Pride and Premiership

by Michelle Gayle

  Titanic used to be Malibu’s favourite movie, then she introduced me to it and I fell in love with it – and Leonardo DiCaprio – on the spot. As we’ve grown older we’ve sort of used it as a bonding movie. Because it makes me proper emotional, I end up telling her all the things that are on my mind, from boys to sex to being bullied by Tara (spit, spit) Reid. Then she usually gives some advice – straight to the point, no messing. So by the time Leonardo said, “Winning that ticket, Rose, was the best thing that ever happened to me,” I was gagging to talk about Robbie.

  “Mal,” I said, “do you think it’s wrong to assume that a group of lads will get up to no good in Ayia Napa?”

  “Er, no,” she replied. “In fact I think too bloody right they will. Why?”

  “But how can you be sure?” I persisted.

  “Because they’re blokes, Rem. That’s what they do. Now why?”

  “Well… It’s just… Well… Robbie’s going.”

  “Oh, grrreat. When?”

  “Tomorrow,” I told her. “With some boys from his team.”

  “See what I mean? What did I tell you about having a back-up plan?” she said. “A fail-safe. You need bloody options.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts,” she cut in. “It keeps them on their toes, for one. And for two, it stops you from giving yourself completely – which is important.”

  “Why? That’s not the way you treated Lance,” I said.

  “Yeah, and look where that got me.”

  She broke up with Lance a year ago, and I thought about all the boys she’s gone out with since: Roger, James Murray, Garth Williams, Jermaine Dixon, Simon Taylor, Jake Kasper. And now she’ll probably add Goldenballs to the list. She’s a proper pulling machine. Not like me, who has only slept with one bloke who’s very far from fit, one who’s fit but was secretly dating my worst enemy (I hate you, Ray Pearson) and one who’s only fit when he’s just cut his hair.

  “What d’you mean? You’re happy, though,” I said.

  “Yeah … I am. But still. Get with it, Remy. Besides, it’s not like it’s gonna be hard. Even I can name a guy that’s probably still gaga about you.”

  “Like?”

  “Like … Spencer.”

  I imagined Spencer just after he’s cut his hair: Hmm. Then I imagined him as he is most of the time, and reminded her that he’ll be back off to uni in about 2.2 seconds. “Loughborough an’ all. That’s bloody miles away. That’s why we broke up. Remember?”

  “So?” she said. “You’re not looking to get married. You’re just making sure you can’t get played. And a player CAN’T get played.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure if playing’s my thing.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should check whether Robbie feels the same way first. I don’t trust him, Rem. He’s a bloke, for a start. Plus I’m not into that ‘leaving his mobile at the hotel’ crap. That’s why I reckon I forgot to tell you.”

  “OK. Point taken. Let’s just change the subject. By the way, Lance called for you yesterday. I forgot to tell you, too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said.

  “And I told him you’ve pulled a footballer. You should’ve heard him. He sounded gutted. A gutted little cad,” I added in Kara’s posh voice, giggling.

  Malibu didn’t join in. She sighed. “Yeah, well, they’re all the same.”

  “But not Roger,” I reminded her, thinking: And maybe not Robbie.

  “No, not Roger,” she admitted. “That’s why he’s my fail-safe, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Grr. I hate when she does that. It’s like she thinks I’m still a baby or something. I understand loads. I got an A in GCSE English, for a start, and you can’t do that without being good in comprehension. Fact.

  “And what about Gold— I mean, Gary?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Do you think a footballer can be good?”

  “Doubt it. But he is surprising me,” she said. “Some of the texts he sends are really deep. Like quotes from philosophers and stuff. So… I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Really?” I said, happy because that meant Robbie deserved the benefit of the doubt too (though I must admit his texts aren’t exactly deep).

  “Yep,” she replied. “Besides, anyone that says they want to take me to the Orchid Bar deserves it.” As she said this, Malibu broke into a massive grin.

  “The Orchid Bar!” I squealed. “No way!”

  We’d seen so many celebrities coming out of there in all the magazines that we read, and now my sister was going to be one of them!

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “You’re so–oo lucky,” I told her.

  Saturday 28 June – 7.30 a.m.

  Day Six in the dysfunctional Bennet house, and yet again Dad spent the night on the sofa. This morning I popped my head round the living-room door and asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

  “Sure, love. Why not?” he said, looking sheepish.

  Didn’t bank on bumping into Mum in the kitchen, though. She was up double early for Saturday shopping. Maybe she should buy some “moody knickers” tablets while she’s at it. That would help everybody. Anyway, after the look she gave me when I walked in, I didn’t bother to apologize for bringing Dad into our argument yesterday.

  7.45 a.m.

  Yay! Robbie has just texted: Getting on the plane princess. C u when I get back. x

  He’s boarding the plane but has still taken the time to text ME. He definitely deserves the benefit of the doubt.

  (Still not a very deep text, though.)

  Just remembered Malibu’s going to the Orchid Bar tonight. And the way my parents are going, I doubt they’ll be off down the pub – which means that they’ll stay in and ignore each other instead. I’d rather stick a hot needle in my eye than hang around their misery, so I’ll text Kellie and James. One of them must have something to do tonight: Hey guys its Saturday whats going on? Lets partyyyyyyyy.

  8.25 a.m.

  Result! Kellie has a birthday party to go to in Shepherd’s Bush. (She had been just about to invite me.) And James is going to hit the bars in Old Compton Street. He says I’m very welcome to go along. Decisions, decisions.

  7.30 p.m.

  Had the day from hell and need my NVQ, pronto! Then I won’t have to sit at the reception desk with Malibu at her nail station – the first one behind me – boasting about the Orchid Bar and Goldenballs all day long.

  “The Orchid Bar!” the beauticians squealed when she told them she was going there first thing this morning.

  “The Orchid Bar!” all her clients squealed when she broke it to them (within two seconds of them sitting down.) “Wow!”

  Yes. Wow. Bloody. Wow.

  I wouldn’t say I was jealous, but I was definitely irritated by the way she acted like Goldenballs is perfect but never mentioned the fact that she’s doing the dirty on him with Boring Roger. No. Her little fail-safe speech didn’t even got a look-in. Isn’t the universe supposed to punish people for stuff like that? Because I can’t understand why I – the one who isn’t stringing along two blokes – am coming off second while everything is going so perfectly for Malibu.

  1. Why can’t Goldenballs be the one in Ayia Napa and Robbie be taking ME to the Orchid Bar?

  2. Why does Goldenballs play for a bigger football team than Robbie?

  3. Drive a better car?

  4. Text her more?

  5. And why is it that even my loveliest message from Robbie will probably never compete with one of hers, because Goldus Bollockus always comes up with something deep and bloody meaningful?

  I felt even more sorry for myself when Malibu’s client Plastic Fantastic screeched, “The Orchid Bar? Omigod, it’s so–oooo you!” when she heard the news.

  “So, what does your Gary look like then?” she asked as Malibu started filing her nails.

  �
��Oh, he’s ama–aaaaazing. The spitting image of Will Smith,” said Malibu. Then she stopped filing, looked towards me and said, “Isn’t he, Remy?”

  I thought, this is it. This is the universe hitting Malibu right back in her face, because Goldenballs may have a lot of things on Robbie, but he is nowhere near as good looking. In fact, even though the club was dark and I’ve only seen him once – and it was a week ago – I’m 110% certain that Will Smith HE AIN’t.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, actually he’s er … he’s er…”

  I could feel everyone in the salon focused on me. And Malibu was eyeballing me. HARD. Her pupils were saying, “Back me up.” Not in a threatening way. They were begging.

  I turned to Plastic Fantastic. “He’s … a … a …”

  Then I caught sight of Malibu’s begging eyes again.

  “He’s a… Ugh.” I sighed. “He’s a dead stamp of him. Yeah.”

  I just couldn’t do it. Family loyalty and all that.

  “Oh my god. AND a footballer,” said Plastic Fantastic. Then she gave me a look of pity as she said, “Well, you never know, you could be next.”

  Aaaaaaaaargh! I hate being patronized!

  “Actually, I’m sorted,” I told her through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, really?” she replied, looking surprised.

  “Yes. I’m seeing Gary’s mate, Robbie Wilkins. He plays for Netherfield Park Rangers,” I announced.

  “Good on ya, girl. So are you going to the Orchid Bar too?” she asked.

  “Er, no. We can’t. He’s a … way.” I was starting to regret opening my big mouth.

  “Shame! Where’s he gone?” asked Plastic Fantastic.

  “Ayia Napa,” Malibu answered for me, and I don’t know whether she timed it deliberately, but the words left her lips just as everything and everyone had taken a pause – the phone, conversation … BREATHING.

  So much for family loyalty.

  “Ayia Napa?!” everyone repeated. It was obvious from their voices what they thought. That he’d cheat on me.

  Cheat on me? Listen to what I’m saying – he CAN’T cheat on me because I’m not even his girlfriend. YET.

  But I’m now even more worried (if that’s possible). And he’s there and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  8 p.m.

  Malibu came in to model the dress she’s wearing to the Orchid Bar tonight. Can’t believe she had the cheek to warn me about my LBD for the date with Robbie when her dress was so tight, you could see what she’d had for dinner!

  It was also luminous orange, to match her luminous orange nails. She called it her neon look and said it’s going to be big this summer.

  “This is the face I’m gonna pull for the paparazzi,” she said. Then she pouted her lips until they looked like Angelina’s.

  I must admit, she looked great. Goldenballs will be well impressed. She said she’s planning on them becoming the new Posh and Becks.

  Does Victoria Beckham know about this? I thought.

  8.10 p.m.

  James just called. “How ya doin’?” he asked, like Joey from Friends.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and said, “I need a look. What about going blonde?”

  He’s told me time and time again that going blonde will ruin the condition of my hair, but he repeated it one more time and said he’ll work some long layers into it.

  “Hmm,” I said. “I was thinking … a fringe.”

  “A fringe will be too drastic. It’s best to take baby steps,” he said.

  “Oh. OK.” I sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Remy?”

  “Nothiiing.”

  “Reme–eeey?” he insisted, and it was obvious he could tell something was up.

  “OK,” I said. “What chance do I have? Robbie’s probably already had about thirty stunning girls throw themselves at him in Ayia Napa.”

  “But you’re stunning too,” he assured me.

  “I’m not. And even if I was, I’m not size eight with big bazookas, am I?”

  “Remy, Malibu is Malibu and you’re YOU, a fabulous individual. Besides, I actually think you’ve got an advantage – boys like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. Now are we zhushing it up tonight or not?”

  “Um… No, I forgot I was meant to be going out with Kellie,” I said.

  But I actually made my decision as soon as he said “meat on her bones”. What makes him think that’s a compliment?!

  Oh well, I’ll get over it. Now I’m going to phone Kel.

  9 p.m.

  Dad was in the living room watching The Bourne Identity when I told him I was going out with Kellie.

  “Great,” he said. “Make sure you tell your mum.”

  So I then had to go to my parents’ bedroom, where Mum was sitting up in bed watching a film called The Bridges of Madison County. (She watches that almost as much as I watch Titanic – and cries just as much at it too, if not more.)

  “Mum, I’m going out with Kellie, OK?” I said.

  “OK,” she replied, snivelling. “Make sure you tell your dad.”

  I wanted to say, “Why don’t the pair of you stop being stupid and just talk to each other?” But there was no point, I know what they’re like. And it’ll probably blow over by tomorrow anyway.

  Right, party, here I come!

  11.45 p.m.

  Had an absolutely crap night. Tara (spit, spit) Reid was at the party that Kellie took me to. What a nightmare! First of all, she and her stupid friends kept blatantly pointing at me and talking about me from across the room. Proper playground stuff it was, like we were twelve all over again. Then one of them, Chelsea Braintree, had the nerve to look me in the eye and mouth “bitch”.

  “Just ignore them,” Kellie said. But then she went off for a dance and a smooch with Taylor Metcalfe, which left me on my own feeling like a right idiot. Two boys came up to talk to me. One called Brian, who was OK, so I said he could add me on Facebook, and another called God knows what because Tara walked by and deliberately bumped into me before he could tell me his name.

  “Oi,” I said, “don’t do that!”

  “Or what?” she snapped, pushing her face right up to mine.

  I was scared but determined not to show it. So I held my ground and said, “Look, Tara, what’s your problem?”

  “Stop playing dumb.”

  “I’m not. You’ve hated me from day one. But if you’re talking about Ray – I dumped him as soon as I found out he was seeing you too.”

  “You dumped HIM? Who do you think you are?” she said. “The fucking queen? You ain’t nothing special. With your elephantitis arse and bandy legs. Ray was using you, you stupid bitch.”

  I could feel tears building. And I really didn’t want her to see them. So I just said, “Yeah? Well, fuck you!” and ran out.

  When I hit the street, I kept running and looking behind to make sure she wasn’t following. I couldn’t see her or her friends, but I kept running just in case, until my heart was bursting through my chest and my feet were burning in my high heels. Then I stopped and checked how much money I had, because I’d planned to share a cab with Kellie. I knew £5 wouldn’t be enough to get me home, but I didn’t want to walk or take the bus – anything could happen at that time with the nutters you get round here. So I phoned home and Dad answered. I was really crying by then.

  “Dad,” I sobbed, “I’m on my own in the middle of Shepherd’s Bush and I haven’t got enough money to take a cab back and—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said before I could finish. “Just find a cab station and I’ll pay.”

  Kellie rang as I got to Radio Cars.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Tara Reid, that’s what,” I replied. “Kel, I don’t want to be within three miles of that girl.”

  “I didn’t know she was going to be there!” she protested.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t exactly have my back when you realized
that she was, did you?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “No, you didn’t! You were more concerned about snogging Taylor Metcalfe,” I snapped.

  “That’s so–o wrong,” she said. “Come on, Rem, you know I’ve been after Taylor for ages.”

  “Whatever, Kel,” I told her. “Just don’t expect me to have your back when you’re in trouble.”

  I knew Dad would want to know what had happened, so in the cab I made up a story about having a fallout with Kellie. There was no point letting him know that the Tara situation had been more serious than I’d let on.

  Anyway, he bought it. And went back to sleep on the sofa.

  I want to sleep too but I can’t. I keep thinking about what Tara said about Ray using me. I’d really liked Ray. And she said I had an elephantitis arse and bandy legs. Is that what people think?

  Is that what Robbie thinks?

  I hate being me.

  Sunday 29 June – 10 a.m.

  My phone’s ringing for the twelfth time in a row. I bet it’s Kellie again. Don’t know whether I’m ready to speak to her yet. She’s…

  10.05 a.m.

  OK. I answered it. And Kellie apologized straight away.

  “Kel, I’m already a nervous wreck about Robbie and I don’t need anything else on my plate,” I told her.

  “OK,” she said, “but I swear I had no idea Tara Reid would be there.”