Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

  My favourite client came in at least once a fortnight and she always asked for me. I’d been at the Spa Space for six months and this was her umpteenth appointment. We talked about everything, and today, as I applied her mud mask, the subject was her menopause.

  ‘You’ve had the menopause?’ I was stunned. ‘I thought that didn’t happen till your fifties or something.’

  ‘Well, I turned fifty last year, didn’t I?’ Suzie reminded me.

  ‘Oh my God, I’d completely forgotten. Take it as a compliment. You look amazing. No way do you look fifty.’

  ‘It’s these facials, sweetheart. You really do have a gift for this job.’

  The Suzie & Dayna Mutual Appreciation Society. If you’d told me even just a couple of years before that it would come to this, I’d have laughed in your face. But there it was: I loved my stepmum. As much as anything else, I was touched by the fact that she trekked to Knightsbridge every two weeks just to show her support. ‘You should be glad I’ve gone through the change,’ she went on. ‘Now you can be sure I’m not going to give you some monster baby brother or sister.’

  ‘I don’t know if that would’ve been such a bad thing.’

  ‘Really? Can you honestly picture your old man with a baby?’

  ‘Well, Michael Douglas has done it and Dad’s younger than him … But you’re right, no, I can’t to be honest. By the way, how is he these days? Dad, I mean, not Michael Douglas.’

  I hadn’t seen him for a while and I’d been meaning to ask.

  ‘Am I supposed to be talking with this mask on?’ she mumbled.

  She was right. Total silence was required unless she wanted earthquake-style cracks to appear in her face.

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. See you in five.’

  I lit a scented candle, dimmed the lights and shut the door quietly behind me. But as I went to make myself a coffee, I wondered about Suzie and Dad. Was Suzie’s reluctance to talk about him because of the facemask or was it just a reluctance to talk about him?

  I was bonding nicely with Suzie at her regular beauty sessions, but I seemed to have lost touch with Dad. I told myself that it wasn’t my fault. The last six months had been mad, what with settling into a new job and the fact it was imperative that I visit Harvey Nicks in every spare moment. I resolved there and then to make good on all the promises I’d made to myself to have some quality time with him.

  But then I had to go and meet Cristian.

  In the boyfriend-less lull after Mark I made a resolution. I decided that I would no longer be a sucker for looks. Simon, Chris, Archie, Mark, even the less-than-five-minute wonder Gabriel, had all been certifiably gorgeous. And ultimately they’d all turned out to be totally wrong. Clearly they formed a pattern, and when it came to hunks I was a serial idiot. From now on, though, I swore, looks were irrelevant. The next man I was going to fall for would have inner beauty. And if he looked like a pig, so what, because he’d be beautiful on the inside. And even though I hadn’t had a boyfriend in God knows how long, the decision made me feel really good. I’d finally cracked the whole man thing and it would all be plain sailing from here on.

  So what did Cristian look like? Imagine a cruel, twisted amalgamation of Danny De Vito, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Ken Dodd, then throw on a layer of Pavarotti’s blubber. Got the picture? Well, Cristian was more or less the total opposite of that.

  So much for my resolution. But, come on, give me a break. I was far too busy fighting off total cardiac arrest triggered by the gorgeous sight of him to remember a silly little thing like a resolution.

  I met him at one of the Monday chill-out sessions. I was getting some highlights done. I had little squares of tinfoil hanging, seemingly randomly, from my head and I was wrapped in one of those high-necked hair-salon Bat Capes – I didn’t look my best. As I waited for the little timer thing to ping I was miles away, enjoying a tour of Jamie and Louise Redknapp’s beautiful and tranquil Cheshire home. That’s right, I was reading Hello!. I didn’t even notice him when he sat down in the empty chair beside mine.

  ‘What’s it going to look like when the foil comes off?’ he asked.

  I jumped then. A male voice at the Spa Space was practically unheard of, especially on Monday evenings when it was just us girls. I looked up from my magazine and checked him out in the mirror. Wow. Six foot of pure sultriness. Dark eyes set in dark skin topped with a messy mop of dark curls. And his face wasn’t just dark it was … indescribably beautiful.

  ‘So, what’s it going to look like?’ he nudged.

  ‘Um, a cross between Jennifer Aniston and, er, the Irish one off Girls Aloud,’ I told him. Without particularly meaning to, I’d given him the exact same brief I’d given the hairdresser.

  ‘You mean Nadine?’ he said.

  Who the hell knew? I was the girl with the tinfoil head, remember. I’m positive that the chemicals used by hairdressers temporarily suck your brain cells out, and for the duration of your appointment you know nothing unless it’s printed on the page of the magazine that’s in front of you. ‘That’s the one,’ I told him authoritatively.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ he asked.

  Jesus, even his accent was weirdly gorgeous. A sort of cross between Thierry Henry and someone less French.

  ‘About six months,’ I said, trying to sound as sexy as him, but my North London accent wasn’t really cutting it.

  ‘Mila never told me about you.’

  I looked at him blankly. Was he her business partner? Her boyfriend?

  ‘Mila’s my mother,’ he said.

  His mother? She couldn’t be. She didn’t look old enough. But hang on, she ran a beauty salon – it was her job not to look old.

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked before I could stop myself.

  ‘That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s only rude if you ask a woman, and even then she has to be really old for it to be rude,’ I gabbled, wishing we could rewind the conversation to the beginning.

  I noticed Hannah then. She was sitting under a big potted palm, glass of wine in hand. She was chatting to one of the other girls, but she was looking at me, daggers in her eyes.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ I asked him quickly.

  ‘I’m taking Mila to the theatre. I thought I’d pick her up here. I don’t come as often as I’d like.’

  ‘Don’t you call her Mum? Or something?’

  Don’t ask me why I was asking him such stupid questions when all I really wanted to do was flirt shamelessly. As well as Hannah, all the other girls seemed to be looking our way. I realised then that if I didn’t do something sharpish, he’d notice them too and see that, unlike me, they weren’t wearing Bat Capes and didn’t have heads that looked ready for the roasting tin.

  ‘No, I call her Mila,’ he said seriously. His eyes were smiling though.

  ‘Hi, Cristian.’ It was Hannah, appearing at my side, not waiting for him to notice her. She was all lips and chest, which was thrusting itself into the gap between Cristian and me. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said (huskily).

  ‘No, I was just saying to …’ He paused and looked at me.

  ‘Dayna,’ I told him (equally huskily).

  ‘I was just saying to Dayna I don’t get a chance to come in as often as I’d like. I love it here. So peaceful … relaxing.’

  All I could hear was the Snoop Dogg CD on the sound system and the shrieking laughter of the girls drinking out front.

  ‘You call this relaxing?’ I said as the shrill sound of the timer cut through the shrill sound of the laughter.

  ‘Maybe not on a Monday night,’ Cristian said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Oh, are you leaving already?’ Hannah breathed (more huskily than is humanly possible), her lips puffed and pouting, no collagen required.

  ‘Unfortunately, I have to, or Mila and I will be late. But, Dayna,’ he said, turning away from Trout Pout, ‘I just have to know.’

  ‘Kn
ow what?’ I husked.

  ‘Whether you do indeed end up looking like a cross between Jennifer Aniston and Nadine Coyle. Will you call me tomorrow to let me know?’

  Hannah’s eyes popped out nearly as far as her lips, which was going some.

  ‘OK,’ I told him, in a voice that had lost any pretence of huskiness. It was more of a brainwashed zombie monotone, as if I was in his power forever and ever.

  I did call him the next day. I was rather cool about it, though, and I didn’t phone first thing. I waited until the afternoon. One minute past twelve to be exact.

  ‘Please say you’ll do it, pleeeease?’ Simon pleaded.

  ‘I can’t, Simon. And don’t beg me any more. It’s demeaning. Besides, if I come, I’ll only look stupid and that’ll make you look stupid. There must be hundreds of other people you can ask.’

  ‘There are and I’ve asked them. And they’ve all said yes. I can’t believe the only person who’s turned me down is the one I’ve known the longest.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  Simon wanted me to help him become a TV star. ITV had commissioned a new reality fitness show. Ten weeks of training and the winner would have a size-eight bikini waiting for her on a beach in Mauritius or somewhere. The producers were looking for trainers to lick their chosen lard-arses into shape and Simon’s name had come up when they’d talked to the manager at his gym. I could see why. His body had always been a temple, but now it was a listed and protected monument. An audition had been set up where he was expected to do a training session with a mixed-ability group to demonstrate how good he was with everyone from the super-fit to the super-spazzy. He’d already had OKs from his gym buddies and martial arts contacts. Now he was round my flat in a bid to recruit me, the super-spaz.

  ‘It’ll make me look so good to have someone like you in there,’ he went on, still not done with the begging.

  ‘And that’s supposed to make me say yes, is it?’

  ‘Well, you know you can’t do much,’ he said, too thick to realise how close he was to a punch in the face. ‘And if they can see I’m patient and encouraging with, you know, useless people, it’ll prove I’m right for their TV thing. Please, Dayna.’

  ‘God, you really know how to win a girl round, don’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t lost it, have I?’

  ‘The answer’s piss off, Simon. Why don’t you ask Beth?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jesus, can’t you even remember their names?’

  I couldn’t believe this guy. He came to my flat, drank my tea, slagged off my fitness levels (OK, we both knew I didn’t have a fitness level to speak of, but that wasn’t the point) and then couldn’t remember the names of his girlfriends when I was subtly using them against him.

  ‘Do you mean Beth?’ he asked, concentrating hard.

  ‘Yes, Simon. Sorry, instead of just calling her Beth, I should’ve been clearer.’

  ‘God, how do you know about her?’ he said, missing the sarcasm.

  ‘BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME!’ I screamed. ‘You tell me about all the girls you shag.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ he said slyly.

  ‘Well, I know about Sally, Anna and Hannah … Caroline who caught you with Grace … or was it Grace who caught –’

  ‘Hold up a minute, Grace is the old biddy who does my mum’s ironing,’ he said in a tone that suggested I’d deeply insulted his nonexistent honour. ‘What the hell makes you think …? Oh, yeah, yeah, I know where you’re coming from. I told you about her daughter, didn’t I? Michelle – she’s the one who caught me with … Blimey, when did I tell you about all that?’

  ‘The last time we went for a drink,’ I reminded him. By ‘drink’ I meant coffee. Simon’s body was, like all proper temples, an alcohol-free zone.

  ‘Yeah, Michelle,’ he mused. ‘Nice girl. Great tits. Hey, you’re not still into girls, are you? I reckon she’d easily go for it if you fancy coming round one night.’

  I stopped myself from hitting him because I didn’t want him thinking I was homophobic. But neither did I want him to think I’d ever indulge him in his three-in-a-bed fantasy. So I said, ‘What are you like?’ which kept me on neutral ground.

  ‘Only joking. Keep your knickers on,’ he said. ‘That’s if you’re wearing any. Those trousers are very tight.’ Was he implying that I’d put on weight or that I looked devilishly sexy? I was veering towards the latter when he added, ‘All the more reason for you to come to my audition. The workout would do you –’

  I stamped on his foot then.

  ‘Hey, watch my metatarsals, you idiot!’

  Although he was annoying the hell out of me, I must admit I glowed slightly. I’d taught him all he knew about the human body and he’d proved a worthy pupil.

  ‘So the answer’s no, then?’ he said, rubbing his foot.

  ‘Yes, it’s no, I’m afraid. Is that it?’

  He looked at me awkwardly. ‘There was this one other thing I wanted to ask you … But it’s OK, it’s not imp––’

  ‘No, go on, tell me,’ I said, kind of intrigued.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit delicate … But we’ve known each other for years, right? And that’s what friends are for and all that, right? And I’d do the same for you, right?’

  ‘Spit it out, Simon.’

  ‘OK, well, this girl I’ve been seeing, Sally … Did I tell you about her?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Anyway, she can get a bit suspicious sometimes …’

  Hmm, I thought, what could she possibly have to be suspicious of?

  ‘… and I kind of promised we’d go out Saturday, but I also said I’d take Corinne … Did I tell you about Corinne?’

  ‘No, but carry on.’

  ‘I said I’d take her to Brighton for the weekend, and I was wondering if I could tell Sally that you’re my sister and pretend that you and me are –’

  ‘No, no way.’

  ‘Wait, you don’t even know what I’m going to say. I just want you to –’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not lying for you again.’

  ‘What do you mean “again”? I’ve never asked you to lie before and it isn’t even lying. It’s just a –’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not doing it so don’t ask me, OK?’

  I wasn’t sure why I was being so stubborn. Why wouldn’t I help the guy out? Was it because I felt genuinely outraged on behalf of all the girls he was deceiving? Or was it because hearing about all the girls he was shagging reminded me of how he’d cheated on me? Or was it just that being reduced to playing the role of his ‘sister’ was vaguely humiliating?

  ‘So the answer’s no, then?’ he asked for the second time that evening.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  His face crumpled. ‘Jesus, this is gonna be a nightmare,’ he sighed after a moment. ‘Why does life have to be so complicated?’

  ‘Because you make it so, Simon. Why do you do it? Is it just because you can?’

  ‘I dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘It just seems to happen.’

  ‘Don’t you ever think of walking away, not having it just because you can?’

  He didn’t reply. He appeared to be doing something rare for him. He seemed to be thinking.

  But I couldn’t wait all night. ‘Well?’ I pushed.

  ‘I dunno … I just can’t say no,’ he told me. ‘Simple as that.’

  ‘But why? What’s going to happen if you say no? Will you die?’

  He missed the sarcasm. ‘It must be like smokers, you know,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t know. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it sounds a bit weird, but I’ve just got to have it. All the time. From as many different girls as possible.’

  ‘That’s not weird, Simon,’ I laughed. ‘It’s called being sex mad.’

  Once again, Simon missed the sarcasm. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he agreed seriously. ‘It’s like an addiction. I’m addicted to
sex.’ As he said it a great weight seemed to lift off him. He was like an alcoholic introducing himself at his first AA meeting.

  I’d heard of sexaholics – there’d been Michael Douglas and, less famously, Halle Berry’s husband (who was only ever known as Halle Berry’s husband) – and the idea made me angry. I mean, what hypocrisy. When a guy was a slavering sex hound who couldn’t keep his trousers zipped, he had a condition and deserved our sympathy. If a girl put it about a bit, she was, plainly and simply, a slag.

  But somehow I couldn’t get angry with Simon and I just laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny, you know,’ he pouted. ‘I think I need help.’

  ‘What, from a doctor or something?’ I asked, still sniggering.

  ‘Maybe … But from my friends as well,’ he mumbled, shuffling along the sofa towards me and snaking his arm behind me until his hand slipped over my shoulder.

  I gave him an almighty shove. ‘Don’t even think about it, Simon. For your information, I’ve got a boyfriend.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There’s this word, Simon: fidelity. You should look it up.’

  ‘Who is he, then?’

  ‘His name’s Cristian,’ I said proudly, ‘and he’s lovely.’

  ‘How long have you been seeing him?’ And I was pleased to note that he looked a tiny bit hurt.

  ‘Ooh, three, four months,’ I said dreamily. ‘Best boyfriend I’ve ever had, actually.’

  And I wasn’t just saying that to be mean. I meant it.

  * * *

  Oh, Cristian … Cristian, Cristian, Cristian.

  What a lovely man and possibly the world’s best boyfriend.

  First date: we met in the bar at the Dorchester where he told me that, with my newly streaked hair, I truly had become a perfect hybrid of Jen and Nadine, which we both knew was rubbish, but it was so the right thing to say and it led me to going back to his flat to …

  To start a beautiful, wonderful, near-as-damn-it perfect relationship, actually.