See what I mean about the bitchiness?
The bar was called Chill Zone and by the time we got there, we’d passed enough “individuals” to make me realize that my outfit was a huge mistake.
“Why didn’t you say?” I complained to James. “I feel so out of place.”
“We were running late as it was. Besides, it’s not like you could have gone home, changed and made it better. You don’t have anything—” He stopped himself.
“Anything what?” I pressed.
“Anything ‘Shoreditch’ anyway.”
No. Nothing “Sho–ooreditch”. Not like Rainbow, the girl in charge of the guestlist, who was wearing enormous fake eyelashes, a Sixties-style mini dress and a white fur cape. If we’d been anywhere else, I would have thought she was in fancy dress. Austin Powers’ assistant maybe?
“What a fabulous outfit, dahling,” James told her, over-pronouncing his words like he was talking to a nan who’s hard of hearing.
“Thanks,” Rainbow replied. “It’s vintage.”
I just about managed to stop myself from pointing out, “What you REALLY mean is second-hand.”
Inside, Chill Zone was packed with Shoreditch types rocking the Shoreditch look, and Rupert was no exception. He was wearing green skinny jeans, a checked shirt, purple Dr. Martens and exactly the same leather jacket that James had on.
“Hello dahling,” he said to James. Then he frowned at me as though I were some kind of alien species – a “big-haired sequin” maybe? – before pecking James on both cheeks. Mwah, mwah.
“This is Rupert,” James announced with a big grin. “And you’re going to get us into Villa House – aren’t you, Rupert?”
“If you play your cards right,” Rupert flirted back.
“And this is Remy. You know, the friend I told you I used to go to college with.”
Rupert gave me a David Attenborough look again – like he was thinking, Is she even from this planet?
“Did James do your hair?” he asked when he’d finished his inspection.
“No. No, she did it herself,” James quickly cut in.
Rupert’s nose creased like a dog had laid one on his top lip. “Thought as much,” he said, then walked off.
Didn’t want it to bother me, but five minutes later I went to the toilet and patted my hair down – at least then it was only ten centimetres bigger than everyone else’s. Couldn’t find James when I came back. He’d gone off to the toilets with Rupert and they both came back with saucepan-sized pupils, giggling. *roll eyes*
Thankfully, Rupert kept his distance after that. He was Mr Popular, flitting between different groups. James stayed with me, in body anyway, but his eyes always followed Rupert everywhere. It got on my nerves at first – made me wonder whether he regretted bringing me. But it’s surprising how little things matter after a few mojitos (definitely my new favourite drink)! And I can handle it as well. Only feel a teensy-weensy bit tipsy and I must have had at least six of them.
Sunday 22 February – 9.25 a.m.
Ughhhh! My head! And why am I lying in bed fully clothed, with a face full of make-up? What a skank!
9.30 a.m.
Need aspirin, paracetamol, tranquillizers, ibuprofen, ANYTHING. Kitchen cupboard – BE PREPARED.
9.35 a.m.
“Gordon Bennet, looks like someone had a good night, buddy,” Alan joked when I staggered into the kitchen. All those years in Australia means that he constantly slips from an Aussie to a Cockney accent in one sentence. It makes me smile but only on the inside – no way am I going to let him see the corners of my mouth turned up.
“Fancy some bacon and eggs?” he asked.
Boy, would I have killed for some bacon and eggs.
“No thanks,” I groaned because my loyalty remains with Dad. (Just wish Alan would stop trying to be so flipping nice.)
Right, downed two Nurofen, now clothes off and back to bed. Yippee!
10 a.m.
Methinks the bloke that came up with ibuprofen should be knighted. Headache is completely gone. Yay!
Only problem is, I’m wide a-blooming-wake now. Boo!
Aha! Brought the sales ledger home from the salon. Will get the maths out of the way and add up the weekly takings. (Worst part of the job.)
10.30 a.m.
I’m on a timeout. When God handed out the maths brains, methinks I was hibernating. It’s beyond hard – even with a calculator. Just going to check my Facebook page for a second and chill out. Fifteen/twenty minutes tops.
10.45 a.m.
I wonder what Stephen’s up to? I wonder whether he’s wondering about me? Hope so.
Would be great if he was lying in bed thinking, Remy’s so–oo awesome.
Thing about Stephen is, he stimulates me in every department. Spencer was a great friend-type boyfriend and Robbie was a sexy one (as well as a liar and a cheat). But Stephen has all their good points and more. Can’t imagine how I’d have got through these first three weeks of running the salon without him there, insisting that my hard work would pay off eventually. Whatta dude.
Right, suppose I’d better get back to the sales ledger.
10.55 a.m.
Got distracted again, this time by a phone call from Kel.
“What’d you end up doing last night?” she asked.
“Went to a party with James.”
“Any good?”
“An epic let-down,” I said. “Have you ever gone out in Shoreditch?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t. It’s not very us. How was the film?”
“Boring. Except that I bumped into Lance Wilson and Amy ‘local bike’ Fitzgerald.”
“No way.”
“Yep. In the popcorn queue. And when she went to the toilet, he asked how you and Malibu were doing.”
“You didn’t tell him she was pregnant, did you?”
“Nah. I just told him you’re both fine and that your salon’s smashing it. He looked hot though – if you like that kind of thing. Which I don’t of course.”
Kellie’s never gone out with a blond guy. Her type is tall and dark, though she does say that she’d make an exception for Ryan Gosling.
“So, was that guy James keeps going on about there?”
“Who, Rupert?”
“Yeah. What’s he like?”
“We need a whole day to talk about him. And I need to get on with the sales ledger.”
“Cool. Catch you later then,” she said.
11.05 a.m.
Still haven’t gone back to the ledger. Kellie asking about Rupert made me call James instead. Didn’t want to give her the full deets until I’d had it out with him. He was a naughty boy last night, and I’ve been giving him some time to sleep it off. When he answered the phone, he sounded worse than I’d felt this morning.
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“Eleven.”
“Call me back in about two hours.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not stupid, James. I know you took drugs when you went to the toilets last night,” I snapped.
“So?”
“So, I want to talk about it.”
“Oh, here we go,” he groaned. “A lecture from Little Miss Perfect.”
“Whatever. But you’re the one who said you’d never do drugs after Lucy Parker almost died.”
“That was ecstasy. I took pure MDMA. Rupert says that’s much safer.”
“Oh, it’s OK now Rupert says so, is it? Even though you made me swear not to take anything. We both did.”
“We were kids then.”
“It was ten months ago.”
“Yes, well four months ago you were blubbing on my shoulder, swearing that you’d never go near another footballer. Now look at you. Still sure you’re not a gold-digger?”
Couldn’t believe he could say something that spiteful.
“I expect that from those bitches at Netherf
ield Park. Not you, James.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I did ask you to call me back in two hours. I’ll be more myself then.”
“Well, let’s hope so cos, for the record, Rupert – or whatever it was you took – has turned you into a right twot.”
11.40 a.m.
I’m www.starving.com so I was gutted to see Mum finishing the last bit of bacon when I walked into the kitchen.
“Sorry, dear. Alan said you didn’t want any. Didn’t you, my loverly man?” She planted a big kiss on his mouth. Eww!
“Fine. I’ll just starve then,” I told her and came back to my room.
Those two do my head in. When I get old, I wouldn’t mind being as loved-up with Stephen as they are, but I’ll definitely make sure we don’t overdo it and gross out our children.
Actually called him a few minutes ago to wish him good luck with his game.
“Hi gorgeous, was just thinking about you. Are you psychic?” he asked when he answered.
“Hopefully. And today, I predict that Stephen Campbell will score loads of goals.”
“Do yer now? That would be good, but it’d be even better if you were here to see me score them.”
“If only,” I told him, and a part of me wished I’d been brave enough to face Robbie. “What did you do last night?”
“Nothing much. Played a bit of poker with Tommy and Darren.”
“Did you win?”
“Let’s just say they were relieved when I handed all their money back at the end of the night.”
“Ahh. You’re all heart.”
“Aye. That’s my trouble.”
Defender Tommy Roberts and goalkeeper Darren Hargreaves have gone out of their way to be friendly to Stephen. The others in the squad have kept their distance. And Terry Dawson hasn’t said one single word to him. (Kind of understandable, seeing as he’s Robbie’s best mate.)
Intended to get back to the sales ledger straight after our chat but my brain took a teensy-weensy detour and I’ve been trying to work out what to call our kids ever since. Ideally, we’ll have a boy and a girl, and I reckon Stephen would love them to have traditional Scottish names, so I’ve Googled some. Can’t decide. It’s between Ewan and Dougie for our son, and Kirsty and Effie for our daughter.
Eek! Phone’s ringing.
11.45 a.m.
It was Malibu.
“Are you on the way to Newcastle?”
“Er… No.”
She let out a long and deliberate sigh.
“What?” I said. “His best friend wanted to take his little sister. What was I supposed to do – crush a little girl’s dream?”
“You’re a wuss.”
“I am not a wuss. I am a very considerate person that sacrificed my seat.”
“Crap. You were scared.”
“No, I wasn’t. Well … OK. I admit there might have been a very tiny percentage of me that was slightly nervous about seeing Robbie. But the bigger percentage – the good part – was… You’re right. I’m a wimp.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not bad. Only slightly disappointed.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said and invited me to her house for lunch. “Dad’s going to come as well. He’ll pick you up. And that way we can all watch the Netherfield Park game together.”
“Who’s cooking?” I asked.
“Me of course.”
“You?!” Couldn’t believe this was the same Malibu Bennet who’d once burnt boiled eggs.
“I’m doing roast chicken, Jamaican-style – with rice and peas. Gary’s mum gave me the recipe. She’s coming round to taste it, and I could really do with you backing me up.”
I still remember the yummy meal Mrs Johnson cooked for Christmas, and I don’t think Malibu will be able to recreate it any time soon. But if she wanted me to back her up – I was going to be there.
Note to self: Must put some indigestion tablets in my bag (just in case).
8 p.m.
Malibu opened her front door and prompted that awkward moment when you realize your heavily pregnant sister still looks better than you: hair – fluffy; face – glowing; and dressed in a floaty chiffon number. I’d thrown on some leggings, a baggy black jumper and my chocolate brown Uggs, and was minus make-up because Dad texted that he was at the top of our road just as I was about to put some on – it’s the closest he’ll come to the house now that Alan lives with us. Anyhoo, the rest of the day went downhill from there.
Goldenballs, his mum and his sister, Rochelle, were already in the dining room.
“Sit yourselves down,” Malibu said, before adding in a posh Uptown Downstairs Abbey voice, “And lunch will be served.”
“Need any help?” asked Mrs Johnson.
“It’s OK, Mum – that’s what Gary’s for.”
It was the first time I’d heard her call Mrs Johnson “Mum”.
“Yeah, I’m her servant,” Gary joked.
“No, babe, don’t demean yourself. More my … assistant.” He looked at her and laughed and Malibu’s eyes twinkled back as if they were talking in code. “But you can chill out today, honey,” she said. “I’ll get Remy to help with the salad.”
“Me?!” I said. “Don’t you want it to be edible?”
“So how’s it going with Stephen?” she asked as I diced some spring onions.
“Great,” I gushed.
“Is it love?”
Why did she have to bring up the “L” word? I’ve been avoiding saying it to everybody – including him. Don’t want to jinx things by making the same mistakes I made with Robbie – rushing headlong into thinking I’m with “The One”, only to end up with a broken heart. But when you’re choosing the names of the children you plan to have with somebody, I suppose it can only mean one thing.
“Yeah. I love him,” I admitted. “He’s amazing.”
“But does he love you? Because that’s the most important thing,” she said, and immediately made me regret opening up to her.
“Why can’t you just let things be? There doesn’t always have to be some sort of payback, you know.”
“You’ll learn,” she sighed.
Surprisingly, lunch tasted … OK. Not actually poisonous but it was never going to win MasterChef either. The M&S apple pie for dessert was the highlight, and Mrs Johnson stood up to make a speech just as Gary was about to cut it. I crossed my fingers, hoping that it wouldn’t take as long … as … last … Christ–mas.
“I would just like to say that … Malibu, we are so glad Gary met you. We have certainly … never seen him so happy. We … cannot wait for the wedding but … you are already my daughter as far as I am concerned so … please phone me if you need any help wit’ anyt’ing. Especially … once my grandchild is born.”
I was first to clap (relief from how short the speech was, methinks) and everyone else joined in as Mrs Johnson slowly took her seat again. Once the clapping was over, Dad raised his wine glass for a toast: “To the baby,” he said. And within seconds, all our glasses were raised and we were chanting, “To the baby!”
Malibu was crying by the time she’d put down her glass.
“You all right, babe?” Gary asked.
“Yes… I’m just so happy,” she said.
Dear God, I thought, please, please, please let Gary be the father of her child.
Once we’d cleared the plates after dessert, we all sat in the lounge to watch Stephen’s match. Malibu told Rochelle and Mrs Johnson that we were excited because my boyfriend plays for Netherfield Park.
“You nervous?” Rochelle asked, as the referee blew his whistle for kick-off.
“Nah. Got a really good feeling about today!”
Couldn’t have been more wrong.
I may know nothing about football but when the half-time whistle went, even I realized Dad was right when he said Stephen looked “a bit off the pace”. And that was putting it nicely because it looked like it would take a miracle for him to score one goal, let alone the �
�loads” I’d predicted.
“It’s only nil–nil. All to play for,” Goldenballs said to me as a consolation. But Stephen kept on losing the ball at the start of the second half and, to make it worse, he was substituted by Robbie in the sixty-third minute. I hadn’t expected Gary to stop being friends with Robbie because of our break-up, but it was gutting to hear him clap Robbie on. Malibu, sitting beside him on the sofa, swiftly gave his ribs a sharp dig with her elbow. The applause stopped dead. But I was already cringing. I knew the Netherfield Park WAGs would be having a right old gossip: “Remy’s new boyfriend substituted by Remy’s ex – oh–hhh my–yyy God!!!” Stupid cows.
“Don’t worry,” said Dad as Stephen trudged off the pitch. “St James’s Park is a hard place to crack.”
But I was worried. Some players go into mourning after a bad game. They really beat themselves up and need support from family, friends and loved ones. And there I was, hundreds of miles away at my sister’s house. Can’t tell you how pissed off with myself that made me. Why, oh why hadn’t I gone to Newcastle?
Then, as if the universe wanted me and Stephen to suffer even more, Robbie went on to score in the ninetieth minute, making it Netherfield Park: 1, Newcastle: 0.
It was obviously the winning goal and Robbie ran up to the TV camera and shouted, “I’m the man!” down the lens.
God had clearly run out of modesty by the time he got to Robbie Wilkins.
Anyhoo, no way was I going to let the arrogant twot-face get to me. Even though the sports presenter said he’d be speaking to Robbie and the Man of the Match – Robbie’s best friend Terry Dawson – I thought, Fine. I can do this. I will sit, all dignified, while the biggest pair of a-holes this side of the equator gloat about their success on national TV. And I made a proper good go of it too, until the presenter asked Robbie how he’d felt about starting on the bench.
“Well, obviously I wasn’t happy about it.”
“Stephen Campbell didn’t have a good game today, did he?” continued the presenter. “Do you think the manager should have picked you to start instead?”
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 2