His spittle is hitting my face. I feel like I’m losing control, like this is some sort of out of body experience I’ll be telling my therapist about in years to come. I want this fight. I am relishing the prospect of this fight. But, seeing as I’ve never been in a rumble before, I don’t quite know how to start it,
“No one bullies my little sister but me, it’s my birthright, so I suggest you back the fuck off.”
“You back off, this is none of your business. Your sister is a cheating bitch.”
I’m *this* close to right hooking this jerk. Ten years of horrible break ups, unfulfilled promises, He Who Shall Not Be Named, Choda Boy, Crazy, Nick the Dick, Blue, tears, fights, broken hearts, broken promises, all those things that I had dreamed of and had never been, all of it comes up in a violent surge of rage directed at the asshole standing in front of me, and I start screaming,
“Who the hell do you think you are?! You, who are cheating on your wife? You have the fucking gall to judge someone for cheating on you? You deserve to be cheated on, you disgusting married cunt!”
Our eyes are locked. Everyone watching, including Emma, Dublin, the Stranger, dishy David, Juan and Arianna, are standing with their mouths open. I experience a short moment of fearful regret before I feel the punch land on the side of my face. It feels like a whiskey bottle has pounded my eye and the force pushes me to the floor.
Suddenly everything is happening at once. Men are yelling, women are screaming, Dublin and the Stranger are launching themselves at Rusty, who quick as a flash is out the front door. Arianna and Emma are hovering above, asking if I’m okay. I’m dazed. When I meet Emma’s worried and tear-filled eyes, I say the first thing that comes to mind,
“I cannot believe you slept with that yob.”
With Emma and Arianna on either side, I get lifted to my feet. The side of my face is throbbing. I touch my eye and feel it swelling already. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
“Oh Penny, I’m so sorry,” Emma says between sobs.
“Stop crying, it’s for the weak. Oh, and remember that time we were kids, when I lured you under the trampoline, jumped on your head and gave you a concussion?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, as of now, we’re even.”
***
Half an hour later I’m sitting on the kitchen counter, pressing a bag of frozen peas to my face. I think back to that brief moment of happiness when the Stranger arrived tonight, smiling shyly in his red t-shirt. Seems that whenever I get some good-guy karma the universe punishes me with a punch in the face, literal or metaphoric. Engagement ring, devastating break up. The Stranger at Loft, the Stranger at the fundraiser. Red t-shirt, getting decked in the eye.
And how the hell am I going to go to the wedding tomorrow? I have a black eye. I will be going to my boss’s wedding, with a black eye. What kind of respected professional gets herself in a situation where she gets punched in the face? Actually, scratch that last sentence. I bet there are plenty of lawyers who get punched in the face on a daily basis. In fact, it might be something I can spin to my advantage... (Yeah, I was in court defending a bunch of Nicaraguan orphans from a crazy ginger slave trader who wanted to put them on the black market for organ donation. I was like, one of those lawyer ninjas, if ninjas carried briefcases instead of expandable spears, and I was so good I got punched by the defendant. That’s how good I was).
The only good thing that has come out of this mess is the Stranger. Instead of running for the hills on discovering the girl he wore red for is a loose cannon, he’s done the opposite. He carried me to the kitchen and propped me up on the counter like I weighed nothing (I’ve changed my mind about gyms by the way. Gyms good. Gyms give man strong arms to lift Penny with). Then he’d gone to fetch an ice pack from the freezer. On discovering none he had returned with the next best thing – a bag of peas.
“Is all they have,” he had smiled as he placed the bag gently over my eye.
He and I have been sitting / standing in silence for a while now. I’m perched on the counter top, he is in front of me, standing between my green-clad legs. I can only see him out of one eye but damn he looks fine. His short dark hair can’t disguise the rich curls of a Spaniard. His dark blue eyes are perfectly sized and positioned around the strong, even bones of his face. He smells good too. Like cinnamon and earth and sunshine (yeah, I know, another lame thing to say, but I can’t help myself. This guy is the tits!).
“Do you think I went too far?” I ask him.
“No, I no think so. He deserve it. You are sexy, Penelope, like a firecracker!”
My swollen eye doesn’t seem to have deterred his passion. He puts both hands under my thighs and pulls me into him. He smiles that gorgeous smile, cocking his head to the side to kiss me underneath the pea bag, which is rapidly melting and dripping down the side of my face and shoulder. Just wonderful. But the Stranger doesn’t seem to mind, so neither do I. I take his face in my free hand, and we share our first ‘sweet’ kiss. You know that couple-crossroads where you go from lustful shallowness to dare I say it, love?
Oh who am I kidding, I love him already. I’ve loved him since… Well let’s have a think. Definitely since last Friday, but probably since Emma’s birthday when we shared our first Jäger (romantic, huh?). I love him I love him I love him! I want to tattoo his name on my butt and cover his body in whipped cream and buy a house together and have lots of little olive-skinned babies.
[Another side note: this is a very confusing time for my body. My uterus is screaming ‘get married and have kids!’ while both left and right sides of my brain are responding with ‘are you insane’? And it’s rare indeed for Left and Right to work together these days].
Anyway, despite what I think of love and what I want for the future, despite the throbbing skin on my face and the utter humiliation of the night, I’m flying.
He pulls me in for another kiss then says,
“I must go now.”
But but but… you can’t go!
“Oh no, why?”
“I wake at 4:00 a.m. today to catch flight. I very tired. I see you soon, florecita.”
He gently pulls the hand holding the bag of peas away from my eye. And to my utter shock and delight, he gently kisses my now slightly-less red eye (furious icing has decreased the swelling a little). His kiss is as delicate as a butterfly’s. It’s such a tender gesture that I start to truly believe he might feel something for me.
Emboldened, in love and not wanting this feeling to end, I go where no Jones girls has gone before. Taking a deep breath, I ask the Stranger out,
“I have a wedding I’m going to tomorrow. Would you like to come with me?”
He thinks for a moment,
“What time it start?”
“It’s in Brighton, so I’ve booked a car to pick me up at 10:00. If you’re at my place at 9:30 that could work?”
“Okay. I see you tomorrow morning.”
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! I’m doing those Rocky Balboa celebration jumps again but this time in my head. The most beautiful man in the world is coming to the wedding with me! It’s the best thing I could have hoped for. Could it be? Could Penelope Jones be set for a fairytale ending after all?
He kisses me goodbye and leaves. And just as I begin to swim in dreams of many a long night snuggled into the sofa with him…
“Hey Captain Strangerpants!”
You couldn’t mistake that stalker-ish voice for any other. Stalker Sam and Mags amble into the kitchen, hand in hand, huge smiles plastered on their faces. They see me with my bag of melted peas and their smiles disappear.
“Oh gee. Hey guys,” I press the watery bag to my face a little harder.
“Hi lovely, hope you don’t mind, Emma let us in,” Mags gives me a quick hug then pulls back, “what happened to your face?”
I tell them the story. I probably shouldn’t, seeing as Stalker and I work together, but hell, it’s not exactly like I can hide it. I’m thinking the Nicaraguan orphans won�
�t cut the mustard.
“Oh my goodness, what a meanie!” Mags gasps at the end of my tale of punch-in-the-eye woe.
“You look like you could use a hug,” Stalker adds, lifting his arms up, large sweat patches underneath the pits.
“Uh, no thanks,” I shuffle to the side of the counter, “what I could use is a drink. There’s a cooler box in the lounge room, could you grab us something?”
“No problemo,” he winks and walks out, just as Emma walks in.
“There you are,” she says to Mags, “thanks for coming, it’s been way too long since I’ve seen you.”
“I know, I am so sorry, I hear you and Chloe made up the other night?”
“Yeah, it was a stupid fight. Who’s the guy?” Emma asks.
“He works with Penny,” Mags nods at me, “we’ve been on two dates. I wasn’t sure what to make of him after the first night but he seemed to relax today. On our first date he kept saying, ‘damn girl’ every few sentences, which was a little odd I thought? But tonight he explained that he thinks I’m way out of his league and couldn’t relax, which is why he was acting strange.”
“So you’re no longer a brother from another mother?” I ask her.
“What’s that?” Mags asks innocently.
“Never mind,” I open my bag of peas and start eating them.
“So have you had The Talk with him yet?” Emma asks Mags.
As they chat I pick up my phone to text Chloe. I notice that she hasn’t been in touch all night. That’s weird, she normally would have dropped me a line about how shit a time she was having with Antonio, or how good the soft shell crab was. Instead there’s a message I’m completely unprepared for. It’s He Who Shall Not Be Named.
Hey Dumpling. Missing me?
Well I never. He hasn’t been in touch since we met up six months ago. When I did the Terrible Thing. I text back,
Like I’d miss a venereal disease. How could you have said those things about me to the Lloyds guys?
My phone pings a few moments later,
Was just saying you’re a demon in the sack, you should be flattered. Wanna come over tonight?
What?! My god I can’t believe I was about to marry this mouthbreather, although I’m surprisingly pleased at his suggestion of my sexual prowess. Yeah bitches, I knew I was good, it’s just that no one had gotten ‘round to telling me yet. I don’t consider the consequences as I type back,
I’d rather swallow glass, and not just because of your teeny tiny useless excuse for a penis. Later, loser
Then I type a message to Chloe,
Hi pet, how was your time with Antonio, did you kids have fun? You won’t believe this but the Stranger rocked up tonight wearing a red t-shirt. Red, Chlo! It’s the grand declaration of monogamy! Anyway, I know it’s super late notice but I kinda asked him if he’d go with me tomorrow and he said yes. I’m so sorry, I know I’ve dashed your dreams of wedding cake and slow dancing with me, it’s just that I knew you really didn’t want to go, then he was here in all his red glory, and I just sort of asked him… Is that okay?
I’m all too aware of my text-rambling, but I feel rather guilty. I hate it when people change plans on me last minute, my patience imploding like a popped balloon if someone gives me less than 24 hours notice. Yet here I am giving Chloe substantially less than that. Did someone say hypocrite? But I press the ‘send’ key anyway.
Stalker walks back into the room with a four-pack of Magners. He hands them around and I lift mine up to my eye. The more icing is done the less black it will become (I saw it once on an episode of House).
“Is it still hurting?” Emma asks.
“It’ll be fine, I’m more embarrassed than anything. I mean, getting punched by a psycho is one thing. Getting punched by a ginger psycho is quite another.”
“Why?” Mags asks.
“Because male gingers are mutants.”
“That’s racism!” Emma exclaims.
“I’m kidding! You know how I feel about Prince Harry. Anyway, where’s Dublin?”
Emma hops up on the counter to sit beside me.
“He left, I guess it’s for the best. But seriously Penny that was incredible what you did in there, thank you.”
She gives my leg a squeeze.
“Don’t thank me, thank the Satan voice I sometimes hear in my head. I know it’s him because he’s the only one who speaks with an English accent.”
“I love it when you hear that voice!” Mags squeals, “remember the time that guy pinched me on the butt and you started calling him an anti-feminist and threw your kebab in his face?”
“Okay, that’s not quite how it went down. First of all, he vagina grabbed you, which is very different to a bum pinch. Second, it was a lump of foil which had previously contained a kebab.”
Sam laughs,
“Don’t worry dog, the fire in your belly is a good thing. I shouldn’t be telling you this but at work everyone goes through you to speak with Sarah. You’re the only one ballsy enough, and that includes the guys.”
“Really?” I can’t believe it, but Stalker has touched something deep inside, in a non-pervy way, “wow, good to know. Thanks Sam.”
Maybe it’s how besotted Mags looks as she gazes at him, or that I was swept off my feet tonight by a red t-shirt, or maybe it’s just the concussion talking, but for the first time I see Stalker for who he really is – a harmless idiot. With his sweat-pitted arm draped around Mags, his doting eyes smothering her with love and devotion (‘love and devotion, baby, I can’t get enough of all that love and devotion…’) I finally see the unassuming, unfashionable guy beneath the onion-layers of pretence. It’s odd, isn’t it? I had thought he was such a slimeball when we first met, with all the compliments and lurking-in-corridor tendencies.
I’m so happy to see Mags all lovey-eyed that I pop down off the counter and give her another hug. Then Emma suggests we do shots because apparently alcohol helps black eyes (I didn’t see that one on House...). Stalker runs out to find Arianna’s stash of tequila while Emma, Mags and I hunt for salt and lemons. The four of us spend the rest of the night dancing in the kitchen to YouTube clips. I manage to get two consecutive Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For Yous before Emma switches the clip to Best of ABBA, all two hours and fifty three minutes of it.
Catching a cab home later I start thinking of how lucky I am. Despite the punch in the face this has been one of the best nights of my life. I wonder what the Stranger will wear tomorrow? I wonder if we’ll hold hands and kiss and eat off each other’s forks and come back home together and snuggle.
Life just does not get any better than this.
Saturday - A Georgian Toast
It’s 11:00 a.m. before I finally accept that I’ve been stood up. The morning has turned into one of those haunting, gut-wrenching life capsules where I’ll look back and think, How? How could I possibly have thought that I, Penelope Amelia Jones, would have a happy ending? God would never let me be happy. God doesn’t want me to be happy.
It’s all down to karma. I’ve done wa-hay too much shitty stuff in my life. Like the time I ran over that pigeon but didn’t stop the car (I’m scared of pigeons). The time I ate three cheeseburgers in front of a friend who was trying to get into modelling and was slowly going insane from her diet of celery sticks and diet Lukozade. The time I did a Terrible Thing to my ex fiancé.
I woke today at zero-seven-hundred-hours feeling like a ray of freekin’ sunshine, a big stupid smile plastered on my big stupid face. I had literally launched myself out of bed with excitement and anticipation. I took a shower, washed my hair, blow dried then curled it into those long waves I do when I’m trying to look sophistimacated. I styled it half up, half down then put on some statement earrings. I powdered my arms and chest with glitter bronzer, then oh so carefully put on the dress of the day.
I’d chosen my shoelace strapped, satin cocktail number. It’s one of those naked Rihanna dresses, knee length, with a slit halfway between my hips and knees.
I know I know, it’s the wrong colour and a little (maybe a lot) risqué, but this is a revenge get up. A few months ago Angrypants sent me a job to do on a Saturday afternoon (due on Sunday morning) and I’d got so pissed off that I’d decided to wear a sensual, erotic dress to her wedding. That’d learn her.
The thing is, bronzer and nude-coloured dresses don’t gel well, and I had found myself with a trickle of beige stains down the front. I had to take it off and rinse it out, then do a quick hair drier job on the fabric. Now it’s looking a wee bit splotchy, and a lot crinkly. But no matter, because the Stranger would be here soon.
I spent ages applying foundation and concealer to ugmo face-bruise. The skin on my left cheekbone had grown puffy overnight and the colour of my eye had morphed from blood red to purple. The make-up helped, but the area still looked squinty and discoloured. But no matter, because the Stranger would be here soon.
9:30 a.m. came and went. I still wasn’t panicking. The Stranger would be here soon. I made myself a coffee and put on an episode of Man v Food to while away the minutes.
9:45 a.m. The driver called saying he was on his way but might be a little late. The first pricks of worry had started to settle in (that nauseous tummy churning feeling). I had told the Stranger to be here at 9:30. Where was he? Why hadn’t he messaged or called? I had picked up my phone and typed,
Hey, are you on your way?
10:00 a.m. and worry had officially settled in. I found myself staring at his status on Whatsapp. It said that his phone had received my message (the two ticks sign) but that the last time he’d been seen was at 23:44 last night. Plus the ticks weren’t blue, so I couldn’t assume he’d seen them. Not good. Where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he checking his phone and replying? Thinking Whatsapp might not be completely reliable I had followed up with a text and a phone call, which rang out.
10:15 a.m. and the driver called saying he was downstairs. I told him I needed a few more minutes, then had tried the Stranger again. No answer. I tried a third time for good measure. Yep, the phone was ringing, but no Spanish accented voice was presenting itself at the other end.
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