All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  He was so tall he must have started to get a stiff neck from cranking it down to kiss me, because just then he lifted me up and sat me on the sink unit so he could kiss me while standing at his full height. And he never took his tongue out of my mouth the whole time! It felt dead sexy and exciting, especially when he then poked his knee between my legs and I sort of whimpered, which was a bit mortifying. He didn’t seem to mind, though, in fact it seemed to get him going somewhat. He moved his hand down and cupped my left breast. I was kind of mortified because my nipples seemed to have turned into football studs. If I was mortified he seemed even more so, and almost as soon as he’d touched me he backed off. He actually stepped back.

  ‘Sorry, I . . .’

  ‘No . . . I just . . .’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  He rearranged his jogging bottoms and I realized I wasn’t the only one who had cause to be embarrassed.

  ‘Listen, er. You know I . . . might get off.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘Got a bit carried away with meself there.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Sorry, like.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’d better check on the kids anyway.’

  He nodded. I jumped down from the sink and showed him out to the hall, where he immediately started busying himself with his bike. He looked back at me as he opened the front door.

  ‘Listen. We should do this again some time.’

  ‘Yeah, if you want.’

  ‘And I’ll try and go a bit slower next time.’

  I nodded. I wasn’t really sure what had gone wrong.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ he added.

  ‘Positive. Anyway, we’ve got the whole of the summer holidays to snog.’

  Oh dear. He was pulling a face. I’d clearly suggested this might be a relationship and he didn’t like the sound of it. Bollocks! But then he said, ‘The only thing is I’m going away for the first three weeks, so we’ll have to snog after that.’

  Three weeks away? Usually that would have made my heart plummet to my boots, but for the fact that I’d thought he wasn’t that keen. Now there was the promise of further snogging I was completely and utterly made up.

  ‘Where you going for three weeks?’

  Greg pulled a face. ‘All over. Mum says posh people in the olden days went on something called the Grand Tour all over the world.’

  I gasped, ‘You’re going all over the world? That’s brilliant! Get you!’ I was so jealous.

  ‘Nah, we’re staying a little closer to home.’

  ‘All over the Wirral? The bright lights of Birkenhead?’

  He smiled. ‘Just up and down the country.’

  I was less impressed and my face showed it.

  ‘In a . . . motor home thingy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Mum says it’s a palace on wheels.’

  I put myself in his shoes and could think of nothing worse. Stuck in a small space for three weeks with my mum and dad and Our Joey? Vile. But then, being stuck in close confines with this apparition before me and . . . well, that would have been a different story. I’m sure we could have found lots of things to keep ourselves amused. Well, I’m sure I could have, I couldn’t speak for him. Just then I heard myself say something bizarre. I had no idea why I said it, but say it I did.

  ‘If you want to go out with me, Greg . . .’

  He looked a bit startled. ‘Aha?’

  ‘Then you’re gonna have to court me the old-fashioned way.’

  He nodded. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘You will have to woo me via the ancient art of letter-writing.’

  He looked confused. ‘I’ve . . . gotta write you a letter?’

  I nodded, like it was the most reasonable request in the world. ‘While you’re away, we shall strike up a correspondence. We’ll write to each other.’

  He thought about it for a second, then nodded. ‘OK. But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m gonna be moving around all the time. How will you know where to send your letters?’

  I’d not thought of that.

  ‘Then you shall furnish me with your itinerary.’

  He looked like a startled deer. As well he might. I had turned into something out of a period drama.

  ‘Er, I’ll see if me ma’s got a list.’

  I nodded, as if giving my consent or approval, and with that he left. I turned and looked at myself in the hall mirror. I half expected to find I was wearing a bonnet, but no. Just me and my scrunchy and my granny cardigan. I clocked a spot on my nose that I hadn’t noticed before and wondered whether Greg might be partially sighted.

  FIVE

  Four days into the summer holidays I was coming downstairs in my Care Bears nightie in a very bad mood. I could hear Our Joey in the through lounge, dancing and singing along to one of the many compilation tapes he’d made of Madonna’s Most Fabbest Hits – well, that’s what he’d written on the cassette cover. At the moment he was making the coffee table rattle to ‘Borderline’. I heard the crack of slipper on glass, which meant he’d knocked said coffee table again doing a high kick, but it didn’t stop him singing, not for one note.

  ‘Idiot,’ I muttered under my breath to no one in particular.

  The reason I was in a bad mood was that I’d had yet another dream where Greg was hanging round a pool, surrounded by a bevy of bathing beauties, all desperate to get into his demi wave, and he was lapping up the attention and showing off about his dad’s skip-hire business. At this point I would run into the holiday resort in my school uniform and shout, ‘It’s not a demi wave, it’s natural and he’s MINE!’ to which the bathing beauties would all laugh their heads off and Greg would look at me from the comfort of his paisley-patterned sunlounger and go, ‘I’ve no idea who this bizarre creature is,’ in a weird posh accent. After which I’d have no other recourse but to drown myself in the kidney-shaped swimming pool.

  Then I saw something on the mat. It was a postcard. I picked it up. On the front was a picture of a small horse and at the top it said, ‘A New Forest Pony’. OK, so it wasn’t just a small horse, it was in fact a pony. I turned it over quickly. Oh my God, it was from him!

  1 August 1999

  Dear Jodie,

  Got here last night. All that money my dad earns and we are in this shithole on wheels. I hate him. Wish I was there with you. Greg. X

  PS. Its not a shithole really, but it’s dead cramped. So I have to look at our Teresa-May in her bra and knickers every morning and it’s knocking me sick. I want privacy!

  PPS. What are you doing the rest of your summer?

  OK, so it was hardly War and Peace, but it was a start. He’d done what I’d asked him to do, or made a start on it anyway, which meant he took me seriously. It meant that he was interested. I got some toast and a scalding hot cup of tea – ducking my way through the lounge to avoid Our Joey’s flying fists as he attempted to recreate the moves from the ‘Vogue’ video – and took the card back to my bedroom to read it again. I must have read it a thousand times that day. And so began the summer of the thirteen letters from Greg.

  Because after that first postcard he obviously invested in a notepad and envelopes. Oh, the romance of it all!

  Letter number two:

  Hiya, it’s me.

  Have you ever been to the New Forest? I don’t know why they’ve dragged me here as am bored out me skull. There isn’t even anything to do at the campsite except look at horses when they come by. Sorry I got off dead quick that night I come round when you were babysitting. Just suddenly thought I’d overstepped the mark. I got a bit carried away with myself, sorry about that. Last night I asked Teresa-May what ‘to court’ meant and she told me. Well, it’s official, this is me courting you. You crazy bitch.

  Greg xx

  P.S. Show this to anyone and you are completely deaded.

  He called me his crazy bitch. I thought I might be falling in love with him.

  Letter number three:


  Jodie,

  Teresa-May was wrong. She said courting meant to go out with someone. But I looked it up in a dictionary I found in a bookshop in Glastonbury, where we are now, and it said it’s the period of time when a couple get to know each other before they get engaged and then married. IT’S TOO SOON TO MARRY. Screw you. It’s over.

  Gx

  PS. It’s nothing without the festival, Dad keeps saying.

  Hmmm, not sure I was that keen on his crazy ‘put down’ sarcastic humour. Still, every woman wanted to change their man, right? And if that was the only thing I needed to change I’d better be grateful for small mercies.

  Letter number four:

  Hi Jodes,

  We’re in Wales. Or Wayulzz as Teresa-May keeps pronouncing it and then wetting herself. And guess what? We climbed a mountain today. Well, it was a very big hill, but it felt like a mountain. Teresa-May was fuming because she had high heels on and all she did was moan, moan, moan nonstop. When we got to the top we looked out and it was dead nice. Dad goes, ‘Stunning.’ And Mum burst out crying. She’s weird. She just stood there for, like, ten minutes sobbing into my dad’s shoulder. I didn’t know where to put myself. She keeps going, ‘Ignore me Greg. Tree.’ so I did. Teresa-May had a ciggie and Dad kicked off. Parents, hey. Knobs, the lot of them. You climb all that way and they just start crying? Mum’s seriously disturbed in the head, I’ve always said it. I wish I was at home. I hate everything about this holiday.

  We were meant to be going abroad to Spain, but Dad changed his mind at the last minute – well, a few months ago – and there was no arguing with him. He said we all had to tighten our belts and that Mum was scared of flying. She’s never been scared of flying before. It just does my head in.

  Your drama course sounds boss, I bet you’re dead good at it. When you’re a dead famous actress I’m gonna be, like, I know her. I courted her when she was fifteen. Always knew she’d be dead famous. She always had a certain something. This woman at the pub tonight where we went for our tea asked me if I was a model and Mum kicked off at her. He’s only fifteen. I think she was flirting with us. She was old enough to be my granny. Arl Grannybags, Teresa-May called her. To her face. So there’s me holiday romance bitten the dust. I told you my mum was trouble. (Hope she doesn’t read this. SHIT!)

  Will write soon.

  Gxx

  I was slowly becoming of the opinion that Greg was a genius letter writer. No other lad I had ever met would be capable of such beautiful, heartfelt prose.

  Letter number five:

  Dear Jodie,

  Today was really embarrassing. Mum said she wanted to talk to me, so Dad and Teresa-May went out and we stayed in the motor home. She told me she loved me and was dead proud of me and I could do anything I wanted with my life and that I should always follow my dreams. She said she knew Dad wanted me to carry on with Skippy Skips, but that if that didn’t make me happy I shouldn’t be scared to make up my own mind about what I wanted to do. She said if I got married I should be nice to my wife and not cheat on her and treat my kids with respect and watch out for them taking drugs. The whole thing was too weird, Jodie, dead heavy, I didn’t know were to look. Why is it everyone else goes on holidays and gets wrecked or has a laugh and my family treats it like an extended episode of Oprah Winfrey? Honestly, I am that close to getting on a train and just coming home. I hate it.

  The show you’re doing on the course sounds boss. But yes, I agree with you, Say No to Date Rape is a shit title. I think it should be called (and this is genius) Asking For It? The question mark is dead important, remember that. You can tell the drama teacher if you like, but make sure I get my royalties if it makes you a millionaire. I wish I could phone you, but the only phone box nearby is broken. Someone’s been using it as a bog and there’s even bog roll in there – can you believe that? Oh well, I’ll ask for one of them mobile phones for Christmas and see where it gets me.

  Best go. I can smell something vile. Mum must be cooking the tea.

  And good luck with the show again.

  Gx

  He loved me. He did, I could tell. Although maybe he’d forgotten what an absolute dog I was. Oh well, plenty of time for a face lift before he got back.

  Letter number six:

  Me again,

  You are my gift sent from heaven above, Jodie McGee, do you know that? I read your letters on the shittest holiday in the world and I have a right grin. It’s brilliant that you cried real tears during the play, and I bet no one really minded that you swore when you were improvising on the spot. Even if you did get told off for it. I wish I’d seen you hit that lad who was pretending to rape you – bet he got a right shock! Shame he had to go to casualty to have his scratches seen to, but like you were saying, you were in character. You were being raped for God’s sake!

  We are now in Oxford, which Mum wanted to come to because of Inspector Morse. She keeps going on about the dreaming spires, but we’re currently parked in a layby and can only see cars and trees. We got a Park and Ride bus into Oxford today and it was full of toffs and Americans, but Mum was walking around with a big smile on her face going, ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Isn’t it quaint? Oh God, Greg, I love it. Don’t you, Tree?’ When I said no, Dad said I was deliberately sabotaging the holiday. Mum was telling him to shut up coz a bus load of Japanese tourists were taking a picture of us – ‘They think you’re street theatre,’ she goes – so I said he was sabotaging my holiday by taking me to shit places. He goes, ‘They’re the places your Mum likes.’ I go, ‘What about what I like? What about what our Teresa-May likes?’ And he goes, ‘One of these days you’re gonna regret saying that.’ At that point Mum burst out crying again and walked off in a huff and the Japanese people gave us a round of applause. When I bowed for them Dad cuffed me round the head, the bastard, so I came back to the motor home, but of course I didn’t have any keys so I just had to sit here for about two whole hours till they came back. Dad said nothing and unlocked the van and went in. Mum was all perky as if nothing had happened. Teresa-May was dead quiet. I feel ashamed for them, I do. I went and sat on my bed and started writing this letter, so Dad shouts, ‘Oh yer writing to your girlfriend instead of talking to us,’ so I shout back, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ and we’ve not spoken since.

  Teresa-May came and sat on my bed before and said, ‘I think there’s something wrong with Mum.’ I said, ‘Yeah she’s a big knob.’ Teresa-May goes, ‘No, Greg, you’re the knob.’ And then she flounces out. What a tit.

  Mum’s watching Acacia Avenue on the little portable and crying coz someone’s died. Someone diabetic took an overdose of chocolate bars or something. She keeps saying, ‘So young. So young.’ Like it’s a real person, the big meff.

  I’m off out now to find a post box. Fuck ’em.

  Pity me, Gxx

  I was starting to hate this Teresa-May. I fashioned a doll of her from one of my old Barbies and stuck pins in it. Our Joey called me a loopy bitch.

  Letter number seven:

  Hi Jodie,

  Today wasn’t so bad actually. We are in Stratford Upon Avon, so called because it is a place called Stratford, and it is on a river called River Avon. See? You learn something new every day with me. Stratford is where William Shakespeare hung out. There’s pictures of him everywhere. At first the whole place bored the liver out of me – we had a look round this cottage where his Mrs lived, with Mum practically having an orgasm over every room we went in. Teresa-May showed us all up by asking the security person if she could smoke. They asked her to leave and she punched the air as she did. But then we went and looked at the theatres and that was OK coz I kept imagining coming back to see you in a play here. Acting ’an all that.

  We had a guided tour and they showed us the dressing rooms and the stages and backstage and everything. Mum kept going to the tour guide, ‘Gregory’s girlfriends going to be an actress,’ and I was blushing. ‘Well, maybe one day she will perform in something here,’ the tour guide said. But my dad goe
s, ‘I doubt it. She lives on a council estate in Liverpool. Hardly Kate frigging Winslet is she?’

  I’m only telling you that coz I want you to hate him as much as me. Sorry. He’s an arlarse. Mum kept giving him evils for ages afterwards. Teresa-May did, too, and she doesn’t even know you.

  Anyway, the tour guide went, ‘Some of our finest actors and actresses are from council estates.’ And that told him. Though Dad did keep mouthing ‘Who? Who?’ behind the guide’s back like a prick.

  Yes I do know ‘Heartbeat’ by Steps, Teresa-May has it on her Walkman all the time. I don’t think I have a favourite one, but as you’re demanding to know I reckon Faye. She looks like a bit of a laugh. Though Teresa-May says H makes her fanny beat. Dirty bitch. Fortunately she never said it in front of Mum and Dad or they’d’ve ragged her. I was quite shocked when she said it, but then I think she likes to do that. (Shock I mean, not beat her fanny – mind you, I don’t know. Let’s just say when the caravan’s rocking don’t come knocking.)

  We got through the whole of today without Mum crying, so that’s an improvement. But you’re right, I guess it could be the menopause, I don’t really know what that involves. If it makes you moody and emotional I think our Teresa-May’s got it as well. I can’t believe she said that about H. I just wish I could grass her up about it (even though you hate grasses), but she’s been clever, she knows I’d never mention fannies, or her fanny specially, to Mum.