‘Mum?!’ I shrieked, as I jumped up and ineffectually tried to shake the coffee stain off my Manchester Roller Derby T-shirt. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You are not to have sex! Not in this house, not with that boy,’ she shouted, loud enough that they probably heard her up in the Pennines. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’
That made me mad enough to forget that I’d decided to be all logical and reasonable.
‘Fine! I’ll just have sex with him in someone else’s house then!’
‘Oh no, you won’t!’
‘Oh yes, I will.’
The whole thing descended into a pantomime crossed with the shouty bits from the EastEnders omnibus. Until we decided that we weren’t talking to each other again.
Our worst ever row in the history of all our previous worst ever rows ended when Mum suddenly stopped screaming and banging cooking utensils down really hard on the draining board and said in a tight voice, ‘This just about does it.’
‘Does what?’ I screeched because once my volume knob is turned all the way up to eleven, it kind of stays there.
‘I’ve been talking to your grandparents and we’ve decided you should spend your gap year with them.’
‘But they live in Brighton!’ I protested.
‘Exactly,’ snapped my mum. ‘I’ve had it up to here with you, young lady.’
That was my cue to storm upstairs (in fact, it was probably more of a flounce, than a storm), pull down my suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and start stuffing random things in it. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing, which is why I’m now camped out in Poppy’s spare room with only odd socks and a lot of empty CD cases.
The girls came round after I did a four-way hysterical text thing in the cab over here. Atsuko reckons that my mum is having trouble cutting the umbilical cord ’cause I’m an only child. Whatever. I think she’s going through the menopause or else she’s inadvertently inhaled too many cleaning fluids in her time and it’s all catching up with her.
7th October
I think Poppy and Grace’s mum believes that I’m actually her daughter that she mislaid for eighteen years. Every time I make noises about moving home she says, ‘No need to make a decision yet.’ This is probably ’cause being a guest I don’t give her any lip and always help with the washing-up.
I think Mum did think I was staying at Dylan’s (which I thought about but realised that it would make a bad situation about a gazillion times worse – plus ick!, possible Carter encounters). She phoned today. Ostensibly to see if I had clean underwear but I’m sure it was to check up on me.
Instead, we had part forty-seven of The Row, which started just after she begged me to come home, then became ‘You need to have a proper life plan for your gap year’ to the familiar soundtrack of ‘we don’t want you sleeping with that boy in our house’. I tried to explain that I was saving money to go to America next year (not mentioning the Dylan factor in that plan) and once again pointed out that I could just as easily sleep with Dylan in someone else’s house at which point my mum burst into tears and I slammed the phone down on her.
Jesus! Why is she being so strange about this? I’m polite, I’m helpful (well, most of the time I don’t need to be reminded to put my mug in the dishwasher), I’m entirely funding my own gap year and road trip without asking them for a single penny and I’m having protected sex in a proper relationship with a boy I’ve known for over two years. Y’know, as teenage daughters go, they really don’t come much better than me.
11th October
Life is all hissy and tense at the moment when it should be really good because there’s Dylan and my job, which is pretty cool apart from the huge quantities of chip fat involved, and the band and Poppy. Instead, I feel like I’m walking about with a big, black storm cloud directly above my head.
It didn’t help that there was another Carter incident this morning. I was reaching up to get a mug out of the cupboard, humming along to the radio and generally trying not to think any Mum-related thoughts and there he was.
He didn’t say anything sneery, but came and stood right next to me, then reached across me for the peanut butter and let his hand brush against my breast. I could tell by the way his lips quirked that it wasn’t an accident.
It also wasn’t an accident when I picked up the kettle that I’d just boiled and splashed a tiny bit of very, very hot water on his evil, boob-groping hand.
‘Ow! Hell! Ow!’
‘Sorry,’ I trilled and then I turned round and gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look and he scowled and stomped out of the kitchen. I pretty much rock sometimes.
So does D. Poor D. He doesn’t know what to do to make the whole Mum angst situation better, other than crawl under a rock but he does try. The trying consists of asking me if I’m all right a lot and the buying of many bars of sugary confection because Dylan optimistically believes that when it comes to girls and their problems everything can be solved by large quantities of chocolate. Oh, but if only it was that easy.
Last night, I couldn’t sleep and I was sitting on his windowsill reading but mostly staring out at the street, when he sat up in bed.
‘Why are you still awake?’ he asked groggily, rubbing his fists into his eyes.
‘My head’s buzzing,’ I said softly. ‘Go back to sleep.’
But Dylan made me get back into bed by the simple act of reaching over and yanking me into it and then pulling the duvet over me and curling me up in his arms.
‘I hate that I’m not talking to her,’ I said, as he tried to get me to rest my head on his chest and I resisted because Dylan’s way too bony to make a comfortable leaning post. ‘I’ve never had an argument like this one before.’
‘All mothers are clinically insane. I think there’s a law or something.’
‘But I don’t want to have left home!’ I burst out. ‘I’m too young and stupid to have left home and it’s just too full-on.’
‘Like you’re all scared and small and the world is this big, vast thing that’s gonna swallow you up and you’re worried that no-one will even notice that you’ve gone?’ Dylan had obviously been listening to too much Radiohead but he had a point.
‘You’d notice if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?’ I asked and I wasn’t really joking. My voice sounded tinny and flat and Dylan hugged me harder.
‘You wouldn’t get to be not here because I’d notice way before that,’ he said firmly, his breath tickling my ear.
And then he stroked my hair very slowly and didn’t stop until he knew I was asleep.
14th October
Ha! Carter’s moved out. They came back from classes today to find that he’d done a flit taking the big telly with him and owing a month’s rent. Somehow I can’t find it in my heart to care. So over him cornering me outside Dylan’s room when I’m staying the night and making the most obscene remarks. I mean, really rude. So rude, that I didn’t dare tell Dylan because he’d have gone ballistic. Still, don’t have to worry about Carter any more.
Boys are very unstressy when it comes to stuff that isn’t girl-related. I’d have been all bothered about having to sort out a new flatmate but if Simon, Paul and D became any more laidback they’d fall over.
It’s just as well that my toothbrush is practically a permanent feature in their bathroom (Mrs Poppy doesn’t really mind, other than making me let her know where I’m sleeping so she doesn’t stay up worrying that I’m lying dead by the side of the road) because otherwise I wouldn’t get to see Dylan at all. What with him doing the art boy thing and me doing the waitress thing and Poppy making us rehearse every evening, crashing out in his bed is about the only quality time we get together.
15th October
Dylan popped in for lunch today.
‘I’ll have a cheeseburger with all the trimmings, a full-fat Coke and the biggest portion of chips you do,’ he said by way of greeting when I looked up from the espresso machine.
‘And hello to you too,’ I said distractedly
, as I put the lid on a cappuccino for the harassed-looking suit who was giving Dylan the evil-eye for taking my attention away from the serving of his hot beverage. I’ve got pretty good at multitasking. ‘Thank you, see you soon.’
Dylan just winked at me. ‘If you get my lunch ready in super quick time, I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘Oh yeah, you’re going to leave me a tip, are you?’ Which would like be a first.
Dylan rested his elbows on the counter and curled his tongue behind his front teeth. ‘I was thinking more of ravishing you in the storeroom, if you fancy it.’ Sometimes he was too bloody cute for his own good.
‘And they said romance was dead. Hello… can I help you?’
I continued making googly eyes at Dylan who was giving me a slow once-over in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate for lunchtime, and not paying much attention to whoever it was who’d come up to the counter when I heard a voice say:
‘Do I know you from somewhere? You look terribly familiar.’
I recognised that voice! ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’
He was standing there, clutching his briefcase and looking terribly pleased with himself.
‘I heard a rumour that my daughter was actually still on this plane of existence so I thought I’d see if it was true.’
Dylan had straightened up from trying to look down my shirt and was shifting nervously from side to side as my dad threw him an appraising look.
‘And I know I’ve seen you somewhere before too,’ Dad said mildly, which is never good.
Dylan tried to bundle his bag and his sketchbook and his wallet under his arm so he could stick out his hand in greeting and ended up dropping everything on the floor.
‘Hello sir. Yes, I’m Dylan,’ he mumbled as he bent down to pick his stuff up.
‘Ah! That’s where I know you from. Last time I saw you, you were throwing up in my kitchen sink.’
The two most important men in my life were holding up my lunch queue and it felt like matter and anti-matter trying to collide. I had no choice but to introduce them formally.
‘Dad, this is Dylan, please behave. Dylan this is my father who I’ve inherited my sarcasm from. Feel free to ignore him.’
Then they shook hands and the earth managed to stay on its axis. Even when my dad spotted an empty table and gestured at Dylan, ‘Shall we?’
Dylan looked like he’d just been given two weeks to live and shuffled unwillingly after my paternal signifier. Anna went over to take Dad’s order and I hid behind the specials board to try and suss out what was going on and whether I needed to rush out and buy a bullet-proof vest.
Dad was being cooler than ice-cubes. He’s like a master tactician. When he’s like that with me, not saying much but giving me encouraging nods and little smiles, I often find myself confessing to all sorts of crimes, which used to result in being grounded and having my allowance stopped. Dylan was made of sterner stuff. Or moodier stuff, at least. He was ripping his napkin into little pieces (which is his favourite nervous habit) and refusing to maintain eye contact. Every now and again he’d open his mouth so I guess he was talking. He can be pretty fluent in monosyllablese when he wants to be.
My social anthropology was interrupted by some inconsiderate people who wanted to order drinks and I was so busy for the next half hour that it wasn’t until Anna told me I could take my break that I realised that Dad and Dylan were still sitting there.
Italian Tony gave me a plate with my usual lunch on it of a jacket potato with chicken and tomato on the side, absolutely, positively not touching each other, and I slowly walked over to them.
‘… so then I’m probably going to do a Masters and hopefully teach at the same time,’ Dylan was saying, leaning back in the booth. ‘That way I’ll still get to work on my own stuff but I’ll be able to earn some money.’
‘That’s sensible,’ Dad nodded. ‘Though it still seems to be a good time to be a YBA.’
‘A YB what?’ I asked, sitting down next to Dylan.
‘A young British artist,’ they answered in unison and I began to wonder whether I’d walked onto the set of The Twilight Zone.
‘Like Tracey Emin or Jake and Dinos Chapman,’ Dylan added.
I glared at my father who merely raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Oh my God! You’re like something out of Jane Austen. You’ve been asking Dylan about his prospects, haven’t you?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Have you got to the part where you ask him whether his intentions are honourable?’
‘Oh we covered that bit quite early on,’ Dylan assured me. ‘Relax, Edie, it’s all good.’
‘You can’t trust him,’ I said, stabbing at the jacket potato with my fork. ‘He’s sneaky.’
‘Thank you, young lady.’ Dad was smiling the smile of someone who wished they still had the power to withhold my TV privileges. ‘I am sitting right here.’
‘Yeah and I’d like to know why.’ I prodded my jacket potato around a bit more before pushing my plate away.
‘Your mother’s been very upset,’ Dad began, and I sighed heavily while Dylan gave me a warning nudge with his elbow.
‘I know that she’s being a little unyielding,’ (I snorted at this), ‘but she’s having trouble letting go.’ Dad’s voice was very gentle but there was a slight bite to his words, which stopped me from bursting forth with a rant about how utterly pissed off I was with her whole unyieldy routine.
To cut a long story a little bit shorter, Dad thinks it would be a good idea if Dylan came round for Sunday lunch, as every time they’ve met up till now, he’s either been drunk, trying to do rude things to me or scruffily dressed. I can’t really say that the inclusion of a side of roast beef and some Yorkshire puddings is going to help matters but apparently that goes to show how little I know.
20th October
Dylan’s started freaking out about going to lunch tomorrow. Really freaking out.
‘I don’t do parents, Eeds. I’ve barely got one of them, let alone having your two on my case,’ was his cheery greeting when I popped back to his on the way home.
His room looked like it had been attacked by a savage band of clothes-eating demons..
‘Hey, noted and what’s with all the clothes?’ I said, clearing a tiny patch of duvet free of jeans so I could sit down.
‘I haven’t got a thing to wear,’ Dylan wailed, clutching at his hair and then sending me a death stare when I giggled. ‘It’s not funny!’
‘You know that you actually turned into a girl when you said that?’ I giggled again and then gave up because he’d obviously buried his sense of humour under the pile of T-shirts on the floor.
We leafed through his clothes and couldn’t find anything suitable to quell my mother’s fears about him.
I love Dylan and I’m used to his quirky dress sense but it’s not parentally friendly. I held up a particularly hideous shirt, which featured pale blue ruffles cascading down the front, that I’d always wanted to burn.
‘What the hell were you thinking, D, when you bought this? It looks like a bingo caller died in it.’
Dylan snatched the shirt out of my hands. ‘Really not helping,’ he growled.
In the end, I went to find Paul and begged for the loan of a Fred Perry shirt and a pair of trousers, which his mum had bought him for Christmas and had been stashed at the bottom of his wardrobe ever since. I threw them at Dylan.
‘OK, look, you can wear these and then we’ll never, ever talk about it,’ I said sternly.
Once he’d changed, Dylan nearly refused to let me see his makeover but I barged through the door and gawped at the transformation. Dylan looked, well, normal and UnDylan-y. He also looked like he was uncomfortable in his own skin, which was an entirely new vibe for him. He kept pulling at the shirt and trying to smooth his hair back while he stared stonily at his reflection in the mirror.
‘I look like I’m going to a fancy dress party as a bloody townie,’ he finally spat. ‘God, I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you.’
Dylan turned and looked at me with a quizzical expression, even as he started yanking the shirt off so violently that buttons pinged into the four corners of the room. ‘Sometimes, Eeds, you need to come with subtitles.’
‘It’s you that she’s bothered about because we’re together and she’d have ended up being bothered about Carter if we’d got more serious. So, it really isn’t what you wear, though I’m never going out in public with you if you wear that bingo-caller’s shirt.’
Diary of a Crush: Sealed With a Kiss Page 3