Dylan shrugged and all the muscles in his chest shifted in the most delightful way. I swallowed hard. Because I’ve seen Dylan without a top quite a lot, like, really a lot. But sometimes it’s like I’m seeing all that olivey skin for the first time and it gets to me all over again. And he hadn’t kissed me once since I got there. Plus, was it just me or had the room suddenly got very warm? Dylan’s eyes locked into mine and I realised it wasn’t just me.
‘So she automatically hates me because I’m taking away her little girl,’ he practically purred and started prowling towards me. It was all very predatory and guh-making.
‘Yeah, I think it’s because I’m an only child and they had me quite late. Makes her extra-squicky about boyfriends, y’know?’
I couldn’t decide what to do with my body, which seemed to have a pretty good idea itself and was straining towards Dylan who was still doing a good impersonation of a panther. ‘Sometimes I actually feel lucky that my dad walked out on me years ago and my mum’s too messed up to ever be bothered about what I’m getting up to.’ He paused. Looked me up and down and then pounced on me. ‘Or who I’m getting up to!’
‘Don’t say that!’ I squealed as I landed on the bed, quickly followed by Dylan launching himself at me. ‘I’m sure your mum does care about you.’
But then Dylan cupped my face and there was kissing. Languid, long kissing that left me breathless and giddy and mothers and fashion decisions didn’t seem that important.
22nd October
Poppy is working my very last nerve. We’re rehearsing every night for four hours until Halloween. Which is not only costing a fortune in renting out the rehearsal room but cuts into my Dylan time, my down time and just about every other time you could mention.
Nothing else to report really. Dylan reckons he has the whole Sunday lunch sitch ‘under control’, to which I say a big ‘yeah, right!’
Also, this new boy is moving into the flat with Dylan and the others. He’s called Julie. No, he’s not. But he has a sort-of girl’s name that begins with J that I can’t remember and he’s in a band called The Sweet Janes and Dylan knows him ’cause he comes in Rhythm to put up flyers.
I’ve never seen his band but when I told the others they got really excited. Even Poppy! In fact, Poppy was worse than Atsuko and Darby and she doesn’t normally get that into boys.
‘So, it’s definitely the singer from The Sweet Janes?’ she suddenly said mid-song at last night’s rehearsal.
‘I s’pose.’ I was too busy trying to remember the bridge to the chorus. ‘D knows more than I do.’
‘You’re no help,’ she said between gritted teeth. ‘He’s gonna be living with your boyfriend.’
I so wished I could remember his name but I contented myself by tormenting Poppy with a constant refrain of, ‘You fancy him! You fancy the new flatmate with the girl’s name. You love him! You want to kiss him!’ And then she hit me really hard… so I stopped.
24th October
The day of the Sunday lunch. I feel like I’m going off to a UN peace summit or something. And why did I agree to let Dylan wear what he normally wears? I should have forgotten all that crap about Mum hating him just because he was doing me and insisted on outfit veto rights.
24th October (later)
Dylan is a god. There can be no other explanation. There I was, thinking he was a not-so-run-of-the-mill boy with slightly dubious dress sense, good with his hands and his mouth and a paintbrush and easel, and actually that was all an act. Because I think he must have drifted down from somewhere where they make gods after the miracles he performed over Sunday lunch.
First of all, he turns up wearing a very modified version of his usual geek chic. A pair of grey Dickies trousers that were actually held up by a belt instead of half-falling down, a black shirt that didn’t have anything rude painted on it or any buttons missing. God bless him, he’d even shaved and tried to brush his hair.
And did I mention that he had a huge bunch of flowers clutched in his hand?
I actually felt a bit tearful because even after feeling so weird about his own absent parents, he was going to all this trouble to ease my parents’ fears.
‘I love you,’ I mumbled and then flung my arms round his neck. ‘I really, really love you.’
I could feel his smile against my cheek. ‘I am pretty damn loveable.’
I gently disentangled myself from him. ‘Yeah, and modest too. But, hey, joking aside, thank you and you know exactly what I’m talking about.’
And from the moment he thrust the bunch of gerberas at a rather taken-aback Mothership, I knew we’d probably get out of the lunch alive.
It was very awkward to start off with. Mum was talking too fast in this really high-pitched voice and not looking Dylan in the eye and Dad would say, ‘Dear?’ and then they’d go into the kitchen for two minutes, leaving Dylan to pull horrified faces at me.
We sat down to eat and for a while it was OK. Mum had catered for a football team and all the ‘Why yes, I would like some mangetouts’ and ‘Gravy anyone?’ took up some time. Not enough time though.
Despite the civilised clink of cutlery and our best china and the posh veg, it was like a bloodbath. Poor Dylan got interrogated like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. How many A-levels did he have? Had he run up huge student loans? What did his father do for a living? Wouldn’t it make financial sense for him to live with his mother?
Dylan’s shoulders were sinking lower and lower, even though I kept squeezing his hand under the table, and I opened my mouth to tell my mum to back the hell off when Dylan suddenly put down his knife and fork and said, ‘Look, my dad walked out when I was eleven and my mum suffers from depression. I don’t really have proper parents and it’s hard for me to understand where you’re coming from.’
That shut Mum up. She opened her mouth, thought better of it and closed it again. Instead she took a huge gulp of her Chardonnay.
I gave Dylan’s thigh a warning pinch but he put his hand over mine and continued. ‘I’m not trying to be rude, Mrs Wheeler. I know that I haven’t always been good to Edie in the past. I wish I could change that but I can’t. And you’re right to be suspicious of me but I would never do anything to hurt her. I love her and I just want to make her happy.’
There was this long silence and I looked at my plate and the gravy that was going cold and congealing. I felt slightly sick.
I looked up and Mum was taking another glug of her wine and – I looked extra closely to be sure – there was a little tear trickling down her cheek.
Then Dylan picked up his knife and fork and began cutting up a roast potato like everything was normal.
Of course, my mum started crying and that made me start crying. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on the flimsy excuse that he wanted to load the dishwasher and took Dylan with him.
‘I can’t believe you were so rude to him!’ I turned on her the minute we were alone. ‘How could you ask him all those questions about his family and stuff? How do you think that made him feel?’
Mum just cried harder and it was horrible. Mums aren’t meant to cry. I’d only ever seen her cry once before when my great-grandma died and although I was absolutely furious with her, I got up and went over to her.
‘Mum, please stop crying,’ I begged and patted her gently on the shoulder. As soon as I touched her, I was enveloped in her arms and she pulled me down so I was half-sitting in her lap.
‘Hey! I’m not five any more,’ I spluttered. ‘I’ll break your legs.’
We ended up on the sofa with my head in her lap and some serious head-stroking going on.
Then I embarked on this big speech about how I was eighteen and had to make my own decisions and I was not, repeat NOT going to spend my gap year with the grand ’rents. And that she had to manage to at least be civil to Dylan.
‘Sometimes being a parent is hard, sweetie,’ she said after I’d finished being all assertive. ‘It’s not like you came with an instruction manual. W
hen you were born, you were this tiny little thing and I loved you so much. I knew I’d do anything to protect you and keep you safe. And that feeling doesn’t go away just because you’ve got a boyfriend and a weekly wage.’
‘I kinda realise that, Mum. But Dylan… he’s really special.’
I looked up at Mum who then had the audacity to wink at me. ‘How long do you think he rehearsed that speech for?’ she demanded with a naughty smile that must have been a trick of the light.
‘Still made you cry though, didn’t it?’ I tried to wriggle upright but she wasn’t having it.
‘You being all grown-up and striking out makes me feel slightly like a spare part. That you don’t need me any more,’ she admitted slowly. ‘And it makes me feel old.’
This time I did scramble up so I could hug her. Hugging her is like coming home. It’s utterly familiar; the feel of her in my arms, her hair tickling my cheek, the smell of Chanel No 5 and something that’s particularly her.
‘I’ll always need you,’ I muttered. ‘But, like, not in the same way as before. I hate you not speaking to me and being angry with me so can we please just make up?’
And that was that. Though I’m still not sure that I want to move back home even though I can’t keep staying at Poppy’s and Mum would really bust a move if I shacked up with Dylan.
When I mentioned that it would be a really positive step for our new understanding if she calmed down about me sleeping with him, she just did that selective memory thing that mothers are so good at.
By the time Dylan and Dad had re-emerged (Dylan later told me he’d had to nod and smile politely while he got a rundown on the many and varied problems Dad was having with his computer’s operating system) Mum and I were having another glass of wine and arranging a mother/daughter bonding spa weekend.
Dylan helped her make coffee and I think he must have been pretty devastating in his charm offensive because she was all pink-faced and smiley and ‘Oh, Dylan!’ for the rest of the afternoon.
Thank God, it’s over!
26th October
I’ve decided to stop worrying about family and worry instead about our impending debut gig. For about one minute last week, we were actually sounding good but now, despite the nightly rehearsals, we suck like a gaping chest wound.
Poppy who of course knows all her guitar parts and never forgets chords, and even knows what barre chords are, deals with the problem by yelling at us. We yell back. Then we sound even worse because we’re too busy being mad at each other to concentrate on playing properly.
I keep hoping that a meteor will crash on the pub where we’re playing so the gig gets cancelled. Especially after Poppy and I had a blazing domestic yesterday and she told me that she’d only let me join the band because I had good hair. The good hair comment kind of sidetracked me for a second and then I went back to wanting to kill her. But I can’t because I’m living in her house and I think it would really piss her mum off.
30th October
I feel like I haven’t seen Dylan in days. We’re rehearsing until eleven every night but we still sound like a bunch of amateurs. When we get home, Poppy follows me upstairs and stands over me and forces me to practise some more because I can’t seem to remember any of our songs.
‘How does it go again?’ I have to ask her after about ten seconds because the remembering stuff bit of my brain seems to have short-circuited. Then she makes this noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a scream that no human being should be able to make and slams the door, leaving me to not sleep because no girl has ever been under this kind of pressure. This time tomorrow night we’ll be on stage! At least I found something to wear today. I’ll be making my live debut in a black-and-pink American-diner, waitress uniform thingy, which looks tame compared to Poppy who describes her stage outfit as ‘white trash prom queen’.
Ooooh! And we have stage names. I’m Edie Evil, Poppy is Supreme Dictator Bitch (actually she’s Miss Pop Tart but I prefer the name I’ve given her), Darby is Dame Darby Dustbunny and Atsuko refuses to answer to anything other than Susie Samurai.
Actually, I guess I am a little bit excited…
31st October
I’m a bona fide guitar goddess! I’m going to have cards printed up and everything.
We rocked! Nobody even noticed that we hit a few bum notes and that Darby spilt a pint of beer all over me because we were too busy jumping up and down and screeching out the words in cheesy American accents. Poppy was just… She was awesome. She carried the three of us and just the way she moved, the way she sounded, I wanted to be her.
I mean, basically we’re Poppy’s backing band, it is The Poppy Show but she does it so well and so passionately that when we were on stage and I could see how she came alive, how she glowed, I got why she’d been so mad at us for not taking the band thing seriously. I know that five years from now I’ll be interviewed by a film crew from MTV who are doing a special on Poppy and I won’t feel any resentment that she’s this cool famous icon, because she let me come along for some of the ride. I’m not entirely sure that she’ll be so forgiving.
‘This is Edie Evil. She ain’t too good at playing the guitar but she looks mighty purty,’ was how she introduced me, much to the audience’s amusement.
Most of the crowd were our friends anyway who’d good-naturedly agreed to fork out a fiver for the privilege of seeing us behave in much the same way as we do on a night out. And being on stage, being part of something and having people watch me, me!, made me feel sexy and special and all those other things that I never normally feel.
When we got off stage Dylan was waiting for me. I was on such a high that I threw my arms round him and started kissing him passionately while the next band were trying to set up their equipment.
‘I’m going to have to get a T-shirt printed up that says, “I’m with the band”,’ he said when we’d finally come up for air and were sitting at the bar with the others.
‘Hmmm, we should definitely have T-shirts,’ decided Poppy who was so over-excited that I thought she was going to implode. ‘And maybe we could have umbrellas too. Or hairslides. I mean, T-shirts are so boring.’
It was very odd. Strangers kept coming up to us and asking when we were playing again and if we had a CD out. I felt slightly outside of myself but in a good way. Dylan had his arm round me and I watched Poppy hugging Grace, and Atsuko and Darby eyeing up some blokes and Paul and Shona waving at us from the other side of the club and I felt like I really belonged. Like I was part of this family that had nothing to do with my other family.
2nd November
I met the famous new flatmate when he moved in today. Name’s Jesse and I can see why my fellow band-mates all go into a sugar coma when he comes up in conversation.
He looks like the result of a cloning experiment between Ryan Gosling and Kurt Cobain. He has this thatch of bleached blond hair, blue eyes the colour of Dylan’s faded denim jacket, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his cute little nose and to offset the pretty he has a filthy grin with, as I found out about five minutes later, a matching sense of humour. If my heart weren’t already taken, I’d have fallen head over heels in lust with him.
As it was, I bowled into their lounge, threw the bag of salt and vinegar crisps that Dylan had asked me to get in the general direction of him and then stood there with my mouth hanging open when I caught sight of Jesse sprawled out on the sofa.
‘This is Edie, Dylan’s bird,’ Simon drawled from the doorway. ‘Get used to her, learn to love her, she practically lives here. Edie, you’re starting to drool.’
I promptly put a stop to the slack jawing and whirled round to give Simon the evil eye. ‘I am not Dylan’s bird. Thank you very much.’
‘Bird, significant other, bitch, whatever, pleased to meet you,’ Jesse said in this bewitching Irish brogue. I think I might have whimpered.
Dylan gave me an exasperated look and I felt a bit guilty. ‘I bought you crisps,’ I said to remind him of wh
at a devoted girlfriend I was. He looked unimpressed.
‘My friend Poppy really fancies you,’ I blurted out, more for something to say and to stop Dylan giving me wounded glances.
Jesse sat forward. ‘Is she cute?’
‘She’s super cute and she’s really cool. We’re in this band called Mellowstar and she sings and plays guitar. You’ll have to meet her.’
‘I love girls who rock,’ Jesse beamed and then he took a swig of his Coke and let out a gigantic burp. ‘Better out than in.’
And I decided that yes, he was drop dead beautiful but he had the manners of a pig and Dylan was actually way more gorgeous so I plonked myself down on his lap and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, despite the rather rude comments from his housemates at such unwarranted public displays of affection.
Diary of a Crush: Sealed With a Kiss Page 4