10:30 a.m. and I had sent another message,
Hi, where are you? Are you just running late or are you not coming? I really need to know, the driver’s waiting.
Taxi man was kind when I called back explaining the situation (replace the word ‘explain’ with ‘tell a porky’ and ‘situation’ with ‘how I had a cue tip stuck in my ear and needed to extract it’). He told me not to rush and that he’d happily wait until 11:00 a.m. for an extra twenty quid.
It is now 11:01 a.m. and the Stranger is ninety one and a half minutes late. I have finally gotten it through my thick skull that he isn’t coming, and if there was a ledge I could jump off I would do just that. As it stands I’m only on the second floor, so I’d just break a leg or something, and that wouldn’t achieve much. I’d still be alive, still feeling this head throbbing, tummy turning, overpoweringly cutting sense of soul-grief. It feels like my stomach has dropped to somewhere near my feet. I feel exposed. Raw. Steak tartare raw.
Thinking I might throw up I walk to my bathroom and sit on the toilet seat. Unable to control the crestfallen feeling of disappointment I grab a big wad of toilet paper and start sobbing into it. This time reminding myself that it’s weak isn’t helping, and the sobs continue unchecked. It’s sort of painful because bits of tissue paper are getting stuck in my eyelashes and rub against my eyeballs.
I think back to last night. I can’t believe I fell for it, I had actually believed his red t-shirt meant something, that his kisses had been sweet because he cared, that he wanted to be with me properly when I knew, I fucking knew, he has no feelings.
Love… My god. Love. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we let ourselves get this way? Love unlocks your chest and heart and means that some stupid loser, no different from any other loser, can get inside and mess you all up. The Stranger didn’t ask for it. The Stranger didn’t want it. He did something dumb yesterday, wearing a t-shirt to joke around about being in a relationship, and stupid me had taken it seriously. Stupid me had opened myself up and my life wasn’t mine anymore. I was his, imagining that he might be mine, that we’d have holidays and anniversaries together and he’d think I was the most amazing person on the planet and buy me Saturday morning pastries. Then with a careless, indifferent gesture like not showing up today, he ripped me out and left me crying like a rainstorm in this stupid bathroom with it’s stupid basin and it’s stupid shower which keeps clogging so that every time I bathe I feel like I’m having a half-shower, half-bath.
Worse than feeling stupid, I feel irresponsible. How could I have been so rash, recklessly blundering into another situation where I could get hurt? How could I have let this happen after He Who Shall Not Be Named? Haven’t I learnt my lesson by now? Men are bad for me. End of story.
After a few minutes of the Waterworks-and-Self-Pity show, my Right Brain starts talking back to emotional, cry-baby Left brain. Are you serious? You’re crying over this jerk? Get your shit together woman, he isn’t worth it and you know he isn’t worth it. I mean, when Patrick Swayze died, that was worth crying over. There was a man who made billions of women drool with his shirt drenching dance moves and not putting Baby in the corner. Not to mention that song (She’s like the wind, through my tree-e-e...) Awesome tune. And here you sit, crying over a nobody shithead who has never composed a number one hit in his entire life? Girl, you are bonkers. Stop crying and at least try to lift yourself out of this.
And so Right Brain takes over, but because there is still so much emotional glass splintered pain in my body which needs to be released, Right Brain channels it into the only other outlet available: Rage. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. Just who the hell does he think he is anyway?
I grow angry, then angrier, and soon I’m so worked up I begin to worry about walking back into the kitchen where my phone is. If I touch that keypad right now I’ll be sending the Stranger a message so abusive, so absolutely incredibly totally vile that it might classify as inhumane (or turn into a stream of incoherent gibberish). Either way, it’d be bad. It’ll make me look stupid and mean. It will make me look like I care, and I’ve done enough of that to last me a lifetime.
Composing myself, I walk back to the kitchen and try calling Chloe again. I’d been trying to reach her all morning to apologise for the last minute cancellation and check on how her date went. She hasn’t answered any of my calls, and doesn’t answer this one. I’m pissed off, and it shows in the voice message I leave,
“Chlo, where are you? What’s going on? Why aren’t you answering your phone or my messages? The Stranger stood me up. He stood me up. And now it looks like you’re pissed because I cancelled on you even though you told me repeatedly how you didn’t want to go to this stupid wedding. Or you’re having amazing morning sex with Antonio. Either way, screw you! I’m sorry if you’re upset with me but I need you! I have a face that looks like a vacuum cleaner’s been sucking on it all night, and life is shit. Life is really fucking shit!”
I regret it as soon as I hang up. Oh nice one Penny, reaaal nice. Now not only are you a stood up loser, you’re a rude, hypocritical stood up loser. I cancelled on Chloe last minute and I have the audacity to leave her an abusive voicemail? I immediately call back, leave her an apology then try Mags. Mercifully, she picks up,
“Hi Penny!” She chirps.
“He didn’t come.”
“What? I can’t believe that. Maybe he’s just late?”
“Believe it, because he’s an hour and a half late and isn’t returning my calls. He isn’t coming and Chloe isn’t picking up either. I have a black eye, no date, no friends and no dignity.”
“Don’t say that, I’m your friend. Besides, there’ll be plenty of other people at the wedding.”
“What, the fine folk of the singles table? The paunchy accountant and sickly old man and twelve year old nephew from Newcastle?”
Maybe Angrypants was right, maybe I don’t wanna sit at the Singles Table after all...
“Well… Yes there’ll be those, but you might meet someone nice. I’m sure Chloe would still go if she knew. I’d come but I’m tutoring all day. What about Emma?”
“She rock climbs Saturday mornings.”
“Oh Penny, I’m so sorry. You can go on your own, there’s no shame in that.”
“What about Angrypants? She makes me feel like a failure every minute of every day, and now I have to confirm it with my conspicuously absent plus one?”
After a bit more self-indulgent moaning and many reassuring words from Mag, I feel marginally better. I let her get back to that unrepentant brat she tutors on weekends. She does it for a bit of extra cash. He’s one of those rich Southwest snobs with ‘developmental’ problems. i.e. he’s a mean little shit.
I call the driver to say I’m coming down. I don’t really have a choice. Chucking a sickie at work is one thing. Chucking a sickie to your boss’ wedding when you’re the only one of her colleagues who has been invited, well, that’s quite another.
Feeling emptier and more worthless than I have in a long time, I slowly lock my door behind me and make my way down the staircase. My step slows as I approach the General’s door and hear voices wafting out. That’s odd, the General never gets visitors. His daughter lives in San Francisco with her family. Maybe it’s the vet? I really should have checked in on him yesterday. The General and Captain are worth a thousand times more than some cliché Spanish wannabe fantasy wearing a red t-shirt.
The voices grow louder as I near the door. One of them I recognise as the ever jovial voice of the General, and the second one…
Blue walks out of Mr Harold’s door. Instinctively I shift my head to the left to hide my black eye. I push down my fringe and decide to leave my hand up to my face, blocking him seeing any more. Although it’s kinda pointless because he’s already spotted it, his smile morphing into a concerned frown,
“Hey Peanut!” he exclaims, “what the… What happened to your face? You look like a giant eggplant.”
Shyness gone (eggplant? I’
ll show you eggplant!) I indignantly place both hands on my hips, baring the ugly bruise in all its glory,
“Oh gee, thanks. Thanks so much for making me want to kill myself less today.”
“Anytime.”
It can’t possibly look that bad, can it? I start to reconsider going to the wedding. If my face looks like the world’s ugliest vegetable I’ll end up frightening people. They’ll think I’m a freak and chase me out of the church with pitchforks and holy water. Maybe I’ll just keep my sunglasses on all day, regardless of how Kardashian-diva it’ll look?
Blue notices I’m not going to reply to his remark so continues,
“Where are you off to, all dressed up?”
“The ninth circle of hell. What’re you doing in my building anyway?”
“Thought I’d pop in to see Mr Harold. Turns out Captain ate a pack of nicotine laced transdermal patches that day at the park. He’s recovering at the vets. But seriously babe, what happened to your face?”
“None of your beeswax. I have to go, I’m running late.”
I turn away but he steps forward and reaches his arm out. He takes hold of my elbow and turns me back to face him. I look up to meet his eyes and raise my eggplanted-eyebrow. I’m giving him my most incensed look. Nobody touches me without being expressly invited to do so,
“Can I help you?” I huff.
His eyes are bright with anxiety.
“If that pretty boy did this, I’ll kill him.”
Say what now?
“Admitting there’s a problem is the first step.”
I stand there like a mute bat, mouth slightly open, until I register what he’s suggesting.
“Oh. Oh my gosh, no! This wasn’t the Spanish guy! Although it was a very sweet offer to kill him, I might take you up that. That cock doesn’t deserve air.”
“Or you. As in... deserve you. He doesn’t deserve you…”
Blue suddenly looks flustered and takes his eyes off me. I’m back to mute bat mode. Did he really just say what I think he said? It’s as disconcerting as it is inconsistent. Now what am I meant to say? I have no comeback to a stuttering nice guy.
We stand in uncomfortable silence. Then I notice he’s wearing a shirt, trousers, nice black shoes…
“What are you up to today?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? Right brain protests.
“No plans, I was going to DJ tonight but the gig’s been cancelled. Why?”
Left Brain takes over. I take Blue’s hand, leading him down the stairs and outside. Blue asks a stream of questions on the way to the taxi but I stay quiet, pulling him along. A whole dating history of never asking a guy on a date and here I am, literally dragging one along. But screw it. I will not go to this wedding alone. The battle of Angrypants vs. Jonesy lives on! I know it seems petty and trivial to you guys but seriously, I cannot rock up to this thing alone today. Can’t, won’t, give Angrypants the satisfaction.
Right Brain is now in full panic mode. It detests Blue and is appalled at the indignity of willingly hanging out with him for the day. To be fair, Left Brain hates him too, but I think Left brain is still vulnerable from the Stand Up and is behaving irrationally. As Right Brain starts to yell at me I realise I am going to have to kill it with booze if I’m going to keep my sanity.
“Hi!” I say to the driver as I climb in, pulling a perplexed Blue alongside me, “I’m sorry we’re so late. Would you mind if we stop by a shop on the way? Immediately if not sooner.”
“Yessum,” the driver replies.
Blue is looking completely, utterly and totally confused,
“Peanut, where are we going?”
“First we’re going to the shops. If there’s one thing experience has taught me, no moment in life can’t be improved with binge drinking and cheese. So we’re getting a case of scotch, a block of cheddar the size of a bar battery, then kicking on to a wedding. And by golly, we’re gonna have fun!”
He blinks.
“I’m flattered, but is it me you want to marry or would any guy in your hallway have done?”
“Us? We’re not getting married! Are you insane?”
“You have a flower in your hair and you’re wearing white, what am I supposed to think?”
Touche, Blue Eyes. Touche…
“Well, we’re not getting married. It’s my boss’ wedding, the one person in the world who is more rude than yourself. It’s in Brighton and if we leave now we might make it on time.”
The driver spots my local Sainsbury’s and parks out front. I move to jump out but Blue offers to go instead. As he propels himself out of the car door I start thinking it might have been a ruse, and instead of buying me my scotch he’ll race down the street, flailing his arms and yelling that he’s been abducted by a desperate and dateless freak. But he doesn’t. He is back a few minutes later with a six pack of Pepsi, a block of Country Farmhouse, some Johnny Walker and to my absolute delight, a Cornetto.
I think his shock has worn off because he looks happy now. He’s smiling as he hands me the ice cream and says,
“My life experience? No moment in life can’t be improved with ice cream.”
I’m touched as I gingerly accept the Cornetto. I manage a quiet ‘thank you’ before feeling a tidal wave of humility wash over me. I wasn’t expecting to being treated nicely by a guy today, least of all this guy. What’s gotten into him?
“I gotta say Peanut, I like your style. Only the most extreme drink hard liquor before noon.”
He holds out the Johnnie Walker to my free hand, the one that isn’t holding the ice cream,
“So you want a drink?”
“What do you think?” I smile.
I take the bottle and place the ice cream on the seat. Twisting the top open, I take my first sip. Wincing, I balance the scotch between my knees and crack open a can of soda. The fizz hisses and I take a gulp. Ah. That’s better. The sugary sweetness has killed the taste of boozehound invading my mouth. I hand Blue the scotch and can of Pepsi, and again to my delight, he accepts and takes a swig.
Rolling with the punches, I think I might like his style too.
“You know babe,” he begins while gulping the Pepsi, “you shouldn’t wear white to a wedding.”
Or not.
“Well you shouldn’t call someone babe unless she’s your girlfriend, and you definitely shouldn’t tell a lady her face looks like an eggplant.”
“You’re not a lady, and your face always looks like one variety of vegetable or another. When you run it reminds me of a tomato, when you get angry, a turnip. But most of the time you look like a potato.”
I snatch the bottle back and take another swig.
An hour and a bit later, bottle of scotch a third empty, we’ve almost reached Brighton. Empty Pepsi cans litter the back seat along with a sticky Cornetto wrapper. I tried to make it less gluey by licking the chocolatey remains off the paper, but that just made it worse and left chocolate smears on my cheeks. The block of cheddar has been hacked into by a set of hungry teeth (mine), but it’s mainly been a car journey of scotch chased with pop. And it’s been fucking fantastic.
As the city rolled into the country rolled into the seaside, I found myself telling Blue about how my face got eggplanted. He had congratulated me on standing up to a douche like Rusty and said I had ‘spunk’. I assumed he meant a bold, brassy attitude as opposed to a male bodily secretion. He told me about the one and only time he got into a fight, which involved his friend saying that The Dark Knight was trite and uninspired.
“So I punched him. The Dark Knight is the best superhero movie of all time, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to such slander.”
The near constant level of irritation that I get around this guy has started to fade a little. But that might just be the scotch talking. In fact, it is just the scotch talking. I know it’s alcoholicy goodness is working its magic because (a) I’ve stopped thinking about the Stranger (b) I seem to be able to f
ocus better with one eye closed and (c) I have a sudden urge to confess that since I was four years old I’ve been in love with the fox from Disney’s Robin Hood. He still makes my pulse race despite knowing full well that crushing on a cartoon animal is weird and inappropriate. One day I’ll tell someone that embarrassing secret. Even Chloe doesn’t know.
We roll up to Star of the Sea Church and unsteadily emerge from the car. I hand the driver a wad of notes, apologise again for being late and offer him the remainder of the scotch. He happily accepts, which is odd because I’ve likely backwashed a decent amount of cheese and ice cream. Driver tips his hat and wishes us a good day.
The church is swimming a little as we walk in through the side door. As we shuffle our way into an empty aisle the ceremony starts with the organ’s standard introductory chords. The crowd stands to attention. The groom (poor sod) and his groomsmen are at the front, looking on nervously.
The three bridesmaids begin their parade and they’re wearing...
Wow. I mean… I just… I don’t even... Wow.
I always knew Angrypants was a bit of a sadist, but this is an evil more terrifying than even I could have imagined. Those three pitiable girls are wearing the most disgusting dresses this side of 1989. Urine yellow, paisley, marshmallow shoulder padded fluff balls, topped with teased hair and frosted make up. I ask myself for the seventieth time today why I’m at a wedding of someone who hates humans as much as the bride.
Oh that’s right, because she is my overlord and master and I must obey.
As the second bridesmaid passes us I feel a fluttering sensation in my chest. It turns into a cramp and then… hic! A hiccup shakes my ribcage, but I don’t make a sound. Damn. I forgot brown spirits do this to me. Lest we forget the time I drank a few whiskey ginger ales at an art opening and had to leave early, which was a shame because I enjoy a bit of late Turner. I had hiccupped so hard for so long that my body cramped like a cattle market and I convinced myself I’d developed a brain clot.
Blue notices my body jerk, then jerk again. He turns his head to look at me, a soft smile playing on his lips. I lean into him as the third bridesmaid finishes her walk,
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 15