by Jessie Jones
‘Apply for what?’ I asked.
THE ROYAL MARINES, a fresh caption replied.
‘The Royal Marines?’
Simon nodded, a big schoolboy grin lighting up his face.
‘You want to join the Marines?’
‘Shhh! Watch this. It’s brilliant.’
So I watched. Thirty minutes of men hurling themselves off cliffs, into freezing fjords and out of helicopters, interspersed with bomb blasts, machine-gun fire and one shot of a soldier giving a rag doll to a dirty-faced refugee kid (just to show that Britain’s elite fighting force was in touch with its nurturing side).
I turned to look at Simon and saw him in a new light. Actually, I saw him in full combat dress, his face smeared with camouflage paint. The only time I’d seen him with his face greased up was when he’d been a mechanic and ‘It’s yer alternator, love’ does not have the same knee-weakening effect on a girl as ‘You’re safe now, ma’am. We’ve secured the perimeter.’ Oh yes, he looked good in uniform.
‘Are you serious, Simon?’
He nodded. Then he gave me the speech. How wearing the Green Beret had always been his life’s dream (news to me), how the Marines were the first unit to do this, the only unit to do that, and the finest unit in the world when it came to achieving the other. Don’t ask me what exactly. I’d tuned out.
Simon didn’t notice, though. On and on he talked until eventually he ran out of amazing Marine facts and he got his forms out. I looked them over. I couldn’t see why he needed my help. They were pretty straightforward and so I filled them in for him. My best handwriting too.
‘Thanks, Dayna,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘You’re a star.’
‘No problem. I just hope they don’t have them analysed by a handwriting expert, otherwise they’ll have you pegged as a sweet-natured brunette with a taste for pink trainers and super-frothy cappuccino.’
He looked worried. He hadn’t thought of that.
‘Look, I’m sure they won’t. How’s Joanne?’
‘Who? Oh yeah, Joanne. Yeah, she’s good. She’s off on some keep-fit weekend. Good timing too. I’m seeing your mate again tonight. What’s her name?’
‘Hannah.’
‘That’s it. For God’s sake, don’t let slip to Joanne if you see her. She’ll kill me if she finds out.’ He gave me a wink as if I was one of the lads.
Outrageous! Here he was cheating on his girlfriend with one of my mates and expecting me, the totally cheated ex, to join the conspiracy. Amazing!
As I quietly fumed he asked, ‘How’s it going with that guy you’re seeing?’
‘Chris? Brilliant, thanks. Wonderful. Perfect.’ I was laying it on a bit thick, but after last night I did feel pretty good about things.
Simon didn’t show any interest in my state of happiness. He stood to leave and asked, ‘By the way, do you still want to be a beauty thingy when you grow up?’
‘A beauty therapist,’ I informed him snootily. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Just wondered,’ he said, opening the door. ‘The head beauty thingy at the hotel is looking for someone. I told her you’d give her a ring. She’s called Georgina. But she needs someone who can start straight away and I don’t know how you’re fixed.’
Well, let’s see. I’d made about fifty calls to fifty salons and had been told, ever so politely, to get lost about fifty times. I had no money coming in and the bills were piling up. How was I fixed? What do you think?
I suppressed the urge to punch the air, and instead, as casually as I could manage, said I’d give her a bell when I had a moment to spare. Nobody wants to look desperate. Especially if they are.
‘How do you know she’s looking for someone?’ I asked. ‘You’re not back working there, are you?’
‘God, no, don’t be stupid. No, me and Georgina, we’re, well, you know …’ He raised an eyebrow and smirked.
When he left, I wondered if I really wanted a job at the place where he’d had more shags than a deep-pile carpet. And did I really want to work for a woman with whom he was, well, you know?
I mean, a girl has her dignity to preserve, right?
After our cinema date, I didn’t see Chris for a while. He was a lovely, decent bloke and I accepted all his excuses – that he was snowed under with exams, the band was rehearsing flat out, he had a zillion song ideas that he had to get on tape, blah, blah, blah.
Besides, I had my own life to be getting on with. The job-hunting was going dismally and I was growing frantic. I was putting off calling Simon’s friend Georgina, but given the mounting pile of brown envelopes on the kitchen counter, I couldn’t really put it off for much longer. Nobody else seemed interested in just-qualified. No, they were all looking for at least two years’ experience. Well, tell me, if you don’t give jobs to the just-qualifieds, how are they ever going to get two years’ experience?
But first I somehow had to extract a date from Chris. After two weeks of not seeing him, paranoia was kicking in and I was becoming convinced that he’d lost interest. Was he seeing someone else? Was our relationship over? I was soon to find out. I finally persuaded him to come round for dinner and that meant I had a lot to do.
Starting with a trip to the shops for a vegetarian cookbook.
* * *
There were enough candles to light a cathedral. I’d placed them in flickering clumps all over the living room. I’d dressed for the occasion as well. That was strange – I’d never dressed up to stay home before. On top of my (exceedingly) lucky pants I was wearing a flimsy little number that was mostly spaghetti straps and was possibly a size too small, but he’d never notice in sultry candlelight. Besides, I wasn’t planning on keeping it on for long.
‘Have you had a power cut? Bit dark in here, isn’t it?’ he said when he walked in. He flicked on the light, instantly killing hours of careful planning. Men – even so-called sensitive ones like Chris – just don’t get candles, do they?
He took his jacket off and immediately undid three shirt buttons. ‘Jesus, it’s hot in here,’ he said. ‘It’s really mild outside. Why’s the heating on?’
What can I say? I’m sensitive to the cold and the dress I was wearing wasn’t substantial enough to keep a mouse warm. Men – even sensitive ones, etc. – just don’t get having the heating on whatever the weather, do they?
I pulled him into me for a kiss but, after a peck on the lips, he pulled away. ‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked. ‘I could do with a juice or something.’
My heart sank. So he had gone off me. Should I just admit defeat and let him get on with dumping me? Was that the real reason he’d come round? I tried to stay optimistic. Maybe he just had work on his mind and needed to unwind. Maybe he was simply hot and thirsty and needed a drink.
‘Apple juice?’ I asked knowledgeably.
‘Perfect,’ he replied.
‘I’ve cooked too,’ I said, heading for the kitchen.
‘That’s great. I’m starving. Knackered too. Maybe some fuel will wake me up.’
I returned to the living room with his juice and decided to do a bit of subtle detective work on the does-he-still-fancy-me question.
‘Here’s to us,’ I said, holding up my beer.
‘To us,’ he replied, smiling, chinking his glass against my bottle.
Excellent!
Wonderful!
He wouldn’t be toasting us if he was going to end things, would he? No, of course not. I was right. We were good together and tonight was going to be the first step in a long line of steps that we were going to take together.
And I was going to start by fixing him the best meal in the history of vegetarian-based food. I’d been studying my new cookbook all week and had got myself into a bit of a state. I didn’t know anything about cooking vegetarian food. Actually, I didn’t know anything about cooking, full stop. All I’d managed to figure out was that even recipe books that had titles ending with the words For Beginners still read like science experiments to me.
I had decided
that there was only one solution. A takeaway. I chose the Taste of Nawab not because I’d had many delicious meals there – I hadn’t had any – but because it said ‘recommended for vegetarians’ on the menu I’d found on the doormat. I had timed it so the food arrived half an hour before Chris was due. Excellent. All I had to do was empty the containers into dishes and heat up the lot in the microwave. Ingenious.
What could possibly go wrong?
Pretty much everything, as it happened, starting with the microwave, which chose that night to die. I told myself not to panic, called out to Chris to relax, it wouldn’t be long, blah, blah, and switched on the oven. Then I emptied the containers into dishes and shoved the lot into the oven. I stuck the empty containers in a carrier bag, called out to Chris to relax, wouldn’t be long, etc., etc., and raced downstairs to hide the evidence in the dustbin.
Disaster number two struck when I got back upstairs and realised I’d locked myself out. Not a problem. Just knock on the door and Chris would let me in. Of course it wasn’t that straightforward. Upstairs neighbour James had his music on – I think I may have mentioned that he liked it loud. However hard I banged on my front door, Chris was never going to hear it. I ran upstairs and banged on James’s door, but naturally he didn’t hear me either. So I ran back down and knocked on Kirsty’s door. I don’t exactly know why, but, hey, it was a door I hadn’t yet banged on. It might have yielded the solution. But she wasn’t in. Or she couldn’t hear me either.
There was only one thing left to do. Stand on the landing and let panic take over. Because at that point I remembered that I’d set the oven at its highest temperature, so if I didn’t get inside quick, my perfect home-cooked vegetarian meal would be charcoal. And a second, much worse thought had occurred to me. Had I taken the Taste of Nawab carrier bag outside with the empty cartons or had I left it on the kitchen counter?
Oh God. I felt like a thief who’d just spent hours wiping away her fingerprints only to remember she’d left her passport behind on the front doormat. I tried to stay calm, but the only thought going around my head was aaarrgghhh.
Then I had the brainwave of running back downstairs and onto the street, from where I threw bits of gravel up at my window. Still no response, so then I raided the rubbish bins and picked out a couple of battered Coke cans to hurl up at the window instead. That was when the police car stopped.
When the cop got out of the car he was looking at me as if I was deranged to the point of being dangerous. Admittedly, I was in a state. My hair was electrified, my mascara had run down my face in sweaty streaks and my oh-so-sexy dress was splattered with the contents of the dustbin.
‘My boyfriend’s up there,’ I explained. ‘I’ve locked myself out.’
‘Have you tried the doorbell?’ he asked.
‘I’ve tried everything,’ I said, feeling tears fill my eyes.
‘Let’s try giving him a call.’ He reached into his pocket and took out his mobile. ‘What’s the number?’
Not such a brilliant idea. Chris didn’t pick up. It wasn’t his flat, so why would he?
A second cop got out of the car and gave his mate a look – come on, it said, we’ve got proper criminals to nick. I put on my most pleading expression and begged them to come up with me and bang on the door with their manly policeman fists. I didn’t care how pissed off they were. Nothing, but nothing could have matched the frustration I was feeling by then.
Oh, sorry, yes it could. The humiliation I felt when they kicked my door open.
We’d stood outside my flat and one of them was convinced he could smell burning. But if he could smell it out on the landing, why couldn’t Chris smell it in the flat? Was there a Chris in there? Was this even my flat? Had a young woman matching my description just escaped from the local loony bin by any chance?
‘Are you sure he’s in there?’ Cop One asked.
I nodded uncertainly.
Cop Two gave Cop One the nod and they switched to life-saving mode.
The door crashed open after two hefty kicks and they burst in to find smoke pouring from the kitchen and Chris stirring to life on the sofa, where he’d been sleeping like a … well, like a student.
Did he look surprised?
No. He saved that for when Cop Two walked out of the kitchen, having gone in to turn off the oven and open the windows. ‘I love the Taste of Nawab,’ the cop said, holding the carrier bag. ‘Best takeaway for miles.’
As the emergency locksmith packed up his tools and pocketed his cheque, I turned to Chris and said, ‘I’m sorry I lied to you.’
‘That’s OK,’ he consoled. ‘It’s no big deal if you can’t cook.’
But I felt defeated. Defeated, exhausted and totally burnt out. Literally. Not only had my plans for the perfect evening been ruined, but my dishonesty had also been exposed. I felt terrible and I couldn’t lie to him any more.
‘It’s not just that. I’m not really a vegetarian either,’ I confessed.
He smiled then. ‘That’s cool. Neither am I.’
I was shocked and saw the tiniest flicker of hope. ‘Really? So why did you say you were?’
‘Er, because I was joking. I’m totally vegetarian. I was just trying to make you feel better.’
So why was I feeling worse?
We spent ages clearing up the burnt food and the broken china – I’d put the food in non-ovenproof dishes, hadn’t I, and they’d shattered in the heat. The candles I’d spent hours lovingly arranging were mostly burnt out too. I was lucky the flat, with Chris in it, hadn’t gone up in flames. The smoke and the stench of burnt curry had pretty much gone, but my despondency hung thick in the air.
But gradually I found my self-pity turning to anger.
I was cross with myself for being such an idiot and, as he stood there being all forgiving and sympathetic, I was angry with Chris too. I’d busted a gut not only to get him round here, but also to create the perfect date. And what had he done? He’d turned up and fallen asleep. I didn’t care how much bloody midnight swotting he’d had to do, how many songs he’d had to get out of his head, I was livid.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, a worried look on his face.
‘Look, Chris, if I’m being honest, I don’t really think we’re meant to be together,’ I told him unhappily.
I’d so wanted things to work out, but I felt that this disastrous chain of events had been a sign. A sign that this thing was over.
Still, I wasn’t sure if I meant what I’d just said or if it was simply the frustration of the moment talking.
‘But we haven’t given things a chance,’ he pleaded. ‘You know something, Dayna, I think we’ve got something really special here. Can’t you feel it?’
And you know what? I really wish he hadn’t said that because his words flipped a switch inside my head. Suddenly I was fourteen again; back at the age when all the thrill was in the chase. And now we were at the finish line.
I made a decision. The idea of Chris was fantastic, amazing, magical. But Chris in the flesh just wasn’t working. I had him now, but I didn’t want him. It was as brutally simple as that. I’ve thought about it a lot since and I’ve wondered if things might have been different if he’d played it cooler. Would I have stayed interested? Who knows? All I know for sure is that at that moment, I’d made my decision.
‘Sorry, Chris,’ I told him decisively. ‘We’re chalk and cheese. It would never work.’
‘But it’s our differences that make it amazing. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known. You’re nothing like the girls I grew up with or the girls at uni.’
And the way he looked at me – so sweet and really quite sexy – I almost relented, but hey, I was fourteen again, remember?
Our moment was over. I walked to my front door and held it open.
But he didn’t move. ‘Look, it’s been a crap night, a disaster,’ he tried to reason. ‘Maybe you’ll feel differently in the morning.’
‘Chris, it’s nothing you’ve done. You’re a
lovely bloke and everything, but…’
But what? I didn’t know, did I? I was just trying to make him feel better.
‘Look, it’s like Love Story,’ I said.
His forehead creased into a frown.
‘The bit at the end,’ I went on. ‘When Ali MacGraw dies.’
Still the frown.
‘You know, it was like a sign. That perhaps things weren’t going to work out between her and Ryan.’
I didn’t really know what I was talking about, but he seemed to get the gist. He picked up his jacket and turned towards the door. He stopped when he reached me and said, ‘I finished that song, you know.’
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘The one I was struggling with when you came round to my place … I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. I brought the lyrics round. I was going to show them to you tonight, but …’ He trailed off, ending with a sad little shrug.
Was he hoping I’d relent? I didn’t. Instead, I said, ‘Maybe I’ll hear it on the radio one day. Good luck with the band and everything. I really mean that.’
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled as he shambled out of my flat and down the stairs, looking like the last man in the world who’d make it as a rock star.
I felt terrible the following morning. Because even though I still felt that Chris and I were just too different to work out, dumping someone is just about the worst thing you can do. It makes you feel shabby and mean, even when you hate the guy. I was still annoyed with Chris for crashing on my sofa while I was having a nervous breakdown, but I didn’t hate him – not even close to it.
I decided that the best way to take my mind off my guilt was housework. The flat still stank of burnt Indian and little floods of candle wax were all over the carpet and furniture in the living room, so I threw myself into action.
As I was attacking the sofa with the vacuum, a piece of notepaper that had been wedged between the cushions became stuck in the tube. I tried to wrestle it out, but the more I pulled, the more it simply shredded. I turned the vacuum off and pulled out the last remaining scrap of paper. It hit me then that this was the song Chris had been talking about. On one side, in his barely legible scrawl, were the remains of some lyrics. I flipped the paper over and underlined three times was one word: Coldplay. What the hell was that? Was it the title of the song? Or had he finally found a name for his band? Whatever, I thought, then I balled up the paper and threw it into the wastebasket. Well, I was spring cleaning, wasn’t I?