9.10 a.m.
Strange. Lance Wilson just phoned the house looking for Malibu. Haven’t heard from him in ages. I told him Malibu was at work.
“Of course,” he said. “What a numpty.”
He asked how she was doing and I said, “Great. She’s pulled herself a Chelsea footballer.” Because I wanted him to burn.
And he replied, “Great. I’m really happy for her.”
Yeah, right, I thought, because he sounded gutted. Oh well, like Beyoncé says, “If ya liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”
9.15 a.m.
Just in case Robbie didn’t invite me to his room for a v. good reason (e.g. could have had hole in underpants), I’ve texted this message: Thanks 4 dinner. It was great. x
Now let’s see what he comes back with. (Really wish I hadn’t put that kiss on the end.)
9.18 a.m.
Nothing.
9.21 a.m.
Nothing, but won’t judge. (Network could be jammed.)
9.25 a.m.
Still no reply.
Right, Robbie Wilkins. You are the caddiest cad in Britain. So don’t even think about contacting me. No texts. No phone calls. No emails. Don’t poke me on Facebook. Ever. And believe me, I’ll stay strong, like other wronged women of the world, and bounce back, Jennifer Aniston and Cheryl Cole style. Because today I WILL pass my NVQ. And that will be the first step on the ladder to me becoming a top businesswoman with salons all over the country. And you’ll regret dissing me!
5.30 p.m.
College went all right today, after a proper shaky start. I did two waxes, one manicure and one pedicure, with an instructor watching me like bloody Hawk-Eye. Talk about pressure! Being emo about the Cad didn’t help either. Especially when my first treatment was on Stick Insect. She may be a super-skinny model type from the neck down, but she’s a horse from the neck up. I just wish she’d realize it and wipe that smug “I’m thinner than you” look off her face.
She came in for a leg wax, and grabbed a magazine to distract from the pain.
“Bloody hell,” she said, flicking through a copy of OK magazine. “Colleen should have had another stint at Weight Watchers before she wore that bikini.”
“Ah, don’t be cruel,” I told her. “She’s gone through enough.”
“See for yourself.” Stick Insect pointed to a photograph of Colleen on a Barbados beach. She looked fine to me – like a normal girl who eats chips and Krispy Kremes. That’s why I like Colleen. She’s sort of like … me.
“Huge,” said Stick Insect.
The way I was feeling, she might as well have been prodding the flab on my bum and shouting, “Robbie reject. Robbie reject.” And I remembered this time a few years ago when Malibu had looked across at a mag Mum was reading and said how pretty Steven Gerard’s wife was.
“No prettier than you,” Mum had told her. “You’re the perfect type to marry a footballer.”
I’d waited for her to tell me that I was too, but got nothing. That hurt, and it felt like Stick Insect was saying the same thing now. But there was no point in taking it out on her. I can do professional.
“Must be a bad angle,” I said nicely. “Colleen’s only a size ten or twelve.”
“Like I said,” she replied, “huge.”
That. Was. IT.
While my instructor looked at the wall clock to check how long I was taking, I deliberately didn’t hold the skin of Stick Insect’s leg when I tore away the next wax strip. She let out a massive scream. Bloodcurdling, it was. The instructor flashed her eyes back to us straight away.
My NVQ was slipping away – FAST.
“That really hurt!” complained Stick Insect.
“Sorry, madam, is your menstruation due soon?” I said, copying the posh voice that Kara uses when she wants clients to buy an expensive product.
Luckily it was, so I told her it was a more sensitive time to wax but that I’d be doubly careful now I knew. And from the smile I got from the instructor, it looked like I’d scored some bonus marks at the same time as dishing out pain to the Stick Insect. Yay!
The only other decent thing about today is that I made up with James. He came up to me and wished me good luck as soon as I got through the college doors. So I wished him good luck too, then apologized for using his GHDs without asking, and we gave each other a big hug.
Apart from that, life is major suckeroo in Sucksville.
6.30 p.m.
Malibu’s home. She’s just shown me a ton of soppy texts from Goldenballs, which I personally think is an invasion of his privacy. She’s all Gary this, Gary that, Gary three bags bloody full.
7 p.m.
I’ve started writing a poem:
Loser, wait till you check what you’ve lost.
You’re gonna cry me a river. Yeah – why don’t ya just.
(Borrowed a little for that line.)
And when I have the number-one beauty shop,
You’ll be gutted about what you almost got.
Needs a bit of work but I’m sure Miss Stevens, my old English teacher, would write “Shows great potential.”
Yeah! Girl Power, baby!!
7.05 p.m.
Why, oh why, oh why hasn’t Robbie texted me? Is he one of those hot and cold blokes that Katy Perry sings about? Or is he just a cruel person who gets thrills out of making people feel like crap? Because I hate him if he does. And I don’t want to see him again. Ever. I mean it this time. I hate being on this roller coaster. And I— Eek! Phone’s ringing.
7.20 p.m.
OMG. It was Robbie!! And there’s been a HUGE misunderstanding. He said that when he checked out of Le Grove this morning he accidentally left his mobile in the room, and that he has an old one but my number isn’t in it, so he went back to collect it as soon as he could.
And just when I was about to say, “Yeah, right,” he told me he used his old mobile to call Gary and told him to tell Malibu to tell me.
Grr… Malibu does my head in sometimes.
Anyway, he apologized a gazillion times. And said that he was dying to see me again. “Will you be around tomorrow evening?” he asked.
I wanted to say, “You bet your ass I will!” But instead I said I just had to check my diary. Then I waited a few seconds before announcing, “Actually I am.”
He’s going to call tomorrow morning to confirm things.
Oh well, back on the roller coaster of lurve.
7.45 p.m.
Malibu just burst through my door and went, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you Robbie—”
“Left his phone at the hotel,” I finished for her.
“Oh, you know – cool,” she said.
I’d wring her neck if I wasn’t so happy.
8.30 p.m.
Uh-oh. I think Dad is in deep trouble. The house phone rang, Mum picked it up in the hallway and then started to hiss. All I could hear was, “And what time do you call this?” Then “Something, something, RIDICULOUS. Something, something, TAKE IT BACK.”
I knew straight away that it was Dad she was hissing at. I was sitting in the kitchen snacking on Doritos, and the fact that she stomped back in when the call ended and scraped his dinner into the bin confirmed it.
He tries to finish work at six so he can be home for dinner at six-thirty, like Mum wants him to. But he says that when you have your own business, like he does with Uncle Pete – boringly called “P (for Pete) & R (for Reg) Bennet” – you can’t afford to lose customers. So if he’s running late because he’s having a major problem fixing a washing machine or a tumble dryer, he just phones to let Mum know. Then she stores his dinner in the oven with the temperature on low.
“What d’you do that for?” I complained as Mum slammed the lid back down on the bin.
Instead of answering, Mum threw me the evil eye and stomped into the living room.
10.05 p.m.
Dad came home about fifteen minutes after Mum had chucked his dinner and headed straight for the kitchen. I was in the living room w
ith Mum and we were watching London Airport.
“Remy?” Dad called.
“Yes, Dad?”
“Can you ask your mum where my dinner is, please?”
This time I threw HER the evil eye. See, you only had to wait fifteen minutes!
“Tell your dad that if he thinks I’m such a liar, he can find some other skivvy,” Mum said, loud enough for him to hear. A liar? I thought, but I didn’t see the point in repeating it. Didn’t want to get involved, to be honest.
Then randomly Dad started to sing. Eh? “Always look on the bright side of life…” was coming out loud and clear as pots clattered, oil sizzled in a pan and the smell of eggs and bacon wafted into the living room.
What a wind-up.
I looked at Mum, expecting her to blow, but even though she had a face like thunder, she just kept her eyes focused on the rolling credits of London Airport. And three minutes later, in waltzed Dad with a dinner plate in his left hand and a can of Guinness in his right.
“Ah, just in time,” he breezed, cool as anything as Deborah Gordon’s intro for The Entrepreneur began. “An entrepreneur isn’t trying to make a biscuit tin the new wheel. An entrepreneur is trying to discover the wheel that everyone wants to buy.”
We love this show! The contestants are cocky and positive that they’re going to win the chance to run one of Deborah Gordon’s businesses. But people watch every week because they’re positive that Deborah Gordon is going to tear one of them “a new bum-hole”, as Dad puts it.
He really loves Deborah Gordon. He even has her autobiography. He says she’s as tough as old boots, like his nan used to be. I like her because she’s a multimillionaire now, though she used to be piss-poor. In the introduction, she explains that at school they said she wouldn’t amount to much. “They said I had a problem with authority,” she tells us, then she opens her arms, the camera pans out and there’s a huge glass building behind her – HER building – and she says, “Well, look at me now.”
Legend.
This week a male contestant got himself into a proper pickle. And Dad shouted out the usual jokes – “He couldn’t sell Coke in the Sahara” and “Might as well walk the plank now, sonny Jim” – as I giggled and Mum’s face became one big frown zone.
Friday 27 June – 1 a.m.
Dad’s sleeping on the sofa again.
Felt thirsty, so went downstairs to get a glass of water and couldn’t resist cracking open the living-room door. Sure enough, there he was. I know he’s not perfect, but Mum’s such a drama queen sometimes. Still, it sounds like he called her a liar. And acted like a proper wind-up merchant when he got home, when he must have known how she’d react – You. Sofa. For the rest of the week!
Wonder what he thought she was lying about?
Anyway, here’s hoping she wins the lottery or something, because she can have the hump for ages. She gets mardy about small stuff, too, like if someone puts cups in the plates cupboard. Everything has to be so–oo perfect. Yet she’ll suddenly have this mad idea to paint the bathroom pink with purple stripes, go and do it, then complain afterwards that we should have told her not to! Talk about random.
Dad’s far more logical. And less moody. Plus he doesn’t make a big deal about everything. Mum went nuts when I said I was going to do a Beauty Therapy NVQ instead of A levels. She said that Dad would kill me, so I was bricking it when I told him. I was even prepared to confess that I couldn’t take another two years of going to the same school as Tara (spit, spit) Reid. But all he said was, “OK.”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Why? What did you expect?”
“Dunno. Drama, I suppose. I thought you really wanted me to do A levels,” I replied.
“Well … I can’t have everything,” he told me.
What a dude.
8.25 a.m.
Robbie called at 8.15 a.m.! I went giddy as soon as I heard his voice.
He said he remembered me telling him that I leave for work at eight-thirty, and he wanted to catch me before I left.
OMG. A boy that actually listens. He’s so–oo perfect!
Well, almost. We can’t meet today. His mum has arranged a surprise birthday dinner for his gran and he has to be there.
“There’s always tomorrow,” I chirped, trying to hide how gutted I was.
“I wish,” he said. “But I’m going to Ayia Napa tomorrow.”
AYIA NAPA?! After that, I could hardly hear him above what was going on in my head. (Mainly: No–ooooooooo!)
“The boys in the team always go there before pre-season training starts…”
Ayia Napa? With a bunch of footballers? Double no–ooooooooo!
“Probably would’ve binned it if I’d met you sooner, but…”
Bin the sun, sea and sand, and the perfect girls in their teenie-weenie perfect bikinis? Do I believe him? Hell, noooooooooo!
“Remy?”
“Hmm?”
“I was just saying that I feel like I’ve met the perfect girl and now I’m not going to see you for a week.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, swooning.
“Look, I know it’s a bit of a liberty, and you’re a stunning girl that’s probably got loads of boys chasing after you, but do you think you could hold ’em off and wait for me to take you out next Saturday?”
So I took a deep breath and tried to make myself sound casual. “Sure,” I said. “See you next Saturday.”
OMG. He called me the perfect girl. I have absolutely nothing to worry about.
But just in case: Dear God, please, please, ple–eeeeease don’t let Robbie meet a girl in Ayia Napa and I promise that I’ll never bitch about the Feminazi – no, will be respectful: Kara – again.
6.25 p.m.
Room’s tidy. Nothing to do with me and everything to do with clean-up-mad Mum. (Thanks, Mum.) It’s wicked to come back to a place where the carpet is actually carpet and not knickers, bras and jeans. Especially as today was a big bag of rubbish. When I got to work, Natasha asked how my date went with Robbie. She reckons he’s fit, which is a major compliment coming from Natasha, but before I could tell her that, Kara marched up and asked, “How did it go?”
I thought she was still talking about my date with Robbie. “It was amazing,” I replied. “He took me to Le Grove. Have you heard of it? It’s a—”
“No, I meant at the college salon,” she snapped, interrupting me mid-sentence.
“Oh,” I said. “Not too bad.”
She arched one eyebrow and scoffed, “Not too bad? How would the world survive if we had to rely on ‘Not too bad’?” As if manicuring and waxing people could solve global warming.
I just shrugged and mumbled, “Well, I suppose it’s up to you now.” (Meaning whether or not I pass my NVQ.)
And she replied, “Yes, I suppose it is.” Then she turned round and trotted off on her high horse. Aargh! That Feminazi does my head in.
Oops! (Sorry, God – one last chance?)
6.35 p.m.
Dad came home on time, so I thought we’d have some normality at last, but he just dropped off his work bag and then shouted to me – not Mum – that he was going to the pub. Madness.
7 p.m.
I’ve been having some textual seduction with Robbie. Yay!
Robbie: Princess I’ve been thinking about u all day. What you doing to me?
Me: Gorgeous Ive been thinking about u 2.
Robbie: Good.
Me: No. Good with a cherry on top. x
Robbie: Wish I could cancel my grans bday dinner and spend the night with u instead. x
I’ve read his last message about twenty times now. And I feel like I’m floating up to the heavens every single time.
8 p.m.
Mum came in and gave me a lecture about my bedroom: “I’m fed up with it looking like a bomb site,” blah blah. While she was having a right old rant, my phone bleeped. It was sitting beside me on the bed, so I sneaked a look: Help! At dinner from hell. Only a hot princess can save me. x
“This isn’t a laughing matter!” Mum screamed like a banshee.
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at something on my phone.”
“That ber–loody phone. Don’t ber–loody use it again while I’m talking to you,” she shouted.
“Oh yeah, that’s really reasonable, Mum. So if there’s some major emergency, am I supposed to ignore it?”
“What emergency? Someone’s run out of mascara?” she yelled.
I couldn’t think of a decent comeback, so I ended up saying something that I knew would really get to her. “Just because Dad called you a liar, don’t take it out on me.”
Her face went so angry, it scared me. “I’ve had enough of your lip, young lady!” Then she stormed off. Thank God. She looked like she’d have killed me otherwise.
8.05 p.m.
Feeling guilty about mentioning Dad. But she did push me into it.
8.30 p.m.
No more texts from Robbie.
Why does he have to go to Ayia Napa?
Phoning Kellie. Need moral support.
11.30 p.m.
Spoke to Kellie for ages tonight. Didn’t realize how much pressure she’d been under with her exams. She said she’d been so stressed, her face had broken out in spots. I told her I’d believe that when I saw it.
Kellie’s skin is the best. Not only is it smooth, but because she’s mixed-race it also happens to be a golden brown that makes me want to rub on some St Tropez tan.
Anyway, she took her last exam today and now she’s looking forward to just chilling out. I asked if she fancied catching a film (because what with falling out with Mum and fretting about Robbie, I needed to escape) but she wasn’t up for it. So I expected to have the crappiest night in ever, but sometimes my big sis is like a twenty-four-year-old version of Dr Phil (with blonde hair and big boobs). Tonight she cancelled going to see Boring Roger because she could see I was worried about something. But she knows I clam up when people ask what’s wrong, so instead she said, “Know what, I can’t be arsed to get done up tonight. I’ll stay in. We can make popcorn and watch Titanic.”
Pride and Premiership Page 3
