Then, as if she hadn’t done enough already, she goes and phones my dad, who we never see anyway, and tells him all about it. Like he gives a shit. But that made everything ten million times worse because for the past six months I’ve been telling my mum that I was staying at my dad’s at weekends when I kind of wasn’t. I was actually staying with Rob.
Now I’m grounded. Grandma is backing her up so that’s it. My life’s over. Rob will meet someone else – that Nina at McDonald’s likes him, I’m sure. And she’s got blonde hair and big tits and she’s such a tart …
No. Must not worry. Rob isn’t like that. And if he is then it will be all my mother’s fault and I’ll make her pay for ever.
Lipsy snapped her diary shut and returned it to its secret place under her mattress. Lately she’d been filling it with the kind of things she had a feeling should not be viewed by anyone else but her. And her mum had turned into such a pain in the arse she wouldn’t put it past her to sneak around looking for evidence against her.
No, it was safer to keep it well and truly hidden. Maybe she should think of some kind of code for certain things; she knew that was what her friend Rosie did in her diary. Rosie had explained the code to Lipsy, which Lipsy thought was a bit stupid – what was the point of a secret code if your best friend knew how to break it?
Still, she was grateful for the advice. She needed all the weapons she could find against her mother now. It was all-out war.
***
Paul stirred two sugars into his latte, rolling his eyes in disgust as the hot liquid slopped over into the plate-sized saucer. Never mind that these trendy coffee shops had to give you your drink in a cup the size of a soup bowl, did they really have to fill them right to the brim? And look at the handle on the mug – too small for even a child’s finger to fit through. He hated these places, full of frazzled shoppers and self-conscious types. He could have told Stella no, he’d meet her somewhere else, like the pub for example, but he knew Café Crème was her favourite hangout.
Lifting the mug carefully to his lips, he sipped the scalding liquid and watched the door closely. A tall woman with dark hair appeared behind a group of rowdy teenagers and Paul stretched his head to see. It wasn’t Stella. When she did arrive, thought Paul, she would be full of life, immediately telling him about some scrape she’d had on the way into town, or a near-miss in the car park. He couldn’t believe how well she’d coped this week. She was amazing. Paul didn’t even want to think how he’d feel if he lost everything he owned – without insurance, as well. But Stella had breezed into the office on Wednesday morning, the energy fairly bursting out of her, and happily announced that she was going to do up her house herself and make it even better than it was before.
She’d need a lot of help, though. Paul had sat her down during her lunch break and made her start on a list of jobs that needed doing. He thought he was being constructive, and was taken aback when she rolled her eyes and said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, not a list!’
But, like any good friend, he’d offered his services, and – possibly more usefully – the services of the handyman Smart Homes used for all its maintenance jobs. Stella’s eyes had filled with tears at this point, but Paul had shrugged off her thanks. It was the least he could do, he told her. And he meant it.
His phone beeped with the sound of an incoming text and Paul retrieved it from his pocket, expecting it to be Stella saying she was going to be late. But it was only Andrew, his squash buddy, arranging a game for tomorrow. He typed in a quick response then shoved the phone back into his jeans.
Two women – well, girls really – were looking at him across the café, their heads together conspiratorially and their faces arranged into surreptitious smiles. It took Paul a good few minutes to realise that the girls were smiling at him in a nice way and not laughing at him for some reason. He felt his face grow hot and he looked away, embarrassed. He was just no good at this kind of thing. He knew if Steve or Nick were here now they’d be egging him on to go and ask for phone numbers, and he knew that no matter how much they pressured him he simply wouldn’t be able to do it.
What was wrong with a man being in his late thirties and still single? He was perfectly happy, thank you very much, and resented the implication by everyone from his friends to his parents to magazines and TV that it should be any different. His life was full – fuller than most of the couples he knew who did nothing more exciting than watch telly every night, their routine punctuated only by the odd drink-fuelled argument. Who wanted routine and commitment and – perish the thought – kids, anyway?
As if in punishment, a woman with a buggy wide enough for triplets barged roughly past his seat. In a considerate reflex, Paul tried to jerk it out of the way. And spilt half his coffee into his lap. Thankfully, he’d been gazing into space for so long the temperature was only on the hot side of warm. Otherwise – he didn’t want to think about otherwise. The woman squeezed by him and glared, looking pointedly at his lap.
‘It’s only coffee,’ Paul tried to explain but she’d already gone, threading around the tables like a rally driver.
‘Had a bit of an accident?’
Stella stood over him, smirking as he dabbed at the stain with a soggy napkin.
‘Very funny.’ Paul tried to smile but the humour of the situation was, for once, lost on him. His ruminations had left him feeling defensive, and he wondered whether he should have talked to those two girls after all. Too late now, of course. ‘Sit down, I’ll get you a coffee. Oh. You’ve already got one.’
‘I’ve been here ages. I was in the queue trying to catch your eye. You look like a man with a lot on his mind, you were miles away. Anything I should know about?’
‘Nothing important. Muffin?’ he said, pushing the bag of mini-muffins across the table.
‘No thanks, I’m watching my figure.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll watch it for you,’ he countered, to which Stella responded with a hearty laugh. Paul began to relax again. He knew she loved this kind of banter, and he loved the way that she could take it without getting snitty or precious like some women. Or take it too seriously, like some other women.
Despite the joke – or maybe because of it – he found himself looking at her figure as she sat back, coffee in hand, and thinking how perfect it actually was. Long legs – not skinny, just right. Trim waist. Great-shaped body dipping in and out in all the right places – ALL the right places. He wasn’t sure when exactly she’d turned from the gangly, sweet kid at school into the voluptuous woman who sat before him now, and he wondered why he had never noticed it before.
Because she’s a friend, Smart, he told himself sternly, annoyed at the way he’d caught himself acting like the kind of man he couldn’t stand. What sort of a bloke leers at their friends? Particularly vulnerable friends like Stella. It must be his age, he thought, and the constant pressure from some invisible source to abandon his bachelor lifestyle.
He resolved to make it up to her by giving her a pay rise. God knows, she deserved it.
‘What’s up with you, Smart-boy? You’re doing that staring into space thing again?’ Stella prodded him with her spoon.
Paul shook himself mentally. Snap out of it, man. ‘I’m good,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘Not good.’ Stella smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve had a really bad morning, to be honest.’
‘Lipsy?’
‘You guessed it.’ She leant forward with her elbows on the table. ‘You know, I can’t believe I was such a mug, believing she was actually staying at her dad’s all those weekends. I should have known, shouldn’t I? I mean, I know what he’s like. I know how little interest he’s shown in his daughter, so why was I willing to believe that he’d suddenly started wanting her to stay overnight? He’s only got a bedsit! How stupid am I?’ Stella shook her head, not noticing that a few strands of hair had settled in her cappuccino. ‘Don’t answer that. Any normal mother would have seen through it immediately. And then I might have been able to pro
tect her from this Robert character. From getting into something she’s just too young to understand.’
Paul stretched out his arm and rescued her hair from the coffee. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself, Stella. You’re a great mother, you know you are. Look at what you’ve been through to provide a good home for the two of you –’
‘Oh, yes. I made a great job of that, didn’t I? Except – then I went and burnt it down.’
‘You didn’t burn it down …’
‘But I tell you what,’ Stella carried on over him, ‘I may be a shit mother but I’m a damn sight better mother than he ever will be a father. He’s not going to worm his way back into her life now. Not if I have anything to do with it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stella sat back and stirred her coffee with her finger, then transferred the finger to her mouth and licked off the froth. Paul knew he would find this gesture irresistibly sexy on another woman, someone who wasn’t only a friend. He shook the thought away again. Perhaps it was just too damn long since he’d had a date. Maybe that was why he was having these weird thoughts. He glanced over to where the two girls had been sitting, but they were gone. Typical.
‘He says he wants to get to know her properly,’ Stella said grimly. ‘After sixteen years of nothing more than the odd Christmas card, now it seems he does actually want to know his daughter. Which is what I thought he was doing anyway, for the last six months. It’s as if now he’s heard what she’s getting up to with this Robert, he wants to do the father thing. Like I’m not a good mother. Like I’ve failed. Well, I told him he could whistle.’ Stella fixed Paul with a steely glare and he was suddenly very glad that he was not the reviled John Dean. In a voice that could freeze a volcano she said, ‘He’s got absolutely no chance.’
Paul would have liked to tell his friend that, really, she had no choice in the matter. She had to let her daughter see her father; if anything she should encourage it. It was the right thing to do. But he didn’t. He knew her too well to point out the obvious. The time would come when she’d ask him for advice. Until then he’d be a proper friend and just listen.
Stella carried on raging and Paul allowed himself to listen with half an ear. Mentally, he reviewed his plans for the weekend – coffee with Stella, an afternoon shopping for work clothes, dinner with Steve and his girlfriend later (which hopefully wouldn’t involve another cringingly embarrassing attempt to fix him up with one of her workmates), and then squash tomorrow followed by a Sunday afternoon viewing. He didn’t mind working on a weekend; in the property business it had to be done. And Paul consoled himself with the thought that if he did have a girlfriend she wouldn’t be too happy about this at all. Yet another reason to be grateful for his fancy-free lifestyle.
He settled back with a smile, watching Stella’s face get redder and redder. She was going to give herself a coronary if she wasn’t careful. Relationships? No thanks.
***
Paul is looking at me with an amused expression on his face. As I’ve just been recounting my long list of grievances against Lipsy’s feckless father, I don’t think amusement is entirely appropriate. I tell him this in no uncertain terms – and am even more pissed off when his smile gets wider.
‘What is so bloody funny?’ I demand, starting to feel a little hurt now. Normally Paul is right there with me when I indulge in a John Dean hate-fest – he despises the man, with good reason.
‘Nothing,’ he says, laughing. ‘Nothing really. Just … it doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on! What?’
‘I was just thinking, that’s all. That relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they? And, well, that I really am very happy being single.’
‘Oh, God, me too!’ I enthuse quickly. Too quickly – Paul gives me the old raised eyebrow. ‘No, I am! Really. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been and I so don’t have time for a man in my life right now.’
‘Really.’ Paul nods solemnly. I can see he is humouring me and I find this intensely annoying. ‘So what was that date with your neighbour about the other night?’
He has me there. I have no choice but to come out fighting. ‘Just because I go on dates,’ (the plural being a gross exaggeration) ‘doesn’t mean I’m looking for a relationship.’ I fix him with a steely gaze and go for the jugular. ‘But at least I can actually get a date.’
The look on Paul’s face makes me cringe. I’ve gone too far. Why am I being such a bitch to him? All he’s done this past week is offer huge amounts of support and advice, on everything from my rubbish finances to the rebuilding of my house. And here I am insulting him. Nice going, Stella.
I am about to apologise when, thankfully, Bonnie shows up and the mood lightens considerably. She has this effect, does Bonnie; she’s a little ray of Scottish sunshine in Milton Keynes’ sometimes gloomy atmosphere.
‘Hey you two, who’s died?’ she says, slipping her frame into a tub chair and setting down a tray piled high with cake, coffee and biscuits. How can such a small person have such a huge appetite?
‘How’s Marcus?’ I ask quickly, steering the subject in a direction loved-up Bonnie can’t resist.
‘Ah, just great.’
I tell you, she positively glows when she talks about him. If it wasn’t for Bonnie, my faith in humanity would have died a long time ago. This woman does everything with such enthusiasm that if you spend enough time with her it can’t help but rub off on you.
Bonnie turns her radiance on Paul. ‘Last night he surprised me with a special meal. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out, my Marcus is a super-chef. When I came in from work he’d filled the bathroom with candles and run me a bath, scented bubbles and everything. Have you ever heard anything so romantic?’
‘No. I can’t say that I have,’ Paul says, sounding distinctly nonplussed.
All that stuff I just told Paul about being happier than ever before and having no time for a man isn’t exactly true, as much as it pains me to admit it. I’d love to have a man like Bonnie’s Marcus. Not actually Marcus, you understand, but somebody like him. I wonder why I felt the need to lie to Paul. I’ve never kept anything from him before. So why do I suddenly have the urge to present a false front?
Not that I think I convinced him for a minute.
Paul’s reaction to Bonnie’s romantic little story was so sour I feel the need to try and make up for it. ‘Bonnie, that’s just so wonderful!’ I gush. ‘He ran you a bath? With candles and bubbles? I’d love someone to do that for me, I really would.’
We both turn as Paul chokes violently on his latte, and as I’m the closest I reach over to thump him on the back. I only do this because I think it will help, but I guess I’ve got it confused with getting a fish bone stuck in your throat or something. The look Paul gives me says, yes, I definitely got it wrong.
His face is red with the effort of coughing and I decide he deserves the pain – he is clearly trying to stifle yet another laugh at my expense. I’m thinking of a suitable retort when Bonnie squeals and grabs my arm.
‘Marcus is here!’ she says, as though she’s announcing the second coming.
Paul and I duly turn our attention to the man weaving his way towards us. He has a small boy in tow and they noisily pull up two more chairs, scraping them across the wooden floor in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
‘Hey guys, what you up to?’ Marcus beams at us and then leans over to give Bonnie an affectionate kiss.
The boy is about eight, and really is the snottiest child I have ever seen: chronic rhinitis apparently. Poor kid. He has a tissue permanently clutched in his fist and you have to watch out for the killer sneezes. They can take your toupee off.
‘Marcus and I are going to get Cory a birthday present today. Aren’t we, Cory?’ says Bonnie sweetly. She holds out her hand to ruffle his hair and he promptly sneezes all over it. Atta boy.
Paul stands up suddenly. ‘I have to be going too. Nice to see you again, Marcus. Cory.’ The three lads shake hands the wa
y men do, even the little boy. So sweet. ‘Have a good rest of the day,’ Paul says, and then, ‘See you, Stella.’
And just like that he’s off. Now, call me a bit thick but when we arranged to meet for coffee I had the distinct impression we were also spending the day together. I distinctly remember the words “shopping” and “lunch” from somewhere in the conversation. Perhaps I imagined it. But before I can say anything he is hot-footing it out of Café Crème as though his arse is on fire. Some friend!
I don’t know where the sinking feeling comes from. It’s not like I’d been looking forward to seeing him or anything – I see him every bloody day of the week, for goodness sake.
Deciding that I must be more depressed than I realised, I turn to Bonnie and Marcus for help. Maybe they’d like some advice on what to buy an eight-year-old for his birthday. But I can tell immediately that I won’t get a look in from that quarter. The three of them are wrapped so tight there’s no room in the package for a slightly bored mate with an afternoon free. I am truly happy for Bonnie that she’s found a great bloke. I just hope there are one or two left out there for me. Well, just one will do, of course. I’m not greedy.
As Bonnie and her ready-made little family disappear into the throngs in the shopping centre, bound for toy shop heaven, I decide to treat myself to another cappuccino. I think I deserve it. I think I’m coping fairly well with everything that’s going on at the moment. I have a plan (to renovate my house) and a list (of all the things I can’t live without) and I even have a mission (to stop my daughter falling into a pit of teenage sex and depravity). Not bad going for one week.
What I don’t have, however, is a scrap of spare cash, and at least two of the above require stacks of it. Or possibly all three, as my daughter is as susceptible to being bought as any sixteen-year-old. What I need is money. Money for paint and rollers and carpets and kitchen units. Money for my ever-increasing debts and my drastically decreased wardrobe. Money, money, money.
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