Call Me, Maybe

by Call Me, Maybe (retail) (epub)

  ‘Aw, you guys!’ Rachel says. She pulls everyone together for a group hug. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to wear those skates, though. There’s no way they’ll fit now. I got them when I was eleven.’

  ‘To be honest, I think Mum just wanted to get rid of them,’ Marie says, shrugging.

  The restaurant is in Holborn, tucked away around a corner off Kingsway. You’d overlook it if you didn’t know it was there, but the food’s delicious and we have a good time, even if a group of twenty-something women with crimped hair and heavy eye make-up do stand out like a sore thumb. The maître d’ is worried. We are not his preferred clientele. He’s not keen on the party poppers Lauren distributes from her bag of hen night tricks or the confetti we sprinkle on the table; pink and silver metallic hearts and teal-coloured stars and horseshoes. He thinks we are going to cause a scene. We don’t, but we are louder than he’d like, yet not crass enough for him to say anything. Except maybe for Mandy. She talks loudly about how much of the honeymoon destination Rachel and George won’t be seeing. She ends almost every sentence with ‘am I right, gals?’ and holds her hand up for high fives. Sometimes she gets them, mostly she has to style them out. We leave a fairly hefty tip because some of the other, classier diners don’t seem massively impressed.

  On the way out we stop in the toilets to get changed. My coral shift dress is replaced with a My Little Pony t-shirt and black skirt. I put on another pair of shiny flesh coloured tights for that shimmery skater look, and shake out my crimped hair. Mandy gets to work, her brushes flying over our faces until we are transformed. There is no denying it; I look like the lovechild of Crystal Tipps and Ziggy Stardust, in the clothes of a seven-year-old girl. Lauren distributes sashes and pins a plastic tiara into Rachel’s hair, complete with pink jewels and a veil made from cheap netting.

  In the street Marie enlists a bewildered tourist to snap a photo. We huddle together, all pouts and peace signs. We hold in our stomachs and push out our bottoms.

  ‘This is so going on Facebook,’ Rachel says and for the briefest of moments I remember making the booking for tonight, sitting on Jesse’s navy sofa with my legs crossed on his lap. I’m going to want to see pictures, he’d said, and I wonder what he’d have thought when he saw them and the things he’d have asked about the evening, all in that drawly accent. I’d have told him everything, in minute detail. But then the reality of it all closes in on me again and I remember that none of that will happen at all. He won’t see the photos, and we won’t have that conversation, and I won’t get to tell him how much I miss him.

  Because I really do, and my heart thumps heavily in my chest, as it does, every time thoughts of him catch me off guard. I push it all out of my head and help Lauren hail taxis instead and it’s forgotten by the time we arrive at the roller disco. We saunter past the line to the doors. Our names are down and we are definitely coming in. There’s a reserved booth and bottles of champagne waiting in a bucket of melting ice. Brightly coloured lights beam down on to the rink, flashing in time with the beat of the music. People zoom around the room. Some cautiously grip on to friends, or the wall, others glide around effortlessly, spinning without falling, changing direction as if it’s as easy as walking.

  Mandy cracks open the wine and it fizzes half-heartedly, and dribbles down the bottleneck. We all drink.

  ‘We’re on a mission, ladies,’ she shouts. ‘Cassie’s pop star boyfriend turned out to be a bit of a prick so we’re finding her a new man.’

  No, I think, this is not what I want. Even if I did say it earlier.

  ‘What happened?’ Becky, George’s sister, asks. ‘You seemed quite into him in your emails.’

  ‘Err, there was an issue. His ex is pregnant… actually it’s likely she’s had it by now. It’s probably his.’

  ‘No!’ Mandy howls, her big eyes wide and shocked. ‘He never?’

  ‘Well,’ Rachel cuts in. ‘We don’t know for sure. No one’s really had a chance to speak to the pregnant woman in question.’

  I don’t like her tone of voice. The incredulity of it stings. And it’s come out of left field. She was quite ready to tear him a new one when I got home.

  ‘Well, what would you have done, hmm?’ I say, feeling a little put upon.

  ‘I’d have at least waited until we knew for certain before making any decisions. Especially if you were thinking of moving out there.’

  ‘What?’ Lauren gasps.

  ‘It was briefly mentioned,’ I say, but now it seems childish and like it was little more than my teenage fantasy and I want to change the subject.

  ‘How were you planning on moving out there?’ she asks.

  ‘I could have got a job.’

  ‘Babe, they want people with exceptional skills. Like, doctors who can cure diseases and scientists and engineers. They’re probably not looking for kitchenware merchandisers.’

  ‘Be an actor,’ Mandy suggests. ‘You can live there easy-peasy if you’re a film star.’ And I guess she’d know, what with her inside connections. ‘Ooooh you could be like Gwyneth Paltrow and what’s his chops from Coldplay. Or Nicole Kidman and that Keith fella.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait to speak to him?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘How could I have that hanging over me? If we’d carried on and it turns out to be his, he might want to get back with her and I can’t get in the way of that.’

  ‘But, Cass,’ Marie says, ‘what if the baby’s not his? How will you know?’

  ‘Look, you don’t understand. It was so awful,’ I say, but I’m feeling prickly behind the eyes again. ‘Everyone knew. And he hadn’t said anything. It was secretive and shifty. Why wouldn’t he tell me if he knew it wasn’t his? Why would he put me through that?’

  ‘Cass, we’re only saying this because we are your friends,’ Lauren says. She touches my cheek. ‘We just want you to be happy. You seemed so happy.’

  I nod but I don’t say anything. I can’t because there’s a lump in my throat again. Why is no one else concerned by the dates? I wonder again what would have happened if I’d done things differently. What would we have talked about if I’d stayed? Would we have found a way to get hold of her? Would we have had some proof?

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I say. ‘It’s over. Shouldn’t we be giving Rachel a send-off rather than talking about this?’

  The song changes and the opening bars knock me for six. I can’t believe I haven’t heard it since that day in Jesse’s car but I suppose that’ll happen when you shut yourself off from everything. Carly Rae Jepsen’s breathy vocals fill the club and all I can think about is how carefree and happy we were, singing along that day. I grab hold of Mandy’s hand to steady myself but she takes it to mean I’m back to being Fun Cassie.

  ‘Atta girl!’ she shrieks, but I notice a look between Rachel and Marie. A roll of Marie’s eyes and the tiniest shake of Rachel’s head.

  We all get up and throw shapes and mostly we are clumsy and inelegant. None of us know how to dance on roller skates. We bash into other revellers. Everyone falls over. Rachel is bought a lot of drinks. There is a direct correlation between alcohol consumption and how funny the night is. We have jugs of fruity, sweet cocktails and bottles of Mexican beer with dry wedges of lime shoved roughly into the necks. After countless rounds, we’ve all morphed into amazingly talented skaters. There is no one in the club who is cooler than us. Or sexier. Mandy buys everyone a shot of something bright blue that tastes of syrupy mouthwash and everything spins.

  ‘That guy at the bar is going to ask you to dance in a bit,’ she says, pointing at a tall chap with dark blond hair. ‘I saw him looking your way when I was buying our shots and I thought he was a perfect rebound candidate. So, you are welcome.’

  I squint through the purple lighting towards the bar and do a double-take. Because I recognise my rebound suitor. It’s Fred, 31, Clapham Common, from Date My Mate. FredTed49. For a second I’m astounded at what an enormous coincidence this is, before I remember I told him I’d be
here when he asked me out tonight, and it hits me that Fred is a giant creep.

  ‘Oh… god,’ I mutter. He looks like his photo. Good teeth and a nice tan. He’s smiling sheepishly at me now, and those teeth glow a little under the black lights. He knows he’s been rumbled.

  ‘Well, I think he’s quite nice,’ Mandy says, haughtily.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I said, excuse me, I just wanted to tell you that you are perfect for my mate.’

  ‘Great line,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know, right?’

  I am not convinced she has much more than a rudimentary grasp on sarcasm. He clutches the safety barrier and gingerly skates over.

  ‘Oh, his name is Fred,’ she hisses over the music.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He’s reached us now. Mandy and I stand there, staring at him. ‘Hello,’ he says, nervously.

  ‘What a surprise,’ I say, raising an eyebrow. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Cassie!’ Mandy squeals. ‘Your flirting is terrible.’

  ‘Feel like a turn of the room?’ he says, holding a hand out.

  ‘Go on Cassie,’ Mandy urges, guiding me forward by my elbow.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. He grabs my arm for support and we glide out into the middle of the floor. ‘So, Fred, why are you here?’

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ he says, and I’m immediately sceptical, which I don’t think is unreasonable given my sketchy track record with ‘honest’ men. ‘You said you were coming here and I wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Do you know how creepy that is?’ I hiss. ‘Did you actually just listen to what came out of your mouth?’

  ‘I know,’ he says, deflated. ‘Look, can we sit down? I’m shit at this. The skating mainly, but also, the not coming off as a twat in front of women.’

  I lead us over to a booth and he follows me, gingerly, hobbling on the toe-stops of his skates like some graceless ballerina. What a weapon. No wonder Tyler’s sister wasn’t interested in the end.

  ‘I wasn’t lying, you know,’ I say, pointing at my Maid of Honour sash. ‘I really am here for my friend’s hen night.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were,’ he shrugs, and I think, this is a man with nothing to lose, least of all his self-respect. ‘But you seemed really sad, and not like how you’d been before, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. Seemed a bit creepy to just say it online.’

  ‘The irony of that is outstanding,’ I tell him.

  ‘I know,’ he says, and laughs. He has a dimple in his left cheek, and to my utter disgust, I find myself thinking it’s quite nice.

  ‘Look, Fred, I’m in a shit place for this,’ I tell him, gently. He means well. He’s so earnest. I can’t be unkind to him.

  ‘You said that, too.’

  ‘And I can’t reiterate how weird this is. Like, this is borderline stalker behaviour. Sting’s got nothing on you, mate. If you want to get dates off that stupid website, you’re going to have to rethink your tactics.’

  ‘Why are you in a shit place?’ he says, suddenly.

  ‘That’s absolutely none of your business,’ I say, affronted.

  ‘I know,’ he shrugs. ‘But you’ve alluded to it a few times, so you obviously want to tell me.’

  ‘I obviously do not,’ I say.

  ‘Things didn’t work out with you and the American guy.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask, coldly.

  ‘Your profile on DMM is linked to your Facebook account. You were about to go for a drink when we started talking, and then you mentioned a holiday, and then all these photos of you kissing a man with long hair started cropping up.’

  Oh yeah.

  ‘And then they were all gone. Seemed weird.’

  ‘Well, yeah, if you must know, it has everything to do with that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You looked really happy in those photos. Really bloody authentically happy.’

  ‘I was,’ I say. And then I hear myself telling FredTed49 all about Franko, and all about Jesse, and how being with him was everything I’d ever wanted, and then about Nicole and how devastating that Saturday was, my fight or flight response and my running away to LAX and home before I could be hurt any more. I tell him how I’d wanted to shake the member of cabin crew who welcomed me aboard the plane and scream at her that I shouldn’t have been on it at all, and that I should have been eating almonds and sipping cold beers by the beach. How flying away and cutting him off had felt so unutterably wrong, but what else could I do given the circumstances?

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ he says, and I shrug.

  ‘Why not? Everyone else has thrown in their two pennies. What’s another opinion?’

  ‘I think you idolised him,’ he says, slowly. ‘And that stopped you remembering that he’s human, and he’s flawed. Just like the rest of us. And I also think him liking you back scared the shit out of you.’

  ‘Riiiight.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. When you were a teenager you fancied him because of what he did and who he was, and I daresay how he looks. And that’s the reason you found him again all these years later. And it’s always been there in your head. And that’s why it felt too good to be true and maybe also why you didn’t afford him the same allowances you might have with someone else.’

  ‘Fred, no, you’re wrong. I’d have given him anything. I’d have stopped the world for him.’

  ‘But you didn’t. And no judgement, because if Drew Barrymore came knocking, I’d be scared shitless, too. But you didn’t give him time, and I think it’s because he’s still this untouchable teen heart-throb to you. This perfect being. And he displayed a pretty big flaw by not telling you something you felt he should have, and you couldn’t handle it.’

  I take a really deep breath and wish I had a drink to neck. How has this person, who has sent me the occasional message on that dreadful website, and who stalked me at my friend’s hen night, got me so undeniably spot on? How is that fair?

  ‘In those photos you posted, he looked really bloody authentically happy, too. It was sickening and lovely all at once. I bet you can find a way to open that door again.’

  ‘No,’ I say, quickly. ‘The baby’s probably been born now. He’s probably in New York, getting back with her. Falling in love with someone who isn’t me.’

  ‘And if not? Don’t forget there’s a possibility none of that is happening. Isn’t it better to take a chance and to know, rather than to always wonder?’

  Marie skates over.

  ‘Are you coming back to the hen do or not?’ she asks, and side-eyes Fred. ‘Be nice to spend a bit of time with Rachel tonight.’

  ‘She is,’ Fred says. ‘And I’m going to go.’ He stands up and wobbles on his skates. ‘I know I went about this the wrong way and I’m sorry for that, and for my unsolicited opinions.’

  ‘Better than an unsolicited dick pic,’ I say.

  ‘Okay.’ He smiles at me again, cute dimple and all, and I think, in another world, if things had been different, we’d have gone for a pint and talked nonsense in Shoreditch.

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ Mandy asks, excitedly, when I rejoin the hen party.

  ‘Yeah, alright. But probably not. Thanks, though.’

  ‘There’s always Marcus,’ Rachel snaps. She purses her lips at me across the table and it makes me bristle. For a few seconds, no one speaks.

  ‘More drinks?’ Lauren says, finally.

  I go with her to the bar and as we’re queuing it occurs to me that even though Rachel and Sam have said some of the same things that Fred did, it was different, more altruistic maybe, coming from him. Because he’d come here with an agenda, and that agenda was not to talk me into what I know I need to do when I get home tonight.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  From: Cassie Banks

  To: Jesse Franklin

  Subject:

  Hey,

  So
it’s been a little while.

  And I wanted to see how you are. And I wanted to tell you that whatever happens, I miss you. And I love you.

  And that I’m sorry for running in the way that I did.

  I don’t know if you know if you have a baby yet or not, and I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that I didn’t deserve to know after the shitty way I just cut you off.

  But if it turns out you don’t have a kid, I’d really like to hear from you again. And I’d really like to see you again. So you could call me, maybe.

  Because, a friend told me it would be better to take a chance and know than to always wonder, and after careful consideration I think they are right.

  And besides, I love you. Let’s not forget that.

  Cassie

  Message sent

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Cassie

  Unsurprisingly, Sunday is a write-off, and I barely leave my room. I check my emails a few times throughout the day but hope fades with every inbox refresh that brings me nothing. Sara knocks on my door at dusk, offering me sweet tea and chocolate digestives.

  ‘Good night?’ she says. ‘I was half expecting to find a man in here with you.’

  ‘Not a sniff of one I’m afraid,’ I mutter. I don’t get too close to her; my mouth feels furry and I could really do with a mint. She sits on my bed whilst I drink my tea, drumming her fingers on the edge of the mattress and occasionally fiddling with her nose ring.

  ‘Are you feeling a bit happier about life these days?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really. I was hoping getting out for the evening would help, but I’m still gutted.’

  ‘Well, I won’t tell you to forget about him because I know it’s not that easy… although, I will say with confidence that the best way to get over one man is to get under another one, and if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen.’

  ‘Thanks Sara,’ I say, and it occurs to me that I may have been a little dismissive of her. Worried, perhaps, about what Jesse would have thought of her, as if her being my housemate would have had any bearing on my relationship with him, and anyway she’s only ever been kind and supportive of me and would have been welcoming and friendly when he visited. It doesn’t feel good. ‘That means a lot.’