‘Are you not married to him?’
A lanky girl with cropped curly hair appears next to me and sticks her arm out towards Jack, who is doing some stretches in the corner with a bunch of teenagers.
‘No,’ I laugh lightly, ‘we’re not married.’
Jack flashes me a grin.
I shoot him back my best ‘kids, eh?’ look.
‘But,’ she says, ‘he is your boyfriend?’
Oh God, I hope Jack didn’t hear that.
‘No,’ I say, a more forced laugh pumping through me, ‘no, no. No. We’re just friends. No.’
Stop saying no, Georgia. Why do I keep saying no? Nobody says no that much in one sentence.
‘No.’
Argh!
‘Why?’ the ginger boy pipes up.
I swivel round to face him. My God, these kids are nosey.
‘Because,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light and superior, ‘some adults are just friends.’
‘Do you not like each other?’ the boy persists.
If these kids don’t stop asking me these questions in front of Jack, I am going to have to leave the country.
‘No,’ I say tightly, my face flaming. ‘I mean, yes. Of course we do.’
This is ridiculous. I am being interrogated by a twelve-year-old.
‘If you like each other,’ he says, ‘then why aren’t you his girlfriend?’
‘Is it because you are gay, miss?’
I spin back round to face the girl, whose eyebrows are raised in curiosity.
What?
‘No!’ I say crossly.
Did she just outwardly ask me about my sexuality? In a school gym? I only met her about eight minutes ago!
‘Right,’ Jack says loudly, causing all the children to snap their heads round to face him. ‘Shall we start running?’
‘Yes!’ I say forcefully, internally commanding my cheeks to return to their natural shade of dull pink.
Led by Jack, all of the children stream out of the school hall and on to the tennis courts. The orange sun is low and masked by dark, heavy clouds that snake across the sky. I look around at the children, all hopping up and down on the spot to keep warm as the fearless wind whips past the backs of their bare legs.
‘Right,’ says Jack, ‘who wants to lead the way?’
‘Me!’ squawks a small blonde girl, launching her arm into the air.
Jack nods. ‘Cool,’ he says, ‘we’ll follow you.’
All the children set off at a brisk pace and I follow, watching their small heads bob up and down in front of me. Amy set up the running club when she started at the school. She also set up a breakfast club for children who weren’t getting a proper breakfast at home.
‘Miss?’
I look up to see a small, skinny child bobbing next to me. Her large blue eyes are blinking up at me.
I smile. ‘Yeah?’
‘Where is Miss Miller?’ she asks.
I glance down at her, unsure how to respond.
‘She wasn’t feeling well today,’ I say honestly, ‘so she asked me and Mr Lemon to run the club for her instead. We like running too.’
The small girl’s face twitches.
‘Is she sick, miss?’
I shake my head automatically. ‘She’s okay,’ I say, ‘she’s got a nasty illness that makes her tired. But we’re going to do a run here to raise lots of money for charity, to help people like Miss Miller get better.’
The girl screws up her face and narrows her eyes, focusing ahead of her.
‘Can I run too?’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Note to self:
P4 of Grazia magazine, gorgeous floral dress. Perfect for next year summer fun with Amy. Must save £40 so can buy (v. important). Enormous breasts and lack of bottom may be an issue, beware.
‘Have you heard about the Shetland pony?’
I raise my eyes up from my computer screen, praying that Sally is about to spring an impromptu cracker joke on me.
‘No,’ I say dully, ‘what Shetland pony?’
For God’s sake, what now? What bloody Shetland pony? What else could Bianca possibly want? A pony who can tap dance? Or one that can manage the rap break in the middle of the bear number?
Oh, the bears. The bloody bears. I still haven’t worked out how on earth I am going to wangle that one. I mean, I can’t. I just can’t. Contrary to Bianca’s mad brain, singing bears do not exist. How will I ever explain in future interviews that the reason I got fired as an assistant designer was because I couldn’t source a pack of singing bears?
Sally flicks open her Filofax and my body shrivels with irritation.
‘Bianca has booked for the chief bridesmaid to arrive on a Shetland pony,’ she says, her face deadpan. ‘It’s all booked.’
‘Good.’
‘But you need to meet with the trainer.’
‘What?’ I blink at her. ‘The trainer? Why?’
‘She wants to talk to someone before the wedding.’ Sally flicks the book shut.
I roll my eyes at my computer screen as Sally totters back to her desk. ‘Fine,’ I say.
‘The trainer is in Brighton,’ Sally says matter-of-factly.
I jerk my head up. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Brighton? How am I supposed to get to Brighton?’
Sally sticks her head over her computer screen blankly. ‘You can catch the train,’ she says.
I glower at my computer screen.
Can I now? Is that a fact? How am I supposed to work as a designer when I am constantly gallivanting across the country on the hunt for various bloody animals?
An email from Jack pops up and I drag my eyes to the side of my computer screen.
Have you heard about Brighton?
How does he know about that?
I tap a reply and his response crops up almost immediately.
I volunteered you. Thought it would be a good way to plan our date. I’m coming too. The trains are booked for tomorrow.
Jack is coming to Brighton with me? We’re going together?
A final email pops up and my stomach flips.
Make sure you pack a bag.
‘Also,’ Sally says, making me almost fall off my seat in fright, ‘I have signed up as a runner for the charity run. The fund-raising page is doing very well.’
With great effort, I pull my eyes away from Jack’s email and look at Sally.
‘Really?’ I say.
Sally nods. ‘I spoke to my running club,’ she says, ‘and a lot of them are going to sign up. You are going to raise a lot of money. I bet your sister is very proud of you.’
*
I don’t know what to pack, I don’t know what to pack!
What does one pack for an impromptu work trip to Brighton? Which is almost certainly not a work trip at all but, in fact, much more likely a sex trip.
My body convulses in panic as this thought bursts through my brain. I chuck my hair straighteners into my bag.
No. Not a sex trip. A professional business trip to see a woman about her pony (and that is, in no way, any form of innuendo or suggestive comment).
Or is it? Maybe the Shetland pony doesn’t exist and it is all a euphemism . . .
I gape down at my open suitcase in dismay.
Argh! This is hopeless! What the hell do I pack? I am terrible at packing at the best of times, now I have to plan for two days (and a ‘night’) which I have no control over.
I can’t cope with this. Maybe I should just call in sick and hide under my bed until this is all over and have a nice cup of tea.
I take a deep breath and evaluate my current outfits:
Travel outfit: jeans, stylish roll neck (yes, they do exist) and heeled boots that I can walk in.
Date outfit: slinky top, pencil skirt, nice heels, large hoop earrings.
Date outfit in case I accidentally eat too much cheese and my stomach swells out like a baked potato: floaty dress, black tights, nice heels.
Date outfit in case I accidentally spill toothpaste down ot
her options: black cami top, nice jeans.
Date outfit in case the date is somehow underwater: sexy swimming costume.
Date outfit in case date involves real swimming: sensible, ugly swimming costume that at least covers my entire bottom.
I neatly fold each of the outfits and layer them in my suitcase. I shall not be packing any sex outfits. Mainly because I do not own any, and I can hardly shoehorn a trip to Ann Summers on my work expenses.
I check off my internal list as I place the final bits into my suitcase.
Toothbrush, make-up bag, phone charger. Check, check, check.
The only person I have told where I’m going is Natalie, which was a stupid idea as she almost burst with excitement the moment she found out and then continued to ask me when was the last time I ‘had a wax’. She then tried to suggest we go together on our lunch break. I pretended to be called into a meeting and hung up on her instantly.
A joint wax? On our lunch break? Is she mental?
Also, I do not need a wax because that would imply that I will be having sex with Jack, which I will not. Definitely.
Although, I did have a wax this morning, just in case we do go swimming. Only because of that. I don’t want him to mistake me for a walrus perched on a rock when I am giving him my best Ariel.
My phone bleeps and my eyes dart over to it.
Hey, booked something for 3 p.m. today. Meet me at the pier. Jack x
My stomach lurches.
Oh my God, he’s booked something for today! Our date is happening today! I check the time. Right. I need to leave my flat in half an hour to get the 12.30 train. Any later than that and I’ll have to do my date make-up on the train.
I flip my suitcase shut as Tina appears at my door. I do a double-take. Tina is nice enough, but we’re hardly friends. She certainly never stops to chat. Unless she fancies a passive-aggressive exchange about how much Fairy Liquid is the correct amount to wash up a pan.
(The answer is the opposite of what I do. Apparently.)
‘You all right?’ I ask, digging my elbows into my suitcase in an attempt to zip it shut.
Come on. Shut, you stupid suitcase. You have to shut. I have just spent over an hour planning every last detail of these outfits. I cannot leave a single sock out. I refuse.
‘Are you going away?’ Tina asks in a lofty voice.
I look up and notice her hair, piled on top of her head and fastened with a large bow.
What is she wearing? She looks like a six-year-old.
‘Yeah,’ I grunt, ‘just for a night. It’s for work. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
Tina nods, a look of satisfaction sweeping over her face.
‘Why?’ I add.
Tina pulls out her phone and leans against the door frame. ‘No reason,’ she says. ‘I think I’m going to have a few friends over, then. If you’re going out.’
My head snaps up.
Tina has had ‘a few friends’ over before, just after we moved in. I pretended to be totally relaxed about it and spent the night with Amy, and it was all going quite well. Until I came back and found one of her friends had used my bra as a slingshot for their tequila-filled balloons. When I raised it with Tina she said that they couldn’t use her bra because her boobs weren’t big enough and I should take it as a compliment.
‘Err, Tina,’ I say, pulling my body off the bulging suitcase.
Tina’s heavily made-up eyes flick up to me. ‘Yeah?’
‘You’re not having a party, are you?’ I say, trying my best to sound aloof and unfazed.
Tina smirks into her phone. ‘No,’ she says, ‘just a gathering. Only a few friends.’
I open my mouth to reply but Tina slinks away into the kitchen. I throw myself back on to my suitcase and wrench it open bitterly.
Great. So along with having to pack for the most stressful few days of my life, I now have to spend the next hour hiding every bra I own from Tina.
And pants. I definitely don’t want any of her friends getting their hands on any of my pants.
CHAPTER TWENTY
11TH NOVEMBER
To do list (Shetland pony edition, from Sally):
Find Jesus (WHAT? What does this even mean!?)
Demonstrate walking motion/speed required of pony (Absolutely not)
Ask if Jesus has dietary requirements (Is this the name of the pony? Or human? Am I going on a pilgrimage? What’s happening?)
Explain wedding schedule
Ask if there are any larger Shetland ponies for taller bridesmaids (. . . a horse. She wants a horse)
Monitor Jesus’ natural walking speed to report back to Sally (?!)
Ask if Shetland pony can smile on cue (no)
I take a deep breath as the wind whips my hair and a wave of goose pimples scatter across my skin. A great butterfly of excitement flutters in the pit of my stomach as I look out over Brighton Pier. The dark blue sea is simmering gently, swirling slightly in the wind, and not a single cloud is lingering in the bright sky.
It is really beautiful.
But I mean, it is also bloody freezing. It is November, after all.
I glance down at my right arm, all of my wispy arm hair standing to attention like blades of grass.
Why didn’t I bring a coat? I know I wanted to look nice, but surely it is more important to be warm?
Oh great, now I sound like Mum.
I should be warm, considering I’ve spent the last hour trotting round a pen after Jesus the Shetland pony and his owner, Gabriel.
I flick my hair and command my body to keep warm.
It’s okay. We’ll be inside soon. Perhaps in a lovely restaurant, or in one of these nice bars. Although it does seem a bit early for drinking. But maybe Jack wants to get really drunk.
Maybe he’s an alcoholic.
I shake my head as this thought wafts through my brain.
No, of course he isn’t. I would have noticed by now if he was.
Thankfully, I stayed well away from cheese on my journey down, which means my stomach is the perfect size for my best date outfit: slinky top, pencil skirt, nice heels, large hoop earrings. My hair is behaving itself and even my liquid eyeliner flicked obediently in place. For once, everything has worked as it should. It really is meant to be.
I glance down at my breasts nervously.
Although, on reflection, I do think I should have worn a bra. I need to get inside ASAP or my nipples will hail down a taxi all by themselves.
I glance down as my phone springs to life. I hold it up to my ear and hear Jack’s voice.
‘Hey, listen, I’ve been held up at this end.’
My stomach pangs.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘I’ve ordered you an Uber,’ he says, ‘it should be just around the corner. It’s going to bring you to me, so I’ll meet you there. Is that okay?’
He’s sent a car for me! How romantic!
‘Sure!’ I gush.
‘Cool,’ Jack says. ‘I’ll text you the car details so you can look out for it.’
‘Great!’ I cry. ‘See you in a bit!’
The line goes dead and I peer down at it, until the text shoots through from Jack.
I can’t believe that I am standing by Brighton Pier, waiting for a car to collect me and whisk me off to a secret location where a guy has planned a romantic date. This is like something you see in a film! This sort of thing never happens to me!
I glance up as I notice a car slide up next to me. My eyes scan the registration plate and I hop in the front, feeling like Audrey Hepburn.
‘Hello!’ I say giddily, clipping my seat belt on.
The driver’s eyes flit towards me as he prepares to pull out into the road.
‘You look nice,’ he says, a smile pulling at the sides of his mouth.
The balloon of happiness forming inside me swells with excitement.
‘Thank you!’ I cry cheerily, looking at myself in the passenger mirror.
The driver nods and clicks his indicator
on. I look at him, trying my best to stay silent like a sophisticated grown-up, until suddenly I cannot fight it any longer.
‘I’m going on a date,’ I blurt excitedly. ‘He actually sent this car to pick me up. He has planned the whole thing.’
The driver’s eyebrows twitch slightly. ‘A date?’
‘Yes!’ I nod. ‘It’s all a total surprise. Isn’t that romantic?’
The smile on the driver’s face stretches wider. ‘A surprise?’ he repeats. ‘Well, that is nice of him.’
‘I know!’
‘So,’ he continues, twisting the car round another corner, ‘you don’t know where you are going?’
‘Nope!’ I cry. ‘I have no idea!’
The driver nods, his eyes creasing in the corners. I angle my body to face him.
‘Wait,’ I say, ‘do you know where I’m going?’
‘Of course I do,’ the driver says. ‘I wouldn’t be a very good driver if I didn’t know where I was going.’
Excitement whizzes up me.
‘Do you think I’ll like it?’ I gabble.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it will certainly be a surprise.’
I grab my phone out of my bag and quickly jab a text to Natalie, telling her about the car. Maybe he’s planned dinner on a beach, just the two of us. Although it is freezing. Maybe he’s planned dinner on a beach, but he’s organised some kind of heated marquee. Or! Perhaps he’s got those big sticks with fire, like you see on all those Pinterest weddings!
‘Okay,’ the driver says, as the car slows down, ‘we’re here.’
I look around excitedly at my surroundings, desperate to find out where we are. My eyes land on a brown barn and a large, dank field. It looks like we’re on a farm.
Oh, maybe we’re going horse riding! I love horses! I didn’t know Jack could ride? That is so romantic! That is so—
I stop in my tracks as I spot a large, ominous sign:
THE DIVE OF YOUR LIFE. TANDEM SKYDIVES!
*
I can’t believe I am about to jump out of a plane in a pencil skirt.
Actually, no. Much worse than that.
I can’t believe I am about to jump out of a plane when I’m not wearing a bra.
I have to wear two bras when I go running. Two! Now I’m expected to throw myself into the air with no support whatsoever! What’s going to hold them in place? I’m going to land back on earth and find them permanently dislodged under my armpits!
The List That Changed My Life Page 17