Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

  ‘You like your apples, don’t you?’ I smiled.

  ‘I do,’ he smiled back. ‘But I like you too.’

  He sat next to me, putting his hand on my thigh. ‘It’s been so frustrating tonight,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know,’ I agreed, trying not to gasp, anticipating what was to come.

  ‘I couldn’t wait for the guys to leave, actually.’

  I could feel the temperature rising. I felt like Ali MacGraw in Love Story with Chris my Ryan O’Neal, and it was all I could do to stop myself from calling him Preppy. I looked at him and – as you do when you’re in lust – tried to picture what our children would look like.

  ‘The lads are great, but they were kind of winding me up tonight,’ he went on apologetically. ‘All that rubbish about band names when all that matters is the music.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’re not here now,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know and I’m glad, because I want to try something out on you.’

  Huh? What the hell did he mean by that? I know everyone smooches differently but what was so radical about Chris’s technique that he felt he had to forewarn me? But I wasn’t the most experienced girl in the world and I didn’t want to look like a total nerd, so I replied, ‘Sure, go for it.’ Then I braced myself. He looked into my eyes, I looked into his and I hoped that whatever he was planning wasn’t going to hurt.

  ‘You’re here tonight,’ he said slowly, ‘and I’ve written a song for you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet,’ I sighed and felt the relief wash over me. I hadn’t seen that coming. He’d written me a song! That was a first. Simon had never even written me a Post-it note. ‘So, let me hear it, then,’ I said.

  ‘No, that’s the line I wanted to try out. “You’re here tonight and I’ve written a song for you.”’

  ‘You wanted to try out a line?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  His face fell. ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘No … I mean, yes, I do like it. I love it.’

  I guess I was feeling a little foolish by then, too.

  ‘It’s OK. You don’t have to be nice. I kind of think that it’s not quite there yet anyway. I’ve got these chords.’ He reached behind the sofa and grabbed a guitar. He strummed it, stopped to tune it, strummed it a bit more, then said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Very … nice,’ I said carefully. Why was he asking me? What was I? A&R at Sony Music?

  ‘They’re magic chords. Been in my head for days. But I just can’t get the line to work. I’ve tried tons of variations, but none of them seem to scan properly.’

  And then he was off. Singing in a quiet, surprisingly soulful voice. I took a sip of wine, sat back and let him get on with it.

  ‘“I wrote this song for you … Everything you do … Every little thing you do … Every little thing you do is magic …” Shit, no, too Sting-y … I’ll start again. “I wrote a song for you …”’

  On and on he went.

  And then some.

  And then a bit more.

  I didn’t like to interrupt so I sipped at my wine until my glass was empty and then, well, I might just have nodded off.

  ‘Wake up, Dayna, come on, wakey-wakey,’ a voice said, drifting into my dream. I forced my eyes open and as the world swam into focus I saw Chris peering at me sheepishly.

  ‘What happened? What time is it?’ I asked groggily.

  ‘Just after midnight.’

  ‘Oh, have you finished the song?’ I said, suddenly remembering where we’d left off.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. But I think I’ve got the first line. Sorry about that. You must think I’m totally self-absorbed.’

  Well, the thought was crossing my mind. What a date! He rounds off the world’s most boring documentary and the world’s most inedible meal by making me listen to his song-writing practice.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that. It was unforgivable,’ he went on, obviously doing a spot of mind-reading. ‘I’d been really looking forward to spending time with you tonight as well. I had a bit too much to drink, I guess. Got carried away.’

  ‘You only had one glass.’ This just seemed to intensify his sheepishness, but I was feeling hurt. Literally. I still had that cheese-slicer g-string on, remember? ‘If you wanted to work, you should have told me and I’d have left when your flatmates did.’

  ‘Please, you’ve got it all wrong,’ he pleaded. ‘That’s just what I’m like when I get an idea for a song. I can’t leave it alone and I sweat over it until it’s finished and …’ He petered out, but the sorry look on his face told me he was being sincere. ‘Let’s make another date right now and I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, feeling myself thaw slightly, but still confused by his lack of interest in me. For all I knew, he was just pretending he wanted to see me again. I had my pride. If anyone was going to pull away first, it was going to be me.

  I got up from the sofa and picked up my coat.

  ‘Please, Dayna,’ he said, coming after me, his arms outstretched.

  I let him hug me and, actually, despite my hurt, it felt lovely and I relented. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘we’ll try again.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied, kissing me gently. ‘And I promise there won’t be a song lyric in sight. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘OK, then,’ I said, weakly returning his smile. ‘A lift would be nice.’ At least it would save me a taxi fare. ‘But didn’t you say you’d had too much to drink?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I only had one glass.’

  * * *

  I have to admit, I was slightly confused on the drive home. I didn’t understand. On the dates we’d shared previously he’d seemed to be really into me. But that night he’d treated me as if I were his sister. Or his Bernie Taupin. Or something.

  When he phoned me a couple of days later, he vaguely suggested another date and I vaguely said maybe. To be honest, I felt it was over and I was gutted. There was so much to like about Chris, but something told me it was never going to work.

  The following Friday, I had the perfect opportunity to shake the episode from my system. A bunch of us Holstein girls were going out to celebrate passing the course. Hannah had organised the evening. She lived in Camden and claimed to be in with the management of a club there and so could blag us free entrance. Sounded good to me. Though it could get a bit wild on a Friday night, I liked Camden – and it was only a couple of tube stops from home.

  There had been twenty-five of us on the course. But I guess most of them were partying in their native haunts of Essex or Hampstead because only six of us turned up. We met Hannah at the tube and trekked the short distance to the club …

  Where we joined a queue, which stretched round the block and almost all the way back to the tube.

  ‘I thought you could get us in, Han,’ one of the girls moaned as the heavens opened and rain cascaded down on six scantily-clad girls.

  ‘Yeah, but we still have to queue first,’ Hannah told her. I began to wonder who her in at the club was. The cleaner, perhaps?

  After an hour of excruciatingly slow shuffling forward in the rain we’d reached the velvet rope and the fleshy wall of bouncers behind it. Hannah ap proached one of them and batted her dripping, smudged eyelashes at him. ‘I’m Hannah,’ she said, ‘a mate of Greg’s.’

  ‘Who?’ the bouncer grunted.

  ‘Greg. The bar manager.’

  ‘Never heard of him, sweetheart.’

  ‘Anyway, the place is packed,’ another slightly grumpier bouncer said. ‘We can’t let any more in. Fire regs.’

  ‘Talk to Greg,’ Hannah squawked indignantly. ‘Call him on your radio thing.’

  ‘There ain’t no Greg and you ain’t coming in.’

  Hannah continued arguing, but I was ready to call it a night. I was freezing, my hair was a disaster and a river was running through my open-toed mules. I was about to ask who wanted to celebrate p
assing our course with a kebab from the Greek takeaway when I heard his voice: ‘Dayna!’ I looked up to see Simon in his trademark black bomber jacket, the word security reassuringly embroidered across the back. ‘You look really … wet,’ he laughed.

  ‘You’re working here now?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. I had to knock Stockwell on the head. It was turning into the O.K. Corral down there. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You know him, Dayna?’ Hannah jumped in, suddenly seeing a light at the end of a very wet tunnel.

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you know Greg?’ she asked Simon.

  ‘Never heard of him. Do you girls want to get in or something?’

  ‘No, we came to stand in the rain and admire the bouncers,’ I said, my teeth starting to chatter. ‘Of course we want to get in.’

  Without consulting his mates, Simon unclipped the velvet rope and ushered six very wet and very grate ful girls through. He was already their hero, but when he said, ‘Tell the girl in the box office Simon said you don’t have to pay,’ he was transformed into Superman.

  I hung back. ‘Thanks, Simon. You saved my life. Again.’

  ‘No big deal,’ he shrugged. ‘You can do me a favour back, though.’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got these forms to fill in and … Well, you know me and forms.’

  I did know Simon and forms. It wasn’t that he was illiterate, but anything in a grid freaked him out. I remember him trying to fill out a lottery ticket once. All he needed to do was mark out six little Xs, right? No chance.

  ‘But what about Joanne?’ I said. ‘Why don’t you get her to help you?’

  ‘Do you even know Joanne?’

  ‘You know I do. We were at school together.’

  ‘Right, so you must know she’s not all that great with forms either. She can’t even fill out a lottery ticket.’

  Ha, I thought proudly. Slaggy Joanne might be a tigress in the bedroom, but she was no match for me when it came to form filling.

  That’s the great thing about being young. You see compliments in the strangest places.

  Once I got inside, the other girls were all over me. Steam was coming off them and it wasn’t just the rain evaporating. They had worked themselves into a frenzy over Simon.

  ‘God, he is so gorgeous,’ Hannah drooled. ‘Can you introduce me?’

  I looked at her and at the tiny amount of clothing she was wearing – little more than underwear really – and I thought she could probably pull him without any help from me. Then I said, ‘There’s no point. He’s already got a girlfriend.’

  ‘So?’ she said. ‘That’s never stopped me before.’

  Everyone laughed. Everyone except me.

  What was it with some girls? I would never have gone after another girl’s boyfriend and the conversation was really annoying me.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t cheat on her, I know that for a fact. He’s not the type,’ I said, probably a little too self-righteously and also very dishonestly.

  ‘No such thing as not the type,’ Hannah informed me. ‘They’re all the type. They’re men, aren’t they? You are such an innocent, Dayna.’

  Everyone laughed again, and this time so did I. Well, I didn’t want it to look like I couldn’t take a joke, did I? I wasn’t the type.

  The next morning I was having a much-needed lie in. At least I was until the phone rang. I looked at my alarm clock: ten past bloody seven.

  ‘Morning,’ a breezy voice chirped. It took me a moment to realise it was Chris.

  ‘Eurrgharrghh,’ I said, which sounded like ‘Good morning’ in my head.

  He laughed. ‘Rough night, was it? It’s all right for some. I didn’t finish my dissertation till four this morning.’

  ‘Aahhahhh,’ I said, which was both the best I could manage and somehow appropriate all at the same time.

  ‘Listen, I really want to see you again. And I promise, no band stuff this time. Are you doing anything tonight? I could come over to yours. I’ll bring some wine. And I’ll cook again if you like.’

  That woke me up. ‘No, you can’t. I mean, I couldn’t possibly let you go to all that trouble,’ I jabbered desperately. ‘Why don’t we go out?’

  ‘OK, it’s a date,’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  Once the call had ended I let my head crash back onto my pillow, wondering if I’d done the right thing. He’d caught me by surprise, ringing me at the crack of dawn, threatening me with his cooking and panicking me into agreeing to see him. But as I closed my eyes, I decided that it wasn’t such a bad thing. We both needed another chance to see if this relationship had any potential before we consigned ourselves to being Just Good Friends. As I fell asleep again, I felt so full of optimism, I’m sure I must have had a smile on my face …

  I was just about to accept the Miss World crown when the phone cut in again. This time it was Simon. ‘Good to see you last night, Dayna. Weird you turning up – but good weird. Hey, I didn’t see you leave. I must have been on a break … Hang on, I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

  ‘Urghgh,’ I replied, which sounded like ‘No, not at all. I’ve been up for hours’ in my head.

  ‘Ha! That mate of yours is a minx.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ My head was still full of the beautiful throne I’d just been about to sit on and I was having trouble keeping up.

  ‘What’s-her-name … tiny pink crop-top, see-through platforms …’

  Suddenly I was up to speed. ‘Hannah.’

  ‘That’s it, Hannah. She waited till I knocked off. I went back to hers. You can show up whenever you like with mates like that. Nice one. Anyway, I’m home now. Got to get my head down. I’m knackered. When shall I come over?’

  Miss World had completely vaporised and in her place was a vision of Hannah and Simon going at it like rabbits on an oyster diet. What he got up to behind Joanne’s back was none of my business … But really. How could he?

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asked. ‘I said when shall I come over. The forms, remember? You were going to help me fill them in.’

  I thought about telling him to sod off, but, well, I owed him, didn’t I?

  ‘OK,’ I sighed. ‘Come round tomorrow morning. Ten thirty. No earlier.’

  It was five to eight as I hung up and by now I was wide awake. What the hell was it with these guys? It was bad enough that they wound you up. Did they really have to wake you up at the crack of dawn to do it? The sun had barely risen, but my lie in was over and my mood wasn’t good. I shouldn’t have cared what Simon got up to, but obviously I did. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d been in slaggy Joanne Robinson’s shoes. Well, not literally, of course. She wore six-inch heels whereas I wore sensible trainers like all girls who aren’t slags. But, despite our differences, there I was lying in bed feeling sorry for her. Unbelievable!

  The sympathy didn’t last long, though. It was cut short by the phone – what else?

  This time it was Dad: ‘Just wanted to remind you about lunch today. Skip breakfast because Mitzy’s doing the works.’

  Aaaggghhh! My bad mood had just got badder.

  Dad had been right. As I arrived at the front gate, the aroma told me we were having a full-on Sunday lunch, a whole day ahead of schedule. As I rang the bell, I sniffed the air. I was starving. Time to make peace with Mitzy, then.

  ‘Get yourself a drink, Dayna,’ Dad said when he let me in. ‘I’m just helping Mitz in the kitchen.’ He had a tea towel flung over his shoulder. I’d never seen one of those there before.

  I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down, deciding I wasn’t going to help. The domesticity was having a strange effect on me. Dad was no slob, but all this homeliness was out of place. What was happening on the dining table? The linen tablecloth, the place settings, the crystal wine-glasses. The closest thing Dad and I had ever got to a tablecloth when I was growing up was the paper the fish and chips were wrapped in.

  I
heard Mitzy’s slightly raised voice come through from the kitchen. ‘I thought you were timing them.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Because I distinctly heard you say, “I’ll do the Yorkshires”, that’s why.’

  ‘I meant I’d put them in the oven, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you think? The oven knows how to turn itself off?’

  I couldn’t tell if she was really annoyed or just putting it on. I quite fancied them having a blazing row, with her walking out in disgust, never to be seen again …

  ‘… Look at them!’ she screamed. ‘Bloody ruined. You can chuck them now.’

  I listened, then after a moment’s silence Dad walked in carrying a dish of perfect Yorkshire puddings.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said, laughing. ‘A millimetre too high, a shade too dark and she calls them ruined. Why did I have to go and fall in love with a perfectionist, eh?’

  Why did you have to fall in love with anyone, Dad?

  Mitzy followed him in with the beef and within minutes the table was groaning under the weight of dishes. Who did she think she was? Delia Smith’s more glamorous sister? It was like looking at a whole series’ worth of something-I-prepared-earliers.

  As we started to eat, Mitzy seemed nervous. ‘Is the gravy OK, Dayna?’ ‘… The potatoes aren’t too crunchy, are they?’ ‘… Are you all right with parsnips?’

  She needn’t have worried. She was an amazing cook and I tore into her food as if it was my first meal after a long-term prison sentence. Or after a date with Chris.

  Mmm, meat.

  But did I have to like her just because she could cook? I felt confused. Because while I was complimenting her on her minted peas, I was wondering why she wore mascara for lunch at home and wasn’t her skirt an inch or two too short and why was her hair Jessica Simpson blonde rather than Marge Simpson blue? It was like when forty-something Carol Vorderman was splashed across the papers for looking too hot at some awards bash and everyone tut-tutted because she should have been growing old and looking it. I’d hated that, but there I was judging Mitzy in exactly the same way.