FREDDY, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM FRAN! HERE’S WHAT SHE HAD TO SAY!
DAVE. Freddy. Whatever your name is. I made a mistake. Please still be at Heathrow when I get there. Please. Fran xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx ‘No! This way! Stefania, fucking come back!’ Leonie yelled as we sprinted into Terminal 5. Stefania ran back with a luggage trolley. ‘What the hell is that for?’ I shouted frantically. ‘I DON’T KNOW,’ she yelled, abandoning it and running off. We stopped abruptly under the departures screen. Terminal 5 was far too busy for my liking. I scanned wildly down for the 22.30 departure to Kabul. My heart stopped. ‘BOARDING! FINAL BOARDING CALL!’ Leonie shouted hoarsely. I slumped to the floor. ‘Oh, God, no!’ But Leonie grabbed me by the strap of my vest and pulled me back up. ‘Get a life,’ she muttered. ‘Come on, let’s just be sure.’ We started running again, this time towards Security. ‘Where’s Stefania?’ I shouted. ‘Dunno. Probably riding a luggage trolley. Forget it, we haven’t got time.’ We split up and trawled the long snaking queues into Security. People shuffled along with their bags, chatting and staring into space. None of them was Dave. I looked at Leonie, who had finally given in. She shook her head sadly and I felt my heart begin to break. ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said, as we began to walk back to the entrance. ‘But you can call him as soon as he gets there. Maybe you could go out and see him.’ ‘Great. I could visit him in a trench in Helmand Province,’ I said, fighting tears. This was all wrong. I’d let him go. I’d let him walk out of my life. Precious, lovely Dave. Suddenly a loud, honking yell of ‘FRANCES!’ hit us. Stefania was proceeding in our direction at a gallop. ‘Right, take zis and go,’ she yelled, thrusting a flight ticket and my passport into my hand. I gawped. ‘What?’ ‘I took ze liberty of breaking into your house and stealing your passport,’ she said. ‘But the ticket? How?’ I asked, with wonder. ‘I have ze money from my family. I vant to repay you for use of ze shed. GO!’ she yelled, propelling me forward. I smiled gratefully at them both and ran. ‘GO, FRAN!’ Leonie yelled. I sprinted round the corner towards Security and bulldozed straight into a little old lady who was crying into a handkerchief. She staggered backwards but, much to my relief, she stayed upright. ‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry!’ I cried. ‘Fool! Hooligan!’ she yelled, in a shrill Scottish accent. ‘No fuckin’ manners, the youth of today!’ She pulled her bag back on her shoulder fiercely and stared me angrily in the eye. My jaw dropped. ‘Are you Mrs Brennan?’ I asked. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Aye, who are – Oh, sweet Jesus.’ She whistled. ‘You’re Fran, aren’t ye?’ I nodded, suddenly terrified. Mrs Brennan was tiny, but she was not someone you’d want to mess with. I was reminded of how she had warned Freya practically at knife-point that she had to feed Dave broccoli three times a day. ‘You silly little girl,’ she said witheringly. ‘You’re too late.’ I put my face in my hands. Too late. Dave had gone. I’d lost my chance. Something horrible and dead settled in my stomach. Then she cracked a smile. ‘Well, there’s no harm trying.’ And with that she stood on her toes and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt dry. I wanted to hug her. ‘Go and get my boy back,’ she whispered less firmly. Her eyes were wet and her hand, which she briefly pressed on to my cheek, was none too steady. He was sitting with his back to the queue, staring out of the window at the vast plane that was hulking outside. Bent double after a flat-out sprint, I stood and stared at him as the queue filed into the plane. Dave. Dave Brennan. Dave Brennan, who probably understood me better than anyone else in the world. Who was in love with me. The thought of which was making my stomach do things that no stomach had any business doing. I looked at the side of his face, defeated, sad and silent, and I knew, finally, just how much I loved this man. And that I had probably felt like this for a very long time. Right under your nose. I went and sat quietly beside him, shaking from head to foot. I could smell his familiar spicy Christmas-stockingy smell and grinned. Dave continued to sit slumped forward, his chin resting on his hands. Afraid and awkward, I did nothing. Come on, Fran, you massive wazzock, I thought. I cleared my throat and readied myself to say something hauntingly beautiful. ‘Erreugh.’ It hadn’t worked out quite as I’d planned. But it was enough. Dave glanced at me and did a double-take, dumbfounded. ‘Er, evening,’ I tried. He looked incredulous. ‘Um, so, er, yes. Hi, Dave.’ He just stared. Jesus. This was hard. Nothing like the scene in Love Actually where the kid storms Passport Control and gets to kiss his love interest amid fondly smiling parents and bungling security guards. This was real life. It was a real airport. The man sitting next to me, staring at me as if I was a ghost, was quite probably the real love of my life, and now I had verbal constipation. I cleared my throat and resumed my efforts. ‘Yes, so. Er, I’ve been a fool. A total knobhead. Like, the worst knobhead in the history of the universe. I’m so sorry, Dave. I messed up, but I’m here now. I don’t want you to go without me.’ Dave leaned away from me in total disbelief. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I said, I’ve been a knobhead and I fucked up and I don’t want you to go without me.’ Dave gazed at me warily. ‘I don’t believe you, Fannybaws,’ he said quietly. I held up my ticket. ‘I want to come with you. I want to be with you wherever you are, whether it’s in a dodgy bed-sit in Kandahar or a five-star hotel in Barbados. Not that you get much call for that as a news cameraman. But never mind. Look, Dave, I’m serious. Let me come. I’ll cook you broccoli three times a day and just – just be near you.’ Dave remained mute. ‘Dave, please,’ I said, struggling with tears. ‘Please let me come. I don’t have anything, not even a clean pair of knickers, I just want to be with you. I want to come to Afghanistan. I’ve been chasing the wrong man. It’s you I want. It always has been. I just didn’t realize it.’ Still nothing. I was crying now. ‘I want to share your life, Dave. I want to sit in a trench with you and make sure you’re safe. I want to worry about you. I want to work with you. I want to sit and talk to you over a can of beer. Alcoholic or not, I don’t care. I want to know if you snore or not.’ He began to smile. His eyes crinkled up in the way I had loved for years. There was a hole in his jumper by his elbow that I wanted to stick my finger in. ‘You see, the problem is, Franny,’ he said eventually – and then stopped, looking keenly at me. I didn’t want to hear about the problem. ‘The problem is, I’ve seen you in action in war zones. You’re a liability. You start punching the air when people riot in the streets. I’m not sure I’d want you with me in the middle of an exchange of gunfire.’ I ventured a smile. ‘I need to know you’re serious,’ Dave whispered. His forearms were tense. I decided I was even in love with Dave’s forearms. ‘I’m serious, Dave,’ I said. ‘You’re the only man I’ve ever been myself with. When shit goes wrong I want to call you. When shit goes right I want to call you. I love watching you at work. I love watching you doing nothing. I even love watching you smoking.’ Dave raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously! But the one thing I didn’t love was thinking you were seeing Stefania. That bit I hated.’ Dave smiled a little bit more. I smiled back at him. The flight attendant was looking at us uncertainly, trying to decide when to bundle us on to the plane. ‘How do you think I felt when you got together with Michael?’ he said. There was a wary silence. Then I said, very clearly, ‘Dave, I’ve probably blown it by now but, regardless, I want you to know that I’m in love with you. Chronically so. In fact, I love you so much that I probably won’t ever love anyone else. So I think you should let me come with you.’ He looked at the floor and then at me again. I tried not to evacuate my bowels. I prayed. I begged God for mercy and apologized for all the times I’d said ‘cunt’. ‘How about,’ he said slowly, ‘we see how we get on in London before we start planning holidays to war zones?’ ‘Do you mean it?’ He nodded. I felt faint with relief. We looked at each other shyly. Then we smiled into each other’s eyes and my insides started doing crazy things again. ‘I love you, Dave,’ I said. ‘I love you, too,’ he whispered. ‘I love ev
ery part of you.’ Slowly, I slid my hands into his. They slotted in perfectly. Dave seemed dangerously close to tears. ‘You make the first move,’ I said shyly. ‘No, you.’ I blanched. ‘But I’m scared.’ ‘Me too,’ he murmured. We stared at each other a little while longer and then, after what felt like a lifetime, he leaned towards me and rested his forehead on mine. From point-blank range his eyes were enormous. They were full of love. For me. Dave loved me. I touched his cheek and felt a wave of happiness break over me. I was home. Finally, we kissed. And it was perfect. Epilogue
FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM FREDDY! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Dear Fran I’m watching you sleep. You are sucking your thumb. (We’re going to need to talk about this.) I can’t pretend you look like a delicately slumbering princess, because you don’t. Apart from the thumb business you are twitching around like a ferret and about ten minutes ago you pulled the entire duvet over yourself and left me with nothing. But I’ve never loved you more than I do right now. I love you so much. I hope we can have a life together. There’s so much I want to say to you. Please wake up soon. Freddy X PS Duke Ellington says he doesn’t mind you that much either. Acknowledgements
Thank you, first and foremost, to the wise and wonderful Carla Bevan, then editor of marieclaire.co.uk. Without her I would never have a blog, let alone a book. And on a similar note, I’d like to thank my blog readers; an extremely awesome bunch of women whose messages of scandalized support and hilarious identification got me through all sorts of dating horrors. Thanks to Kieran, then Sarah, then Viv – housemates extraordinaire in London and Buenos Aires, who allowed me to take over the kitchen table and tolerated my self-indulgent writerly outbursts. Thank you, also, to people who kept me sane – you know who you are – especially Karen and Aisling. Thanks to Lola for reading my early drafts, to Kate Fisher for her help with all things journalistic, to Lexie Minter for midwifery advice and to Laura for her help with Fran’s mum’s story. If I’ve got things wrong it’s my own fault. Thank you so much to my completely brilliant agent Lizzy Kremer for the huge amount of time and effort she’s poured into this book. I am in awe of her and her talents and look forward to many more amusing conversations in her book-lined office. Thanks also to Laura West and the other fine folk at David Higham Associates. Above all I am hugely grateful to Mari Evans at Michael Joseph for publishing me and being so enthusiastic about my book. I still can’t believe there’s a Penguin logo on the front of my first novel! Thanks also to Alice, Liz, Francesca, Claire, Nick and all the other people who’ve worked so hard. Finally, a big thank you to my lovely George for ruining my dating blog and for being so amazing and tolerant and kind. And to my family, who are wonderful and bear no resemblance whatsoever to Fran’s. Your support and excitement have meant the world to me. Good grief! An acknowledgements page! A book! It really is a miracle. He just wanted a decent book to read … Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world. We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’ Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
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