Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  He walks with me to the kitchen and we sit down at the sterile, white tables.

  I’m annoyed and reluctant at first, but over a steaming hot mug of brew I end up telling him the story of The Really Awful Breakup. When I finish he says that he can’t imagine a guy acting that way. I shrug my shoulders and tell him it’s standard. Men have treated me and some of the most beautiful women I know (Emma, Mags and Chloe) worse than you’d treat a lump of dog shit stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

  When I mention Mags his eyes light up,

  “Can I throw something on you dog, see if it feels good?”

  “Umm... no?”

  He laughs,

  “What I mean is, can I run an idea past you?”

  Oh.

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “I can take the Lloyds job so you don’t have to see your ex again. I’ll take the calls, respond to every email, go to the meetings, you dig? You can help me with the lease reviews and writing the report, but that’s it. Whadya reckon?”

  “Really?” I’m suspicious. What’s in it for him?

  “Sure,” he replies, “a friend in need and all that, plus it’s not like I have a huge amount on my plate. But there’s a catch.”

  “If you’re thinking sexual blackmail, talk to the hand,” I joke, lifting my palm and smiling. It’s my first genuine smile of the day. It feels good.

  “C’mon, how desperate do you think I am?”

  Pretty desperate.

  “It’s about your friend Mags. We hung out on Saturday and I thought it we had fun, but she hasn’t returned my messages. Do you know what’s up?”

  Your teeth.

  “I, uh, don’t remember her saying anything...”

  “Help me with her and I’ll do the Lloyds job myself, no questions asked.”

  My immediate reaction is to say no. First, I’m almost certain he’s a male slimeball, and why would I go double agent to help the enemy? Second, I can’t very well force Mags to date someone who repulses her whenever his toothy mouth approaches. Even if I did manage to convince her to see him again, it would be entirely under her duress, and Mags is too nice to be placed in such a position.

  Besides, the whole ‘set your friends up’ thing always turns into a train wreck catastrophe of epic proportions. I’ve been there. You set two of your mates up. One likes the other, but the other doesn’t feel the same way. One ends up feeling rejected (Why didn’t they want to see me again? What, am I ugly or something?), the other insulted (“You really thought he/she was good enough for me? What, am I ugly or something?). So the setter-upperer (me) invariably gets a bollocking from both parties. Worst case scenario both friends never want to speak to you again. Best case scenario you’ve sabotaged what had been two perfectly happy, healthy friendships, and are forced to undertake outrageously expensive damage control (“I just bought two tickets to Euro Disney, want to come? My treat!”) just to erase the shame and guilt you feel for having set them up in the first place.

  Would I really risk my sisterhood with Mags just to avoid seeing Lloyds Voldemort?

  “Sure Sam, I’ll help.”

  ***

  After agreeing to Stalker’s terms I race to my desk and call Mags. I’m expecting resistance or at least apprehension, but Mags jumps at the chance to see him again,

  “He wants to see me that much? How precious. It’s funny because I wasn’t sure if he liked me.”

  I inquire as to her cryptic statement. Clearly this guy is besotted, no man in his right mind would offer to do a transaction solo unless he was getting something very valuable in return.

  “Why did you think that?” I ask.

  “I may not have told you the full story of what happened Saturday night.”

  Mags goes on to describe a most unfortunate first date story. Stalker had offered to drive, and had met her outside her place. Walking out in a short dress and heels, Mags was a little surprised to find he had parked his car and was loitering at her front gate. He had asked where the nearest bar was. She said the Red Pearl, which was “just up the road”. He had smiled happily and declared that they were going to walk, because fresh air is good, cars aren’t environmentally friendly, and petrol too expensive in this day and age.

  Surprised, Mags had paused for a moment before following. When she had said “just up the road” she had meant it in car terms. A five minute car trip was a twenty minute stiletto stagger, which in a skimpy dress wasn’t particularly pleasant. She was tempted to take off her Louboutins because the soles were getting damaged, but she thought it would look silly walking barefoot. The outcome? Her most beautiful prized heels, destroyed.

  At the Red Pearl Sam had gone all deep and meaningful on her. He had bombarded her with question such as, “If you had the choice between being happy or knowing the truth, what would it be?” “What would you stand for if you knew no one would judge you?” “Is it better to strive for excellence or seek self acceptance?” After each question Mags would answer with an uncertain, “What do you mean by that, exactly?” She had started to feel insecure, thinking she wasn’t smart enough or spiritual enough or whatever enough for his tastes.

  Mags continues her story for quite some time. At the end I’m agog, and feeling extremely guilty for asking her to go through all that again.

  “Honey, don’t take this the wrong way but that sounds like an atrocious experience. Are you sure you don’t mind going out with him again?”

  “Not at all, if it’ll help you I’d be glad to. Besides, maybe Sam was just really nervous the first time.”

  Mags is such a good person. As we hang up Stalker races across the office to ask me how it went. My expression of disgust says it all,

  “You didn’t pay?”

  Maybe it’s the tone of revulsion in my voice, but all of a sudden Stalker looks very uncomfortable. He starts to loosen his tie,

  “She offered, and then I wasn’t sure what to do, so I, umm...”

  Utterly at a loss, I place my head in my hands and start shaking it in exasperation,

  “You don’t take up a girl’s offer to pay, Sam. The guy always pays if he’s the one who requested the first date, how can you not know this?”

  I lower my voice and motion for him to come in closer,

  “You should always pay on the first couple of dates, it shows initiative and manners. Plus, courtship is so not egalitarian, and I’m tired of all you men insisting that it should be. Us girls spend thousands of pounds on clothes and shoes and make up, and hundreds of hours making ourselves look nice for you. How would you like it if we rocked up to a first date make-up free with greasy hair, rockin’ our sweaty gym clothes? You’d feel a little disrespected, yeah? So the theory goes that for all the waxings and haircuts and straightenings and the threadings and pedis and facials and the budget blowing outfits, the least you can do is pick up the bloody cheque!”

  He looks crestfallen and I quickly backtrack. He is doing me huge favour, after all.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s been a rough day. Would you mind if I give you a tip for your next date?”

  I tell him that besides weird abstract philosophical questions, on a first date one should be wary about raising politics, religion, past relationships, sexual fantasies, animal rights, immigration, euthanasia, abortion, unions, Scottish independence, legalised prostitution, minimum wage, the war on drugs… Then I realise the list of first date conversation killers is as long as the length of a football pitch, so I cheat and give him the golden rule: Any topic that has the potential to trigger a conversational tripwire is a no-no.

  He seems sincere in his multiple thank-yous and returns to his desk. I unlock my laptop, sign in and open my spreadsheet. I notice that I’m smiling. I gotta be honest here, I am absolutely chuffed as to how this has all worked out. I don’t have to see wanker-loser-ex-fiancé ever again, and Mags and Stalker get a second chance at romance. I’m in such a good mood that I start singing to myself. Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but h
ere’s my number so call me maybe… and all other boys try to chase me, but here’s my number, so call me maybe. La la la.

  I don’t notice Stalker creeping back.

  “So what should we talk about, if we’re not supposed to talk about so much stuff?”

  I offer him a couple of ideas. Favourite movies, books, foods, TV shows, concerts she’d like to see, music she’s into, what she does in her spare time, what he does in his spare time, how she spends her weekends, travel.

  An hour later and he’s followed me to the kitchen.

  “Should I buy her flowers?”

  “Sure, why not?” I reply, stirring sugar into my tea.

  “What kind?”

  “Roses. Pink or red, those colours mean you fancy her. Yellow roses mean friendship, white mean sympathy. Don’t get those.”

  “Got it, red or pink. What kind of cuisine does she like?”

  “Italian is always safe.”

  “Awesome, mega. Do you know any good Italian restaurants?”

  “Bice.”

  “And what should I wear?”

  Oh geeeeeez. He’s so annoying! I make a particularly violent spoon-swirl in my tea.

  “I don’t know Sam, whatever you’d wear to see a client I suppose. Suit pants and a shirt. No tie.”

  I gently pick up my tea by the top rim. I’ve filled it to the brim and the danger of overflow is very real.

  “Awesome! Thanks dog.” Stalker says, whacking me on the back. The tea spills over the rim and burns my fingers.

  I yell “crap!” as the hot water singes my fingers but Stalker doesn’t notice. In his excitement he’s bolted out of the kitchen, probably wanting to add to his mental list of inane-dating-questions-to-ask-Penny.

  Dear God, please give me the strength not to kill this guy. At least, not until the Lloyds deal is done. Also, if it's not too much to ask, please remove all calories from chocolate, red wine and cheeseburgers. Amen.

  Wednesday – Blue

  I’m running back to the office in sheer, blind panic.

  Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.

  I cannot believe I spaced on the Schmermesco teleconference!

  I felt bad for not returning Chloe’s call on Monday so took her out for a coffee first chance I got. I’d have taken her out to lunch but, you know, we don’t do lunches at Gribbles. Over coffee we started talking about this, then that, then this again… After what felt like fifteen minutes I checked my phone and screamed. We’d been chatting for over an hour! A millisecond later I was outta there, running through the heavy glass doors and yelling to a baffled Chloe (and the whole of Pret) that I’d call her later.

  I race into a waiting elevator and start pressing the close button furiously. I check my Blackberry to see if anyone’s tried reaching me. Nope. I check my Galaxy. Nope. I put both back in my bag but the Samsung immediately buzzes.

  Shit, I knew it, the Tesco guys are already waiting. Angrypants is gonna kill me!

  But when I check who it is my heart skips a beat.

  Why did you not message me yesterday?

  I can’t believe it. He messaged. The Stranger messaged!

  I burst out of the lift (it’s more of a shambling jog now as opposed to panic run) and into the conference room. Angrypants is already there, arms crossed, face sour as a lemon with those creepy lips thin as strings. Her large, quick, shining eyes are shooting shardy daggers my way, but they don’t dampen my spirits. Because he messaged.

  “You’re five minutes late. You be thanking your lucky stars Tesco haven’t dialed in yet.”

  “I’m wonderful thanks, how about yourself?” I reply, ignoring her comment.

  I smile broadly and collapse into a chair. She doesn’t answer for a moment, then relaxes,

  “This goddam Phoenix job is giving me grey hairs and cheek twitches.”

  “You excited about the wedding? Only a few days now!”

  I can’t believe how happy I’m sounding. All this over a seven-word Whatsapp message? Geez I’m pathetic.

  “The wedding has been an utter ball ache, and the lack of competency at this firm hasn’t helped matters. I’ve been drowning trying to fill in for the Italian Real Estate Partner, who wouldn’t know a decent communiqué if one hit him in the face.”

  She takes a deep breath before continuing,

  “You’re bringing your friend Chloe on Saturday, aren’t you? I think I may have misspelt her name on the place card, I’ll email you later.”

  We hear a soft dial and see the Tesco number flash. I forget about the Stranger for exactly fifty minutes, the length of time it takes for us to give our client the weekly update. After the teleconference ends, I try to wait just a little longer before responding to the Stranger.

  I hold out for exactly seventeen more minutes.

  Hey, no reason, just very busy with work. How are you?

  A few seconds later I see the green light flash.

  Good. And you?

  Boy, this guy really is a man of few words. My phone flashes again and I see a message from Emma.

  Hey sis, can’t wait for tonight. It’s gonna be brill!

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. I don’t have plans tonight, do I? I dial her number.

  “Hey Em, what’s this about tonight?”

  I listen to my sister’s excited voice and a minute later sheets of cold sweat start pouring down my back.

  “You couldn’t have been serious?” I ask her.

  “Of course I was. You know I always help organise the Childreach benefit, and this year is our first costume competition.”

  I let out an anxious squeak,

  “And the Beautiful People are going?”

  “Yeah, I’ve invited everyone.”

  “Em, I can’t!”

  “What do you mean? You have to come, we’re supposed to be matching. My costume doesn’t work without yours. You promised!”

  “The Stranger will be there, I can’t rock up dressed like that. What’ll he think?”

  “I can’t believe you’re refusing to wear the greatest costume of all time just because of some guy. What happened to Miss Independent?”

  She’s got a point. Nonetheless I continue to fight until Emma sounds on the verge of tears. Only then do I reluctantly agree,

  “Okay already! Quit ya whinin’, I’ll come over after work.”

  I hang up.

  Shit.

  ***

  “Isn’t this fun!” Emma laughs, waving to people as we pass the ticket checkers.

  I try to distract myself from my mortification by focusing on the venue. I gotta admit, Emma and her team have done a fantastic job, the gardens look fabulous. The trees and shrubs have fairy lights woven through their branches and the marquee is lit up by soft pink and purple lights. Banners, streamers and balloons dot the area. The place looks better than fabulous. It’s magnificent. Kudos Emma, your creative wand has once again woven its magic.

  “You’ve done a great job sis. Why couldn’t you have made us look good too?”

  Emma laughs,

  “It’s just a bit of fun Penny, and this way we’ll win the best costume award for sure!”

  We shuffle our way over to the drinks stand and I notice the place is covered with posters of starving African children. This year they’re raising money for the West African food crisis. I refuse to meet anyone’s eyes. Not only is it the most horrendous and embarrassing costume in history, but it’s extremely un-PC. I stare down at the lovely manicured grass, eyes locked on the flood lights.

  “Hey look, two giant M&Ms!” I hear a shout from behind.

  How could we have thought that dressing up as giant chocolates to a starving children fundraiser was a good idea?

  Months ago, when Emma and I were brainstorming ideas for the benefit (a meeting I had promptly forgotten about) we had come up with some ace ideas – Axl and Slash, Waldo and Wenda, the princesses from Frozen, Sulley and Mike from Monster’s Inc. But Emma had declared all those
ideas trite and boring. Then stupid me had joked,

  “Maybe we can go as giant M&Ms?”

  Unbeknownst to me, a week later Emma had found the only shop in London that stocks M&M costumes and put two on hold for tonight. Walking into her apartment after work earlier today, I saw the giant monstrosities draped on her couch.

  “No way baby. There is no way I’m wearing that.” I had declared, fully intending on sticking to my guns.

  Then a minute later,

  “Can’t someone else be your partner? What about Arianna?”

  Another minute later,

  “Fine! I’ll put it on, stop crying already!”

  As we dressed, Emma could barely contain her excitement while I kept begging her to reconsider. But nothing would deter her. She was to be the red M&M, I the yellow peanut, end of.

  Most annoyingly of all, my little sister has managed to pull it off. Her pixie-like face is surrounded by the scarlet fur of the costume but framed by her brown hair. Her super slim Alexa Chung legs look gorgeous in the black tights and knee-high white boots we’re both wearing. Her giant round outfit ends just below her bum, then her perfect pins begin. She looks like a sweet candy doll straight out of the Good Ship Lollipop.

  I, on the other hand, look like a grumpy lawyer stuck in a urine-yellow Easter egg costume. The only size they had was a large, so instead of the costume finishing at my bum like Emmas, it ends below my knees. It sags around my waist and thighs. I am a big, fat, ugly, yellow blob. And award for the worst costume of the evening goes to Penelope Jones, for even attempting to make a peanut M&M into anything more than a delicious chocolatey snack.

  My humiliation is momentarily relieved when I catch sight of some dude in a massive KFC-bucket-of-chicken costume. Phew. He’ll take the heat off.

  “Em, remind me why we had to do this?”

  “To win the prize of course, five hundred pounds is nothing to sneeze at. Did you want a drink?”

  She wanders off to chat with some of her work mates at the bar. I consider following but think better of it. I should really try to keep my presence here on the down low. Maybe if I’m real lucky no one will see me. Obviously, I’m most worried about the Stranger. Maybe he won’t even come though, those Spaniards are so inconsistent. The say they’ll come out and they don’t, or they say they won’t come out and they do.