by Lotte Daley
‘Is Hanna, you know, always like that?’
‘Like what?’ he said, eyes on the road and not on me. He’s totally not playing ball here.
‘Um, nothing.’
‘Well, you were talking to Fabio Matravers. What do you expect?’ he said suddenly.
‘I wasn’t talking to him,’ I began to speak. Oh my God! Was Bailey jealous? I narrowed my eyes at him and analysed his body language.
‘Yes, you were, Katie. Or is that Kate?’ he said with a sneer in his voice. What the hell is up with this boy? Danielle was right, he is weird. And jealous! Hurrah, he does like me after all! Karma was giving me a disco stick.
‘He,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘was talking to me.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No, it is NOT the same thing!’ I said in mock agitation. ‘I was minding my own business, trying to light a cigarette after finding out from that weasel of a woman, Fanny or whatever the fuck her name is, short thing, snooty face, you know? The one who gallantly told me that Jack had been potentially doing it with Jessica Hilson for a lot longer than I previously thought. Franny, frrrrigging hell!!’ I spit.
‘Frenella Balls,’ he said, with a perfectly straight face. How does he do it?
I stifled a laugh.
‘No wonder she, uh, dropped her, balls …’
Even Bailey couldn’t resist a chortle, hah, got him at last, he does have feelings and is not, as previously suspected, a mutant robot from space, or even a fake human sent to seek out my weak spots and pop them on to a full-colour PowerPoint presentation for a bit of sadistic bedtime reading for Hanna Frost.
‘Got ya!’ I said, smiling at him through the silky face glove.
He threw me a sideways grin. ‘We’re here, Katie,’ he said, sighing and slapping his hands a bit too angrily on his thighs – total passive-aggressive jealous behaviour, I’ll have you know – as the car glided to a halt. Bailey looked at me, and I at him. It was just like the Fabio moment, but more intense.
‘Listen, do you want to come in for a cup of tea and meet my cat?’ I said, instantly regretting it. Meet my cat? What kind of a loser says that! Although it was much more preferable to, ‘Hey, wanna come in and inspect my plumbing?’ With those arms, though, I thought, I bet …
‘No, I can’t,’ he said. Another grumpy, stand-offish, snappy sentence.
‘Righto,’ I said, sighing heavily. Rebuffed again, I really ought to just give it up. But I can’t. Just when I think he isn’t interested in me as a person, as a potential undercover lover, he goes and throws one of those eat-me-up-in-one-go, to-die-for, chocolate-brown, swimming-pool-eyes looks that shoots fireworks to my very core, up and down all over my body in every direction and I melt. I properly, seriously melt and I lose all sense of perspective when he does that ‘thing’. He does that ‘thing’ way better than Jack ever did! For one, Bailey has passion in his eyes and fire in his belly and he appears to me to possess both in abundance. I had to tell him, because what did I have to lose? Nothing. I’d had a large chunk of dignity wiped out, a pinch of humiliation, with a drizzle of hopelessness on top of a slice of heartbreak pie. Deep breath in and …
‘Bailey, this is weird, you’re acting like you don’t like me.’ Deep breath out.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says, sparking up another roll-up and winding down the window. ‘You’re being paranoid.’
‘I see you, watching me sometimes and throwing me those looks,’ I say, gulping. ‘You so totally don’t need to be jealous of Fabio … There’s nothing going on, I mean, OK, I admit, he asked me to dinner, I took his card out of politeness, but that’s it, I’m not going to call him, look, see,’ and I take the card, tear it and throw it out of the window. He looks at the card, my hands ripping the paper between my fingers, he looks shocked, surprised, pissed off and confused all in one single go. I am aware, more aware than I ever have been, of myself. More aware of my heartbeat and the prickly arms that I get when I like someone, aware of every word hanging unsaid in the air.
‘So,’ I say, mustering up every single ounce of courage-type strength that I possess inside of me, ‘I will ask you again. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’
Silence. The pit pit pit of rain begins to spit on to the car windscreen. It’s dusk and I can see Mrs Bellamy crawling along the pavement on her mobility scooter, anxious to get out of the rain. A small terrier barks alongside her and makes a feeble attempt to catch up, racing the two-mile-an-hour buggy on his short little hairy legs. His bark echoes down the street. It’s as though everything has stopped as the smell of rain wafts into the window, and a bunch of teenagers walk past swearing, laughing and joking amongst themselves.
‘Oi, oi!’ a scraggly youth screeches into the open window nearly frightening me to death.
‘Been on the rob?’ he questions, in reference to the cashmere balaclava that I totally forgot I was wearing. No wonder Bailey couldn’t look at me! How could he possibly take me seriously as a potential girlfriend in this get-up? He was probably cringing silently, not that I had a full-frontal face view of him, you see. He was still window gazing. I jump, as Bailey himself finally looks up at me briefly before turning his gaze beyond my shoulder, over at the offending youths.
‘I’m not jealous,’ he says stonily. ‘It’s just …’ he begins. ‘It’s just complicated, OK?’
‘Well, you could have had me fooled …’ I whisper.
‘I think you should go now,’ Bailey says, dismissively. My heart thumps in my chest, I scrabble for my bag, my keys, and launch myself out of the door and smack bang into a dirty, deep puddle, soaking my delicious new shoes. Oh, it never rains! Before I go, I turn my head to face him and once again, I catch him looking after me. I want to launch myself into his arms and snog his face off, run my hands over what I imagine to be his lovely pecs and a tight, toned, tanned abdomen nestling under his shirt. I open my mouth and look him square in the eyes. I want to shout at him, shake him, tell him I know what passion is, I know that look, I may have missed out on it for the entire time I was in a fake, useless, rubbishy relationship with Jack Hunter, but I’d recognize that look anywhere. I used that specific look on Jack, incidentally, every moment, second, hour and day that I was with my ex-boyfriend. Because I loved him. And although I’m not saying I was in love with Bailey, that first fluttering, those feelings of need, of want, of finally finding … well, of pure and simple attraction, I could feel them. And although I have told you often enough about the depth of my feelings for Jack, they were never fully reciprocated, yet here with Bailey, a man who wasn’t even in my life last week, a man who has come along and taken all my feelings of hurt and despair and tucked them away from me when he’s in my presence, well, things and people and thoughts and feelings like this don’t come anybody’s way often. He is kidding himself if he doesn’t feel it too. This time, whether he wants to admit it or not, we are both playing the game. We hold the gaze for a minute. Eyes wide and expectant, but suddenly Jack Hunter’s face pops into my head. Scenarios of me begging him to stay with me over the years when we’ve nearly broken up, my despair when he hurt me time and time again. Is there any point? Can I do this again? Convince someone to love me? No. I can’t. So I change my mind, it’s useless, this whole thing was a very bad idea, so I just say, ‘Forget it,’ because for once in my life, I’m going to try and stop salivating over a bad boy. Whatever is going on in Bailey’s head is clearly unfathomable to me, and so I guess I’ll take it on the chin and try to bury this shameful encounter in my memory box marked DO NOT REVISIT. In normal circumstances I would be beyond mortified that this pseudo stand-off has resulted in me making an arse of myself once again, but I seem to have developed a couple of iron fists which have been wrapped around the circumference of my heart, never to be swayed by a cute boy ever again. Oh, who am I kidding? I could already feel the pain of recent events combined with this latest knock-back edging its way up into my gullet, threatening to choke the very life out of me. With the ra
in picking up in urgency, it hits me from all directions and in the distance I can hear a quiet rumble of thunder.
I ran to my front door, opened it up and flew inside, eager to hide from his watchful gaze. The car was still outside. What could Bailey be doing? I thought to myself. Contemplating me? Us? Who was I kidding? This hurt, this rejection stung my body, my skin prickled, not in a good way, my breathing was fast and I was panting big sobs. All the bad things that I felt about myself from the inside courtesy of Jack Hunter’s humiliating betrayal and the way Hanna spoke to me today, all came tumbling out.
‘I’m useless!’ I wailed, as I sank to the floor behind my front door, reminiscent of the day Pippa Strong made herself a resident on my doorstep. I yanked the balaclava off my head and furiously scrunched it up and threw it at the wall in anger. Tears splashed down my face as I sniffed and wiped them on the back of my hand, being careful not to damage my posh clothes. I felt so ugly and horrible and unloveable. Jack had ditched me just like that, no word of warning, for someone who I felt was impossible to live up to. Bailey, I felt, was simply toying with my emotions, pretending to like me so I’d show an interest and then secretly laughing at me whilst rejecting me. Fuck the whole romantic ideal I had of him having the same crazy feelings and not knowing his elbow from his backside when it came to administering them. Who knew any more when it came to a man’s behaviour? Whatever was happening, clearly this is what he does on Planet Arsehole, which means he really is a sadist. My cat Grum nuzzles into my legs. ‘At least you still love me,’ I sniff, as I pick him up and bury my head in his fur. Wiping my eyes on an old hankie that’s sitting on the little table by the front door, I pull myself up and over to the living room where I switch on the telly and immerse myself in EastEnders.
Chapter 8
‘Feels just like the old days,’ I say to the cat, as I pull the biscuit tin from beneath the sofa. It’s my secret sweetie stashing place. If I can’t see the biscuit tin, I’m less likely to open it, thus avoiding those sugary sins on my lips which, of course, go right to my hips. Ah, but they sure taste good. With each bite, I thought a little bit less about Jack, Bailey and Hanna Frost. Sighing, I got up and poured myself a large glass of red and ran myself a hot bath. Now, if only I could find some bubble bath … I reached up to the shelf above the toilet and ran my fingers along the sides, looking for something yummy for my bath-time treat. I’d seen Jack put various bits and pieces up there for safe keeping, including his expensive soaps and beauty products that he didn’t want me to steal. He knew I stole his Liberty hand cream and his electric mouth-moulding, gentle-vibrate toothbrush, despite my protestations to the contrary. Still, I only ever looked once, and discovered a Diptyque candle and a deep-cleanse summer body wash by Elemental Herbology. I cautiously ran my hands along the top just in case Jack had placed a booby trap for this very reason and then forgotten about it, obviously, because he’s fucked off and left me, when all of a sudden a small wicker box tipped over and out spilled the contents first on to my head and then across the bathroom floor.
‘Whaaa!’ I squealed, pushing my hands up against my face as trinket pandemonium ensued. I looked down from what felt like a great height, short-arse me on a two-foot-high toilet seat. I gasped aloud.
There on the floor was a picture of me and Jack. It was a cheesy snap of us when we first met, taken at the Poets Field PR summer BBQ. Must have been, oooh, say, 2006? I could see various work colleagues milling about in the background as Jack and I appeared to clink champagne glasses. Yes, it was definitely 2006. Richard had a mullet for starters and I remember they came back into fashion for a while back then. But it wasn’t the photograph that made me catch my breath. It was the letter beside it.
I knelt down on the floor and gathered up the bits and pieces and set about placing them together in the box for future inspection. I couldn’t take my eyes off this small, perfectly folded-up pink piece of paper that had KATIE CAKES with various doodles of hearts, crosses and four-pointed stars scrawled squarely in boyish handwriting on the front. Should I open it? What if it was my ‘Dear John’ letter? What if it said horrible nasty things that would take me to the edge of a nervous breakdown? What if it was, like, telling me he was actually going to die a grizzly death very soon and that he had to go and sow his wild oats for the good of mankind? After all, he did have impressive genes. His jaw was chiselled, his stature was long and lean and he worked out so that his six-pack was obvious, but not in the ridiculous muscle-bound Arnold Schwarzenegger kind of way. No, he was solid, sexy, handsome and very easy on the eye. His dark hair was glossy and his eyes, a shining emerald green, were deep and round and … rather like Bailey’s! Fuck, did this mean I was on the rebound? Were there any other similarities between Jack and Bailey? Both rather hot, yes. Both dark and swarthy. Does this mean I have a type? I think back to my ex-boyfriends of the past and come to the conclusion that perhaps I do. Matthew Robinson from Little Glove was tall, dark and, um, he used to be handsome, but collected opinions from the village pub last Christmas from the girls who still live there, including the treacherous Nicola Baxter, say he’s actually got a paunch, a curly moustache and a twenty-a-day smoking habit. Urgh. So, back to Jack and Bailey … What else do they have in common, let’s see … both, um, have six-packs … not so sure about that one, but Bailey does look as though he may possess one. I sat cross-legged now, still in my beautiful clothes, as the bath ran deep with hot water. I reached over to turn off the tap and popped in one of the little round balls of colourful bath bomb-type stuff that had rolled beside the tub and watched as it dissolved like a fragmented rainbow. I know all about feeling fragmented, I sighed. I curl my lips and inwardly prepare myself for what could be in this letter. Here goes. I slowly unfold the creases and begin to decipher the words.
Katie, I love you, soooo much and our little kitten. I think we definitely should call him Grum because every time I pick him up, he says ‘Grummm’ and I know he’s telling us that Grum is his name!
I love u, despite the fact u can’t cook, and u always give me warm beer.
Cheeky sod! I think to myself, while allowing a smile to creep up and nestle on my lips. I continue to read, which is a tad tricky, as it’s slightly illegible, the written word was clearly not his primary gift.
So, I want to say that if u are reading this, my suspishans were correct … it is u stealing my posh stuff and not Janice, even thow u bought it, so it shud, technikly be ours, yours, but its mine, you said, we agreed. Anyway, so glad we’re together, I miss your silly face, even when I close my eyes. I will 4eva love you, and never leave you for Sharon Stone, even thow she’s way hot and please please please can you do that scene from Basic Instinct for my birthday, and then I’ll promise to make you cups of tea forever n ever! LOVE YOU! Jack
I temporarily forgot to breathe. Happiness bubbled up inside of my gut, he did love me, after all! Maybe this means he’ll be back? After all, he promised not to leave me for Sharon Stone! Jessica Hilson is no Sharon Stone! I gathered up the letter, kissed it gently and held it close to my heart for a moment, before shoving it back in the wicker box and placing it in the corner. I wafted happily into my bedroom and selected those awful tartan jammies from the washing basket. They were my guilty fashion pleasure, so warm and cosy. My La Senza sex nightie just didn’t have the same soothing effect as the tartan horros. Even with the heating on. I sniffed them. They smelled only of stale me, which was OK as I was only going to be more stale from a night in my stale bed. I really should have washed the sheets by now that smelled of both me and Jack Hunter. I’ll be Katie Lewis-Hunter, a double-barrelled girl at the altar, when and if Jack comes to his senses, rings my doorbell and collapses on to his knees, holding out a Tiffany ring and begging for another chance. I will, of course, be wearing top-to-toe Chloé, with Farrah Fawcett curls bouncing along on my shaking head as I give him short shrift.
‘How could you, Jack!’ I will simper.
‘But she’s not a patch on you, darling,’ he wou
ld say, ‘she grills my toast too brown!’
‘Oh, so that makes it OK, does it? She burns your toast and her bridges in one accidental whoosh of gas mark seven?’
No. I would have to have another think about that fantasy. I peel off my clothes and catch sight of my white body in the full-length mirror. My pants are gaping at the gusset, they’ve certainly seen better days. My bra hangs like two Dairylea triangles on my relatively flat chest, which reminds me, I better take a good look at my boobs because on Monday, which is only two days away, I would be a busty babe fit for Television X work if this whole ‘make me a celebrity’ thing goes ahead. At least I will have notoriety, and everyone knows that reality stars, wherever they’ve come from, do tacky things for oodles of cash. I don’t care, it’s not as though I have bundles of dignity right now, is it? No, oh no. And if Aubrey, Hanna Frost and Dr Vasquez have their aesthetic way with me, I will not even resemble me much anyway, so it’s not like I can embarrass my mother further, who still, by the way, hasn’t forgiven me for my teenage vodka knicker-hiding escapades with Ms Baxter and is still curtain twitching and praying for the Mail On Sunday to pap the house.
I turn to the side and inspect my belly. Hold it in, nearly look thin, grimace on face … aaaand relax.
‘Phew, don’t look so bad today if you do say so yourself, Katie.’ I even like my thighs for once, they look a tad smaller, must be all this stress. I pull my hair up into a lime-green fashion-crime scrunchie and pull an old bleached towel around myself. I so needed to do my laundry. I was rubbish at organizing my life at the best of times. I spied my handbag on my bedroom floor, and the posh envelope from the Sizzle Stars shoot poked up through the fabric. Something told me that those precious Harrods vouchers were going to come in rather handy. I could have gold-plated towels, an even better toothbrush than Jack’s and I could buy the exact same organic water-activating-mineral-particles facecloth that he possessed and that I adored. But mine would be in baby pink and with KATIE embroidered on it. How posh would that be? Yes, no more skanky stained mouldy pound-shop towels for me – step in angora ones woven with silk and the tears of Jesus. I bet even God has a franchise in Harrods. I moved into the bathroom and couldn’t resist picking up the letter once again, along with the glass of red wine I’d brought in with me to help read the letter, before sinking into the most luxurious bubble bath. My feet poked out of the end as I rimmed the opening of the tap with my big toe, being careful not to wedge it up there again. I’d ripped half my toenail off the last time. As I sank carefully into the bubbles, being mindful not to wet my beloved letter, it suddenly occurred to me. Why had Jack referred to Grum as a kitten? Grum is nearly four years old. And … oh no, please no! I realized, with the heaviest heart, that this was no recent letter. This was an early days, can’t get enough of you, let’s have it off all over the house/garden/local park love letter, a can’t see straight from too much sex letter. He was blinkered. He was in love. Was being the operative word. And sure enough, as my eyes moved up and to the right, he’d clearly marked the date in bold pen.