Drive Me Crazy

by Portia MacIntosh

  The reception is in full swing now, and compared to the subtle ceremony, the after-party is lavish and huge.

  Amy and Ted are having their first dance to REO Speedwagon’s ‘Keep On Loving You’ when the DJ announces that the bride and groom would love it if other couples would join them on the dance floor. It feels like almost everyone gets up to dance – certainly everyone from the top table – everyone but me.

  ‘Aw, it’s a shame this elusive fella of yours left you hanging, isn’t it?’ Lea says smugly as she gets up to dance with her boyfriend.

  ‘I’d never leave her hanging,’ a voice from behind me says. It’s that familiar Geordie accent that I’ve grown to love over the past week.

  I turn around and see Danny standing there, suited and booted and looking incredible.

  ‘And you are?’ Lea asks.

  ‘Danny Wright,’ he introduces himself, offering her his hand to shake. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  I feel my jaw drop. ‘You’re my “Mr Wright”?’ I ask, much to the confusion of the other gusts listening to our conversation.

  ‘I am,’ Danny tells me. ‘And you’re my “Miss Hart”.’

  Danny begins unbuttoning his trousers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘You can’t take your pants off at a wedding,’ I remind him, just in case he might’ve missed that life lesson at some point.

  Danny lets his trousers fall to the floor before turning around and lowering his boxers just enough to show me that he has ‘Miss Hart’ tattooed on his arse.

  ‘Fancy a dance?’ he asks.

  ‘Go on then,’ I reply, a big smile on my face, not only because I’m happy to see him, but also because Lea looks so jealous she might throw up.

  Danny leads me to the dance floor and takes hold of me like a pro.

  ‘Hi,’ he says softly.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I promised you I’d be here, didn’t I? I owed you one.’

  As we move slowly around the dance floor something occurs to me. ‘I didn’t tell you where the wedding was though.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ve spent all day trying to figure it out, but I didn’t know anyone who knew you and the bride – it was a nightmare. That’s why I’m so late.’

  ‘How did you work it out?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘Just when I thought I was out of options, I found your iPad in the Love Bug. Found the info in your calendar.’

  ‘Oh, that was lucky. Wait,’ I start as Danny dips me. ‘I have a passcode on my iPad.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s not dwell on that,’ he chuckles, flashing me those dimples that make me melt.

  ‘So, you’re my “Mr Wright”?’

  ‘I was scared to tell you at the time,’ he explains. ‘And I was terrified to tell you about the “Miss Hart” tattoo on my arse – I thought you’d hate that even more than you’d hate having my name on you. It’s been hard hiding it from you.’ He laughs.

  Danny Wright. So Danny is literally my ‘Mr Wright’, the one whose name will be forever on my arse. I feel like the universe is playing a cruel joke on me for mocking cosmic ordering so much, or maybe it worked exactly as it was supposed to and I’ve just been too stubborn to accept it all this time.

  ‘No topknot – again,’ I observe.

  ‘Well, I wanted to look smart – again. When you were pretending to be my girlfriend, you reined in the Stepford thing. Now, I’m pretending to be your boyfriend, the least I can do is pretend I’m cool.’

  My face falls at his use of the world ‘pretending’, but I try not to let it show.

  ‘You’re not that good an actor,’ I tease.

  I lean forward and rest my head on Danny’s chest, just enjoying a moment of being close to him after I was so sure he’d never speak to me again. Even if he is only here out of duty, everything feels OK when I’m in his arms.

  ‘I don’t want to pretend,’ Danny whispers into my ear.

  I look him in the eye, surprised he still wants anything to do with me.

  ‘You make me feel like no one else ever has. Like I might like to stay still.’

  ‘That’s funny, because you make me feel like I want to go places.’ I laugh.

  ‘So we bring out the best in each other,’ he concludes.

  ‘I suppose we do.’

  ‘I never expected to fall for you,’ he explains. ‘Even after everything that happened in London, I knew I wanted to spend more time with you, but I’ve never been the kind to lock things down… But seeing Will try to worm his way back in with you – it made my blood boil. Like when that fake copper was having a go at you, or those skaters were asking me if you were my mum – ’

  ‘I knew they were making fun of me,’ I interrupt.

  ‘I’ll never be able to stand by and watch anyone hurt you, and if that means I have to be around you all the time, to keep you out of trouble, then so be it,’ he jokes, well aware he’s usually the person who lands me in trouble.

  I glance over at Amy who is dancing with Ted. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, but she manages to give me a thumbs up.

  ‘You make me feel like that emoji with the hearts for eyes,’ he explains.

  ‘You make me feel like this emoji…’ I pout my lips and wink my eye.

  ‘There’s a constipated emoji?’ he asks. I playfully slap his face.

  ‘Well, bro, what next?’

  ‘I quit my job,’ I tell him.

  ‘You quit your job?’ he asks.

  ‘Why is everyone so surprised by this? Yes, I quit my job. About thirty seconds after you left and thirty seconds before I left Will in a bloody mess on the floor. I shouldn’t have even given him the chance to explain.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he tells me, placing his hands either side of my face. ‘It’s a new and weird emotion for me, but I felt jealous. I was worried I was going to lose you to that prick.’

  ‘Never,’ I tell him. ‘I never want to see him again – and now I’m unemployed, I don’t have to.’

  ‘Well, where shall we go?’ he asks. ‘Anywhere you want. We can travel across America, sunbathe in the Caribbean – we can even climb Everest if you like.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I think for a moment. ‘To be honest, I’d quite like to go back to the North West Pole and get my twerk on.’

  The song finishes and a much faster one comes on.

  ‘Well, you don’t need to go to the Isle of Man to do that.’ He laughs, twirling me.

  As I dance with Danny, it just feels like something has truly fallen into place for me. It’s like he just makes me happy without even trying.

  As annoying as it is, and as much as I cringe to say it, if Danny has taught me anything, it’s just how spot-on his YOLO attitude is. He is absolutely right. You do only live once, and it’s important to make the most of it. Life is too short to be anyone’s plan B or their dirty little secret. If you love someone, you should tell them and show them every single day, because you never know when your or their time is up.

  Time spent worrying about what is going to happen is truly a waste, because as hard as we try, we’re not always going to have control over everything. If we can change what’s worrying us then we don’t need to worry, we just need to change it. If we can’t change it, then what’s the point worrying? All we can do is live in the moment, drinking up every last drop of life, making the most of it. Because you know what? We really do only live once and it’s up to us to make that once count. This is it, right here, right now. This moment.

  Teenage years a distant memory? No husband, no house and no kids? Trapped in that middle ground where you no longer feel like a kid, but you’re not quite a fully functioning adult either? Looking at the lives of the girls you went to school with on Facebook, it couldn’t be easier to monitor just how far off-track your life has gone in comparison. They seem to have their shit all figured out, but who says that’s the track you have to take? Wear dresses so short pro sportsmen mistake you for a prostitute if you want
to. Get ridiculous tattoos. Eat whatever you want, so long as you’re happy and you’re healthy. It’s OK to have no idea where your life is leading you. Your best friend might have the next ten years of her life all planned out, and you might not know what you’re having for dinner tonight, but it’s fine. I have no idea where life with Danny will lead me, but this just excites me more.

  Danny pulls me close and kisses me.

  ‘You see everyone staring at us?’ he asks.

  I glance around and notice that we do have a few pairs of eyes on us.

  ‘What are they looking at?’ I ask.

  ‘The Geordie lad, desperately in need of a haircut, dancing with the most beautiful girl in the room.’

  I smile, so widely my cheeks ache.

  It doesn’t matter where you are in life, as long as you’re living it.

  If you loved Drive Me Crazy then turn the page for an excerpt from another laugh-out-loud comedy from Portia MacIntosh: Bad Bridesmaid

  Chapter 1

  They say there is no such thing as bad sex. They lie.

  After a couple of weeks of seriously steamy flirting with Zack Carson I just knew that there would be fireworks when we finally got around to getting it on – but it’s an uncomfortably hot Los Angeles night and, despite Zack’s best efforts, the fireworks just aren’t going off. Not even a sparkler. Not even a birthday cake candle. I’m too warm, I’m bored and my neck is starting to ache thanks to the overly ambitious position of Zack’s choosing.

  Did it occur to me that it might not be such a good idea to sleep with my boss’s assistant? Of course it did, but one look into his sexy brown eyes combined with his jet-black crew cut and his chiselled, model-like good looks and I was never going to be able to resist – and that’s before I realised he has a motorbike. Bikers are hot – especially tall, dark and handsome ones who are covered in tattoos like Zack is. Still, I’ve got nothing going on down there. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it but I’m ready for it to end – even if I don’t get a happy one.

  I scoop together my long, honey blonde coloured curls and twist them into a bun on top of my head. This does little to cool me down but I know that as soon as I break out my GCSE drama skills (I just about scraped a C grade) I can pull a Meg Ryan and put an end to this.

  ‘That was awesome,’ Zack says afterwards, in his strong Californian accent – one that never fails to fascinate me, no matter how many years I’ve been here.

  I moved here when I was twenty-five, and in the four years I’ve been living and working here I haven’t lost my Kentish accent, not even a little. Everyone teases me for it; you wouldn’t believe how many Mary Poppins jokes I have to endure on a daily basis. Despite being born and raised in Canterbury, my American friends can’t distinguish between my accent and Dick Van Dyke’s attempt at sounding Cockney, and so the soundtrack to my life here will forever be ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’.

  I watch as Zack makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. As I anxiously nibble my middle fingernail, I wonder how quickly I’m going to be able to get him to leave.

  ‘Could you fix me a drink?’ he asks, flashing me a big, toothy grin. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘Back in a sec.’

  As I walk towards the sink I hear Zack call after me.

  ‘This is a nice place you got here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. I’m not surprised he likes it; it was designed with someone like Zack in mind. The interior of my Beverly Hills apartment is everything you’d expect of a lad pad. It is ultra modern, with clean white walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the stunning view, perfect for the king of the castle. With its white walls, glass surfaces and the pretty LED lighting that runs around the room, the open plan living area has the vibes of a fancy hotel lobby. I can change the colour theme depending on my mood, but unless I set the glow to pink (as I most often do) you could easily think this was still a bachelor pad.

  The place came furnished (because the bachelor it belonged to met a girl, fell in love and decided he wanted to play house – sucks for him, great news for me) but the furnishings suit me just fine. The custom-made white leather sofa is a delight to sit on (it feels like Matthew McConaughey is hugging your bum), the kitchen has all the bells and whistles you could even begin to imagine (plus some I still haven’t figured out) and the bathroom could rival certain spas we have back home.

  You can tell the place used to belong to a movie star because when I moved in there was a huge wall-mounted TV – which I have recently upgraded to an even bigger one – and I loved the way he had framed posters from his movies all over the walls, so much so I did the same. I realise how vain that sounds, but it’s not as bad in my case because my face isn’t on the posters. I don’t star in movies, I write them. Romantic comedies to be precise. I’m part of a small writing group called Pink Inc. and we’ve been responsible for all of the big hits in our genre over the past four years. I made a name for myself back in England when I was in my early twenties, writing for a girly TV drama called Love Online. The show was about a group of young women who decided to try and find love by meeting boys on the net. This was around the time social networks were becoming a must among young people and the show turned out to be a huge success. So at least I have that to thank the MySpace generation for – that and the world embracing flattering, high-angle selfies. After that I went on to bigger and better things, before eventually moving here and joining a team of screenwriters.

  My success can be a little off-putting for men – not because I am successful, but because of what I am successful for: writing love stories. When people know that you’re responsible for these romantic movies they instantly think that you have unrealistic expectations about love. They expect you to be all lovey-dovey and mushy and on a quest to find a Prince Charming. For me this could not be further from the truth. I’m good at my job because I have a good understanding of the genre, not because I’m a soppy romantic.

  I fill a glass with water and hand it to Zack.

  ‘Is this vodka?’ he asks with a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Water,’ I reply bluntly.

  ‘When I said a drink I meant something alcoholic. I need it after that,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. I could do with a stiff drink too, but for me it would be to help me forget.

  ‘Oh, sorry. It’s just I’ve got to be up pretty early in the morning so…’ So take the hint, Zack.

  ‘Great. I’m tired too, and I love to spoon. Is that the bedroom over there?’

  Whoa, stop right there, does he think he is staying over? This isn’t the Sleepover Club.

  ‘Erm,’ I start, unsure how to do this tactfully. This was only ever going to be a casual thing, and I thought Zack knew that. Sleeping together isn’t ever going to happen – literally sleeping together, that is.

  ‘You want me to go?’ Zack asks.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m just not great at sharing my bed. I’m a wiggler, I fling my arms around – it would be carnage.’

  ‘It’s three a.m.’ Zack replies with a laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘Even so,’ I reply, pausing to think of the right way to say this, ‘I’d still rather you went home.’

  ‘If I sleep here I can give you a ride to work on my bike in the morning,’ he negotiates, but I don’t think you’re allowed to side-saddle on motorbikes and a helmet would trash my hair.

  ‘Even so,’ I repeat myself, but before I have the chance to say anything else Zack gets the message. He hops off the sofa and begins aggressively putting his clothes back on. I can tell that he is angry because even a simple task like putting his leg into his jeans isn’t going very well.

  ‘So this was just sex and now you want me out?’ he asks angrily, but I don’t give him an answer. ‘I thought guys were supposed to do this to girls – use them for sex and then send them packing – not the other way around. Who do you think you are, huh?’

  Still, I
don’t say anything. Well, what can I say? He’s hit the nail on the head.

  I stand by the door as I watch Zack get dressed. With his clothes on and his boots in his hand, Zack approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘This is silly,’ he says as he massages me. ‘It’s the middle of the night, we’re going to the same place in the morning. You and I could be really good together.’

  The fact he’s even considering us having some kind of future together after just one night causes me to pull a face – an involuntary reaction I have to the idea of relationships, and one that I can’t always mask.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Zack starts, ‘ “Even so”…’

  Again, I say nothing. Nail on the head.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?’ Zack shouts as he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Yep,’ I say quietly to myself before turning off the lights and climbing into my bed, alone, just the way I like it.

  Chapter 2

  Despite being late for work, I grabbed my usual skinny cinnamon latte from the coffee shop on the corner by my office before hurriedly making my way there.

  ‘Hold the lift,’ I call out, just in time to squash myself in with all the other people. And by lift, I mean elevator. There goes Dick Van Dyke again.

  As we begin our ascent to the floor I work on, I finally get to take my first sip of coffee of the day. God, that feels good. I’d gasp with delight if there weren’t so many people around who might find this odd. It is only as I examine my takeaway cup that I realise there is a phone number written on the side. I cast my mind back to the coffee shop. I was in a rush, but I definitely remember being served by a woman. Before I have a chance to consider what kind of vibes I’m giving off (I suppose I do flirt – for sport – with almost everyone) I remember the young bloke who handed me my coffee, the one with the gorgeous smile. I’ll have to remember to make a note of his number before I throw my cup away.