by Emlyn Rees
There’s a moment of silence. I can feel the morning breeze on my bum as I lie prostrate on the matted rug, my ancient RELAX T-shirt having ridden up in the fall.
And then it happens.
There is a wobbly empty bottle sound and the undeniable reason for my current hangover from Satan rolls off the chest and hits me on the head.
I groan at the sight of the whisky bottle and slowly, horribly, the events of last night start to re-emerge through the haze of pain.
I’m going to throw up.
When I come up for air from the U-bend, I assess the damage in the bathroom cabinet mirror. It’s less than ideal.
Amy Crosbie of Flat D, Pemberton Villas, Shepherd’s Bush has disappeared. OK. Own up. Who let the warthog in the bathroom? Who was it?
How have I transformed so totally from the swishy-haired, Wonder-bra’d babe who left the house last night at 8.30 p.m. into this Grateful Dead lookalike? I clamp two palms to my head to calm the latest creation of my pillow hairdresser and stick out my tongue. It’s green.
Being an optimist, I count the good points before the bad:
1. It can’t get any worse (I have to admit that this is usually top of my good points list)
2. At least Jack didn’t stay and I’m spared the indignity of him seeing me in this state
3. ?
I can’t think of number three, because number two is top of the bad points list. I let out a croak of despair.
Jack didn’t stay.
The only decent man I’ve met for months did a runner. Scarpered back to Blokeland at the crack of dawn without so much as a goodnight kiss. And the truth is I don’t blame him. I made a complete and utter berk of myself.
This is too much of a calamity for me to be able to process all on my own. I call H, my best mate.
H: (sleepily) Hmmm?
Me: (A pause, just so that she’ll know it’s me) Blachhhhhhhh! (I inject this greeting with as much post-puking throaty misery as I can muster)
H: Blachh-blachh-blachh? Or just blachh?
Me: Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachh!
H: I’ll be right over.
I love H. She understands me.
Twenty minutes later, H is pushing her bike into the bike pile-up in my narrow communal hall. She looks sickeningly healthy having had a QNI (Quiet Night In) and probably loads of DSS (Deeply Satisfying Shagging) with Gav (latest bloke). She kisses me and declares that I stink like a brewery and my teeth are orange.
I grunt, but I’m pleased with myself because I have made it down the three flights of stairs to the front door, signifying my re-entry into the human race. This has taken some fast work.
So far I’ve swallowed three Nurofen-plus, downed two cups of black coffee each with a tablespoon of demerara sugar (dreadful, I know, but this is a crisis) and force-fed myself no fewer than four effervescent vitamin C tablets. I am now flying on four thousand per cent of the recommended daily allowance and I’m not sure, but I think I can now speak.
In the kitchen, H hoists herself on to the counter whilst I put the kettle on.
‘I take it you didn’t pull,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘What happened?’
I can tell she’s disappointed, having assumed the role of Wardrobe Mistress last night. It was on her fail-proof promise of pulling that I was cajoled into wearing my if-it-was-much-shorter-it’d-be-a-belt black dress with Wonderbra and fuck-me boots (which, incidentally, I bought as a joke with no intention of ever wearing). I’m more of a jeans and chunky trainers girl, but H said a very definite ‘no’. She even made me go round to her house before I left so that she could assess my potential. I got a wolf-whistle and a massive vodka and tonic from Gav, whilst H gave me a staggering nine out of ten (ten out of ten is reserved for my wedding day) and a gentle push into the night to wreak my feminine wiles on the divine Matt.
I know this all sounds a bit dramatic, but H knows my horrible secret. A secret which has developed into somewhat of a crisis lately. Oh God, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, but the truth is … I haven’t had sex for over six months.
I guess this technically makes me a virgin; after all, it must have sealed up by now. Whatever it makes me, it’s not normal for a healthy twenty-five-year-old girl. This naturally leads me to the conclusion that THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME.
H disagrees. She thinks it’s only a matter of time. However, even she has become increasingly desperate for me to get a boyfriend, since she’s through that all-important three-month relationship gestation period with Gav, gone on the pill and has started referring to him as her ‘partner’. This has separated us in some seemingly small but psychologically huge way. As a result, H is on a personal crusade for me to get laid in the first instance and thence ensconced into a matching H-and-Gav-style cosy relationship.
Fine by me.
It was H, not me, who got completely over excited when I mentioned that Chloe had asked me to go to Matt’s birthday party. Moreover, that Matt had specifically requested my presence, only having met me once. (An occasion on which I visibly swooned.) I think H saw the invitation as an oasis of hope in the barren desert of my single life and stupidly I allowed her enthusiasm to rub off on me.
So now here we are at the post-mortem and I feel I should justify what went wrong. Truthfully.
I start by softening the blow a bit. ‘I did sort of pull,’ I say as she chucks her Marlboro Lights over to me. I know that twenty minutes ago I made a solemn vow never, ever, to smoke again, but self-denial has never been one of my strong points. Despite the fact that my voice is two octaves lower and I feel poisoned to my core, I take one out of the pack.
‘Who, Matt?’ H asks, peeling off her top. She’s got a trendy new vest underneath.
‘No, not Matt, although he is gorgeous. No, he wasn’t interested. I think he got too pissed.’
‘Who then?’
I hand back the cigarettes and she takes one. I hold out a lit Cook’s match. ‘His flatmate.’ I light my own cigarette before squeezing the teabags out against a fork. ‘Jack.’
Even the mention of his name sends me into a shame spiral.
‘Details, please,’ says H, settling back and cupping her hands around her mug.
I talk her through the evening: the crowd at BarKing, the drinking, the flirting, the dancing, the leaving, the long walk back to my house, the endless cigarettes, the sitting close together on the floor and, eventually, THE CHAT. By that point, Jack and I seemed to have covered just about everything apart from our sex lives, slugging back the whisky and lolling by the sofa like old mates. I couldn’t imagine conversation ever running out between us, there seemed to be so much to say. We’d nearly finished the bottle by the time the hitherto avoided subject came up, at which point I was definitely the worse for wear – physically and emotionally.
‘So? Who’s the lucky bloke in your life at the moment?’ Jack had asked, filling up my whisky glass again.
I’d been playing with the candle wax, but then, staring into the flickering flame, the whisky hit me. I suddenly felt incredibly drunk and overwhelmingly sorry for myself. ‘No one,’ I whispered.
Jack touched my hand and looked into my eyes. ‘Whoops. Have I hit a raw nerve?’
‘No. Not really. Yes, I suppose. It’s just …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Self-pity overtook. I felt a fat tear plop out of my eye and splash on to my lap.
Jack pushed my hair away from my face. ‘Hey, hey. Come on, it can’t be that bad, surely?’ he soothed.
‘Oh Jack,’ I gulped, as tears, snot and mascara began to slide down my face. ‘I think there’s something wrong with me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I haven’t had sex for ages. I’m hopeless at getting blokes. I don’t think they find me attractive.’
Jack laughed softly and stroked my neck. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re very attractive.’
‘Matt doesn’t think so.’
‘Matt!’ Jack’s fingers froze in my hairline.
‘He’s a typical case. He invited me to the party and when I got there, I completely turned him off.’
Jack sat upright, looking startled. ‘You fancy Matt?’
I nodded dumbly. ‘But there’s no point, is there?’ I sniffed (ineffectually) and wiped my nose on the skirt of my dress. ‘He’s never going to sleep with me. I just have to face it. No one wants to shag me. Not even you, do you?’
I can’t bring myself to repeat any more. H and I have made it into the sitting room and now face each other at either end of the sofa. I bury my head in shame. She cups my knee reassuringly.
‘I think you’re taking this far too seriously,’ she says, giving her verdict. ‘Okay, so maybe you frightened him, but that’s not the end of the world. He was probably flattered in a strange kind of way.’
Has she not been listening? Does she not understand the new-found depths of humiliation in which I am currently diving without an aqua-lung? This is worse than the time I tried to seduce Boris, the sexy German photographer at college. Convinced of the chemistry between us and dying of lust, I appeared late one night in black lacy underwear, rubbing my calf along the doorpost of his room. I was halfway to his bed, giving him my best sexy pout and sliding my bra strap down my arm, when he put down his magazine and told me he was gay.
The Jack situation is definitely worse.
‘H!’ I wail. ‘He was not flattered.’
‘He was probably worried about not being able to … you know … do it.’
‘He was showing plenty of signs before I mentioned I’d gone to the party to seduce Matt,’ I snap.
‘So why did you tell him then?’ H asks.
Good point.
I get up and start pacing – well, shuffling across the square foot of clear carpet by the window. ‘I don’t know. I was drunk and maudlin and it just sort of popped out.’ I fold my arms. ‘The thing is, I like him,’ I muse. ‘He was the first bloke for ages that I could talk to. And he was a good dancer. And he’s cute. We had such a laugh until …’ I clasp my head in my hands. ‘Oh God, I’m such a klutz.’
H ignores this. ‘I bet he’s going to call you.’
‘He can’t. He left without taking my number.’
‘But he knows where you live. There’s directory enquiries.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Listen. You drank a bottle of whisky between you. So you said a few things. So what? There’s nothing wrong with showing a bit of vulnerability.’
Vulnerable is one thing. Vulnerable is OK as long as you stick to harmless revelations like taking your teddy bear to bed occasionally, or admitting that Top Gun is still one of your favourite movies. Telling someone you’ve just met (and that you really fancy) that you’re the most desperate, needy, sex-starved woman on the planet is quite another.
‘You’re absolutely mad if you think he’s going to call. He won’t. I know he won’t,’ I sulk.
At that moment, the phone rings.
We both stare at it and H raises her eyebrows in an ‘Oh yeah?’ sort of way.
‘What do I say?’ I panic.
‘I don’t know, just answer it!’
Not only have I revealed that, in my hungover state, I suspect that H could be right and there is a God after all, but I have procrastinated too long. Just as I pick up the phone, the answer machine clicks in. There’s a squawking, wailing cacophony from this mechanical error before the line goes dead. I look at the receiver disbelievingly before rapping it on my forehead.
‘Ring 1471,’ says H enthusiastically, sitting up and crossing her legs.
I dial.
‘Sorry, we do not have the caller’s number. Sorry, we do not …’
I slam down the phone. ‘Shit!’
We stay in silent analysis for a while.
‘I bet it was him,’ says H, hugging her cushion.
I know she’s wrong, but I’ve got to cover things from every angle. ‘Okay, supposing just for a moment – just for a moment, mind you – that hypothetically that was him. How do I explain that I’ve made a mistake and I don’t fancy Matt at all, but I want him?’
‘He’ll call back, and when he does, don’t mention last night. Be bright and breezy. Say you’ve had a drunken memory loss and you don’t remember him leaving.’
‘Yeah right!’
‘I don’t care what you say. He’s rung, so he’s keen. Proof that five minutes of rubbish behaviour doesn’t cancel out eight hours of top girl impressiveness.’
H is making me feel better. This is why she’s employed as my best mate.
I admit, cautiously, that there’s hope. That Jack cares enough to call, that I deserve his call and furthermore that when (not if) he does call again, I will be cool.
KULE: Kule.
Five minutes later the phone rings again. H crosses both sets of index fingers for me and I roll my eyes at her. Even so, I know I’m putting on my best sexy voice when I pick up and casually purr, ‘Hi.’
‘Darling is that you? Thank God you’ve got that awful answering machine off.’
It’s my mother. My fragile hot air balloon of hope explodes.
H reaches out and sympathetically squeezes my arm as I shake my head. I hold out the phone so that she can hear the familiar maternal prattle. I’m in such a state of anti-climax that I don’t realise until it’s too late that I’ve agreed to go shopping. I hang up and rub my temples.
‘What are you doing today?’ I ask.
H gives me a look. ‘Not going shopping with your mother, if that’s what you mean.’
I clasp my hands in a humble prayer position. ‘Please? Pretty please? I can’t do it on my own.’
‘You’ll have to. And anyway, it’ll take your mind off things.’
It doesn’t take my mind off things. The whole world has turned into reminders of Jack. Barking is the place from which my mother is zooming towards me at the moment. Barking … BarKing – where we met. See! And then there’s a poster at Notting Hill Gate with Leonard Rossiter on it. Rossiter – Rossiter. I can’t escape.
Between Shepherd’s Bush and Lancaster Gate I have admitted to myself all may not be lost with Jack. Between Lancaster Gate and Marble Arch I have convinced myself that Jack has a heart, and simply will not be able to forget what a great time we had together before I mentioned Matt. Between Marble Arch and Bond Street, I know with great clarity that we are fated to be together. Between Bond Street and Oxford Street, I admit that the reason for this is that Jack could well be my perfect man.
I mean, just look at the vital statistics. Good height (six footish), big eyes like pools of melted Dairy Milk, great sense of humour, cute scar on his eyebrow where Matt shot him (poor babe). Groovy clothes – definitely a Paul Smith T-shirt, so obviously rich. Lives in a converted pub – converted pub – how cool is that? (And with a garden big enough for lazy summer barbecues.) And the best bit? He’s an artist. A real-life bona fide creative success story.
WOW.
I’m vaguely aware that I’m mooning round the tube platform like a sad cow, but my brain is otherwise occupied and I’m starting to talk out loud. Jack and I have everything in common. OK, so I lied about my job (but being a temp isn’t exactly impressive), but I did do Art History A-level, so in theory I could have worked at Sotheby’s. But apart from that, we both like Indian take-aways and we’ve both experienced relationships lasting over two years. I mean, perfect match.
He told me about Zoe, his ex, but I didn’t really let on about Andy, my last boyfriend. I told him the good bits – that Andy was older than me (thirty), a very wealthy money markets trader and that we lived together for a while in a penthouse apartment in Islington. Of course, I neglected to mention that Andy was the biggest control freak, passive-aggressive, tight-fisted bastard on page forty-nine of the A-Z and that our relationship was an utter disaster. This was because Andy and I only had one thing in common: we were both in love with him.
&nbs
p; A pattern of behaviour, I have sworn to H, I will never repeat. And I won’t with Jack, because Jack is Different. As I climb the stairs two at a time and lurch out on to Oxford Street, my heart is thumping happily. Could this be the first flutter of love already?
Mum is waiting for me in the Dickens & Jones coffee shop (it’s a tradition thing). She’s already bought me a bath bun and a tin pot of tea and I can’t suppress my disappointment. I’ve been harbouring hungover fantasies of a gallon of Coke and a bacon butty. I guess this’ll have to do.
‘Now have you sorted out the flat?’ she asks, as I melt into the plastic seat.
‘Um, er, well, nearly.’
This is a lie. I moved in four weeks ago and I’ve yet to unpack properly.
Mum roots through her shopping bag and pulls out a spiral-bound pad. ‘I’ve made a list of things you need. I thought we’d get a few bits and pieces.’
This is a very kind offer, but I’m so not in the mood. Mum’s list of flat improvement bits and pieces will include things like a pink fur toilet seat cover and matching bowl surround.
‘I’ve got everything. Honestly,’ I say brightly. ‘All ship-shape. It’s really very homely.’
She looks disappointed and puts the pad down on the Formica table. ‘Oh well then, let’s get you something nice to wear. You’re not going to attract anyone nice if you insist on slouching around in those clothes.’
Ha, that’s rich! It’s not as if she’s a fashion icon herself. After all, she’s wearing one of those all-purpose T-shirts that triples up as a beach bag and evening top and headdress depending on which way you twist it. She gave me one for Christmas last year and is mortified when I tell her it got lost in the move. After a while, I can’t stall her any longer. We hit the shops.
Three hours and twenty minutes later we’ve made it as far as Marks and Sparks and tempers are fraying. I am rapidly metamorphosing into the petulant fourteen-year-old of days gone by.
‘No, I don’t want a green satin-effect body blouse, I wear T-shirts to work. No, no, Mum, Mum, put that velour dressing gown back, it’s summer, it’s too hot.’