The Art of Keeping Faith

by Anna Bloom

  The sales lady whose own figure resembles an ironing board looks me up and down.

  “Well I would say you are nearer a thirty-six C.”

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m quite an expert and rarely wrong. Let’s measure up.”

  Let’s measure up? I am not a pair of sodding curtains!

  “Fine, let’s, and you will be surprised to see just how wrong you are.”

  One hour later

  “What on earth is the matter?”

  I’ve nearly taken out Baz’ eye by throwing the goddamn Marks and frickin’ Spencer bag across the room.

  “Do I have big boobs?”

  “To be honest, Lilah, I try not to look.”

  “Well just look and tell me if they are big.”

  I thrust my chest out to make my point.

  “Moderate I would say.”

  “Baz, there is no such thing as moderate size boobs.”

  “Can we stop taking about your boobs now? It’s making me uncomfortable.”

  “Okay,” I grumble.

  “So what happened?”

  “The bitch in M&S made me buy a massive bra that would look okay on a granny and then sold me gigantic knickers to match.”

  “I am sure it is lovely.”

  I yank my purchases out of my bag. “Do these look lovely to you?”

  I wave them at him and hold them up in demonstration but Baz can’t answer because he is bent over double laughing at my granny no-sex set.

  “Very funny. I am taking them back for a refund.”

  “Maybe Ben likes big knickers and scaffolding for a bra?”

  “Ben has been hanging around skinny American girls for a month who don’t even need to wear a bra.”

  Baz sobers up. “That’s a very good point, Lilah, go and get something much, much smaller and preferably red or purple. It doesn’t matter if you spill out of it.”

  “Thank you very much. That is exactly what I told that crazy woman.”

  With a big huff I pick up my bag and march my way back to Marks and Spencer’s determined on super teeny tiny pants, or at the very least my money back.

  23rd November

  6.00 a.m.

  “Ben’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.

  Ben’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.”

  Tristan and Meredith do not like my song. Tristan has just banged on the wall and told me to “shut the fuck up.” I feel that is very unfair, especially on my birthday.

  It’s my 27th birthday, but who gives a shit about that? Ben is coming home! That is far more exciting!

  I think my singing has wound up Crazy Kit as well. He is tearing around my room like it’s a racetrack making a very strange growling noise. Who knew cats could growl? I sure as hell didn’t. This leads me to believe that my initial summation that he is a beast of hell was accurate.

  “Are you trying to sing the daddy’s coming home song?”

  Oh, my goodness. I just talked to the cat like it is a baby.

  Who cares!

  “Daddy’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.

  Daddy’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.”

  “For the love of God, will you pack it in?” groans Tristan from my doorway.

  “What are you doing up?” I grin with feigned innocence.

  “Why are you bouncing on your bed? And why are you referring to Ben as Daddy? That is just some kinky shit, Lilah, that I just do not need to know.”

  “Very funny. I’m just excited.” I give a little squeal to highlight my point.

  “You don’t say. Can you go for a jog or something to burn off some energy?”

  “No can do. I am saving all my energy for tonight. Hope you’ve got ear plugs.”

  Tristan does not bother to answer. He just heads back to his own room, slamming his door as he goes.

  Miserable bugger.

  “Ben’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.

  Ben’s coming home, do dah, do dah day.”

  11.00 a.m.

  “Did you get your birthday shag?”

  “Yep.”

  Tristan is swanning around the house looking like a smug arse.

  What a dick.

  “I’m not going for lunch with Mum and Dad,” I tell him.

  “Uh. Yes, you are.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Yes, you are, because they are going to be here in about …” He glances at his watch, “ … about two minutes. Go and get dressed before you give Mum something to moan about.”

  Great.

  “Tristan, I give her something to moan about just by breathing.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  I stomp back to my room to get dressed for the brunch that I don’t want to attend. I have far too many important things to do. I have lost my tweezers again and my eyebrows have now taken on a life force of their own.

  Right, then. What can I wear to really piss my mum off?

  2.10 p.m.

  That was PAINFUL! But, at the same time, rather amusing.

  I completely stumped mum by insisting that I go out in my jogging gear, headband and all.

  Dad got my game straight away and pretended that there was nothing wrong with my attire at all. Mum kept glancing up and down at me, waiting for me to explain why I was wearing jogging bottoms, one of Ben’s old stretched out T-shirts, a highly visable sports bra under a T-shirt, and fluorescent yellow socks with trainers.

  I did not offer her any explanation. It was bloody hilarious.

  Meredith could not make eye contact with me the whole way through lunch, and every time she did, I adjusted the headband which made her snigger into her Gin and Tonic.

  To Mum’s credit she did not say a word to me in criticism, although it was clearly killing her on the inside to not do so. She just kept opening her mouth and then closing it again.

  The only downside of my little joke was that Mum drank even more gin than normal to survive the experience. And well, I had to go out in public looking like a prize plonker.

  It was so worth it.

  They have gone now and Tristan and Meredith are out being romantic somewhere, so it is just me, a steaming hot bath, a loofah, face mask and an industrial size tub of bikini wax.

  4.00 p.m.

  I have scrubbed until my skin is like a newborn baby—it is a little pink and wrinkly at the moment but I am hoping that this will die down. I have epilated every stray hair on my body and then lathered myself in the most expensive body cream I could find. I used Meredith’s, I am sure she won’t mind. It is a worthwhile cause after all.

  6.00 p.m.

  Time for a well-deserved drinkie. I must remember that I have not consumed any alcohol for a good few days and keep a steady pace. I don’t want to be passed out drunk when Ben gets home.

  Speaking of Ben I have not heard from him yet today; I’m trying not going to be disappointed by this. I know he is trying to get his work done quick so he can come home.

  7.00 p.m.

  Everyone is here and this is actually a lot of fun. I am glad I decided to celebrate my birthday this year.

  Beth and Jayne made vodka jelly shots.

  Richard brought a bottle of Jägermeister.

  Tristan supplied six bottles of champagne.

  I for once did not provide any alcohol for our gathering. I am in charge of the food. It was all quite easy, lumps of cheese, some cocktail sticks and a few open jars of pickles.

  What a party!

  9.00 p.m.

  Cigarette time, or rather more fresh air time. The lounge seems to be spinning a little which is a bit odd. I don’t remember having a revolving dance floor installed.

  “You okay, Lilah?”

  It’s Richard who is struggling into his coat as he steps through the kitchen door, unlit cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

  “Are footballers supposed to smoke?” I ask, handing him my lighter.

  “Lilah. There are probably lots of things that the football team is not sup
posed to do.” He laughs a little obviously recalling some of the wilder moments the team is known for. I hate to think.

  “So, no Fiona then?”

  “No, she’s in Berlin. Or is it Frankfurt? I can’t quite remember.”

  “That’s a shame.” It’s not really, but I feel I should speak the sentiment even if I don’t mean it.

  “Excited for the big return of Ben?” he asks taking a drag of his smoke. I have a feeling he is not overly bothered about my response either but I don’t care. The mere mention of Ben’s name sends me into crazy mode.

  “Ben’s going to be home in three hours,” I shout while jumping up and down.

  “I am getting the distinct impression you are just a little on the excited side.”

  “Whooooohoooo,” I confirm with my erratic bouncing.

  “So guess you won’t be jogging this week?”

  This stops my erratic bouncing as I think about it for a moment.

  “Yeah, I am still jogging, not tomorrow though. Definitely not tomorrow, I am very busy tomorrow.”

  Richard scrunches his face a little, lip curled in distaste.

  “Lilah, I don’t need to know.”

  “What?” I exclaim throwing my arms up in the air, which knocks me off balance and I land with a bump in the wet flower bed.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Richard completely wets himself.

  “For the record that is not going to be a sexy look,” he tells me.

  “For the record, you are a tit.”

  “I’m not the one sitting in a flower bed.”

  “Well help me bloody up then.”

  I am just straightening up when I hear Meredith calling from the house.

  “Ben’s on the phone,” she says ducking her head through the door.

  I squeeze Richards arm as I turn to head back into the house. He just gives a shrug and grabs another smoke out of his packet.

  The Phone Call

  “Hey,” I grab the phone from Meredith and walk down the hallway away from everyone else.

  Something is not sitting quite right in my head but I can’t work it out due to the champagne and jelly shot combination, which is dulling my sense of perception.

  “Lilah, happy birthday,” Ben whispers low into the phone. My stomach makes an alarming dip but it is not necessarily a good sensation.

  Then it clicks.

  “Ben, how can you be on the phone, you are supposed to be heading into Heathrow right about now.”

  Silence.

  “Ben?”

  “Lilah,” he starts.

  I cut him off. “Ben, why are you not on the plane?”

  I hear him take a deep breath which exhales sharply through his teeth.

  “Lilah, I am so sorry. We went to do the radio interview this morning,”

  “Yes?”

  “And I was rushing the guys to hurry up and finish so I could get to the airport.”

  For one terrible moment I think they have had an accident, and that something truly awful must have happened for Ben not to be on the plane.

  “We were packing up and heading out when the radio station’s head of Music something or another came up and asked if we wanted to record a spontaneous live session.”

  “And?”

  “And, we kind of had to. It was a massive opportunity for us. The others begged me to do it and I could hardly leave them to do it without me.”

  Silence.

  No, I don’t think I understand.

  “So you are not on the plane?”

  “No.”

  “And you are not coming?”

  “Not right now, Lilah.” His voice is so low and I can barely hear it, but that may be because I have this terrible whooshing noise in my head like the tide hitting sand. I am going to be sick.

  I swallow it back down.

  “You are not coming to my birthday because of a radio interview?”

  Silence.

  “Lilah, it was not just an interview it was a one off gig for a major radio station, it’s huge publicity.”

  Publicity … Fucking Mihraandah.

  I bite back down my anger and wait for him to say something.

  “I’m so sorry, are you having fun?”

  Yes, but I was waiting for the real fun to start with you, you bloody dick.

  “Yeah, it is good,” I manage.

  “I’m sorry, Lilah.” My stomach makes another dive at the sound of my name on his lips, but this time I don’t want it to. This time I am so angry I feel that I may explode with the pressure of it all.

  How stupid was I to think he would come home just for my birthday? How stupid was I to spend all day preening myself like a bloody peacock? Why would he even want to come home when he has a life that involves radio interviews and live gigs and all sorts of exciting stuff I cannot compete with?

  “Lilah. I am sorry,” he says again.

  The tide is getting louder and louder in my ears. Deafening me with its relentless wave of emotion and stress.

  “I’m sorry, too, Ben,” I whisper before hanging up the phone and dashing to the bathroom where I am violently sick. Jelly shots and all. Taylor Swift is singing “The Moment I Knew,” but I am pretty sure she never threw up jelly shots like that when she was dreaming up her lyrics.

  24th November

  Well that was a success.

  So on the day after my birthday last year I spent the day nursing a classic Lilah McCannon hangover alongside Meredith on my bed whilst dodging contact with Ben.

  Wait a minute … that is exactly what I am doing this year. Did the last twelve months actually happen or am I stuck in some crazy Groundhog Day scenario where I just live the same crap over and over again never learning from my mistakes?

  Ben has called at least fifteen times today, which means I have ignored his calls at least fifteen times.

  Last night after The Phone Call our vaguely age appropriate grown up birthday gathering quickly disintegrated into a spiral of debauchery and excess.

  Meredith found me in the bathroom being violently sick. “What’s happening?” she asked clearly alarmed at my apparent surprise upchuck.

  At first I did not say anything. I just sat there on the black and white tiled floor staring at her.

  “He’s not coming.”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard.”

  Then I threw up again.

  I then decided to take the mature approach to my immense disappointment and replace all my lost fluid with Vodka.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I announced as I walked into the lounge after my bathroom foray.

  “Lilah, I am sure,” Jayne the voice of reason started to say. I held my hand up to stop her.

  “Jayne, seriously I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Jayne clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else and I decided to embark on an impromptu speech.

  “Thank you, my dear kind friends, for joining me here on my twenty fucking seventh birthday.”

  “Oh, dear.” Tristan sighed flopping down on the sofa believing the party to be over.

  “Let’s all get shit faced!” I announced instead, knocking back a shot of vodka—okay technically a shot may not be the correct description. More like half a glass of the stuff.

  The others all took my queue and followed with drinks of their own. The toast of the night was “Happy Twenty fucking Seventh Birthday,” every time someone did a shot.

  There was dancing. Singing. Crying (this was mainly me, but I think all the girls gave it a good go). There was also a rather juvenile game of Spin the Bottle that is probably best I don’t mention.

  Oh, who am I kidding? It was bloody hilarious.