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Crappily Ever After

Page 12

by Louise Burness


  ‘Noooo! He was gay?’ asks an incredulous Sarah.

  ‘No! Oh my God, I did not turn him gay!’ Claire looks at Sarah in horror. ‘He disappeared,’ she says slowly, as if explaining it to a three-year-old. ‘I never saw him again. Wouldn’t answer his phone, reply to my emails…’

  ‘Cos you shagged him,’ announces Craig, shovelling his second heap of trifle in his mouth. ‘Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?’ He nods sagely.

  ‘I so did not,’ flushes Claire, glancing nervously at her Dad, who is now taking a sudden interest in the conversation.

  ‘I didn’t Dad, honest, you know I’m saving it for marriage.’

  Several of us explode with laughter at this. Hmm… how many twenty-five-year-old virgins do you know? Still, it wouldn’t be Christmas Day without an argument.

  I’m back in London a few days later. Becky returned last night and is itching for a night out and a girly catch-up. She greets me at the front door with a squeal.

  ‘Oh my God, I’ve so missed you. Mum says hi, she’s coming over for the sales and wants us to take her clubbing again.’

  Becky’s Mum, like mine, never quite grew up. Both still enjoy the thrill of being chatted up by young things, dancing, drinking and hanging out with the girls. They are great fun, but a bad combination together. The one and only time their visits coincided it was like Becky and me, but one hundred times worse. They got on well. Too well! For the safety of the residents of London, we have made sure they‘re never over at the same time again. It was the one and only time I’ve ever had to put my mother to bed.

  As usual, we head out to the Frog and Bucket. We are greeted like heroes returning from war. These poor people have had no time off and are desperate for stories of what it’s like ‘out there’. We have a quick catch-up between the times the staff spend serving the crowds, and then retire to our usual corner. Thoughtfully, a ‘Reserved’ sign has been put on the table by one of our smart-thinking, bartending friends. I tell Becky about how I have promised to go and see a medium. She is enthralled.

  ‘I’ve never been to see a medium. I could certainly do with some spiritual guidance in my life right now. It’s about time I got back out there,’ she shrugs. ‘Put myself back on the market, so to speak.’

  I have a flashback to before Christmas and my promise to be a better friend.

  ‘How are things now? I ask. ‘Do you still miss Bob?’

  ‘Not too badly,’ she replies. ‘I had a look through some old photographs of us when I was back home. It was more nostalgia, I think. I don’t miss him so much as miss a relationship. That’s why I want to get back out there.’

  We book into our local Spiritual Church for a reading later in the week. I sit nervously as we wait for the medium to call us in. The church is peaceful, very much like a traditional church. Blue stars light up the ceiling and an altar is draped with purple velvet. It doesn’t look as if it’s been used to sacrifice a goat – or any other animal for that matter.

  ‘Lucy?’

  I jump.

  ‘Sorry, yes,’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘First visit to us, is it?’ the woman asks gently. I read her name tag: ‘Brenda,’ it says. Should be OK, I reason. Brenda is not the name of a psycho serial killer, is it? She has a warm, homely, brown face and the ‘lived-in’ look about her of people comfortable in their own skin. She wears a purple tie-dye floaty skirt and smells of jasmine. She has a soft Caribbean accent that I find soothing and hypnotic. I feel safe. I follow Brenda to a pew at the back of the church and she indicates for me to sit. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

  After around thirty seconds she begins to talk.

  ‘I have a lady present. When she passed she had a very sore left leg. It’s fine now. She passed over more than ten years ago in her mid-… no, early seventies. It’s Gran,’ she smiles, still with her eyes closed.

  Spot on! I have said nothing so far, and don’t intend to.

  ‘I also have a handsome, young gentleman. Gran tells me that he is your Father. He sends his love. You look very like him but barely knew him. He will always walk with you through life, protecting you in a way he never could in his lifetime. He was taken before he was ready, he says.’ My throat constricts. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Gran tells me you work with children and you’re not happy there. You should be doing something creative. You get the love of that from her.’

  My mind drifts back to being seven-years-old in Gran’s kitchen; Mary and me up to our elbows in dough. The comforting warmth of the room and the smell of a Sunday roast wafts from the oven. We were in charge of the baking.

  ‘Gran says you have had bad luck in the past with men.’ I stifle a giggle at the understatement. ‘Very bad luck,’ frowns Brenda. I can imagine Gran filling in the details as Brenda raises her eyebrows and looks at me. ‘What you need to do, Lucy, is ask the Universe.’ She explains further, on noticing my puzzled expression.

  ‘Basically, what Gran is saying is that all that we want from life is there for the taking. You simply have to ask. Visualise the kind of man you want to meet, write it down even. The same with the kind of job you want. But only use positives. Don’t say: “I don’t want another man who will be unfaithful.” Instead, say: “I want to attract a man who will be faithful to me.” Do you understand?’ Brenda smiles kindly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of like divine ordering?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Brenda laughs softly, closing her eyes again. She definitely isn‘t trying to read my expressions. Only glancing at me occasionally to put across a point. She is impressing me, in spite of my belief that it’s all a crock.

  ‘You worry about your family too much,’ Brenda continues. ‘Mum’s health in particular, but she is fine. Stress is her biggest enemy.’ I nod in silent agreement. Mum lives on her nerves. Her Health and Safety job only shows her how the most obscure things can happen – making her worry unnecessarily more about us – on top of all the more likely hazards.

  ‘Your sister’s relationship will break up soon, but it will be a Godsend to her. He annoys her more than anything and does nothing around the house. Wait, he is fond of the vacuum cleaner, so it’s obviously not all housework he has an aversion to.’

  I burst out laughing at Gran’s joke, startling Brenda out of her trance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I giggle. ‘That has more relevance than you’ll ever know.’

  ‘Gran wants to take you overseas,’ continues Brenda. ‘I see a coastline with palms and good friends surrounding you. But it’s more than a holiday, and more in reach of your grasp than you think. It’s a long held dream for you.’

  Gran continues to tell me, via Brenda, that I’m too skinny (despite going back up to the wrong side of a size 12!). It’s the belly that keeps the back up! Brenda laughs at this, and quite possibly it’s the one thing that convinces me most. It is word for word exactly what Gran used to say to us. I should have a proper breakfast, like porridge. I think back to this morning’s first meal of the day. Leftover pizza and a can of Irn Bru. OK, point taken. I should eat more fruit. I should drink less wine, but she’s glad I’ve stopped smoking. I am very happy with my reading and thank Brenda profusely. As I walk to the door of the church, Brenda calls out to me.

  ‘Lucy, there’s an elderly man walking next to you. He is blowing you a kiss and saying thank you. It’s all he wants to say.’

  ‘Thanks Brenda,’ I smile, ‘that’ll be Harry.’

  I head outside to wait for Becky. The frosty blue daylight is sharp after the dark warmth of the church. Becky skips out smiling.

  ‘Wine?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes!’ I reply, pausing momentarily to look up at the sky. ‘Sorry, Gran,’ I smile cheekily. ‘Come on Harry, let’s hit the pub.’ Becky throws me a strange look.

  Becky was happy with her reading too. She will meet a man soon who will be very significant in her future. One of her friends will introduce them.

  ‘I already know everyone that you k
now,’ she says dismissively. ‘So, it must be another friend.’ Her Grandfather was more general in what he said, just things about everyday life and family. She would be beginning a new job in the next few months, though she was fine where she was and didn’t see that happening.

  ‘Did you give my name when you booked the reading?’ I ask Becky.

  ‘No, just mine, why?’

  ‘She knew it was Lucy, that’s all,’ I reply.

  The next night is Hogmanay. Being a Scot, I refuse to call it New Year’s Eve just because I live in England. Becky and I plan to head down the Frog with some friends. We are having a few warm-up drinks at home and watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s with a huge bag of tortilla chips, when my phone rings.

  ‘Hi Lucy, It’s Mike. From the train?’

  ‘Hello, Mike from the train. How was your Christmas?’ I ask.

  ‘Home was great. I now have another pile of useless things I will never use but, hey, I believe it’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Guess I got the share of good presents this year,’ I laugh. ‘So what are you up to for Hogmanay?’

  ‘Well, there’s the thing, bugger all. What are you doing?’

  ‘Heading to the Frog and Bucket just off City Road. Bit of a pain to get to from Chiswick, but you’re welcome to come along and crash at ours if you like.’

  ‘Cool, see you there. I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Oooh, who’s Mi-iiike?’ Becky asks snidely.

  ‘Nobody that you or I are interested in,’ I say. ‘He has a girlfriend and she’s going to fix my Denis Healey’s.’

  Becky gives me a ‘whatever’ look and goes back to Audrey Hepburn, sobbing and searching for Cat. I head off to change and stop as I notice a notepad sticking out from under my bed. Why not? It can’t hurt.

  List of qualities I want in a man:

  1) Kind and generous, but not a pushover!

  2) Minimal baggage. Def no kids. I ain’t spending my weekdays AND weekends in a park.

  3) No drug or alcohol dependency problems, or tortured poets.

  4) Fun-loving, faithful and someone with direction and purpose in life.

  5) Reasonable intelligence!

  I add the last part as I remember, with frustration, yet another ex boyfriend. One particularly hot summer we were out for a pub lunch. I asked if he wanted to eat al fresco? He informed me he didn’t like pasta. Same guy asked me to arrange a dinner party for his boss and his wife. I called him at work and asked if he’d pick up some canapés. I didn’t think I’d bought enough. He arrived home and plonked three tins on the counter.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘A can of peas, like you asked for. Only you didn’t say if you wanted garden, processed or mushy. So I bought one of each.’

  Enough said.

  I finish my list and sign it with a flourish. Oh, bollocks! I was supposed to write it all in positives. Well, I’ve no time left – I’ll do it tomorrow. Maybe casting on the first day of the year will bring good fortune? Or should I cast my wish properly on the last day of the year? Out with the old and in with the new? My hand hovers over the pen.

  ‘This is your doing, Granddad!’ I say to the ceiling. He has made me unnecessarily superstitious. As the bells chimed in New Year, he would open the back door to let the old year out and the open the front door to let the new one in. He would then stand guard out front to make sure the First Foot (first visitor after midnight) was a tall, dark male and carried a gift. Traditionally, that’s a lump of coal. But a packet of custard creams would do.

  I’ll never forget the year that Mary, bursting for a wee, had sprinted from the Steeple, our gathering point in Arbroath. A place where you snog so many people that you’re guaranteed a Happy New Year cold sore from at least one. Granddad had refused her entry, on the grounds of being a girl, ginger and coal/biscuit-less. He left her diddling about on the spot for twenty minutes ‘til my Uncle Jim turned up and was granted entry. Mary was furious.

  ‘You happy now?’ she aimed a dirty look at Granddad, ‘You made me piss my pants for the first time since I was five.’

  Gran intervened with a plate of pickled onions and cheese and pineapple on sticks. Mary took one grudgingly. Gran took it back and removes the cocktail stick, before plonking the lot back in Mary’s hand.

  ‘No way to start the New Year, with your Granda’s eyeball on the end of that.’

  Hogmanay always makes me nostalgic about my family. I’ve now been sat on the bed pondering for twenty minutes and haven’t even started to get ready.

  ‘Lucy, we’re going,’ yelled Becky from the top of the stairs, wrenching me from my reverie.

  Decision on ‘the list’ has been made for me. I’ll have to leave it for now. I change clothes quickly, slick on a layer of lip-gloss and tousle up my hair.

  ‘Just finishing up,’ I shout. I hear a big sigh in response. Patience isn’t one of Becky’s strong points. I put on my gloves and hat and shrug on my coat. We arrive at the Frog fifteen minutes and forty frozen fingers and toes later.

  We head into the warmth and noise of the pub. It’s bursting at the seams with happy revellers. Many drunk already. I look around for Mike and Sam, then realise I wouldn’t know Sam if she fell in my soup. I spot Mike lurking uncomfortably at the bar and tap him on the shoulder. He envelops me in a bear hug and says how good it is to see me again.

  ‘This is Becky,’ I announce. Mike smiles broadly, as does Becky.

  ‘Come to Mama!’ she mutters. I dig her in the ribs.

  I look at Mike for a moment, viewing him through Becky’s eyes. He is good looking. Guess I was too stressed out from work to notice before. He has overgrown dark brown hair that has a tendency to stick up in tufts. He looks very masculine, strong jaw line, wide shoulders and dark brown eyes you could melt into.

  ‘So, where’s Sam?’ I enquire pointedly for Becky’s benefit, and look around.

  ‘Bitch dumped me and moved out before I even got back,’ he shakes his head in wonder. ‘Think her family indoctrinated her while she was home. She’s gone back to Hampshire – to her ex.’ Another forty watts is added to Becky’s smile.

  ‘Sorry about your eyebrows,’ mumbles Mike. I shrug and shake my head sympathetically.

  An hour into the evening, Becky and Mike are smitten kittens. Staring too long at each other and laughing a little too hard at anything the other says. Becky glances over at me and I mimic sticking my fingers down my throat and gagging. I smile and leave them to it. The others have arrived now and I’m too busy catching up with Em, Amy, Jill and their men of the moment. We’re dancing around near the bar when some idiot whacks into me, spilling my drink.

  ‘Oi! You pillock!’ I shout.

  ‘Sorry,’ he smarms over me, attempting to wipe wine from my front.

  ‘Touch me again and you’re a dead man walking,’ I inform him, turning away.

  ‘Apologies for my mate,’ smiles a friendly-looking guy.

  ‘Is he always such a twat?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nah. Well… yes, actually,’ he laughs.

  ‘Lucy Ramsey,’ I say, holding out my hand.

  ‘Nick Bailey,’ he replies, imitating my formality.

  ‘You’re shitting me, yeah?’ I laugh.

  ‘No,’ Nick shakes his head in confusion.

  ‘Bailey. Your surname is Bailey?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘and yours is Ramsey I believe.’

  I can’t believe it. Bailey, as in George ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ Bailey.

  ‘OK,’ I say in awe. ‘Fast movers up there aren’t you?’

  I look up at the roof of the pub.

  Nick follows my gaze and looks at me in puzzlement.

  ‘I’m not being funny,’ he says, ‘but are you a bit unhinged? It’s just I’ve had enough nutters to last a lifetime, so I may just get my coat now.’

  ‘Stay!’ I put my hand on his arm and laugh, trying not to sound manic. ‘Believe me, I am not one of those.’


  Chapter Twelve

  So, Is Nick is the one? I am almost convinced. It’s all so coincidental. My visit to the Spiritual Church, the surname of Bailey! OK, so it’s not George Bailey. But the fact that I met him the night I cast my wish to the Universe, albeit not the way I was meant to. And the Universe understood that I was being harassed by a deranged flatmate and had to meet another friend in the pub that very moment. Thoughtful Universe. Things are most definitely working out for Becky and Mike. They have turned into one of those barf-inducing loved-up couples that make you want to scream, ‘Get a room!’ at the top of your voice. They seem to be perpetually snogging whenever I enter the room. We no longer have girly lunches alone, as even the suggestion of one invariably results in a hair ruffling for Mike, and Becky baby-voicing:

  ‘But what about poor schnookums?’

  We mainly have foursome lunches out, which is nice. I am happy with Nick, but we don’t have the kind of suffocating relationship as the other two. I quite appreciate a bit of space, and so does Nick. I’m no longer one of those girls who have to be joined at the hip with her boyfriend. I’m moving much more slowly from now on. Proceeding with caution. Nick seems relieved when I’m fine about him going out with the boys.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Why are you even asking me?’

  ‘Just out of respect,’ he replies. ‘I love being with you. I just also like a catch up with the guys too.’

  It’s a healthy relationship. I have learned a lot since ‘Alfie-gate’, as it’s now referred to in my circle of friends. It’s all going so well. Two months into his and Becky’s relationship, Mike moves into ours. It’s easier to get to work is the excuse. Becky is over the moon. Nick can’t help

  using the fact that we met on the same night as a guide for our relationship. He starts to ponder that maybe we should be moving on at the same rate.

  ‘Really, Nick, we’re fine as we are,’ I say. ‘They have moved at an abnormally fast rate.’ To be honest, I really want to put the brakes on us, so that we don’t crash and burn after a few months. I’m done with wanting things to move quickly and prefer to keep an air of mystery around us. I would like Nick to move in – one day – but, by making him think I’m not that bothered about him, maybe I will have more success this time.

 

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