And that was it – ice, well and truly smashed to bits.

  Gran and Mrs Johnson bonded even more when they discovered, over mince pies, that their husbands had died in the same year. They swapped stories, including some that I’d never even heard about Grandad, and Gran was so happy and chatty that it made me think maybe she wasn’t such a battleaxe after all.

  The evening ended up with a few games – Weakest Link, Deal or No
Deal and Charades. Team Golden seemed to win all of them, and whenever Gary touched Malibu’s belly she didn’t show a scrap of guilt. In fact – and it might have been the winning, or because it was Christmas – sometimes Malibu actually looked in love with Gary.

  With the games over and the Quality Streets and Roses decimated (I managed to nick most of the mini Dairy Milks, tee-hee!), it was time to leave. And to top things off, on the way home it started to snow.

  A white Christmas. Can’t get much better than that!

  Friday 26 December – 10 a.m.

  Would normally hit the sales today, but of course every penny I have has been put into the salon.

  Saturday 27 December – 11 a.m.

  Yay! Bill, the painter and decorator, is just like me. When I called him and moaned, “If I see one more James Bond movie…” he said, “Here, here!”

  Anyway, he’s agreed to come down to the salon and continue work until New Year’s Day.

  Wednesday 31 December – 8 a.m.

  Tomorrow will be a new year and a brand-new start. In about four weeks’ time I’ll be opening my salon! And I’m so happy about Stephen coming to live in London too. He’ll be here tomorrow! I can’t wait to see him. To hold him. To snog him.

  Finally my life is just how I want it to be.

  Thursday 1 January – 10 a.m.

  Aa–aaaaaaaaaargh, my head! Had far too much to drink last night. Went out with Kellie/Jack (they’re practically joined at the hip) and James, who at midnight announced that he was going to come out to his parents. Hmm… Methinks they may find camels in the North Pole first.

  Would love to stay in bed, but I have to spruce myself up for Stephen. Yay! Just the thought of seeing him makes my heart flutter.

  11 a.m.

  My baby just phoned to say that he has an introduction to his workplace at about midday, then he’ll call me when it’s over so we can meet up for lunch. I can’t wait!!!

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I told him.

  “Aye. Well, I’ve missed you more,” he said.

  2 p.m.

  Stephen hasn’t called yet. Maybe the introduction has lasted longer than he thought it would. I’ll give him a ring.

  2.05 p.m.

  Just got his voicemail, so I left him a message: “Hello–oooo. Where are you, baby? Call me.” Then I blew him a kiss down the line.

  3 p.m.

  Still no Stephen. This really isn’t like him. I hope he’s OK. I’ll try him again.

  3.05 p.m.

  Voicemail.

  This time I left: “Um, babe. Where are you?”

  4 p.m.

  I’ve left message after message. And each time I check my phone to see if he’s actually bothered to contact me, I get angrier and angrier.

  A thousand thoughts are going through my head – mainly, Maybe I was wrong about him. But it’s hard to accept that Stephen might not be for real, that believing that I’d met The One was a big mistake.

  I’m calling him AGAIN.

  4.15 p.m.

  “Stephen, what’s going on?” I demanded when he actually answered. “I’ve been waiting here for hours and—”

  “Well, you can just get lost!” he replied in a voice I didn’t even recognize.

  “What?!”

  “GO. GET. LOST. And I don’t wanna hear from you again,” he said, sounding furious.

  “I–I don’t understand.”

  “And I don’t understand how I coulda fallen for your lies,” he snapped. “You deceitful little—”

  “Lies?” I cut in. “What you on about?” I was so confused by his words, by the hatred in his voice, that my head was spinning.

  “What was it you said back in Bodrum?” he asked. Then he put on an English voice, MY voice, and said sarcastically, “Girls who like footballers? Poor fools.” Then he became himself again. “What a piece o’ crap that turned out to be.”

  Then I realized where he was heading. I hadn’t told him about Robbie because I just couldn’t find the right moment – and OK, I admit, I thought it might sound a bit hypocritical after what I’d said when we first met.

  “Look, I know I should have told you,” I said quickly, “but I knew you wouldn’t like it and I—”

  “Thought you’d get away with it,” he finished.

  “No. Well … in a way,” I admitted. “I didn’t think it was that important.”

  “Yeah, ’cos it’s not IMPORTANT to know that I’ve been targeted,” he sneered.

  “Targeted?”

  “Yeah. Any footballer will do for girls like you,” he went on. “But what you didn’t bank on was me joining Netherfield Park Rangers!”

  I was stunned into silence.

  “NETHERFIELD PARK?” I finally managed to say. Then panic set in. “Stephen, I swear I had no idea you were a footballer! You just said you were between jobs!”

  “Well, that’s not what Robbie Wilkins would have me believe,” he replied. “Remember HIM?”

  He was being cruel now. “Obviously I do,” I said.

  “Nice guy, actually,” Stephen continued. “Offered to take me for a drink. ‘Och, no,’ I said, ‘I gotta meet a girl.’ ” Then he became angry again. “Shoulda seen his face when I told him your name. Says you’d do anything to be a WAG.”

  “If that’s what Robbie told you, he’s a liar! OK, I’m not saying it’s never crossed my mind, but with you it was completely different. I genuinely, GENUINELY fell for you.” There was silence. “Stephen?”

  But he was gone.

  5 p.m.

  I’ve Googled him. Stephen Campbell – Glasgow Rangers player. He damaged a knee ligament in a game against Dundee United six weeks ago and had an operation, and people were wondering if the English teams interested in buying him would change their minds. Because of his injury and all the pressure and speculation, his manager gave him some time off.

  That’s obviously when I met him in Turkey.

  Well, Stephen Campbell, you have truly broken my heart.

  Monday 2 February – Salon Opening Day! 8 a.m.

  It has been the toughest few weeks of my life. I’ve literally grieved for Stephen as if he’s died. I’ve thought of him as soon as I open my eyes and felt an ache in the pit of my stomach that has sometimes lasted a whole day. Without the salon to throw myself into, I don’t know what would have become of me. But I just knew I couldn’t let it fail. I’ve had to oversee the decorating, buy equipment, find staff, and finally I’ve spent the last few days leafleting what feels like every street in west London to announce the opening event. (I didn’t want to rely on my Facebook post.) Here’s what the leaflet looks like:

  Tah-dah! opening party

  6–8 p.m. 2 February

  Come and try a free treatment

  and get a glass of bubbly too!

  The free treatment and drink was my idea. Uncle Pete (my very cautious business partner) didn’t like it. He said that nothing in life should come for free. But I told him we needed a great promotion to get people through the doors in the winter months and then word would spread by spring. Then we’d have a great summer, which is the peak season for women getting treatments done.

  I quoted Deborah Gordon at him (as I have now read her autobiography): “If you give something away, make sure it’s something people will want again.” And why wouldn’t people want to pop into a salon and be golden brown within six minutes, with no damage to their skin?! Why wouldn’t they want a great wax, and the hottest nail colours on earth from manicures and pedicures that are 10% cheaper than Kara’s? My gamble is that they will, as long as the standard is good. And it will be – I’ll bloody make sure of that. Dad (my more easy-going business partner) agreed with me. God bless democracy.

  Today we have to buy the bubbly and snacks and make some last-minute touches to the salon to make sure it looks pristine. But most of all I want to enjoy tonight. This opening party feels like my reward, and I know it’s going to be sheer hard slog after this.

  5 p.m.


  Came home to get ready and found the most fabulous Victoria Beckham dress on my bed! Opened the card lying on top of it, which just said: Go get ’em sis! Love Malibu x

  I love Malibu so–ooooo much!

  11 p.m.

  I have a new number-one moment in the top-ten moments of my life!!

  Tonight couldn’t have gone better, even in my dreams. So many people turned up – friends, strangers, old workmates (Natasha and Blow-dry Sarah) and even enemies! Tara (spit, spit) Reid couldn’t resist the free champers, I suppose, but who cares? She set foot in MY salon and actually said something nice to me, for the first time ever (“Yeah, looks all right”).

  There were so many people that at one point we couldn’t fit them all in and had to take snacks out to them on the street.

  Mum came with Alan and tonight I was the nicest I’ve been to him for months. Mainly because Dad is clearly over Mum – a red-headed yummy mummy was on his arm when he arrived.

  “Very nice to meet you,” I said after Dad had introduced us.

  “And you. I hear you’re the new Deborah Gordon,” she said, smiling.

  Malibu and Gary were there, of course. Malibu’s all protruding belly but is so skinny everywhere else, you can’t even tell from behind that she’s pregnant. Gary looked so happy. He kept touching her tummy, and seeing that made me hope even more that the baby is his.

  Kellie/Jack came, still wrapped around each other at every given moment, and James was there too.