I successfully wriggled out of my dress one handed while I dialled my brother’s number.
“Hey, Emmie!” he answered. “How’s Uni life treating you?”
“I don’t start till next week. You know that.”
“Well excuse me for trying to make conversation,” he teased. On reflection I did sound a little offhand. “What’s up? Tell me.”
“Nothing really. I’m just a little… oh I don’t know.”
“Come on, Emmie, what it is?” Chris always knew when something was bothering me. I’ve never been able to lie to him. Not successfully at least.
“I’ve got a date.”
“Jesus, you’re not gonna start talking sex with me are you? There are some things a brother just doesn’t want to know.”
“Eww no! Of course not! I’m just… nervous. You know I don’t really know how to talk to people – guys especially. I just don’t know what I’m expected to talk about.”
“Emmie, we’re guys – not aliens. Just talk like you would to me. Tell him about your day, what you’re studying, what your goals are – that kind of shit.”
“My goals aren’t shit!”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re overthinking things. Just take it one sentence at a time and you’ll be fine.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
“No maybes about it. I’m older than you, which means I know everything remember?” I giggled. Chris and Rachel are the only people who can provoke that reaction from me. “Now before you go on this date, I’m gonna need to ask you some questions.”
Here we go…
“Like?”
“Is he a dickhead?”
“No! At least I don’t think so.”
“Hmm, okay that’ll do for now. Does he have a job?”
“Yes. He works in a pub. That’s where I met him.”
“A pub? One, since when do you go to pubs? And two, you’re smart, Emmie. You should be aiming for a doctor or something.”
“Well one, since Rachel made me. And two, stop being so judgemental. You work in a garage!”
“Yeah well I’m fantastic so I don’t need a fancy job to promote myself. Anyway question three – does he drive?”
“I don’t know! I’ve only just met him. That’s the point of a date right? To get to know each other? Ask me these questions again tomorrow if you must.” I snapped, but I wasn’t actually angry. I knew he was just looking out for me.
“Fine. I’ll back off.” Doubtful. “But number four is more of a statement than a question. You should know I won’t hesitate to punch his fucking lights out if he messes with my baby sister. Got it?” And that’s why I love him.
“Got it. Look, I’m gonna go now. I’m really tired from all the travelling.”
“Sure thing, Emmie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Night, Chris.”
“Night, Emmie.”
Notice how neither of us mentioned our parents? Well, you’ll probably never hear Chris talk about them – seeing as they haven’t spoken to each other in over four years. The thing is, my parents are all about ‘the show’. It’s important to them what their toffee-nosed friends think of us as a family. They raised us to be well behaved and respectful. We’d help out at local charities every Saturday and go to church every Sunday. Which was fine – admirable even. What’s not so admirable is the fact they disowned Chris for wanting to be a mechanic instead of going to university. How could they possibly be proud of a son with just an ordinary working-class job? I mean, what must their friends think when their kids are going out to teach or heal or inflict justice in court, and they’ve got Chris coming home covered in muck and grease?
That’s one of the things I detest about them. If they weren’t so far up their own arses they’d see what a wonderful son they were missing out on.
Speaking of charity work, that’s how I met Rachel. When I was seven my mum took me to the local community centre where a weekly support group for disabled kids and their families was taking place. Obviously I wouldn’t judge now but it was a little overwhelming for a seven year old to be surrounded by all these kids who were so different from you. My mum pointed to a brown-haired girl in a wheelchair and told me to go and be friendly to her. So being the good little girl I was raised to be, I did.
Shame the said girl wasn’t interested in being friendly back. Rachel was just as intimidating as a little girl as she is now – and it has nothing to do with the chair. She didn’t want to be there with all the other ‘freaks’ as she put it back then. She doesn’t remember life without her chair and she didn’t see why she had to be treated any differently to everyone else, but her mum made her go because she was ‘special’. ‘Sod being special’ eight year old Rachel said to me with the same don’t-mess-with-me scowl she still uses to this day.
I soon discovered perseverance was the key when it came to Rachel – it still is. It’s almost like you need to prove you’re in it for the long haul with her. Unless you’re sporting a mighty fine six pack maybe…
My mum took me to the centre every week for six months (I think she wanted to get acquainted with the posh folk that ran the centre) and she always pointed to the same girl and told me to go and play. The first few weeks mainly consisted of me sitting on the floor hugging my knees in silence while Rachel continued to scowl at the world around her.
It was about four weeks in when I’d gotten that fed up of her ignoring me I summoned some courage right from the pit of my stomach and spoke to her first.
“Why are you so horrible?” I asked bluntly. I remember her looking at me all wide-eyed and shocked like she couldn’t believe I actually had a voice.
“You’re not supposed to say things like that. You’re supposed to feel sorry for me. I’m ‘special’ remember?” she snapped bitterly, flicking her brown hair off her little round face. It’s strange remembering Rachel with brown hair. It’s permanently been a different colour of the rainbow since she was fifteen.
“Well I don’t,” I snapped back – pouting like only children can. “Just because you can’t walk doesn’t mean you can be nasty to me. I don’t even want to be your friend. I’m only here because my mummy forces me to come every week.” And that’s what did it. Once Rachel saw that I didn’t give a crap whether she was stood up or sat down, or that I wasn’t some goody two shoes wanting credit for befriending the crippled kid – she thawed almost instantly.
We’ve been inseparable ever since.
**********
Why was I doing this again? Oh yeah, because Rachel forced me. I’d just done my makeup for the third time with the stuff I bought in Tesco this morning. I did our first grocery shop before breakfast (I had to if we wanted to eat today) and I arrived home feeling awfully independent and grown up. Yeah, that really is as pathetic as it sounds.
I was surprised to find the store was set out just the same as the ones up north, which meant I gathered what we needed quickly. I knew my way around Tesco like a second home. My mum has always shopped there, except when someone she wanted to impress was coming for dinner and then she would up her game and shop at Marks and Spencer’s.
Once I was somewhat happy with my face I teased my hair up into a messy bun, just like a magazine article once showed me. I was ready to go in my skinny black jeans, silver halter-neck and suede cowgirl boots. All I had to do now was some incessant foot tapping while I waited for seven o’clock to arrive.
Jared planned to pick me up from the flat but when I opened my mouth to reel off the address Rachel jumped in and said I’d meet him at the pub instead. Then she whispered in my ear something about potential stalkers and rapists. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already!
“Stop fidgeting. You’ll have him thinking you’re backwards,” Rachel said followed by a disapproving tut. I looked at my bracelet watch – fifteen minutes to go.
“I’d best get going I suppose,” I muttered. Fifteen minutes should be plenty of time to hail a taxi and get to the pub with a few mi
nutes to spare.
“Oh no you don’t.” Huh? “You’re not leaving till seven.”
“But I’m meeting him at seven.”
“Exactly. You need to keep him waiting. The build up of not knowing if you’re gonna show or not will make him want you all the more, trust me.”
“Whatever,” I dismissed her, waving my hand. Punctual was my middle name and I’d only end up more anxious if I thought I was going to be late. Besides, maybe I didn’t want him to want me even more. “I’m leaving now. Love you.” I bent down to kiss the top of her head.
“Love you too, Ho. And remember – no tongues on the first date.” Rolling my eyes and giggling softly, I grabbed my handbag and left for the most nerve-wracking night of my life to date.
When I walked into the bar I spotted Jared propped up on a barstool chatting to the nameless American barman from last night. He was sporting the same uninterested grimace, hostile posture and shaggy brown hair (not ordinary boring brown – if I looked carefully enough there were tiny threads of blonde peppered through the layers which rested in a ruffled heap on top of his head) as the last time we met too.
Hold on a sec… I was supposed to be focusing on Jared – not Mr Anonymous.
“Hey, cutie!” Jared gleamed with a smarmy grin as he beckoned me over to join him. Cutie? Really? I suddenly felt even more nauseous.
“Hey,” I mumbled back.
“You wanna catch a drink here or head straight out?” Hmm. After pausing briefly to think about it I decided the pub might be best to start with. It was somewhat familiar and there were plenty of witnesses, so I perched myself gracefully onto a red velvet-topped barstool next to him. My heart was bouncing like a pogo stick in my chest. I was absolutely not cut out for this being sociable lark.
“Here’s fine.”
Talk, Em! Remember? Chat, speak, converse… reply with sentences longer than two syllables.
“So do you live near here?” Go on girl! An actual, well constructed, reasonable question without a hint of a crack in my voice.
“Yeah not too far. I rent a flat in Kings Cross.” Now from my limited knowledge of London, I was pretty sure Kings Cross was a fairly affluent district of the city. But then, he worked in a pub so it was possible (and more likely) I was mistaken. “What about you? Am I allowed to know where you live now your friend’s not around?” he teased. God I wished Rachel were there. My mouth was so dry my lips were sticking to my teeth.
“Rachel and I share a ground floor flat in those maisonettes opposite Tesco over there.” I pointed over my shoulder like the supermarket and flats in question could actually be seen from where we were sitting. Then I felt stupid about it.
“Rachel. She’s, um… quite the feisty type I noticed.” I couldn’t help but giggle at that. Feisty was a serious under-evaluation.
“Yeah. She is,” I agreed with a smile.
“And she’s pretty hard to miss with the purple hair and all the tats. I was kinda surprised she doesn’t tone it down a bit – blend in. What with… you know… the chair and shit.” This was definitely the point where someone with a dirty mouth would’ve yelled ‘what the actual fuck?’
“Excuse me?” I snapped, offended. His cocky smile dropped instantly when he realised his mistake. His now beaming red cheeks were a sharp contrast to his sandy-blonde hair and he stuttered as he tried to choke out what I hoped was an apology.
“Hey I’m- I mean I… Look that was a stupid thing to say. I wasn’t judging I swear. Guess I’m just not sure I could be as outgoing as her if the roles were reversed. But that’s my issue, not hers. Fuck, you must think I’m a total dickhead.” Hmm, yes I was leaning towards that conclusion. “Sorry.” He sounded sincere so I decided to let it go. I had to give this being sociable thing longer than five minutes if I was to succeed.
“No worries. Just don’t ever say that to Rachel. Her legs might not work but believe me that wouldn’t stop her kicking your arse twice over,” I said with a forgiving smile even though I was deadly serious. No one messes with Rachel more than once and lives to tell the tale.
“Yeah, I kinda got that vibe from her last night,” he muttered, staring down at the bar. “Right, what’ll it be?” Jared asked, beckoning Mr Nameless over with his empty pint glass.
“Just a Coke for me please.”
“Same again and a Coke, mate,” he said whilst never taking his cheeky brown eyes off mine. Mr Nameless nodded and set about getting our glasses.
“He always so chatty?” I quipped to Jared and I was actually a little proud of myself for finding something amusing to say all on my own. Jared made a grunting kind of laugh sound and cocked one of his overly bushy eyebrows.
“Totally. Can’t shut him up most days,” he teased – or at least I assumed he was teasing. I can’t imagine the brooding American having a full-on conversation with anyone. Miserable pig. “Nah, he’s cool when you get to know him.” Oops. Guess my face must’ve given away what I was thinking. “Just likes his own space, you know.” Oh. Maybe miserable pig was a little strong. I detest people who judge others and that was precisely what I just did.
**********
Jared and I chatted for almost two hours and it soon became pretty effortless. In all honesty he did most of the talking but I’m pretty sure I held my own. Eventually I found myself rambling on without even needing to pre-empt my next words.
Jared has a degree in media studies and he explained in detail what that entailed. I still have absolutely no idea. I briefly went on to discuss my own fast approaching studies and what I hoped to gain from them but quickly changed the subject in case I was boring him. His parents are both doctors and his younger sister has just completed the foundation stage of her police training so it sounds like he comes from quite an intellectual family. He asked me about my own family but again I didn’t go into too much detail. I don’t have anything to say that would paint such a glowing picture of my parents and I didn’t want him to think badly of them. They’re still my parents and although they have flaws, I love them dearly.
When the pub crowd started picking up we headed out for something to eat. There was a Pizza Hut within walking distance so we went there because Jared had been drinking. My brother will be pleased to know Jared does in fact drive and is the proud owner of a flashy BMW. I just know Chris’s next question will be ‘does he have points on his licence?’ but come on… how do you pop that into general conversation with an almost stranger?
We were just finishing up the large, stuffed-crust pepperoni we were sharing when Jared’s phone rang, interrupting us. Jared was silent while a very audible voice on the other end of the line seemed to be ranting on in his ear. Then Jared made that grunting/laugh sound again (that was so not an attractive noise) before biting on his bottom lip to try and stop any more sounds from escaping.
“Sorry, mate. You’re right it’s not funny. It’s fuckin’ hilarious! Ah, come on, mate I’m just messing with you… Jesus… three weeks! Um, sure… Grab what you can and I’ll make my way home to let you in… sure, mate… No worries… Bye.”
“Something wrong?” I asked curiously, hoping that wouldn’t be classed as prying. How long do you need to know a stranger for before you can ask about their personal phone calls?
“Nothing serious. For me anyway. My mate’s got a burst pipe – his flat’s totally flooded and needs a place to crash for a couple of weeks. Looks like I’ve been landed with the role of putting him up while his landlord sorts the place out.” I nodded in acknowledgement. “So I’m really sorry but I’m gonna have to get going.” I think I breathed my first comfortable breath in over three hours.
“Of course. That’s fine. You go.” And it really was fine. Jared was a nice lad who was becoming increasingly easier to talk to but nevertheless it was an overwhelming experience and I was more than a little relieved it was coming to a close. “Hope your friend gets things sorted.”
“Me too,” he replied, rising from his chair. “I’m not used to sharing my sp
ace.” I stood up along with him and pulled out my purse to settle our bill. I wasn’t sure how things like this worked on dates. Was it old-fashioned to assume the guy would pay? “Put that away,” he ordered, shaking his head and letting his bleached-blonde fringe slap across his forehead. “This is on me.”
“Thanks,” I replied shyly, stuffing my purse back in my handbag. “I had a really good time,” I added, because it was true. Despite the initial apprehension it definitely went better than expected.
“Me too. I’d love to do it again sometime.”
“Sure. Me too,” I agreed, lying just a teeny bit. I really did have a good time but after just one evening I wasn’t anywhere near cured of my social phobia. I suppose I’m exaggerating a little. I’m not scared about meeting new people – I just don’t know how to do it.
“Great. Gimme your phone and I’ll put my number in it. Then I’ll call you in the week.” A genuine smile erupted across Jared’s face, causing small lines to form around his playful eyes. I teased my phone from my bag and handed it over. Then Jared used it to call his own phone and tapped his name alongside it. “There. Now you’ve got mine too.” He winked at me, injecting my belly with waves of nerves. What did he mean? Why did I need his number? Did he expect me to call him first? Was it so I recognised his number when he called?
Dear God, I had some serious learning to do on the social front.
I rang myself a taxi before popping my phone back in my bag and then after accompanying Jared to the counter to pay for our pizza, he walked me outside to wait for it. Then came the moment I’d been dreading. He positioned his feet so he was just centimetres apart from me and a confident smile tickled the edges of his lips. I knew what was coming even before he leaned down to my level.
“Thanks for a great time,” he whispered, and then I felt a slight breeze across my face as his lips made their way to mine. Quickly and instinctively I jerked my head to the side and his kiss landed on my cheek which was now on fire. When he pulled himself away he looked almost pleased with himself – not even a bit offended by my kneejerk reaction to his touch. I smiled bashfully but inside I was yelling for the taxi to hurry the hell up. Immediately, yet a lifetime later, my taxi slowed to a stop as it mounted the curb slightly. “I’ll call you.”
Take My Hand Page 3