Cathy Hopkins - [Mates, Dates 05]

by Mates, Dates

  ‘I need a hobby,’ I said. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘But you have your sewing,’ said Mum. ‘All those T-shirts you’re making.’

  I nodded. ‘Suppose, but they don’t take long to make.’ It’s true I do like sewing, as ultimately I want to be a fashion designer, but I wanted to try something new.

  ‘You could walk the dogs more often,’ said Dad, gesturing towards the garden where Lai was having a pre-lunch cavort with Ben and Jerry, our two golden Labradors.

  ‘Could,’ I said. ‘But I can’t manage both of them on my own.’

  ‘Get some goldfish,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll get you a tank.’

  ‘Um, no thanks,’ I said, sensing he wasn’t taking this very seriously. I remembered last time we had fish. No one ever wanted to change the water, so they only lasted a few weeks.

  ‘Take up jogging,’ said Steve, coming in from the living room.

  ‘Ever seen a happy jogger?’ I asked. I certainly hadn’t. Loads of people do it and they all look miserable, red in the face, puffing, but with a determined look in their eyes. Not my idea of fun.

  ‘Well, there’s all sorts of exercise you could do,’ said Mum.‘Cycling, swimming, dancing, skating, judo, rowing, aerobics…’

  It was beginning to sound like the extra curricula classes at school. I pulled a face.

  ‘Well, I don’t know Lucy,’ said Mum. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Something new,’ I said. ‘Something I can do on my own.’

  ‘Ah, is this our new independent Lucy?’ said Dad. ‘You could come with me the week after next. I’ve been invited to a workshop in Devon. It’s run by a friend of mine. I’m sure she’d be glad to have you along as well. You wouldn’t be on your own, but it might do you some good.’

  ‘What sort of workshop?’

  ‘It’s a kind of rejuvenation workshop. Yoga, self-help classes, therapy, learn to de-stress, getting to the root of problems.’

  ‘Sounds like Izzie’s sort of thing, not mine,’ I said. Izzie was well into anything new age. If ever any of us caught a bug or fell ill, she always had an explanation for it. Like when Nesta got a sore throat, Izzie asked her what wasn’t she saying that was blocking her throat. And when TJ hurt her knee, Izzie said that it was because she wasn’t willing to bend. It was hilarious, though, when her mum got a boil on her bum and Izzie told her that it was because she was sitting on her anger. Literally, we all thought. There might be some truth in it, but personally I’m all for taking someone a bunch of daffodils when they’re ill and giving some good old-fashioned sympathy.

  ‘How many psychotherapists does it take to change a light bulb?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Dunno,’ we said.

  ‘One,’ she said, grinning. ‘But only if it really wants to change.’

  Dad laughed out loud. I suppose that’s an in-joke for people that work in counselling and therapy… and their husbands.

  ‘How many Spanish people does it take to change a light bulb?’ asked Dad.

  ‘How many?’ said Mum.

  ‘Juan.’

  ‘Want to know the very first light bulb joke?’ asked Steve.

  Mum nodded. Typical, I thought. Trust Steve to know the original joke. He’s a mine of useless information from reading all his books. Though I suppose he would be a good person for ‘Phone a Friend’ if you were on Who Wants to Be a Millionnaire.

  ‘How many Chinese people does it take to change a light bulb?’ he asked.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Millions. Because Confucius say, many hands make light work.’

  Steve, Mum and Dad fell about laughing.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘we were discussing a hobby for me. Not telling light bulb jokes. I’ve got six weeks and nothing to do.’

  ‘Oh, poor Lucy,’ said Mum. ‘Now let’s think. There must be something for you.’

  ‘Loads of things,’ said Steve. ‘Read, learn to cook…’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mum. ‘In fact, you were going to cook for us one night.’

  ‘Garden,’ said Dad. ‘Those beds outside need a turn over and the weeds need pulling out.’

  ‘Learn a language,’ said Steve.

  ‘Learn to play an instrument,’ said Dad. ‘Violin or piano. I could teach you guitar.’

  ‘Take up photography,’ said Steve.

  ‘That’s your hobby,’ I said.

  ‘Trainspotting,’ said Lai, coming in from the garden. ‘Stamp-collecting. Are we playing a game? Who can name the most daft hobbies?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said, as visions of me in an anorak, watching trains or digging up worms in the garden filled my head.

  Luckily, I was saved from any more of my family’s brilliant suggestions by the phone ringing. It was Nesta.

  ‘Help,’ I said. ‘My family want me to take up gardening.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ said Nesta. ‘I’ve been thinking. There are plenty more fish in the sea besides my ratfink brother. I’ve been talking to Izzie about it and we have a new mission.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Mission Matchmake. Lucy, we are going to find you a boy. And not just any boy. The perfect boy.’

  Even though I’d dismissed that from my list earlier that morning, somehow it seemed a more appealing alternative to stamp-collecting or taking up knitting.

  ‘You’re on,’ I said.

  C h a p t e r 4

  Mission Matchmake

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  Nesta called first thing the next day.

  ‘Mission Numero Uno. Place: Hollywood Bowl,’ she said, going into sergeant-major mode. ‘Outside Cafe Original. Time: three o’clock.’

  ‘Do we need to synchronise our watches?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ she replied, not realising that I was joking. ‘See, the plan is to catch the boys either going in to the movies or coming out, so we need to find out the times of the films. Coming out is probably better as they’ll hang out for a while afterwards and give us time to assess the situation and the talent.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said.

  Just for a joke, I wore my combat trousers and khaki

  T-shirt, but Nesta didn’t pick up on it when I arrived at the cinema.

  TJ did, though, and laughed. ‘Ready to do battle, Lucy?’ she asked.

  ‘Private Lucy reporting for duty,’ I said, saluting. ‘Has anyone brought binoculars?’

  ‘Or camouflage gear,’ laughed Izzie, getting into it. ‘We could smear our faces with mud then hide in the bushes with a bit of tree stuck on our heads.’

  Nesta tossed her hair. ‘You may laugh, but coming here is a good strategy. See, look — there are loads of boys around.’

  Nesta was right. It was a good place to start, as Hollywood Bowl is a popular haunt for most North London teenagers. Apart from the cinema, there’s a bowling alley, a pool, and a variety of assorted cafes all built in a square around the car park. Today, as always, there were groups of teens hanging out in the sunshine in front of the cinema.

  ‘Looks like we’re not the only ones on the pull,’ said Izzie, watching the groups of teens all eyeing each other up.

  ‘I am not on the pull,’ I said. ‘It sounds desperate when you put it like that. I don’t want a boy just for the sake of it.’

  ‘Course you don’t,’ said Izzie. ‘We’re only looking.’

  ‘How about we say that we’re doing research?’ said TJ.

  ‘I saw some girls doing it on one of those “How to get a date” programmes on telly. The presenter said that a good way to meet boys was to pretend that you’re doing a survey and ask them a list of questions. It’s one way of getting talking to them.’

  ‘That would be a laugh,’ I said. ‘Anyone got any paper?’

  The girls all shook their heads.

  ‘I think we’d need a bit more than paper if anyone was to take us seriously,’ said Nesta, looking at what we all had on. Izzie was wearing a T-shirt and denim mini, TJ and Nesta had shorts and
T-shirts on and I was in my combats. ‘Not exactly dressed like professionals, are we?’

  ‘We’ll do that another day,’ I said to TJ. ‘And we’ll dress the part.’

  ‘Now, let’s see who’s here. Don’t look as though you’re looking,’ said Nesta, casually glancing round the car park. ‘We don’t want to be too obvious.’

  ‘So how am I supposed to check the talent?’ I asked.

  Nesta turned her back away from the groups of boys then got her mirror out of her bag. ‘Like this,’ she said. ‘See, it looks like I’m checking my hair or something but actually I’m looking behind me.’

  Izzie and I got our mirrors out and lined up with Nesta to try out her technique. TJ shared mine with me and I couldn’t stop laughing as we watched the people behind us.

  Nesta sighed. ‘I give up,’ she said. ‘You lot are just a wind-up.’

  ‘Sorry, Nesta,’ I said, putting away my mirror. ‘I do appreciate this, honest I do. And I get what you’re saying — look kind of casually.’

  I glanced at the boys, then over to the left, like I was looking for someone in the distance, then back at the boys, then over at the cinema.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Nesta. ‘That’s the way to do it. Now, check out left, by the pillar, jeans, black T-shirt. Guy with blond spiky hair.’

  ‘Not my type,’ I said. ‘Too… um, too hair-gelly.’

  ‘OK, left, dark, French crop. Wearing all black.’

  ‘Yee-uck,’ I said, looking over at the boy. ‘Do me a favour. He’s picking his nose.’

  ‘OK, I got one,’ said TJ. ‘Behind spiky boy, dark.’

  ‘Where?… Oh yeah,’ I said, catching sight of him. ‘Yeah, he’s a possibility.’

  ‘He’s checking you out, Lucy,’ said Izzie.

  I glanced over. ‘Ohmigod, he’s looking at me. I think he knows we’re talking about him. Ohmigod, he’s coming over.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Nesta. ‘Now play it cool, look away, don’t let him know you’ve noticed him.’

  Of course I went bright red. A dead giveaway, if ever there was one.

  The boy came straight up to me. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can I talk to you a minute?’

  I glanced at the girls, who were all grinning like idiots and giving me the thumbs-up behind his back. I couldn’t believe it. Success so fast. And he was cute. Very cute, like Enrique Iglesias.

  He led me behind the pillar and looked deeply into my eyes.

  ‘That girl you’re with…’ he began.

  He didn’t have to finish. I knew what he was going to say immediately. It’s not the first time this has happened. Boys always fancy Nesta. And no wonder, she is stunning and a half.

  ‘The dark one?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Has she got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, all those girls I’m with have got boyfriends.’

  He looked disappointed. Not as disappointed as I was, though. He didn’t even bother to ask if I was attached.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ Then he shuffled off.

  I couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit jealous. I do love Nesta - she’s a great mate - but it’s hard sometimes, being the last one that anyone notices. I went back to join the girls, who looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Wanted to know if you were taken or not, Nesta,’ I said.

  Nesta looked over at the boy. ‘Really?’

  Izzie smacked her arm. ‘We’re here for Lucy, not you. Besides, you have Simon.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But no harm seeing what I’m missing.’

  ‘Let’s try somewhere else,’ I said. ‘Any ideas, anyone?’

  ‘How about Hampstead?’ said Izzie. ‘There’s always loads of boys there.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ said Nesta, heading off towards the bus stop.

  ‘But please, let’s just hang out, look in the shops and forget about the Mission,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it’s going to work. It doesn’t feel right. I mean, so there might be a boy who looks OK, but how am I going to approach him? Get a card with “Hi, I’m Lucy and I’m available” on it? Besides, I’m always reading that the right boy always comes along when you’ve given up.’

  ‘No,’ said Nesta. ‘You have to make things happen.’

  Izzie shrugged. ‘No, Lucy may be right, Nesta. You can’t force destiny.’

  ‘Choice not chance determines destiny,’ said Nesta. ‘You can’t leave everything to fate or the stars.’

  Oh, here we go again with the conflicting advice, I thought. It’s amazing Nesta and Izzie get on at all. They both think so differently about things. If Nesta said ‘hold on’, Izzie would say ‘let go’. They never agree on anything. Chalk and cheese. Still, it seems to work on some strange level. Opposites attract and all that.

  ‘What do you think, TJ?’ I asked.

  ‘No harm in looking,’ she said. ‘It’s like window shopping. Good to see what’s on offer, but it doesn’t mean that you have to buy.’

  I liked that perspective. It took the pressure off.

  We caught the bus down to Hampstead where everyone was sitting, sipping cappuccinos and enjoying the sunshine outside the cafes that line the streets. After trawling the pavement for a while, looking for an empty table, we finally ended up outside the Coffee Cup. All the tables were full except for one that was occupied by a boy sitting on his own and reading. He looked nice and there were three empty chairs next to him.

  ‘Anyone sitting here?’ asked Nesta, pointing at the chairs.

  The boy smiled and said, ‘Nope, only me. And Jesus.’ He then pointed at the book he was reading, which turned out to be the Bible. ‘Please, sit down. I’d like to tell you how you can be saved.’

  Izzie was all for it, as there’s nothing she likes more than a discussion about religion and why we’re here and stuff. But luckily Nesta had a better idea.

  ‘I really fancy ice cream instead of coffee,’ she said, making a beeline for the ice cream shop next door,

  ‘Good idea,’ I said following her. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough need chocolate chip fudge.’

  C h a p t e r 5

  Wish List

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  I decided I needed to rethink the plan. Mission Matchmake had left me feeling more aware than ever that I was single. Nesta and Izzie, however, weren’t ready to give up. Nesta wanted me to go out boy hunting again in Kensington on Tuesday with her and Simon, but I said I was busy helping Dad out at the shop. I didn’t want to hang around with her and Simon, like a spare part. And I didn’t want Simon thinking I was desperate. Because I’m really really not. Of course, Izzie heard about my refusal to go out and came over to see me on Wednesday.

  ‘I don’t want to pick up any old boy. I want it to be special, like it was with Tony.’

  ‘Then what you need to do,’ said Izzie, ‘is to send a message out into the universe about what you want, then you’ll attract it to you. You should do a wish list for a boy, then wrap it in tissue, put it in a secret box and hide it in your bedroom.’

  ‘If it’s going to go out into the universe, wouldn’t a billboard up at Swiss Cottage work better than hiding a piece of paper in my bedroom?’ I teased.

  She gave me ‘the look’. The one our form teacher, Miss Watkins, gives when someone hasn’t done their homework.

  ‘Trust me,’ she said. She was always coming up with ways to make things happen or control your destiny and stuff. She’s got one of those spell books at home, and when Tony was coming down with a case of the wandering hands last year, she told me to put a photo of him in the freezer to cool him down. I laughed at the time, but maybe it worked after all. He’d certainly gone cold on me now.

  I stretched out on my bed while she took her favourite place on the beanbag on the floor. ‘OK, mystic Iz. So what’s a wish list?’ I asked.

  ‘You have to write down all the things that you want in a boy on one side of the paper, then all things that you have to offer on the other side.’ She got up and
found a pen and piece of paper from my desk and handed it to me. ‘Start with how you want him to look, then go on to personality - like funny, generous, that sort of thing. Then emotionally and spiritually how you’d like him to be. The more detail, the better. Leave nothing out.‘

  Why not? I thought. I had nothing else to do and it was better than being made to go out and trawl North London like a saddo.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and began to write.

  My perfect boy:

  Medium height, not too tall. Fit-looking. Nice face.

  ‘Blond or dark?’ asked Izzie, coming to sit on the bed next to me and looking at what I was writing.

  ‘Urn, don’t mind really, as long as he’s quite nice-looking.’

  ‘Oh, go for it,’ said Izzie. ‘Write drop dead gorgeous. Cute. Don’t settle for just anyone.’

  Gorgeous-looking, cute, long eyelashes. With nice hands and nails. Clean.

  Well-dressed, with a sense of style. Interested in fashion.

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ said Izzie. ‘Now his personality.’ I continued writing.

  Reliable, i.e., will phone me when he says he will.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Iz. ‘But what else? Just reliable could be a bit boring.’

  Good fun to be with. Sense of humour. Really likes me.

  Honest. Doesn’t play mind games. Not afraid to show his feelings about me. Intelligent. Ambitious.

  Kind. Sensitive. Spontaneous. Likes animals.

  ‘Good,’ said Izzie. ‘Now do you.’

  I turned over the paper. ‘Um, don’t know what to put,’ I said.

  ‘Blonde, small, slim,’ dictated Izzie. ‘Am fab at fashion. Have my own sense of style. Am honest. Have a great sense of humour. Am generous. Sensitive. Spontaneous. Am a great friend to my mates. Am punctual. Sweet.’

  ‘Sweet? Eeeww. Boring.’

  ‘No, it’s not. And you are sweet,’ said Izzie. ‘When you want to be.’

  ‘How about: Have Wonderbra, will travel?’ I added.

  Izzie laughed. ‘Have inflatable bra, will travel.’

  Nesta and Izzie bought me an inflatable bra ages ago when I was fed up about being so flat-chested. It’s on the notice board in my bedroom, pinned under a photo of me taken when I was twelve.