‘I kept asking you coz you say I never take an interest in all your plans for how you look an’ all that.’
‘I’m so embarrassed. I can never look your family in the eye again.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I ruined your night.’
‘You never.’
‘I ruined my night. Actually scrap that, I ruined my LIFE.’
And he started to chuckle.
‘God, drama queen Jodie!’
‘Everyone thought I was pissed. I’m not. Well, I’m a little bit titsy.’
‘Tipsy.’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘Well, you did put your coat on back to front.’
‘Two words, Greg. Celine Dion!’
‘Jodie, can we go back in? It’s freezing out here. And Hayls is practically going down on my cousin.’
‘In the wheelie?’
Greg nodded.
‘I can’t go back in looking like this, Greg. I look like I’ve been shooting a pervy mud-wrestling video.’
‘I’ll lend you me dungarees.’
‘I’d rather go home.’
He brushed some hair out of my face. I think it was mine.
‘Jodie, I do want to marry you. But when I propose to you, it’s not gonna be in front of a room full of people I either half know or can’t stand. D’you know what I’m saying?’
I nodded. I kind of did. It didn’t lessen the embarrassment, but it did lessen the pain.
‘Coz when I propose to you, it’s just gonna be . . .’ He looked around, like he was searching for the words. He smiled, then looked back at me smugly. ‘. . . in front of a sky full of stars.’
He raised his eyes and I followed them. There was a small smattering of stars now. The moon was paler and clouds wrapped round it like cotton wool. I felt Greg slump to the floor. I panicked.
‘Jeez, Greg, you all right?’
He looked up at me and nodded.
‘I just want it to be intimate. You. Me. And a shitload of stars. Jodie Paula McGee?’
‘What?’
‘Will you, like, marry me and that?’
Oh God. Oh God. He had actually said it. He had actually proposed. The outfit and outburst were worth it! Again, I felt faint and my knees buckled underneath me. I slumped down to meet him, my classy white jacket rubbing against his vile lezzie dungarees. I threw my arms round him.
‘Oh God, Greg, I love you so much!’
I was squeezing him so hard I was actually hurting him. He wriggled free and looked at me.
‘You never answered the question.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I will.’
He hugged me and whispered, ‘Not too hard, yeah?’
I nodded and hugged him back gently. He then pulled away, realizing something.
‘I haven’t got you a ring.’
‘S’OK. Haven’t got you one, either.’
‘No, I’m the bloke. The bloke always has to get the bird a ring.’
‘Tweet tweet to you an’all, knob.’ I hated being called a bird. Hayls reckoned it made me a feminist.
‘Hang on.’ He went into the front pocket of his dungarees and pulled out a bunch of keys. He spent a minute or so prising the keys off the keyring, then slipped it onto the third finger of my left hand. Dangling off it was a plastic fob housing the logo Skippy Skips and their phone and fax numbers.
‘How does it feel?’
‘It’s a perfect fit.’ It was, of course, about ten times bigger than my finger. ‘And I love the logo. Everyone’s wearing Skippy Skips in Paris. You can’t move for them on the catwalks.’
‘Come ‘ed then.’ He stood and dragged me to my feet.
‘What? Where we going?’
He nodded towards the other end of the field.
‘Back to the barn. We’ve got some celebrating to do.’
We held hands and walked through the field. I didn’t care that he was wearing dungarees now. And I didn’t give two hoots that I looked like I’d taken a shower in manure. I was going to walk back into that barn with my head held high. Love was blind, love was great, and I was engaged to be bleedin’ married!
EIGHT
I lay in my bed the next morning feeling a mixture of excitement and shame. And that’s a heady mix. I’d rather have been lying in Greg’s bed, tangled up in his arms and legs, obviously, but despite me being twenty, Mum and Dad still didn’t think it was becoming for me to sleep over with him too often. And if there was any chance of getting me home then they insisted on it. I’d tried to wangle a stopover the night before, but the fact that our Joey would be getting a taxi back from the barn dance and therefore I could share with him meant it was a done deal. Sunlight was blazing in through my too-thin powder-pink curtains, and as I looked at my walls, adorned with black-and-white posters that I thought were arty and tasteful – a naked man holding a baby, Audrey Hepburn with a cigarette holder – I felt excitement that my plan was finally coming together. We were now engaged. The shame of squealing like a stuck pig in front of the gathered guests still made me go pink-faced – I could feel it – but as Hayls always said: the ends justified the means. I was just a bit worried that I’d bullied Greg into proposing. I comforted myself in my confusion by reminding myself of my wedding book, and how Greg had known about it and contributed to it. So if a wedding had always been on the cards, all I’d done was speed things up a little, I thought. No, I knew. Oh God. I wished I was more decisive.
Our Joey and I had rolled in at just after two in the morning with a bottle of fizzy wine and streamers dragging from our ankles, and I’d run upstairs, burst into Mum and Dad’s room, snapped on the lights and shouted, ‘Mama’s getting married!’ in a corny American accent. Cue groans and screwed-up eyes as Mum and Dad sat up, dazed and confused by the sudden interruption to their dreams.
‘Jesus, Jodie, what happened to you? Are you all right?’ asked Mum.
‘Have you been mugged?’ added Dad. I’d forgotten I was covered in mud.
‘No, I fell over. Shortly before Greg proposed to me!’
‘Where did you fall, love? In a frigging sewage farm?’ Dad was bewildered.
‘GOD! You just don’t get it, do you? I’m ENGAGED!’
Mum reached out to the bedside cabinet and put her reading glasses on. Maybe now she’d read the situation better she’d be thrilled. No such luck, her face fell.
‘Your coat’s on back to front. Has something happened, Jodie?’
‘It’s not a coat, it’s a jacket.’
‘It’s a blazer,’ Our Joey said. I’d not heard him slink in behind me.
‘And it’s meant to be back to front, it’s stylish.’
I could hear Our Joey tittering. That wasn’t helpful.
‘We’ll talk about this in the morning,’ Mum said sternly.
‘How was the psychic?’ asked Our Joey.
‘Shite,’ said Dad.
‘Malcolm!’
‘Well she was. Telling you your mother died in a car crash. She died on the toilet. All the way to Southport for that?’
‘There’s still no need to swear.’ Mum looked back at me and Our Joey. ‘Jodie, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Get some sleep and we’ll discuss this in the morning.’
Me and Our Joey retreated downstairs, cracked open the fizzy wine and danced round the through lounge to the soundtrack to Muriel’s Wedding. Five minutes later there was a bang on the ceiling and Dad hollered to ‘turn that shite down’, followed by Mum hollering, ‘Malcolm!’ We turned it down and, deciding the fizzy wine tasted like cat’s pee that had gone through a Soda Stream, reckoned it was time for bed.
The next morning, I woke to hear noises downstairs and decided it was time to face the music. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, yawned, decided I didn’t feel too bad considering the amount of punch I’d drunk the night before, and the tiny amount of food I’d lined my stomach with, and pulled my dressing gown on.
‘Where’s your ring?’ Mum said five minutes later over b
reakfast. I was having toast, she was having a ciggie out of the back door and we both had a cup of tea on the go.
‘He’s saving up for one,’ I said. She pulled a face.
‘What, he proposed to you and he hadn’t bought a ring?’
‘It’s the thought that counts. I’m not materialistic like that.’
‘He’s tight, you mean?’
‘No. Anyway, it was all a bit . . . spur of the moment.’
‘D’you not think you’re a bit young, love?’
‘Why?’
‘Well . . . on account of your age.’
‘No, I mean . . . Why can’t you be happy for me? Everyone else is made up for me. So why do you have to be the moany one?’
‘Coz she’s your mother and she loves you, you dozy mare,’ said Dad, coming in with the paper he’d bought while walking the dog. He hung about Mum as she stubbed out her ciggie, shut the back door and went about finishing off a cup of tea for him. This happened every morning.
‘Your dad’s right. And we love you more than anyone else does.’
‘Except Greg,’ I countered.
‘Including Greg.’
‘Well, if you did love me that much, you’d be happy for me.’
‘I am happy for you, love. We both are. As long as you know what you’re doing.’
‘And all your mum’s saying is, you might be a bit young to go rushing into decisions like that,’ Dad chipped in. They’re good at doing that, dads: chip city.
‘I’m not rushing into anything. Five years I’ve known him.’
‘I know, love.’
‘And anyway, I’m not too young. I’m twenty! Most girls round here are grandmas by now.’
‘I know, love,’ concurred Mum. Dad rolled up his paper, then she handed him his tea. This meant he was about to go and spend about half an hour on the toilet. If any of us needed a wee in the meantime, we had to go in the back garden. Mum came and sat at the kitchen table with me.
‘Don’t pick my nice lino tablecloth, love.’
So I stopped. I looked at her face. She was smiling, but it was a sad smile. Eskimos might have a million different words for snow, but my Mum had a million different smiles, and this was the sort that made my heart sink.
‘I don’t see what your problem with Greg is.’
‘Jodie, I don’t have a problem with Greg. He’s a nice boy, he’s got manners and he’s going places. I just . . . worry about you.’
‘Well don’t.’
‘Well I do.’
‘Well don’t. At least he’s not some smack-head or wife-beater or mass murderer. I’d understand why you were banging on if he was.’
‘Jodie, I know you think marriage is the be all and end all, but it’s not.’
‘Well you’re happy, aren’t you?’
She hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘You don’t sound so sure. If you’re not happy with your relationship then don’t take it out on me.’
She narrowed her eyes, which was commonly known as ‘giving me a look’. It usually meant I was on rocky ground, and clearly in this case I was. Her smile had gone now, but the lines around her mouth remained in place. Years of smoking had caught up with her and she would always have three little dents on either side of her mouth. Dad said they made her beautiful. He reckoned they looked like footsteps left by tiny sparrows. Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder.
‘It just seems like, since you left school, all you’ve been bothered about is Greg.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. But what do you want from life, Jodie?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It’s different for girls your age now. You don’t have to just settle for marriage to make you happy. You can do whatever you want with your life.’
‘That’s what I’m doing. I’m marrying the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.’
‘Doing what? His cooking and cleaning? Raising his kids? Is that what women burned their bras for?’
I couldn’t believe she was saying this. It’s hardly like she was on the frontline at Greenham.
‘I don’t know why you’re so down on marriage all of a sudden.’
‘I’m not. It’s just you’re twenty years of age. I don’t want you to give up on all your dreams just coz of some fella.’
‘My dream is being with Greg. My dream’s coming true. You should be happy for me.’
She started playing with the sugar bowl, grinding the granules with a teaspoon. She was clearly leading up to something. I chewed on my toast and waited.
‘You . . . you used to wanna be an actress. On Acacia Avenue.’
‘Yeah, well I had my chance and I blew it.’
‘That was years ago, Jodie!’
‘So?’
‘So are you really the sort of person who gives up at the first sign of failure?’
‘Oh, so I’m a failure now, am I?’
‘I didn’t say that. It’s just you’re good at it, Jodie. Everyone says. Mrs Mendelson used to sing your praises. You’ve got a gift.’
‘There’s loads of actresses out there. I’d never make it.’
Mum shook her head. Her dyed blonde hair fell across her face and she scraped it out of the way. She looked less like Princess Di these days. Princess Di never had inch-long roots.
‘Look, if you want to get married to Greg then fine. I just want you to think long and hard about what you want from life.’
‘I have.’
‘Have you?’ She, of course, didn’t look so sure.
‘Yeah.’
‘Right. Well then, that’s OK.’
Then she smiled again, and to any casual onlooker it would have looked like she’d given in and everything was fine, but I knew it was forced, though it didn’t make me any less grateful for it. Maybe now she’d stop giving me a hard time.
I could hear Our Joey in the living room. He flicked the telly on and suddenly the Welsh burr of Bronwen from Brunch With Bronwen played as a backdrop to my none-too-comfortable tête à tête with Mum. If I’d thought it was over I was wrong. Our Joey’s close proximity seemed to kick start another angle of attack for Mum.
‘Our Joey knows what he wants from life.’
‘Bully for him.’
‘He wants to be a DJ.’
‘I know.’ I felt like adding, in the gay clubs, but there was no point dobbing him in now.
‘He’s really focused about it. Buying all the latest records, making tapes, saving up for new decks.’
‘I know.’
‘He’s not taking his eye off the prize. He’s not even allowed himself a girlfriend.’
I looked into the living room and saw Our Joey staring at me with a look of alarm. I looked back at Mum.
‘I know. He’s such a martyr.’
‘No, Jodie. He’s got his priorities right. There’s no need to be sarcastic.’
‘Well maybe he can DJ at the wedding.’
‘He knows. Career first, girls later.’
I felt like saying, ‘Yeah, much later, like, after he’s dead.’ But I didn’t. Our Joey ambled into the kitchen, clearly wanting to change the course of the conversation, but covering it with a pretence of nosiness.
‘What yous two jangling about?’
‘What do you think about me getting married?’ I said to Our Joey accusatorily, convinced he’d back me up. After all, he’d danced round the through lounge with me to ‘Sugar Baby Love’ in celebration, hadn’t he?
‘None o’ my business,’ he replied, and he scratched his bum and yawned as he flicked the kettle on. His words were like a dagger through the heart. After everything I’d done for him – covering for him, lying for him to Mum and Dad – it really hurt. Why the sudden change of heart?
‘What’s the matter, Joey?’ I said. ‘Got splinters in your arse from sitting on the fence?’
‘Jodie!’ Mum was aghast.
‘People say arse, Mother, whether you lik
e it or not.’
‘And is that what Greg’s attracted to, is it? Your sewer of a mouth?’
‘Clearly! I mean, he couldn’t possibly think I was pretty, or funny, or a nice person. He’s just marrying me coz I know a few dirty words.’
‘Very defensive all of a sudden . . .’
‘It’s human nature, Mum. Especially when you’re under attack.’
I did my best impersonation of a flounce into the living room and stared at Brunch With Bronwen. In the kitchen I heard Our Joey sucking up to Mum.
‘Mum? D’you want me to sort out your roots tonight?’
‘Oh, would you, Angel?’
Well that was it then. He was obviously an angel, and I was the devil incarnate. At the other end of the bungalow I heard the toilet flush and the hiss of air freshener. I took myself off to my bedroom and began doodling in my wedding planning book.
I couldn’t shake off the feeling that me and Our Joey were growing apart. On one level I guessed it was inevitable. We’d grown up cocooned in Sandalan with each other for company, us two against the world. We’d played together, dreamed together, put on dance displays in our through lounge together, charging ten pence admission to our parents and claiming the money was going to charity – T.P.O.J.A.J., we said, ‘the pockets of Jodie and Joey’ – but we weren’t kids any more, and as we got older our relationship began to consist of snatched time in the evenings, gossiping about what we’d got up to and who with. Admittedly, most of this was what I’d got up to, as Our Joey found it hard to make friends. Not that he was a social nightmare or anything, it’s just that he was a bit girly and camp, and lads his own age were suspicious of this, though he had no end of girlfriends – all platonic, of course. Then I’d left school and got my job at the supermarket with Debs and Hayls, who were my best mates from school. I felt a bit sorry for Our Joey during the two years he’d had at school without me there. He didn’t have that many allies, but he seemed to cope OK, possibly because he’d started going out on the gay scene in Liverpool a few nights a week. At least it made our catch-up sessions a bit more interesting and scandalous when we did see each other, with his tales of topless men, drag queens and amyl nitrate. But then when he’d left school at sixteen with a clutch of GCSEs he’d started working for Greg’s dad’s company and we naturally ended up spending more time together again, as he was in my ‘in-laws’ orbit, too. Every time I popped round to Greg’s house, Our Joey was beavering away in the barn they’d converted into an office, wearing a headset phone, typing really fast and drinking tea from a mug that said, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps’. He claimed it was ironic. He seemed to fit in perfectly and Greg’s dad thought the world of him because he was keen, polite with the customers on the phone and kept the office immaculate. The only time they had a disagreement, as far as I’m aware, was when Our Joey changed the music on the phone’s call-waiting system from ‘Greensleeves’ to ‘Believe’ by Cher (‘Coz I love what she does with her voice on it’). Our Joey really couldn’t see what the issue was. I must say, that did tickle me.
All She Wants Page 11