The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp

by The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp (retail) (epub)

  Cleo tutted impatiently. ‘I will keep greasy foods away from you and give you an anti-histamine with your wedding breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you, mother, for disagreeing with all those other points, the things I’m really self-conscious about.’

  ‘Well, I don’t agree with those things, but I just wanted to provide solutions and move forward. Sam and Iris have decided you are to be bridesmaid, and that’s that. It’s their wedding. We’ll get you a lovely dress, don’t worry. Won’t we? Won’t we, Maxy Waxy?’ Cleo burbled away in her cotton-candy voice to the only slightly bemused baby.

  ‘Fine, but he better let me make a speech at the rehearsal dinner.’

  ‘He specifically requested it,’ Cleo said sternly over her shoulder.

  ‘Ah.’ Molly felt a little warm bubble form amongst the despair in her belly. Suddenly she missed her little bro very keenly.

  ‘Then that’s everything rounded off nicely – and I get to see you in your satin splendour, Mols! Hopefully complete with bustle.’ Suze tried to hold the laughter back but her jumping shoulders gave her away. ‘You know I’m kidding. I’ll come with you and be decisive about the dress on your behalf. With a lovely figure like yours we’ll have no trouble finding a great dress. And as bridesmaid, you need to be dressed to knock that best man off his feet, isn’t that how it works?’

  ‘Normally, I’d say yes, but Sam’s best man is Patrick. So, enough said there. That reminds me, I need to drop him a text. He’s needs my help … with, er, a few things.’

  As Cleo turned, with eyebrows raised suggestively, to pass Max to her daughter, Molly grabbed her purse and leapt up out of her seat. She had come dangerously close to blurting out all about the bootcamp to her mother, way before she was ready.

  ‘More coffees!’ she declared in a rush. ‘My round!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It took several days to shrug off the post-wedding-fair fug, but when Molly did she threw herself head-first into a new wave of bootcamp business. Kurt was sending various frequent emails about how best to proceed in his fledgling relationships with a gorgeous blonde he’d met recently (who he described as Cameron Diaz, only better). Molly knew John was busy getting up to something – he was turning up to all the relationship guidance seminars he could, sweating his slight paunch off in Josie’s weekly classes and had seemingly banished his jogging bottoms to the great laundry basket in the sky – but he was remaining extremely tight-lipped about just who he was getting busy with. Simon, however, was a whole other bag of tricks. Though Molly had talked him slowly and surely through where things had gone wrong with his last girlfriend Clara, Simon was hardly breaking the cycle with new flame Sandra.

  Simon had come round to debrief Molly on his last relationship faux pas. He and Sandra had been seeing each other for nearly a month, but things were rocky already and Simon was in a manly muddle.

  He stretched his lovely legs in front of him from a comfy position on the sofa, and folded his hands behind his dreamy head of hair. Even after all these months, Molly found it tricky to be subjective around such a fine specimen of male-ness. He was just that yummy mixture of clean-cut, but a little bit messy; posh, but a little bit naughty; clever, but quite often silly. What a shame that he couldn’t throw an ability to commit into that attractive package.

  ‘So, I said, “Of course you can meet my friends, but tonight’s not a good time. Sophie and Mark just got engaged, so it’s a little group of just my best uni friends getting together for a meal to celebrate. But come along the next time we go to the pub.” Then she got totally mad and stormed out. Bonkers.’ Simon rolled his liquid blue eyes and flopped his fringe side to side in a shake of the head.

  Molly wanted to shake his broad shoulders until that pea-sized lump of brain that was supposed to understand women would fall out. Then perhaps she could plant it in soil, water it and hope it might grow into something bigger and more successful at thriving. Despite the best will in the world, Simon wasn’t getting it. Molly had tried flash cards, chanting, mnemonics, screaming, shouting and pleading. But her lessons in love just weren’t getting through. Suddenly a thought popped into her brain: she was treating the symptoms, but what she really needed to do was get to the root of the problem.

  ‘OK, OK.’ Molly paced up and down her stripy Ikea rug. She carefully folded her hair behind her ears and placed the length of her locks down her back. Molly flexed her neck one way, then the other. ‘How do you feel about Sandra?’

  ‘Um, I like her?’ Simon offered, ever watchful of Molly’s little tests and traps by this stage in his training.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well, she’s lovely. And pretty. Good laugh.’ Simon finished but Molly’s expectant eyes and circling hand gesture told him she wanted more.

  ‘Er … she’s an OK cook. Beat me at Trivial Pursuit. Kind to animals. Um … look, what is all this?’ Even when exasperated, Simon could have the look of charm itself. He sat forward, not feeling quite so relaxed as he had, and rested his elbows on his knees.

  ‘I wonder if it’s all … hmm, yes, that’ll be it.’ Molly finished her mulling and her pacing (if this was living room cricket she’d be set for a century almost) and flopped down on the sofa next to Simon. ‘I don’t think you like her.’

  ‘I just said I did!’

  ‘Well, yes, you like her. But do you like like her? I’m not convinced.’

  Simon turned his head in one direction, then another, as if trying to find the invisible person in the room who’d be able to make sense of this. As he assumed, no such person existed.

  Molly rattled on, in the silence of Simon’s bafflement. ‘The reason you can’t seem to hold on to these girls is that you don’t – deep down – really feel that bothered about them sticking around. I don’t think you’ve been in love yet. If you were in love with these Claras and Sandras and Tillys and Paiges, you would do whatever it took to keep them happy and in your arms. But the truth is – and I’m just going to come out and say it, and this is in no way, shape or form a come-on – you’re so beautiful, women will always put up with a lacklustre performance from you. But when you meet The One, Si, when you meet the person that fills your heart up with hot air like one of Richard Branson’s balloons, you probably won’t need advice from me.’

  Molly’s final thought in the can, she shrugged her shoulders and held her palms up to the ceiling as if to say, What can you do? Your curse is your hotness.

  Simon looked for a moment as if someone had managed to steal his sports car away from under his nose – shocked, hurt and definitely at a loss.

  ‘So then, what does it feel like?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, how will I know The One when she’s standing in front of me? Maybe I’ve met her already but I just didn’t … didn’t wake up to it? What is being in love like?’

  Molly put her tongue between her teeth and thought. She looked down at her bare feet and her recently-applied Nails Inc purple varnish. ‘Um.’

  She opened up the file of ‘Boyfriends Past’ in her mental filing cabinet and flicked through the paperwork. There was a lot of hurt there, from the goodbyes, and lots of fun, from the early days. But, somehow, while she scrabbled around for the right documentation, she couldn’t put her hands on that crucial account of heart-stopping love. Maybe the breakups had sort of overshadowed the feeling? Maybe.

  ‘It’s different for everyone, Simon, so I can’t … I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask. But it should be a big feeling; a feeling so big you can barely keep it inside. If what you feel for Sandra is just small and manageable, then maybe it’s not meant to be between you two. The right one is probably still out there.’ Molly added with a beat of hope to her voice. She wanted to help, not hinder anyone. Someone as gorgeous as Simon shouldn’t give up on love; if Molly let that happen, how would the rest of womankind ever forgive her?

  ‘Yeah. Sure,’ Simon said, with a smidge of yearning but not too much desperation. ‘I suppose what
I wanted help with was—’

  The door buzzer broke into Simon’s words. Molly looked down at her watch.

  ‘Eeek, sorry, Simon. That will be Gary; he’s my next appointment. Um, I hate to shove you out the door but,’ Molly lowered her mouth and widened her eyes in mock-serious fashion, ‘he’s in so much more trouble than you. I mean, the tracksuits, the single earring, the string of two-week relationships. He’s got a way to go.’ Molly stood up with Simon as he strode to the door.

  ‘Don’t we all?’ He rolled his eyes and slipped out the door, as Molly buzzed up her next cadet. She nipped to her laptop on the table and opened the Excel document on her desktop titled ‘Gary SWOT’. When Gary had first joined the bootcamp, she’d had him fill in one of her personal history forms and then sifted the information into Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. Gary had lots of good raw materials in abundance – he was cheeky, confident, could be funny – so there was lots to play with once his weaknesses had been worked on. Gary could occasionally be too bloke-ish for comfort, throwing in a joke or comment that would make your average girl cringe and inch towards the nearest door or window. Rach had recognised his other big weakness: a wardrobe solely made up of sportswear, bringing back memories of her own dating encounters with a track-pant-obsessed individual. Molly was more than happy for Rachel to sort that bit of the equation. In fact, Rachel had even visited Gary’s East End flat a few weeks back to examine the full story. She’d found drawer upon drawer of crinkled polyester and had to have a glass of some Blue Nun Gary had in the fridge, just to settle her nerves. Molly was hopeful she’d have as much success guiding Gary in his behaviour as Rach had been with affecting his sartorial choice: her gorgeous best friend had happily reported that Gary had taken all her advice on board and had been wonderfully open to change.

  Gary sloped in the room, after Molly buzzed him up and wedged open the door with a shoe. She mentally gave a thumbs up to Rach; Gary was wearing some dark grey jeans with a little fading here and there, plus a white shirt that was supposed to look crumpled and therefore wasn’t too formal. And, most importantly, the single earring was gone.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she offered, as Gary took his place on the sofa, fast becoming a hot seat for males in need. He nodded, whilst fidgeting with his belt, and she quick-stepped it to the kitchen.

  As the kettle rumbled to a boil, Molly called over her shoulder, ‘Nothing too traumatic today, Gaz, honest, but I thought we might look at jokes women don’t find funny. They can be broken down into general topics, I find: weight, sex, families. A combination of all three is particularly dangerous.’

  Gary winced from his sofa spot, ready for the self-improvement he’d come for. Now there was a new woman in his life, someone he really cared about, he was going to pull out all the stops to be a better man.

  * * *

  ‘Hello sailor,’ Molly grabbed Patrick’s shoulder and jostled it in a friendly manner. But he nearly leapt out of his low seat in the tea shop. His knees, almost up to his neck as it was, bumped into the table and sent a piping hot cup of Jasmine leaves and water all over his jeans.

  ‘Christ!’ he sprang up, his hands waving uselessly in the air.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Molly spied a pile of white napkins on a nearby counter and scooped up a hefty wedge, dropping some directly onto the puddle forming on the table. ‘Here, use these.’ She was halfway to Patrick’s leg with one of the paper napkins when she realised it would probably be a bit weird to pat him down. Not to mention that he was a grown male and capable of doing such things himself. She pressed the napkin into his hand instead.

  ‘Sorry,’ Patrick said through clenched teeth as he dried himself off, sitting back down into the low, sunken armchair she’d disturbed him out of. Some of the other Saturday morning tea suppers looked back to their own breakfasts when the commotion ended in a disappointingly normal scene.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d give you such a shock.’ Molly smiled lopsidedly and took a seat on a little purple upholstered footstool next to his armchair. ‘Can I get you another tea? It’s the least I can do. What was it?’

  Patrick seemed to compose himself a bit and found Molly’s eyes with his own chocolately irises. ‘Jasmine something. My sister says I shouldn’t drink so much coffee.’ He shrugged with good humour: obviously a man used to being pushed around by well-meaning sisters.

  ‘It’ll hardly stunt your growth now, Patster, but it is good advice. Right, I’ll go and order and then we can sort some things out.’ She was ready to listen to the usual problems her bootcampers now presented on a weekly basis about life, love and separating laundry properly.

  Patrick blinked several times as Molly trotted off.

  When full cups were put in front of them, Molly took a deep breath and held her hands together, the index fingers pressed into a pistol shape that she pointed at her brother’s best man. ‘I just thought of something, actually, before we get going.’

  The corners of Patrick’s eyes pinched together. This was hardly the sort of chat he had imagined having with Molly today, but he was happy to go with it. Especially considering he’d made such a balls-up at the start.

  ‘Your speech: have you started yet? For Sam’s wedding, I mean. I’m giving one at the rehearsal dinner so obviously don’t want to tread on your comedy toes for the main event. I might use up good material you had your eye on, you see. So, any thoughts yet?’ Molly blew the steam away from her green tea and slice of lemon, and took a cautious little sip. As she leant her head down, a curtain of her hair fell in front of her face.

  Patrick relaxed back into the threadbare armchair of the boutique tea shop and let himself think. ‘I hadn’t really planned it yet, but had a few pearls stored away at the back of my mind. We could thrash it out now, though, yeah. Why not?’ He tried to stretch his legs out under the table, but was deadly afraid of scolding himself further. Sometimes he felt he had more limb length than he knew what to do with.

  Molly smiled. ‘Sort of like dividing up the assets after a divorce? Ergh,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘I have just had a flashback of sorting out my DVDs from my ex’s when I moved out of our flat.’ Shivering once from her shoulders to her hips, Molly gave a frown of annoyance.

  ‘Right. Is this the guy you worked with?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

  ‘Um, Sam told me. Ages ago. I think. I had to do a similar sort of thing when I split up with Hayley. Early last year. To be honest, there was quite a lot of stuff I was willing to leave behind.’ Patrick drew his mouth back into a half-grimace half-smile and Molly picked up on the scent of useful background information buried underneath Patrick’s calm exterior. If he was going to get the bootcamp treatment one day, she’d need to know all of his hang ups.

  ‘Like what kind of stuff?’

  Patrick blew a slow breath out through his mouth. ‘Clothes, mostly. She worked as a buyer for an Internet fashion site and found my wardrobe somewhat lacking.’ He pulled at the dark blue rugby shirt he was wearing, as if to demonstrate. ‘She’d bring back all these designer shirts for me but they were always a bit itchy or came up too short on my arms. And just not, well, me. I think she wanted me to get a bit more cultured too, seeing as I was still hanging out with the same friends and engrossing myself in 80s movie trivia. And, you know, sport. So I eventually left a lot of books about graffiti culture and classical composers behind. Along with the dust they’d collected. I don’t know,’ – Patrick played with the hem of his shirt – ‘sometimes things are right when you’re a bit younger, but you get older and want totally different things. As different as Lavin and The Last Starfighter. Pfffh,’ he looked up at Molly as he realised how long he’d been talking for, ‘sorry for the Jerry’s Final Thought stuff.’ Molly had her head tilted to one side as she took it all in, and just gave a small nod as if to say, Yes, I’ve been there. Patrick collected himself and carried on, ‘So, the speech: maybe I could stick to university stuff as that’s my area of expertis
e and you could do the cringey childhood stuff? A sort of pincer movement of embarrassing stories.’ Patrick’s voice crept up from the low, sombre tone it had been as he visibly decided to perk the hell up.

  Molly nodded. ‘I like this strategy. It leaves no humiliating stone unturned. Ah, but can I make a special request to have the one about that time I visited him in halls, to see how he was settling in? I think you guys had only been at Sheffield for a month but was playing the big man on campus, naturally. We went out on that Saturday night, to some club—’

  ‘And got stuck behind the ladies’ hockey team in the queue. I definitely remember. I particularly remember the greenish shade of white Sam went when that striker kneed him directly in the baby makers.’

  Laughing, Molly shook her head fondly. ‘He should never have braved a line about how they must be experts at handling balls. Little stupid Samwise. Yep, I have to have dibs on that. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Patrick gulped down some more of the scorching hot, odd-smelling tea. He would have been so much happier with a Nescafé, but this seemed the sort of place where you were expected to drink suspiciously twig-like and over-priced tea. And girls always seemed to like that stuff.

  Over the next hour, Molly and Patrick swapped countless stories about Sam’s amazing knack for saying and doing and eating the wrong things. As the stories got sillier and more astounding, their laughter grew louder and longer.

  ‘… and when I dared him to do it for a fiver, I didn’t think he really would. I mean, a full ashtray!’ Patrick held his hand to his stomach as more deep laughter flowed out in big blasts.

  Molly blinked back a tiny tear of hilarity from her eyes and, reaching down, to stir up the twiggy bits in her tea, noticed the time. ‘Oh, cripes, I said I’d meet Josie for … a meeting,’ she finished lamely, realising that she still wanted to keep the bootcamp from Patrick’s sometimes sarky sense of humour.