Maybe the local bike came into the salon and I slipped up about the baby for a reason. Now she can finally talk to Lance about it. That should relieve some pressure: trying to hide the truth from him as well as Gary must have been a massive strain. Yes, I’ve done a good thing.
Reckon that’s her phoning now.
7.40 p.m.
OK, was deluding myself.
“You told Amy!” Malibu shrieked down the phone.
“I’m sorry, Mal, it was an accident,” I replied, mortified.
“Well, despite your antics, I’ve made it clear that my due date is 20 April, so Lance couldn’t possibly be the father.”
“But it isn’t though. It’s the second.”
“So what?”
“So, suppose he is the father?”
“I’ve decided that he isn’t.”
Now, I’ve heard people can get a bit forgetful when they’re pregnant. But there’s pregnancy brain-fog and then there’s a land, in the clouds, full of cuckoos.
“Malibu, I’m not being funny but it’s not something you can decide,” I told her.
“Yes, I can. I was confused before, but now I know I want to be with Gary, and that’s all that matters.”
“Well, that’s great but the fact is—” I stopped and took a deep breath so I could calmly break something to her that should have been obvious. “The fact is that Lance is white. And Gary is black.”
“So?” she replied, still on her own planet.
“So, Gary will be able to tell if the baby isn’t his, won’t he?” I snapped.
And that’s when Malibu went ballistic. Said I was jealous and trying to “sabotage her happiness”.
“Don’t call me EVER AGAIN,” she shouted.
“Hooray,” I replied, and cut the call.
Going to hold her to that too.
Ugh! My phone’s ringing. Bet that’s her again.
7.45 p.m.
“What d’you want now?” I yelled down the phone.
“Remy? You OK?”
I pulled my mobile away from my ear and checked the number on the screen. Oops. It was Stephen hearing me scream like a banshee. *died*
“Sorry, baby, I had a massive row with Malibu and she—”
“Before you say any more,” he cut in, “you’re on loudspeaker and my friend Angus is in the car.”
“Angus? From Glasgow?” I asked.
“Aye. That would be me,” replied one of the deepest voices I’ve ever heard.
Gr–rreat. His best friend has also heard me howling like a banshee. To make up for it, I switched to CBeebies presenter mode – all bubbly and fun, fun, fun. “Hey–yyy. Hello Angus. I’m not usually that moody – honest.”
“Well, I was starting to wonder,” he boomed.
“Just picked him up from the station,” said Stephen. “Thought we’d all get something to eat, if that’s OK with you, gorgeous?”
“Yeah. Gr–rreat! Can’t wait to meet you, Angus.” *sigh*
11 p.m.
Spoke to Angus. Met Angus. Hate Angus. Simples.
OK, maybe hate’s a bit strong. I don’t want him to die or anything, but could do with him jogging on back to Glasgow ASAP. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen – he’s booked a room in Stephen’s hotel and he’s staying for a week. He’s only come to watch a Kings of Leon concert, so why’s he staying for a whole frickin’ week?!
Reckon it’ll be the longest seven days in his life and mine, as I don’t think Angus is my greatest fan either. He seemed to have it in for me from the start. In the car, on the way to the restaurant (v. nice steakhouse called NY), he said hello to me, and then spent the rest of the journey talking to Stephen about people back in Glasgow who I clearly know nothing about.
Then, as soon as we were sitting at our table, he started to go on about the Newcastle game.
“OK, yer didn’t play yer best, we all know that,” he told Stephen, “but our Angie summed it up perfectly. She said she hasn’t seen you play since the old days – you know, four or five hundred in the stands – and then ter witness yer at St James’s Park, in front of fifty thousand people, it gave her goose pimples. You’ve come a long way, Stevie. Yer got ter put these things in ter perspective. That’s what Angie said anyway.”
“Yeah,” I agreed just to squeeze my way into the conversation. And then something – maybe the way Angus said her name, or the way Stephen blushed, or maybe just plain old female intuition – made me ask, “Who’s Angie?”
“My sister,” Angus replied. “She’s big on football. Used ter play too. The female Ronaldo, weren’t she, Stevie?”
“Aye. Easily.”
“Can you imagine if you guys had had kids?” Angus went on. “How good would those bairns have been?”
WTF?!
“Kids?” I repeated, hoping I’d heard wrong.
“Aye. Stevie used to go out with Angie,” Angus seemed proud to say.
“Only when we were wee,” Stephen explained, and I swear he was squirming.
“Aye, they were done and dusted by the time they were fifteen.”
Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it bloody well didn’t.
“How come she went to the game? Thought. You. Said. His. Baby. Sister. Beth. Was. Going.”
“Oh yes. She was,” said Stephen. “But then Angie turned up instead.”
“Thought she’d appreciate it more,” added Angus.
There are some things that the Zoe Westwick article didn’t prepare for. Things that are perfectly fine to kick off about. Things like an ex-girlfriend coming to watch your man play a match, for instance! And I was just about to rip into Stephen when Angus asked, “How d’yer feel about football, Remy – support a team or anything?”
“Yeah, I do actually. Like… Loads of them.”
Angus frowned. “Loads of them?”
“Yeah. Well… Obviously only one from England but like loads from … all over the world. Can you guys excuse me for a second?”
And methinks, under the circumstances, Zoe Westwick would be proud of the way I faked calm all the way to the Ladies. I then locked myself inside a cubicle and had a full-on rant to myself: “Frickin’ Angus! And his frickin’ sister!” No insulting name was good enough for him or bloody football-playing, stick-it-up-her-bum Angie.
Came out. Looked in the mirror. Fixed my make-up and hair. Right. This called for action. I plumped for “Fake it till you make it” time. Decided I supported Man United, as I do know loads about Coleen Rooney. But they were talking Kings of Leon when I got back.
“Aw, I cannae wait to see ’em,” cooed Stephen.
“Aye, when Caleb sings it’s like God’s talking to yer, don’t yer think, Remy?”
A curve ball. But it was still on: different subject – same tactic. So, crossing my fingers under the table, I said, “Oh yeah–hh. Actual God.”
“Naw way. You’ve never mentioned yer like Kings of Leon,” Stephen gushed. “I would’ve got yer a ticket. I feel bad now.”
“It’s OK, baby, I forgive you,” I said, milking it for all it was worth.
“What’s yer favourite song?” asked Angus. Then the waiter came with our food.
Phew!
I’d ordered a salad (would like to shift a few pounds). Stephen, a fillet steak with veg not chips. And Angus must have asked for a whole cow, judging by the size of his portion. To be fair, he probably needed it – he’s huge, a six-foot-four man-mountain.
“What did yer say yer favourite song is?” Angus continued as he carved into his slab of cow.
“Um… It’s too hard to say. I love them all.”
“‘Fans’!” said Stephen.
“Och naw, it’s gotta be ‘Revelry’,” Angus insisted.
As they carried on debating, I tuned them out and started to think about Malibu… She’s properly helped me out with that Zoe Westwick article, and I’ve repaid her by grassing her up to Amy (albeit accidentally) and then arguing with her tonight. Shouldn’t have hung u
p on her like that. End of.
“Are you OK?” asked Stephen.
“I’m a bit tired, to tell you the truth, baby.”
“Aw, sorry. I’ll get the bill and we can go back to the hotel.”
“Och naw–ww but we haven’t had dessert!” Angus cried like a spoilt toddler.
Stephen looked at me, clearly torn. So I let Angus win – he could finally have Stephen all to himself. Just this once.
“It’s OK, you guys stay. I’ll get a cab home.”
“Naw way!” said Stephen, giving me hope. Then he said, “I’ll get you one.”
He ordered and paid for a cab from an app on his phone, and here I am – in my room, worried about Malibu and Stephen.
11.15 p.m.
Decided to swallow my pride and send Mal a text. Simply wrote: Love ya sis. Always have. Always will.
Hope she gets back to me before I fall asleep.
11.45 p.m.
She still hasn’t got back to me. But she has all the time in the world because I can’t sleep. Been wondering whether Stephen genuinely didn’t know Angie was going to watch him play.
12.15 a.m.
Four hundred and twenty-four sheep and counting…
12.55 a.m.
Couldn’t drop off so watched a recorded episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. The one when Kim realizes her marriage has been a big mistake. After just seventy-two days. Heartbreaking. My situation’s nothing compared with that.
Wednesday 25 February – 7.50 a.m.
Showered.
Skin: Exfoliated.
Face: Debuting new tinted moisturizer.
Bag: Packed with everything I need except phone (which is in my hand).
Phone: Has two text messages. Woo-hoo!
I know about three people who could be up at this time. Stephen’s one of them and so is Malibu!!!
7.55 a.m.
First text message was from Stephen. He sent it at one in the morning. Sweet dreams xx
OK. All is forgiven. *gooey eyes*
The second one was from James and must have come through while I was in the shower: Call me asap.
No text from Malibu.
7.58 a.m.
What’s the point of telling me to call him as soon as, if James isn’t going to answer the bloody phone? Grrr.
8.05 a.m.
OMG. Mum has just shown me the new curtains she’s bought for the living room. They’re turquoise, with a bright-orange squiggly pattern, circa 1973. Ewww!
“Aren’t they great?” she said.
“Um… What does Alan think?” I asked, hoping love hadn’t made him blind enough to mistake grossness of the highest order.
“Oh, he loved them,” Mum replied. “Said they were a great find.”
She looked chuffed.
I sighed. “Mum, they are a great find if we’d wanted to keep out the Plague. Because those curtains would scare anything away – people, animals and all forms of life.”
“Remy!”
“I’m serious, Mum. They’re awful and I will not bring any of my friends over as long as they’re up.”
She said I was being unreasonable.
Is she seriously going to put curtains before her own daughter’s happiness?
8.40 a.m.
Now at salon, sitting at reception desk, about to down an espresso. Never been a coffee drinker, but on the way here I was thinking about my argument with Mum and realized that my “unreasonableness” might have been down to it being early in the morning – Malibu’s great “Remy moody-knickers” theory. Let’s face it, she’s been right about everything else so far. So, instead of trotting past Ace Café, like I normally do, I decided to go in. Then I asked the girl at the till to recommend a little pep-me-up.
“This,” she told me as she handed over the double-shot espresso, “has been known to wake the dead.”
James called as I walked into the salon. “OMG! I think the Bear likes me!”
“The Bear?” I said, putting down the paper coffee cup.
It turns out that “the Bear” is Rupert. And James was buzzing because Rupert has invited him to an art exhibition at his workplace, Villa House, this Thursday.
“Me at Villa House – can’t believe it! And he said I can bring someone. Obviously thought of you.”
“Me? I’m the last person he wants to see, unless he wants me to show him some ‘before and after’ crystal meth pictures.”
I wasn’t about to let James off the hook for taking drugs on that night out in Shoreditch and then being such a git when I mentioned it.
“Come on, Rem! We’d never touch crystal meth.”
“You said that about E.”
“But it wasn’t E, it was MD—”
“Ugh!”
“OK, OK. All right, it’s not big or clever. Satisfied?”
“Not quite.”
He sighed. “And I’ll try not to take them again.”
“Nope. I need more than try.”
“Please, Rem. We haven’t talked properly for ages, which I know is my fault. And I’m sorry about that ‘gold-digger’ thing I said the other day. You’re so–oo not one.”
“Hmm.”
“I really need your advice because I’m desperate to come out to my parents now.”
That was the sucker punch. Whenever James gets emotional about wanting to come out, I become his shoulder to cry on.
“What time and where?” I asked.
“Eight o’clock. Shoreditch.”
Oh Lawd.
8.50 a.m.
Espresso downed and making brain tick faster than speed of light.
All beauticians present.
Salon Idol score: Courtney: 20, Lara: 19.
Now, let the games begin.
1 p.m.
Lunch break. I’m on a Tube heading to Shepherd’s Bush to check out a flat.
This morning, I made everyone laugh when I told them about the hideous new living room curtains.
“You’ll have to move out,” Courtney joked.
“Too right,” I said. “And you don’t even know the half of it.” Didn’t want to go into Mum and Alan’s Born Again Teenager behaviour – far too embarrassing – so I left it at that.
Then, while I was manning the reception desk, I overheard Courtney’s manicure client – Anna Martin – say that she’d broken up with her boyfriend. Apparently he’d cheated on her. Anyhoo, it turns out that she’s now stuck in a flat that she can’t afford to pay for on her own.
“I can last another two months max,” she said, “but then I’ll need someone to take it off my hands.”
“Oh, that’s terribubble. Absolutely terribubble,” said Courtney.
Within seconds I was asking Anna where it was and how much it would cost, and now I’m on my way there.
2 p.m.
Loads to consider on this Tube ride back to work.
So… The flat is a simple studio with light wooden floors and white-gloss (almost certainly Ikea) furniture. It may not qualify for MTV Cribs, and the entire thing could probably fit in Malibu’s dining room – plus it’s nowhere near the luxury of Robbie’s place – but I like it. A lot. Now need to weigh up the plusses and minuses of having my own flat:
Pluses:
1. Will make me fully independent.
2. Will not need to deal with the BATs every day. Or those curtains!
3. Will no longer struggle to fit clothes, shoes, EVERYTHING, into my tiny box room.
4. Will be able to have Stephen stay over, as any sexy time will not be overheard by bat-eared parent.
Minuses:
1. Will have to do my own washing and cooking.
2. With the lounge doubling up as the bedroom, will have to keep it tidy all the time. (Not my strong point.)
3. Oh, the most important thing, will have to find £500 a month to pay the rent. There’ll be bills on top of that too!
“The deposit’s already been paid, so you’d just have to take care of the monthly stuff,” Anna exp
lained, after I’d looked around.
“Oh great,” I replied. And if I could fast-forward six months and see the salon working out, it would be; but I don’t have a TARDIS.
Anyway, I told Anna that I’d think about it, but realistically it’s probably too soon to take on a commitment like that.
2.45 P.M.
Kellie thinks I should take the flat.
In my excitement, I sent her some photos with the tag – “Supa-smart businesswoman is thinking about renting a flat. Woo-hoo!” She’s just rung to say, “You should do it!”
“Kel, this is the work number,” I hissed.
“I know. But you weren’t answering your mobile.”
“That’s because I was in the middle of a treatment.”
“So I take it you’ve finished now.”
Lara was upstairs waxing, but I didn’t want to set a bad example to Isabel and Courtney. “Yes, but no one’s allowed personal calls on this number unless it’s an emergency.” (A little rule I’ve nicked from Kara’s.)
“Yeah, but you are. It’s your salon.”
Humph! She’s impossible sometimes.
“I’ve got to bomb it to my next lesson anyway. I just wanted to tell you the flat looks amazing,” she said.
Hmm.
3 p.m.
In the words of Aloe Blacc: “I need a dollar, dollar, a dollar is what I need.”
4.10 p.m.
As I was manning reception, I decided to play text tennis with Stephen.
Courtney has only just remembered that he called the salon. Apparently, he couldn’t get through to my mobile. She was proper apologetic about forgetting though. If the Salon Idol competition was about being nice – Courtney would win it, no probs.
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 5