by Niamh Greene
I threw that little quip in for good measure. There’s nothing like a bit of banter to defuse an awkward situation.
‘Listen, chicken,’ a middle-aged woman in a Carla look-alike turban at the top of the queue almost spat at me, ‘I’ve been waiting hours to meet Carla. I’ve bought all her books and her audio tapes. If I want two photos then I’m getting two photos.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said as passively as I could, ‘but it’s policy. Carla is really pressed for time so there’s only one photo per person.’
‘Listen, chicken,’ she roared, ‘I’m getting as many bleedin’ photos as I want – do you HEAR me?’
‘Hey, calm down!’ the one male fan in the line said. ‘That’s no way to behave.’
I smiled nervously at him, taking in the HATE tattoo on his knuckles. Maybe he’d rescue me if things got really ugly.
‘Get lost, fat boy!’ the savage fan snarled. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’
Right then, Samantha appeared, her face thunderous.
‘Listen, CHICKEN!’ she bellowed, shoving her nose close to the fan’s face. ‘There is one photo per customer. Take it or leave it.’
The crowd gasped. If this didn’t work, there was going to be a stampede.
‘OK, OK.’ The savage fan shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you’re going to be funny about it. It’s only a friggin’ photograph.’
Then she broke into another verse of ‘Love on the Rocks’, everyone started the Mexican wave again and the entire episode was forgotten, just like that.
‘These chick-litters need taking in hand. Too much romance can affect the mind,’ Samantha said, rubbing her hands together like a nightclub bouncer who’d just chucked a troublemaker out on the street. ‘It’s mob mentality. That’s how it works on the inside as well – Steve explained it all to me, the pet. When things get out of hand you have to know how to handle yourself or you’re mincemeat.’
I nodded mutely at her, suddenly glad she was writing to a death-row prisoner. She certainly knew how to take care of things when the going got tough.
Now I’m almost home and all I want to do is run a steaming bath and fall into bed. I can already imagine what the hot water is going to feel like against my aching limbs. I know sleep will come easily tonight.
I struggle through the front door and dump my things on the floor, not caring that half the contents of my tote spill across the tiles, including the powder compact from my make-up bag. And then I spot it.
There’s a white envelope sitting on the doormat, with my name printed neatly across the front in black ink. I recognize the handwriting immediately. There’s no mistaking it. It’s Charlie’s. My runaway husband has written me another letter.
Julie’s Blog
10.01 p.m.
Am furious. Turns out that Mr X’s idea of taking me out to dinner and going public involved driving for over an hour to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. At the beginning I was quite pleased. I wasn’t sure I even wanted everyone to know about us yet, so I was glad to be going somewhere a bit out of the way. But then it occurred to me: if Mr X was taking me to eat miles away from anywhere, what did that mean? And suddenly it came to me. It meant he was lying. He didn’t really want anyone to know about us, he had just said that because he thought that was what I wanted to hear. I started to get madder and madder. As far as he knew I wanted to go public – I hadn’t told him any different. So I asked him if he was trying to hide me away. He said of course not – he had just heard that this particular Thai restaurant did the best green curry ever and he was desperate to taste it. I didn’t believe him for a second, and I told him so. In fact I called him a big fat liar. He said that was a highly insulting accusation and we had a huge row. He yelled he’d already left his wife for me and what did I expect, it wasn’t going to be all roses in the garden – going to a Thai in the middle of nowhere had to be better than eating crappy takeout in my minuscule flat. Then I shouted back that I hadn’t asked him to leave his wife – which is true – and that maybe he should have thought to consult me before he landed on my doorstep because I’d had plenty of room in my minuscule flat before he moved in. Then he said I was ungrateful and manipulative and this was the worst birthday he’d ever had; I said he was arrogant and selfish and that technically it wasn’t even his birthday yet; and we drove all the way back home without eating anything and he stormed off. Now I have no idea where he is, and quite frankly I don’t care.
11.01 p.m.
He’s not back yet and he hasn’t even texted to say where he is, which is so childish it makes me want to scream.
11.34 p.m.
Still no sign of him. Have a good mind to go out clubbing, just to annoy him, because if he thinks I’m going to sit here and wait for him like some… some obedient WIFE, then he is badly mistaken.
11.56 p.m.
That’s it. I’m off. He can sleep on the path for all I care.
Open Forum
From Broken Hearted: See? I told you so. Heartache.
From The Plumber: Hey, Broken Hearted – you’re up late. Wow, I wasn’t expecting that little development!
From Broken Hearted: Hi, Plumber. So you read all the previous entries then?
From The Plumber: Yeah, like I said before, I have time on my hands. I thought things were going quite well between them though?
From Broken Hearted: Things aren’t always what they seem. How come you’re up so late?
From The Plumber: Just listening to some AC/DC. It always makes me feel better.
From Broken Hearted: I love AC/DC!! Why do you need to feel better though? Did something happen?
From The Plumber: Yeah, my girlfriend dumped me for some loser, that’s why I have so much time on my hands these days.
From Broken Hearted: I feel your pain. Love sucks.
From The Plumber: Ain’t that the truth.
From Broken Hearted: Hey, are you a real plumber?
From The Plumber: Yeah, I am. Why?
From Broken Hearted: I have this leak in my bathroom. Do you think you could help?
From The Plumber: Sure, no problem. Here’s my phone number – give me a call.
Eve
Dear Charlie,
I went on my blind date with Butch the prison officer tonight. I thought about everything Homer had said and I realized he was right: people aren’t necessarily defined by their looks. For example, I’d thought that just because Homer himself was a painter and decorator he’d be loud and vulgar, but he’s not like that at all. In fact he’s a very peaceful sort of person to have around. He likes to listen to classical music on his iPod while he’s painting. Sometimes I can even hear him humming softly along to Vivaldi from my office as I work; it’s a very comforting sound. I think he may be the most courteous person I’ve ever met – he’s almost old-fashioned, he’s got such good manners. I’m sure he gave a little bow yesterday when I walked by him to get to the bathroom. We’ve taken to meeting in the kitchen every day at three for a hot drink. We just drift in there around that time and chat. He’s even converted me to his herbal teas. Yesterday he brought some chamomile bags with him – I’d told him I wasn’t a great sleeper and he said they might help. I tried a cup just before bedtime, and you know what, he was right – I’m sure it did. He even gave me good advice about what to wear to meet Butch. He said he’d noticed that the blue top I’d worn a few days before had really brought out the colour of my eyes and that even if Butch was a hardened prison officer he wouldn’t be able to resist me. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he was a little embarrassed after he said that; he went a bit pink and then he rushed back to his painting before he’d even half finished his drink. See? A total gentleman.
Anyway, Butch and I agreed to meet in an organic juice bar in town. I thought it was a slightly strange choice for a prison officer, but I didn’t argue, not even when he texted to say he’d wear a pink carnation in his buttonhole so I would know who he was. I didn’t like to tell him that this probably wouldn’t
be necessary, that I was sure he’d be the only person in an organic juice bar with a HATE tattoo on his knuckles.
I got there bang on time. I didn’t want to take any chances after the last disaster, and I was afraid that a prison officer might be even more of a stickler for time than an accountant. Who knew what he might do if I was late? He might escort me off the premises in handcuffs or threaten to throw me in solitary confinement.
I saw him the second I walked in: he was perched on a stool at the counter, a massive pink carnation in his lapel, his HATE tattoo clearly visible. He was reading a thriller called Night, Night Killer, one of those David Rendell ones, and slowly sipping on a wheatgrass shot. He looked even scarier in person than he had on Anna’s mobile phone: his head had been newly shaved and his muscles were practically popping out from underneath his skintight T-shirt. I almost turned round and walked back out again, but then I remembered what Homer had said about not judging a book by its cover so I took a deep breath and made my way over to him. As I got closer I could see that he wasn’t nearly half as scary close up as he had been from a distance. When he saw me he started to smile widely, and then sprang from his chair to say hello. My spirits lifted – he was friendly at least. But it was right at the moment when he stood up that it happened: his book fell to the floor and the jacket slipped off to reveal what was really underneath. There, in gold swirly lettering, was Carla Ryan’s new novel, Second Chance at Love. He hadn’t been reading David Rendell’s thriller at all; he’d been reading the queen of chick lit’s new romance. For a minute I didn’t know what to say. Why would a prison officer called Butch be reading a Carla Ryan book? There was something seriously wrong with this scenario. He tried to cover up by saying that his sister had swapped them as a joke, but halfway through his explanation he suddenly stopped, took a deep breath and said he had something important to tell me before we went any further. I braced myself. After Cyril the accountant telling me he couldn’t go on a date with a person who wasn’t punctual, I didn’t know what to expect. Then Butch told me the truth. He’s a huge Carla Ryan fan. Such a huge Carla Ryan fan that he queued for nearly four hours to get a signed copy of her new book at a readers’ event. He’d even had his photo taken with her: he took it out of his wallet to show me; he’d had it laminated especially. Apparently his prison experience nearly came in handy when he thought he was going to have to break up a fight while he was there. Some of the fans wanted more than one photo with Carla and that caused ructions. He says the really fanatical chick-litters can get quite aggressive if you cross them. Butch even wrote to Carla last year. The personal reply she sent him is his most prized possession. He’s had that laminated too. It’s pinned to his bedroom wall at home.
It felt a bit strange to be talking to a man about romance novels, but then I decided not to judge, just like Homer had said. After all, I was having quite a nice evening in spite of myself. The organic wheatgrass wasn’t too vile if you held your breath while you drank it, and it was fascinating listening to Butch describe his work in jail. He really does teach a flower-arranging class to inmates on a Tuesday night. They’re even holding a floral exhibition in the jail’s dining hall in a few weeks. All in all, it was turning out to be quite a pleasant date. In fact, it was going so well that Butch suggested prolonging it by visiting a trendy bar I’d never heard of for a real drink. I hadn’t been to a bar for years and didn’t really want to go, but by then I was almost gagging on the wheatgrass and I kept hearing Mary the therapist’s voice telling me to ‘try new things, try new things’. So I decided to grab the bull by the horns and embrace the experience. After all, Butch had spent a fortune on wheatgrass shots for me – I owed him something.
There was a huge queue outside the door when we got there, and I have to admit I was secretly relieved when it looked like we weren’t going to get in. But then Butch bumped into his friend Al. Turns out that Al knows everyone who’s anyone and he was on the list, so we just swanned straight past the hordes lining up outside. We were ushered into the VIP lounge where there were velvet couches and even a dance area. The music was pumping, the crowd was buzzing and I felt like a real VIP – it was brilliant. But we’d just got a drink when Butch and Al hit the floor and started bumping and grinding against each other to ‘Lady Marmalade’ in a way that I thought was unusual for two straight men. And then, before I knew what was happening, they were French-kissing under the strobe lights. I was really shocked. I mean, I knew things had moved on since I’d last been to a trendy city-centre bar, but surely it was strange for two straight men to snog? And they weren’t the only ones. Loads of other men were at it too. In fact, the club seemed to be filled with men. As far as I could see, there were only three other women there, and they were drunkenly licking salt off some guy’s chest before slamming tequilas and then falling about laughing hysterically. It slowly began to dawn on me. I was in a gay bar. Butch the prison officer was gay. Why he had even agreed to go on a date with me in the first place was beyond me – I was the wrong sex for a start. He’d told me the truth about his Carla Ryan infatuation, but he’d still kept the biggest secret to himself. It would have been almost funny if it hadn’t been so tragic. I didn’t bother confronting Butch, there was no point, he was still locked in Al’s arms, so I left them to it, crept out without saying goodbye and flagged down a taxi to go home. I wanted to crawl under a rock… which of course is why I managed to hail the chattiest cabbie in history, who wanted to tell me all about the joys of a perfect marriage and how he was taking his wife to Marbella for their ten-year anniversary. By the time I stuck my key in the lock I was thoroughly depressed and vowing never to go out again.
Then, when I swung open the door, I heard a rustling sound. Someone was there. I was being broken into. You know the way experts say that when you’re faced with a do-or-die situation you experience fight or flight? Well, for some reason, I was consumed with rage. How dare some hooligan break into my home, into my sanctuary, and violate it? There was no way I was going to run. I was so mad that I decided there and then I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I don’t know what possessed me: usually I wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I peeped round the living-room door and there he was, kneeling in front of the TV, obviously trying to figure out if it was worth anything (it’s not: it’s the same one we had when we were together, the temperamental one that turns off whenever something comes on that it doesn’t like). Before I knew what I was doing, I had grabbed the massive vase from the hall – you know, the mosaic one that you always hated – and cracked it across the back of his skull. It was only as he was falling to the floor, tiny pieces of mosaic tile crumpling round him, that I spotted the ponytail. It was Homer. I was so worried I’d killed him that I threw the bucket of sugar soap he was using to wash the walls over his head to try to revive him. He came to very quickly, but by then I was sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t believe that I had attacked such a nice man. And he was so lovely about it all. He said it could have happened to anyone and that it was his own fault for not telling me that he was going to stay on and finish the skirting boards. And then he pulled me into his arms and gave me a big bear hug and I lay against his torso convulsing in tears until suddenly I felt really calm and peaceful, as if everything was going to be OK. His flannel shirt was soft against my face and I could feel his chest rise and fall, his hands pat my back and his kind voice in my ear tell me it was going to be all right. And then, just as I was starting to feel a whole lot better, he pulled away abruptly, said he was very sorry but he had to go, and sprinted out the door before I could say another word. I couldn’t believe it. I had suddenly turned from Miss Mousy to Miss Feisty… and in the process I had managed to scare away a great painter and decorator. From the look on his face, I don’t think he’ll be rushing back any time soon.
Eve
Are you Miss Mousy or Miss Feisty?
Are you shy and retiring or can you hold your own? Take our quiz and find out!
On a windy day, your dress blows up a
nd reveals your knickers to a busy street. Do you:
a)Take cover in the nearest shop. You’ll never get over the humiliation.
b)Smile and wink at gawping onlookers and ask if they’d like an encore.
c)Feel slightly embarrassed but also glad you’re wearing your nicest undies.
You have to give an important presentation to the board. Do you:
a)Feel terrified and fret non-stop for days beforehand.
b)Not give it a second thought. You’ll blind them with your charm and a low-cut top.
c)Prepare as much as possible and project a positive and professional attitude.
Your man is late for a dinner date. Do you:
a)Wait outside the restaurant. It would be mortifying if people thought you’d been stood up.
b)Wait at the bar and flirt outrageously with the waiter. That’ll teach him to be punctual next time.
c)Go straight to the table and order a starter while you wait – you’re starving!
Results
Mostly As: Don’t be so timid, sister. Not everyone is looking at you. Work on your confidence and give yourself a chance to shine!
Mostly Bs: It’s good to be sure of yourself, but your confidence can come across as far too cocky. Tone it down, girl.
Mostly Cs: Your self-assurance is inspiring. Take a bow, girlfriend!
Molly
Dear Molly,
It’s almost my birthday and I miss you. I want to come home. Please call me to arrange.