#Toots

by Linh Le James

  ‘Well, thank you.’ I furiously try to think of something witty to say. I fail and gulp my BLT down to conceal my awkwardness. The bread is dry in my throat. I take a slug of coffee, which is too hot, and burn my tongue. I cough, and splutter bits of ciabatta and latte, all teary-eyed. I can’t believe how uncool I look. And my freshly corrected eye make-up must be running again by now.

  Need to repeat mantra.

  I am Khaleesi. I am the Unburnt.

  What would Khaleesi do? She would quietly sit on her chair like she would on the Iron Throne. And exude sexiness and dignity.

  ‘Are you OK?’ MaddMaxx touches my forearm in concern. He obligingly extends a serviette to me. I grab it and cover my mouth. I wish I could hide my face in it and the earth would swallow me, taking me out of his godly sight.

  ‘I think I know everything about you from your profile.’ He grins. ‘So, I’ll tell you a joke. What’s a good way of finding out about your date?’

  My brain is frantically looking for the answer to the riddle. I feel like an ant slipping down a wet tree in a storm.

  ‘You give up? You should ask about their first pet, the first street they lived in, their mother’s maiden name, log into their email, and read everything.’

  I chuckle and type on my phone. MaddMaxx’s WhatsApp pings.

  ‘Correction. He’s not an 8. He’s a 9.’

  ‘That’s encouraging. OK, another one. When is it appropriate for a man to ask, ‘where is this relationship going?’’ He clears this throat. ‘When he’s been captured by pirates and the name of the ship is Relationship.’

  I dissolve into laughter. MaddMaxx has put me enough at ease for me to almost stop worrying about my dress back cleavage and my eye make-up.

  ‘I’ve never been on a blind date, believe it or not.’ I pop open my bag of crisps and offer him some. ‘I didn’t know what to expect. I’m a bit nervous, actually. You’re a great guy. Really funny. And definitely not a psycho. My first pet was a hamster called Spamster. My mother used to call Spam ham, so I thought Ham-ster Spam-ster, right? The first street I lived on was Bruce Road. And my mother’s maiden name is Worswick.’

  ‘Well, I wish I could return the favour, but I am indeed a serial killer and if I told you these things, you’d have to end up in my chest freezer… Just kidding! Tell me something about you. Anything.’

  ‘I love coffee walnut cake. I love coffee and I’m partial to walnuts whenever they’re in cakes, but not salads. I love dogs, my parents have a Tosa Inu called Teddy. I have three older sisters. We’re quite close. What about you?’

  ‘I have a younger brother, but we don’t really speak. Long story. He’s the golden child and I’m the black sheep of the family.’

  ‘Well, that makes two of us. Did you guys argue about something? Sorry – it’s not my business, but I can’t imagine being mad at any of my sisters for longer than a few days.’

  ‘It’s fine. We’re not on bad terms as such; we just avoid each other’s company. He’s in the limelight a lot thanks to his job and gets a lot of female attention. He tried it on with my ex and I didn’t take it too well. Our relationship was on its last legs anyway and we broke up with my ex shortly afterwards. My brother and I are past that now, but we don’t see each other much. We’re just very different. He travels up and down the country for work, I usually go wherever my bike racing takes me, so our paths don’t often cross, even though he only lives half hour away from me. We see each other at Christmas and Easter. You’re a much more pleasant subject to discuss than he is. Reverting back to you… you seem like an easy-going person. Am I right?’

  ‘I like to go with the flow. My family think I’m too laid-back. That doesn’t work too well with uni deadlines. Or paying bills. Have I said too much? Sometimes words come out of my mouth before my brain can even figure out what it’s trying to say. It’s like there’s my mouth, my brain and then me. Three different entities in the same body trying to talk over each other.’

  MaddMaxx roars with laughter but gets interrupted by his phone. It’s his boss, begging him to go back and finish an urgent work assignment.

  ‘Listen, Bounty Bar, I need to get back to the office. I’m away from tomorrow for a bike racing thing in Austria for a week. Then I’m up in Manchester for work.’

  My heart sinks. He’s already fobbing me off. Fantasy over.

  ‘What’s the face for? Because I called you Bounty? It’s my favourite chocolate bar! Soft, sweet... Now, when I call you Timeout that’s when you should be worried. Hey.’ He lifts my chin with his finger and comes close enough for me to feel his breath on my face. ‘We’ll catch up after I get back. That’s a fact. Not a question. Not an offer. Maybe I’ll cook for you, if you’re a good girl while I’m gone.’

  Softly, his thumb brushes my bottom lip. I go weak at the knees. He grabs his helmet and sets off without looking back. Still dazed by his touch, I can only sit there, breathless.

  Then my phone pings.

  ‘You’re a 10 xx’

  Chapter 3

  Dill or no Dill

  Dill or No Dill

  Ingredients

  50 ml gin

  15 ml elderflower cordial

  25 ml fresh lemon juice

  1 pinch sea salt

  2 thin slices cucumber

  1 sprig fresh dill, to garnish

  Put everything in a cocktail shaker, fill with ice and shake hard for 15 seconds.

  Fine-strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with a sprig of dill.

  Emily

  Tuesday. My flat. 6 pm.

  ‘How did it go?’ Lola shrieks.

  I’m lying face down on the couch. I pull the throw over my head.

  ‘I’ve blown it. MaddMaxx is a dream. He’s hot, funny, clever. Honestly, lunch at Caffè Nero was a disaster. He was talking about the barista at one point and I thought he meant his solicitor or something. He’s going away tomorrow and said, “See you when I get back”. He didn’t mention when, and he hasn’t been in touch since.’

  Lola says I have a low opinion of myself which brings on self-sabotage. I try not to sound defeated for her sake but it’s not easy when you have a huge crush on someone you just met and they’re blowing you off. I scoff a handful of Jelly Babies and down the rest of my glass of Pinot.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s only been about six hours! That guy should be worshipping the ground you walk on. Let’s set up more dates. If he calls you when he gets back, cool. If not, we’ll have back-up plans.’ Lola chirps as she grabs my phone.

  Next thing I know my mobile is running out of memory with an overload of new apps, eHarmony, PoF, Tinder, Okcupid and Hinge.

  When the landline rings, I’ve swiped left about a thousand times.

  ‘Emily! I’m so pleased to catch you at home! Do you think you could spare an itsy-bitsy hour to help me out with my payment protection insurance claim? I found the Web Link to the complaints page for my MasterCard but cannot make head or tail of where to apply. Am I supposed to go to the Ombudsman or the FCA, whoever they are? Have you checked if you’re owed a PPI refund? I’m sure you have a Visa debit and credit, right? Let me tell you about Lizzie’s daughter. You’ll never guess how much she managed to reclaim in a single phone call. Yes. One. Phone. Call. One phone call to her bank and within couple of months her account was credited with £8000. It’s almost enough to buy a brand-new car!’

  ‘Mum, I’m just in the middle of something. Can I call you back later?’ I mutter.

  ‘Darling, we’re talking big money here. The regulator has been advertising the reclaiming deadline coming up. I can’t find the date on The Internet. But it’s real. And it’s coming.’

  ‘Ok, text me the name of your bank and I’ll have a look.’ I sigh, desperate to get my mother off the phone in case MaddMaxx rings and I somehow miss the call waiting.

  Lola criticizes me for being a pushover. I guess I’m a people-pleaser. Is that a flaw? She says I’m under everybody’s thumb, especially my mother
’s, but I refuse to admit it to anyone.

  The truth is my mother doesn’t act with my older sisters, Jess, Louise and Carla the same way she does with me. I’m the youngest, which is an excuse for her to treat me like a baby and her personal lackey.

  My mum has this annoying habit of routinely asking me to run totally random errands to which I usually oblige.

  Random Errand 1

  Say, bring a dish back to Auntie Agnes. Knowing full well a visit will end up costing three hours of my time once Auntie Agnes starts ranting about her thrombosis or the caravan site’s planning permission in the green belt behind her bungalow.

  ‘Emily, do you know I have gathered about every household signature in this street to save the Wong’s? They’re never home, you know, always working at the takeaway. They’re planning on buying new premises down Bashford way. I did leave a note and haven’t heard back. When I think about all the people who have lived in the village for the last thirty years. Take Mrs. Green next door. Jacqueline was outraged when she found out about the plans for the wastewater—’

  ‘-Auntie Agnes! I really have to go; I have to be in work in 30 minutes!’

  ‘How lovely. Have I told you what Jacqueline decided to do with those council people?’

  Random Errand 2

  Deal with stuff that has nothing to do with me.

  ‘Emily, you know that ISA you opened last year for me with Coventry? Do you mind withdrawing one grand from there, in cash please, and transferring the rest into a three-year fixed deal? You might need to make a quick phone call to verify your identity because I lost the grid card with The Internet passcode for it. While you’re at it, would you mind applying for a new ISA with Lloyds for this year’s contribution? With what’s left in the Yorkshire’s? Their rates are a whole 0.25% higher! I sent you the info over The Internet in an Email. Oh, and you might need to go to the branch in Basley to do that.’

  ‘Mum! I don’t have time for that!’

  ‘I read the MoneySavingExpert newsletter every week, and I know exactly where we’re doing. We’re maximizing our returns. It will only take a mini-minute of your time.’

  ‘Our returns? Your money!’

  ‘My money, your inheritance.’

  ‘Look, I don’t have time to argue. Whatever.’

  ‘Dope.’

  ‘Did you just say “dope”?’

  Random Errand 3

  Return a jumper to M&S without a receipt.

  ‘Just make sure they give you a refund, dear. Say you want cash only, no store credit nonsense.’

  ‘Why? You’ll end up spending the credit note at some point, won’t you?’

  ‘It’s a question of principle, Emily. You should always get cash back. Credit notes just get lost. It’s a tactic from the stores to steal your money. Negotiating is good practice for work.’

  ‘Mum, I do not haggle with people working at Chicago Bar. It’s not like they might give me a pound tip and I’d say “Hang on there, what about two quid?”’

  ‘Never sell yourself short.’

  ‘Look, Mum, can’t you go yourself?’

  ‘I would, but M&S is so close to uni, you can just pop down there any time!’

  ‘I have to get the 547 to get there. Pop down means walking somewhere. Anything involving a bus is not popping down.’

  ‘There’s a sale on the Per Una range at the moment and you could treat yourself to some nice linen trousers for the summer. Meghan Markle wears some lovely linen trousers in this week’s Hello! magazine. Oh, and I’ve seen a gorgeous lemon cardi that would suit you much better than all that black nonsense you wear every day.’

  ‘I love black. It’s slimming, and you can’t see stains.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s grim and makes you look pallid. Shall I look on The Internet for that lemon cardi and send you the Web Link by Email?’

  ‘Mum! I do not want a yellow cardi!’

  ‘Lemon, not yellow.’

  Ursula Davies, my mother, likes to refer to colours by their more complicated equivalent. Lemon instead of yellow. Magenta or maroon instead of red. She will also mention Cabbage White or Arsenic instead of white or green, assuming the other party knows exactly what the Farrow & Ball colour looks like. She might comment, ‘It was more of a coral than salmon, you know?’ or ‘Was it moss or olive?’, whereas my brain only thinks in primary colours: blue, red, yellow, that’s it.

  She subscribes to Homes and Gardens, Living etc., Ideal Homes and House Beautiful. She would love to make a living as an interior designer, only ever relishing in French country. Scandinavian modern or shabby chic pages usually make her shake her head as she leafs through the magazines’ glossy pages. She watches with keen interest Mansion Renovation and Boom Boom Room Makeover on Channel 4. But she could never bring herself to trawl through car boot sales where one can find supposedly invaluable décor pieces from the homes of old people who stopped washing their hands years ago.

  My mother is an office administrator at the local timber and builder’s merchant. She daydreams about becoming the next Kelly Hoppen while she files the daily invoices.

  Emily

  I’m still busy researching PPI online for my mother when Jess turns up out of the blue at mine, which she usually does after she’s had an argument with Scott and wants to vent, pretending she has an errand to run in the area.

  She’s donning a complete black ensemble. Yoga trousers, dry fit T-shirt, baseball hat and shades, instead of her usual Whistles office gear. Her white trainers clash oddly with the rest of the attire.

  ‘Jess, are you OK?’ I frown in concern, my Tinder chiming uninterrupted.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa and some custard creams? We need to update you on Em’s dating extravaganza!’ Lola walks in with mugs of green tea and a pack of biscuits.

  ‘No thanks, my toots. Can’t stay long,’ Jess declares, deadpan, with her sunglasses still on. ‘Scott’s looking after the girls. I said I’d be couple hours’ tops to go for a run and the yoga class. Em, I need a massive favour from you. I need you to let me borrow one your credit cards. I’ll pay you back. Here’s two grand, as an advance.’

  A fat roll of bills secured with a pink hairband lands on my lap. This is well dodgy. It feels like when things are about to go pear shape in Breaking Bad.

  ‘Whoa. Wait. Since when have you taken up running? Or yoga? I mean, it’s fab! Scott’s been nagging you to get back into it, he’ll be really pleased. Why can’t you use any of your own cards?’

  Jess hasn’t taken a seat. She jiggles restlessly as if she needs to go to the loo.

  ‘I need to make a few purchases and I don’t want Scott to know. It’s for a surprise for his birthday.’

  ‘Isn’t his birthday in December?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘I mean for Father’s Day, next month. I’m planning a secret weekend away.’

  ‘How nice! Are you taking the girls?’ I’m thrilled at her initiative.

  Jess seems perplexed by the question and thinks for a second.

  ‘No, I’ll have... childcare. Will you please help me? I never ask you for anything. I’ve always been there for you, Em.’ she adds petulantly.

  ‘OK! Here, you can have my MasterCard.’ I retrieve it from my purse. The last thing I want is to look like a meanie. I warn her, ‘Don’t buy anything on it for another two days. It’s maxed out and I need to clear two thousand pounds off it first with your cash.’

  Jess sighs in relief as she pockets it. The alarm on her phone goes off. ‘I need to go. The yoga class is over. I mean, starting.’

  Lola and I look out the window after her departure. We catch Jess looking over her shoulder as if to check whether she’s been followed. She swiftly gets into her car, which is parked on the double yellows in front of our block of flats, and speeds off.

  ‘What’s wrong with your sister?’ Lola dunks a custard cream in her tea.

  I wrinkle my nose at her terrible habit. We’ve had major disagreements over biscuit dunking.

  ‘I t
hink Jess is having an affair. She asked me if I knew any techie at uni who could help her jailbreak her iPhone – something about the latest IOS.’ I rub my brow, perplexed. ‘Then she was going on about buying a second-hand Samsung S8 but she’d need to have it rooted. She wanted to install some special apps for work which you can’t download from the Play Store. I suspect she’s trying to install some dodgy software to block Scott tracking her whereabouts or automatically delete her call history—’

  ‘-And the credit card trick, that would be to pay for hotel romps or presents for her lover? No. It doesn’t make sense. Jess is, well, Jess. I can’t see her doing that.’

  The entrance bell gives three short consecutive rings.

  Carla, dressed up to the nines, looking frenzied and agitated, stands in the doorway. ‘I was just passing by and thought you might be home. I’m going to this work thing. I just wanted to say hi.’

  ‘You look amazing! Is it some posh do? I have so much to tell you! I met a guy on Match. And Jess stopped by, you just missed her by a few minutes. She’s definitely having an affair—’

  ‘-I’m in a rush. I’ll call you later and you can tell me all about it. But listen, I just had this urge to give you a hug – and I needed you to wish me luck.’

  I pause, flummoxed by Carla’s grave tone. ‘Er, good luck then.’

  Carla squeezes me so hard that I can hardly breathe. ‘This work thing ... it’s a good thing, right?’

  Carla ignores the question. She’s already whizzed off, teetering down the stairs in her sky-high heels, hitching up her too-tight skirt.

  The landline rings. I pick up to the sound of static, background electro and the humming of people talking.

  ‘Em? Em? I can’t get hold of Jess, her line’s engaged. If I bring Nick as a date to the christening, will you girls please not embarrass me? What’s the name of the restaurant for the party after the church? I want to google it to check it’s not too tatty. When is the Skype call so I can show you girls my choice of dress? I can’t decide between the Michael Costello and the Vivienne Westwood.’