by June Hopkins
Frankly I am shell shocked and could do with some, I don't know, oxygen or perhaps valium or maybe even both. The only problem is I don't happen to have a bottle of either at home and even if they sold it in the local Spar, you wouldn't see me going out to get it, no chance. My hangover is slowly but surely kicking in. I am completely knackered. I feel as if I've just run a marathon, not that I'd have the faintest idea what that would feel like but that is neither here nor there. I am, for me, knackered and could do with about 12 hours’ sleep. I have possibly just lived through the weirdest 24 hours of my 27 years. I need to regroup and get a grip. And I need a shower.
With hot steaming water coursing down on my body I consider last night. Flashbacks are coming thick and fast now, to the point where I pretty much have a full memory of events. Unfortunately the only blanks appear to be in the small print, the headlines are now crystal clear.
James and I had obviously got incredibly drunk; we were still going strong on shots when the pub shut and we were left alone in the bar. I had recounted my whole sorry story to him earlier on in the evening and he had, as I had known he would, calmed me down and imparted words of wisdom. Everything he had said made sense. I suspect the trauma of the day had led to my drunken behaviour and his sympathy and understanding must have had something to do with my virtually launching myself at him in a full on snog. I vaguely remember his surprise, and I can hardly blame him. I am shocked by the fact that I started the whole thing.
I had pretty much dragged him upstairs; couldn't get up there fast enough. I'd started ripping at his shirt and trousers in the lounge. I'd be surprised if all his buttons were intact. Given the returning memories, I now know why my clothes were strewn all over the bedroom; and worse, I remember the light being on the entire time. Ahhhh! This particular gem sends a shiver of horror over me. Good God! He had a front row ticket to me naked. I don't even like seeing me naked. What was I thinking?! Given the fact that when I left the house yesterday morning I had not done so with the expectation of having hot sex (yes very definitely hot; the best ever in fact I grudgingly admit) I hadn't prepared myself as one would expect to do, hence the God awful knickers.
As I have previously explained I am not one for great beauty regimes. I don't have bi-weekly visits to the beautician as Lissa does, where she is plumped, pummelled, defuzzed, (everywhere!), plucked and painted. No, I am more of a do-it-yourself kind of gal, when I can be assed or when absolutely necessary, whichever comes first. Therefore, I was not defuzzed (anywhere!), was not soft of skin, had not exfoliated the feet etc, and more importantly, had been wearing the same offensive knickers for approximately 18 hours before the main event! Good grief, and James had been rubbing said knickers all over his face! Dear God, the horror. I couldn't feel worse if I'd popped off to the doctor for a smear test and realised too late that I'd forgotten to give my bits a good old scrub in the basin beforehand! Talk about beer goggles; James must have had a virtual full face respirator on!
Now I may not be big on the old beauty regime stuff, but I do have some pride and would never dream of heading off to a potential hot date without the basics covered. You know, freshly bathed, defuzzed to a reasonably acceptable level, moisturised, perfumed, teeth brushed etc. I just hope that 24 hour deodorant really does do what it says on the tin. Instead I must have looked like an East German shot-putter, who'd been out on the town immediately after an event, straight off the field and into the bar, sweating, hairy and stinking with no thought to the niceties.
So horrified am I by these thoughts that I burst into action in the shower and begin manically shaving pretty much every part of my body. I even jump out and dry myself enough to get the bikini line cream on, it's the only way. I've learnt the hard way that shaving down there is not the way to go; it gives me a rash and the regrowth is not funny. I have to wait six minutes for it to work. Well, I'll give it ten as you can't be too careful; don't want big tufts hanging around do I?
With nothing better to do than stand in the middle of my small bathroom, legs akimbo, I stare at myself in the full length mirror and try to see myself as James would have. Gok would be proud of me, I scrutinise myself closely. As I have already said, I am far from fairy like, at 5ft 7ins and a size 14 on a good day and 16 on a not so good. I am described as many things; voluptuous is my favourite from the pub locals. I don't mind Rubinesque, that's quite exotic I feel. I don't even mind busty as they are my best asset, when contained in a decent bra obviously.
Descriptions I am unhappy with are “big”. I mean, what's that supposed to mean? “You know, the big one, works behind the bar in the Hart.” I always feel that “big” lacks any imagination. “Fat”, obviously, along with “obese”, which is probably the worst, and even “plump”. All of these words I detest with a passion. It's bad enough being overweight, without people blithely bandying grotesque descriptions about without any care to the feelings of the afflicted.
Anyway, back to my self appraisal. My hair is shoulder length and dyed chocolate brown. My cheekbones are not bad and my lips quite full. I love my eyes, which are wide and bright green like my mother's: “cat's eyes” as I am often complimented. All in all, I think my face is quite pretty, which is fortunate as then I move lower to my breasts. As previously mentioned, they are awesome when confined. However, they now lie hanging like a couple of deflated balloons. Harry saw to that, along with the bum bag of fat which hangs below my waist, fleshy and pitted with stretch marks. I turn around robot-like, careful to keep my legs apart and peer in the mirror over my shoulder at my backside which is large, admittedly, but not yet overly saggy and I give it a grudging seal of approval. My legs are also not that bad; they are quite long, luckily, as height helps to spread the flesh around; and my ankles, I think, are rather attractive. Oh and my waist is well proportioned and considerably smaller than my hips and bust. I trust Trinny and Susanna implicitly and am happy to accept the hour glass as my rightful shape, and anyway Marilyn Munroe was a size 16 wasn't she?
I conclude that apart from the boobs (when let loose) and the stomach; oh, and the excess body hair, maybe James hadn't been too disgusted. If you add into the equation the huge amount of alcohol we had indulged in, his vision must surely have been blurred. This thought perks me up no end, and I virtually skip back into the shower to finish off.
As I rinse the conditioner from my hair my mood is considerably improved. I am aware of the fact that I still have to face James, but for now there is a definite marked improvement in my …, hang on! Fuck, my hair; it's sliding towards the plug hole. Oh my God, the stress has made my hair fall out! I franticly feel my head for signs of baldness but it all seems as thick as ever, and then I realise. Gingerly, I peer downwards and suck my stomach in to enable a clearer view and it is confirmed. I am bald, bald as the day I was born. Oh good grief, I look like an 8 year old girl! Evidently during my manic desire to remove any excess hair I'd gone overboard with the cream. So much for worrying about tufts hanging; there isn't even a small landing strip left. Well that's just great, fabulous in fact. My bad day has officially just got worse.
Chapter 6
It's early evening. I am slobbing out on the sofa with Harry snuggled up to me, watching Independence Day, our favourite film, and eating a large deep pan pizza. I'd managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep before Harry got back and then had to suffer the school fete for an hour before being dragged into Cheltenham with Lissa to search for a bridesmaid dress. Two hours later, after trying on what felt like a thousand different ones, I had eventually, with Lissa's not inconsiderable input, chosen a beautiful moss green silk number. The fit is good; three quarter length, with short sleeves, it has an empire line which makes the most of my bust and gorgeous swishy skirt which disguises my stomach admirably. The dress has a lovely 1950's look to it with a starched underskirt. I secretly love it, although it does seem rather ironic that I was wearing a similar coloured dress the last time I saw Tom. This is purely coincidental, I must stress and had no bearing on my choosing
it.
More importantly Lissa is happy with the colour, as she has chosen to wear ivory; she hasn't found the dress yet but has it in her mind’s eye. She wants a bouquet of red roses with green foliage, so my colour choice is perfect but it has to be said that I actually only had the choice of red or green for my dress anyway, so that was pretty much that. I have to take my hat off to her mind you, she's not messing about; has the whole thing planned, which is bizarre when you consider that until four days ago she'd had absolutely no intention of ever getting married. Lissa is carrying on as if she's had the wedding planned for years: the colour scheme, caterers, flowers. I was hard pushed to keep up with the details today; very strange.
I haven't told her about James; not that I could have gotten a word in, even if I'd wanted to. I still can't come to terms with it myself, let alone divulge it to anyone else. I've had five texts from him today asking how I am and I haven't replied yet. It's safe to say that I'm baffled by it all. I have no idea what to think or feel, so I'm hiding, safe in my little cottage with my baby. I'll deal with James when I go to work on Monday. I'll make up some crap about my phone not working; say it fell into the toilet or something. Of course if I take that route I will probably have to go out and buy another, or he'll be suspicious. Unless, of course, I go on the internet and find out if you can dry out your phone somehow. I could swot up on the details, then when questioned give all the correct answers. That could work, or, I could say I lost it and then found it again just before I went out to buy another; make up a whole scenario of when and how and the relief I felt when there it was peeping out from under the sofa cushion.
My best case scenario involves staying hidden for the next two weeks as James is off on holiday to Dubai. My mind is racing for plausible excuses I could use to not see him before then. Unfortunately I can only come up with the debilitating illness again. If I carry on like this, wishing horrid things on myself, fate will step in and I really will catch something nasty.
I do have to stop this. Why can't I just be honest? I always try to spare people’s feelings or my own blushes by making up utter crap. Life would be so much easier if I just texted him back and said, what exactly? And therein lies the problem. I can't think of anything to say, so a crap story it is then. My mind made up. I settle back into the sofa and grab another piece of pizza.
As I munch away I try really hard to concentrate on the film, but thoughts of James keep jostling around in my spun out brain. James is a big man. I know I've said that I hate the word “big” but only when referring to being overweight: James is not overweight; James is big, brick shit house big! He is well over 6ft, has broad, broad shoulders, Popeye arms and hands like shovels. There aren't many customers who will argue with him once he gets his dander up, which is always a handy attribute for a pub landlord. He's got fair, short hair and blue eyes. His face has a look of Daniel Craig about it; you know, sort of handsome but lived in. James is no pretty boy. His nose is crooked from the two or three times it's been broken and he has a couple of false teeth at the front which he likes to pull out every now and again to upset the female customers. These injuries were all sustained during his rugby days. He doesn't play any more as he damaged the ligaments in his knee last year and spent eight weeks in a wheelchair. The doctor basically told him enough was enough.
You may think that given this information I am mad not to fancy him. I mean, he sounds like a veritable God, but you see I have known James my whole life. We grew up together pretty much. James is three years older than me and lived in our street. His parents still live in the same house three doors down from mine. We spent a large amount of our childhoods playing together, James and I, Phillip and Lissa, as well as a few others. We had quite a large gang of friends. Of course the word “gang” nowadays conjures up thoughts of hoodies with knives prowling dark alleys with the intention of mugging poor unsuspecting old ladies. We were more of a Brady Bunch kind of gang, riding bikes, making dens in the woods and cooking beans over camp fires.
I didn't see much of James from around the age of 15 as he went off to university after his A-levels where he earned a degree as some sort of mechanical engineer. He spent some time working as a graduate for a big company. Eventually the company offered him a full time job and sent him off to Saudi Arabia where he stayed for five or six years, earning ridiculous amounts of money. James came back home about three years ago, bringing his fiancé with him.
Elkie was a gorgeous Norwegian. Tall, white blonde hair, and model perfect; she certainly caused quite a stir when she came to our little town. Men and women alike would stop and stare. She definitely stood out from the crowd. The only thing I liked about her was that she cast Lissa right into the shade and her nose was well and truly pushed out of joint. I know that seems mean, but I am just being honest.
James bought a big house in the town pretty much straight away and they happily moved in together> Then, about six months later, he bought the local pub; he says he was bored. That's when I started working for him. Elkie seemed to enjoy playing the landlady a little too much; she loved chucking free gin and tonic down her throat and flirting with the customers, but she didn't do a scrap of work, just sat on a bar stool shouting orders at the bar staff.
As it turned out she also loved my boyfriend of the time, Mark, who had suddenly taken to sitting on the other side of the bar during pretty much every shift I worked, or so it seemed. I mistakenly thought he'd had some sort of epiphany; decided he couldn't be without me and would be down on one knee in the near future. I mean, even the sex improved dramatically. However I was wrong; before their first six months in the pub were up Elkie had buggered off with Mark, leaving me somewhat dazed and James absolutely devastated. They had been together for five years. He was on the verge of proposing and loved her more than life itself. It took his best friends, me included, months of TLC to drag him out of the depression she caused.
I didn't really get a chance to grieve for my relationship, if you can call it that. It was more of a rolling year booty call to be fair. Now I think of it I can't honestly be sure if anyone else knew that we were dating, given that apart from the odd drunken night in the pub we were never seen out together in public. Mark and I were seeing each other for about a year; he would only ever come to mine after Harry was in bed, so I didn't have a broken hearted child to cope with. Still, it had suited me at the time and the sex was ok, but in the words of Lily Allen, he never made me scream!
If I'm honest I was so worried about James, that I didn't have time to think about Mark not being around. At one point I had serious concerns that he might top himself; James that is, not Mark. Mark hadn't had the decency to tell me I was dumped; I'd found out that little titbit from James the day Elkie left. She'd buggered off on a Friday lunch time and promptly moved in with Mark in his one bedroomed council flat. Needless to say it didn't last long, and within three weeks she'd left him as well. No one's seen her since.
Mark had played the usual "I'm so sorry, I didn't know what I was doing" card and tried fairly hard to get me back. This I strongly suspect had more to do with the fact that he had no one to cook him dinner three times a week or do his washing and ironing. Yes, I know I'm a bit of a doormat. On this occasion however I stuck up for myself and took great delight in telling him to fuck off, before I unleashed James and his broken heart on him. He now drinks in the hotel at the other end of town and has not set foot in the Hart since, and quite honestly, I don't blame him.
Still, we all got through it but James hasn't really been the same since, even after three years. He hasn't bothered to date anyone; he's had a ridiculous amount of one night stands and very short term relationships, and when I say “short” I mean a week or two. In fact he can be quite a slut at times but nothing ever lasts. Elkie has, it seems, ruined James for anyone else. He even moved out of the house and into the pub pretty much straight after; says he couldn't stand to be reminded of her. He now rents it out and only goes there when absolutely necessary.
; I feel so confused; I'm not ready for a relationship and James certainly isn't. In fact, I am now officially another notch on his pretty full bed post. I can't believe I allowed myself to get into this position. I know James; he tells me about his conquests, explains in detail how he avoids them afterwards; the crap excuses he uses. I know it all. In fact it quite often falls to me to tell the broken hearted recipients his crap excuses when they phone or call into the pub for him. God help him if he tries to use them on me. Most of all though, I really don't want to lose his friendship. I really can't see how to get past this.
I need a cup of tea and the loo, so I move Harry over and get up; he's obviously knackered. I think I should get an early night out of him. "Hey baby, how's about you go and get your pyjamas on and I'll make a hot chocolate for you?"
Harry nods sleepily and pauses the DVD, "I'm really tired mummy."
"Well I'm not surprised little man, you had quite a night of it last night and a good afternoon with Grandad. It's nearly bedtime now, do you want to go to bed and I'll read you a story? Or would you rather have a drink and watch the rest of the film?"
He rubs his eyes, "Can I just go to bed please mum?" Blimey, this is a first.
"What, no story? No drink? That's not like you Harry. Am I missing something?"
He's looking sheepish, "Me and Tyler stayed up till three in the morning and we had to get up at seven to go fishing with his dad."
"Ahh, that explains it. Well that serves you right doesn't it? I bet Tyler's mum doesn't know you were up half the night does she?" Harry shakes his head at me looking sorry for himself. I have to smile and I'm hardly one to be commenting on staying up most of the night am I?
"Don't worry baby, your secret is safe with me. You go on up and get your pyjamas on, do your teeth and I'll come and tuck you in, ok?" I pull him gently up off the sofa and guide him to the stairs.