Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

  But would I have liked her any more if she’d been a frump? I doubted it.

  I sat back from the table, my stomach full of delicious food, my head full of evil, and I was totally oblivious to my own hypocrisy.

  ‘Mitzy’s selling her house, Dayna,’ Dad announced as he topped up my glass with the last of the bottle. ‘She’s moving in here.’

  I stared at him, unable to move and only partly because I’d overeaten. But what had I been expecting? They were engaged. Of course they were going to live together.

  ‘Dayna, I really want you to be happy for your dad,’ Mitzy said, going from bubbly to serious and heartfelt in the blink of a mascara-ed eye. ‘But, more than that, I want you to know that I’ll never get in the way of you two. I want you to stay as close as you’ve always been.’

  At that moment I felt about a thousand miles from my dad, but I stayed silent. I was damned if I was going to say anything to put her at ease. Dad was obviously reading my mind because he tried to speak for me. ‘She’s all right, aren’t you, girl?’ he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘I think it’ll be good for us both having Mitzy around … Don’t you think, Dayna?’ He was longing for me to say something – preferably something agreeable – but I just didn’t have the words, nice or otherwise.

  ‘I was always sad I never had children,’ Mitzy said, filling the void. ‘Always wanted the big family thing, but Harry never wanted kids. Said he was too old. Not too old to run off with his bloody secretary, though, was he?’

  I’d picked up enough snippets from Dad to piece together her story. Harry was ten years older than her and had dumped her for a twenty-three-year-old. Did I feel sorry for Mitzy? Of course not. I barely knew her and I didn’t know Harry at all, but I was absolutely convinced I knew exactly what had happened. He hadn’t been lured away by a younger, sexier model. No, he’d left because he’d seen through Mitzy. And I so wished that Dad would too, before it was too late.

  ‘This is my dream come true, you know, Dayna,’ she continued, taking hold of my dad’s hand across the table. ‘I never thought I’d meet anyone else … It really could be so great. It’s going to take a bit of time, that’s all. After we’re married, we can –’

  ‘What?’ I gulped. Did I hear her say the M word? Yes, yes, they were engaged and engagements lead to marriage, but I was holding out a hope that this one would be different; that they were engaged with a view to staying that way forever.

  ‘Well, after the wedding, maybe we can all go away on a little holiday together. Sort of get to know each other. As a family. What do you think?’ She smiled at me, her turn to look a little desperate.

  What did I think? Panic was bubbling up inside me. What the hell did I think?

  ‘I think … I feel sick,’ I said.

  ‘Oh no, is it something you’ve eaten? The beef! It was too rare in the middle, wasn’t it? I knew it –’

  ‘It’s not the food,’ I said as I stood up. ‘I think I’d better go.’

  ‘Wait,’ Dad called out as I left the room. ‘Stay for a coffee. Let’s sort this out.’

  ‘Nothing to sort out, Dad. I just don’t feel well. Don’t worry. I’ll call you.’

  As I left the house, I didn’t think there was a place on earth that would take me far enough away from those two.

  I walked out of Dad’s and kept right on walking. Normally I’d have headed for the bus stop, but I decided that the two-mile uphill trek back to my flat was what I needed to sort my head out. It was certainly what I needed to sort my stomach out. I was well and truly stuffed. God, that woman could cook. But why was the thought of her screwing with my head? I’d moved on from the idea that she was only after his money. She’d done all right out of her divorce as far as I could tell. Besides, why would a gold-digger waste time on Dad when there were plenty of proper millionaires out there to fleece?

  So it wasn’t the money. And it wasn’t her hemlines, or her hair colour. I couldn’t kid myself any more. I knew what was going on. The man who had singlehandedly raised me from the age of four was being taken away. It boiled down to one ugly feeling. Jealousy.

  When I got back to the flat, I bumped into Kirsty, the American who lived across the landing from me. She was surrounded by a sea of supermarket carriers and was struggling with a bunch of keys.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked as I fished in my bag for my own door key.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ Then she looked up at me. ‘Jeez, you look like shit.’

  Kirsty was always direct. I guessed it was an American thing, because wasn’t everyone there direct – or, as us Brits would put it, rude?

  ‘Just walked back from Kentish Town,’ I explained. ‘All uphill. I’m knackered.’

  ‘No, you look like shit.’ Direct and perceptive. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, just family stuff. You wouldn’t want to know.’ I felt my bottom lip wobble.

  ‘Try me,’ she said, finally unlocking her door and holding it open.

  Kirsty had been my neighbour since Emily and I had moved in. She seemed nice enough, but I didn’t know her beyond snatched conversations on the staircase. I liked the look of her, though. She liked her bottoms baggy, her tops and her hair cropped, and the sound her tongue stud made when she clicked it against her teeth.

  She was doing it now. ‘Wanna beer?’… Click, click, click.

  I nodded, then watched her drag her shopping into her kitchen.

  I knew she’d been to art college and that now she designed things but I had no idea what. I looked around her living room, searching for clues. There weren’t any. She certainly kept her place minimalist.

  She reappeared with two frosted bottles and handed one to me. ‘Sit,’ she said with a smile, gesturing at the sofa, ‘and tell me. What’s happening?’

  So I told her.

  ‘It doesn’t sound so bad to me,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘She’s trying hard with you and your old man’s happy. If my mom had met someone else, she might not have taken her bitterness out on me. I had a nickname at school: Ol’ Black Eyes. I “walked” into more “doors” than Ray Charles … Your dad and this Mitzy, you just need to get used to the idea, that’s all. Believe me, the jealousy won’t last forever.’

  There it was. She’d nailed me. I rewarded her perception by snapping at her. ‘At least you had a mum when you were growing up.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, taken aback.

  ‘Oh, nothing much. She just died, that’s all.’

  There was a long, stunned pause and then, ‘Sorry … I am so sorry.’

  I felt bad. She hadn’t known, had she? I hardly ever talked to anyone about Mum. I didn’t want to be just another person telling her sad story to someone who didn’t particularly give a shit. And unless you’d known Mum, why would you?

  ‘Jeez, I am really sorry, Dayna,’ she said again. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘You weren’t to know, were you?’

  We sipped at our beers in awkward silence and I felt a desperate urge to start again. ‘So why wasn’t your dad around?’ I asked. ‘Did he leave home when you were little or something?’

  ‘I wish,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘No, I never met my dad. My mom wouldn’t tell me who he was. Probably ’cause she didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘That was the least of it …’

  That was it. I’d opened the floodgates and out poured the story of Kirsty’s life. It was amazing. Amazingly horrible, that is. She was like several guests on Jerry Springer rolled into one. As I listened, slack-jawed, I imagined captions appearing below her.

  KIRSTY – MOM WAS VIOLENT ALCOHOLIC TRAMP.

  KIRSTY – MOLESTED BY SEVERAL UNCLES WHO WEREN’T REAL UNCLES.

  KIRSTY – PREGNANT AT 14 BY UNCLE WHO was real uncle.

  I know what she was doing: the old there’s-always-someone-worse-off-than-you thing. But if I tell you I’ve got a migraine and you tell me about slicing your finger off i
n the blender and packing it in ice and racing to hospital where it’s sewn back on in a ten-hour operation, it might be a great story, but when you’ve finished telling me, my head is still going to hurt, right?

  ‘But look at me now,’ she concluded. ‘I’m twenty-nine and fine. Sure I’ve got scars, but everyone’s got those. We should be proud of them, not ashamed. And if you give them enough time, they don’t hurt any more. Don’t even itch.’

  Time. She had a point and I knew it. I was as low as I’d ever felt that afternoon, but I knew I’d feel better in time.

  Talking about the time, I looked at my watch and jumped because I hadn’t realised I’d been there for so long. Doesn’t time fly when you’re swapping misery with someone? Chris was picking me up in half an hour and I had to get changed.

  ‘Thanks for the drink, Kirsty. It’s been really good to talk. I’d better be going now,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘Hot date?’

  ‘Well, a date. Remains to be seen how hot it gets.’

  There was something I had to ask her before I left. It had been mildly bugging me since Simon had mentioned it months before.

  ‘Kirsty, can I ask you something? What did you think of Simon?’

  ‘Your ex? No offence, but he’s your basic grade-A jerk. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No, no … It’s just that – Look, it’s not important.’

  ‘Tell me. I’m intrigued now.’

  She had a mocking look on her face and I felt myself blush.

  ‘I got the impression you … quite … liked him,’ I said haltingly.

  She threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘He was a good-looking guy and everything, but way too much testosterone for me. Don’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That I like girls.’

  Of course, I’d known that all along.

  ‘So what do you want to see?’ Chris asked as we stood outside the cinema. ‘There’s Runaway Bride, but I’m sure you wouldn’t actually want to go and see that pile of crap.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I laughed. Of course I didn’t. I’d seen it twice already with the girls from college. ‘What about Toy Story 2?’ I suggested.

  He laughed. ‘I know, ridiculous isn’t it? Hollywood’s gone sequel crazy. They’ll make anything so long as they can stick a number at the end of the title.’

  ‘OK, but you haven’t answered my question. What about Toy Story 2?’

  ‘We could go see Being John Malkovich,’ he said, still ignoring me. ‘It’s supposed to be quite good in a blah, blah, kind of blah, blah, although blah.’

  I’d tuned out. No, I didn’t want to see Being John Malkovich. Not that I was shallow or immature or anything, but I wanted to see something that had noisy explosions and slushy love scenes, preferably with an A-list cast. Who the hell was John Malkovich and why would anyone want to be him?

  ‘Hey, what about Sliding Doors? That’s supposed to be brilliant,’ I enthused, and immediately I knew I’d made the best choice of the evening. Sure, it was a rom com and probably not the sort of film he would ordinarily choose, but the way I put my arms around him and pressed my body into his and said, ‘What do you think?’ all breathily, he could only agree that it was an excellent choice.

  ‘But Being John Malkovich has had some great reviews and––’

  ‘Please?’ I asked again, pressing into him even harder this time.

  ‘All right,’ he said, only a little reluctantly. ‘I saw Paltrow in Seven. Good movie. If you like that sort of thing.’

  Terrific. We’d agreed on a film. That was a good thing. Maybe the things that separated us weren’t going to signify the end of our relationship after all. OK, so in terms of where we were at, I’m playing a bit fast and loose with the word relationship, but the Next Step was imminent. I was sure of it and I’d dressed accordingly. Again. Under the baggy trousers were the most beautiful knickers I’d ever seen. I’d bought them that morning and I was certain they were going to become my lucky pants.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ Chris enthused as we walked out of the cinema.

  ‘Was it?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘Her accent was amazing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so,’ I conceded only slightly grudgingly. Truthfully, I thought Gwyneth Paltrow’s English accent was pretty damn fantastic, but he was being so gushy that I had to play it down. Well, no girl likes to feel outdone by another woman, even if it is by an A-list actress her boyfriend’s never likely to meet.

  ‘I reckon she’s really underrated. So classy. Really attractive too.’ He elbowed me playfully, sensing my annoyance.

  ‘Can’t see it myself. Actually, I think she’s quite wooden,’ I said as casually as I could. ‘I told you I wanted to see Being John Malkovich.’

  It’s a good job it started to rain at that point because he was laughing at me so hard, I wanted to kick him. Instead, we ran for shelter. We found it in a pub not far from the cinema. I sat at an empty corner table while Chris struggled to get the barman’s attention. He was far too nice for that kind of thing. A real would-be rock star would have been standing on the counter chucking ashtrays at the bar staff until he got his round ordered.

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ I asked when he finally put my beer in front of me and took a sip from a glass of something that looked like flat cider.

  ‘Just an apple juice,’ he said.

  Hmm, I thought, I bet that’s Keith Richards’ favourite tipple too. But I didn’t say anything because he was sliding up close to me on the bench and he had a twinkle in his eye that suggested the night wasn’t quite over yet.

  We mooned at each other for a moment. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I felt as if anything was possible and that all of it was going to be great. To be honest, I’d been a teeny-weeny bit dishonest in my appraisal of old Gwinny. The fact was we’d been to see our first movie and we’d both enjoyed it. I wanted to explore other possible areas of mutual interest and I’m guessing so did he, because then he asked me, ‘So, what music are you into?’

  I panicked. What do you say to a man who’s obviously serious about his music? Probably not that I generally found albums pretty boring and I much preferred compilations. ‘My favourite band, Chris? Oh, it would have to be Now That’s What I Call Music.’ In the end I copped out and said, ‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ which wasn’t a complete lie because most of my com pilation CDs did indeed contain all kinds of things. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds of things …’

  Him too? I wondered if he had Now … numbers fifteen through to twenty-nine.

  ‘… Tom Waits, Neil Young, Nirvana. Everything starts with The Beatles, though, doesn’t it?’

  Does it? I thought. ‘Hmm,’ I said. Then I remembered something I’d heard when I’d had half an eye on some music documentary and I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that the man who composed a work of genius like “Hey Jude” also wrote “Mull of Kintyre”?’ I sat back, pleased with myself for coming up with such a clever and original insight.

  ‘That’s what everyone reckons,’ he said, wiping the smug look off my face in an instant. ‘Personally I think “Mull of Kintyre” isn’t that bad. Structurally it has a lot of integrity and the middle eight inverts the primary melody very cleverly …’

  I couldn’t argue with that. (Obviously.)

  He proceeded to give me the entire history of The Beatles and a detailed analysis of McCartney’s relationship with Lennon. Very detailed.

  OK, so I wasn’t really paying attention during that particular bit of the conversation, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself that evening. We might have been poles apart in some areas, but that didn’t stop us having a great laugh the rest of the time.

  ‘Want another drink?’ he asked, knocking back his apple juice rockstar-ishly.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I replied. ‘At mine.’

  The next morning, the last thing I expected to be feeling was in
love, but there it was.

  Yes, I was definitely in love.

  Chris was lovely.

  Life was lovely.

  All I wanted to do was spend the day wallowing in my new loved-up-ness, but then I saw the clock: ten fifteen. Simon was due round any minute. Forms to fill.

  Damn. I could have really done without that. What girl needed to fill in forms when she’s busy remembering the best night of her life?

  Simon was an hour late. Nothing odd about that, though. He might have been big and bad enough to defeat an armed gang with nothing more than a deft wiggle of his little finger, but he couldn’t make it anywhere on time, which is a much more useful life skill if you ask me.

  Kirsty was coming out of her door as I let him in. ‘All right, Kirst?’ he chirped.

  She replied with a curled lip and a tetchy click of her tongue stud before scurrying off downstairs.

  ‘She so wants me,’ he smirked, flopping down onto the sofa, his long legs going straight up onto a pile of beauty magazines on the coffee table.

  ‘Hey, get your filthy shoes off there,’ I snapped.

  I wasn’t going to let him get comfortable. I had work to do. The magazines awaited my attention. I wasn’t interested in the models at the front, but in the job ads at the back. I had a career to kick start. I’d begun the quest before I’d left college. Our teachers had encouraged us to begin with the phone calls before our exams. Good experience, they told us. Well, they were right. So far, I’d had some excellent experience of people putting the phone down on me.

  ‘Right, make us a cup of tea, then we’ll put this on,’ Simon said, pulling a videotape from his jacket pocket and stroking it lovingly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ he said with an irritatingly cryptic smile.

  I made tea, and as I brought the mugs back and sat down, Simon put the tape on. It opened with a man, a big, muscular guy whose face was slick with sweat and set with an expression of fierce determination. Then a caption came up: 99.99% NEED NOT APPLY.