by Lynda Renham
‘What’s wrong with your eye?’ Ashby asks.
‘I think I have something in it.’
Like a false eyelash.
I pull the lid up, and smile at him through a half curtain of lash.
‘Something’s happened to your eyelash,’ he says, looking at me curiously.
‘Everything okay?’ asks Mr Snograss, brushing past me.
‘I need the ladies.’
‘It’s the little room on the left.’
It would be the little room wouldn’t it?
‘I say, your eye looks funny.’
I rush into the loo and lock the door. I struggle to take a deep breath and study my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are bright pink and my left eye is bloodshot where the eyelash has irritated it. I whip them both off roughly. How could everything have gone so badly wrong? I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. I’d had everything planned, from arriving with my tall, dark, not black, handsome man to the Instagram and Facebook photos I’d post later. I even had my little speech ready for Ashby.
‘We’ve not been together long but it works and as you can see he’s easy on the eye too.’
I flop on to the toilet seat and drop my head into my hands. My phone bleeps and I pull it from my bag. It’s a text from Roger.
‘I think things went very well. I’ve given it some thought and have decided we should see each other again. You seem like a nice person apart from the credit cards and a tendency to drink too much but I’m sure we can sort those out. Are you free Wednesday? I’ve got an exhibition. You can come and see me exhibit.’
No one can say I can’t get men. I just can’t get the right one.
‘Roger,’ I text back, ‘Thanks so much. But I’d much rather rip off my toenails with pliers than see you again.’
I check the time. Only another two hours to go. After all, I might as well get my money’s worth.
*
Sunday 21st January: 11 am
Have come to accept that I’m destined to be a spinster for the rest of my life. I’m a disaster where men are concerned. Considered entering a convent, although I can’t say I’m that struck with the outfit, but at least I’d be fed and watered. Mak said I’d have to give up pork pies. Not sure I could give up pork pies forever. Not even for God.
Checked finances online to find escort fee had taken me way over my overdraft limit. Suggested to Mak that he should come round with a couple of balaclavas and we’d raid Barclays Bank in town and that Imogen could drive the getaway car. Mak pointed out that her Nissan has a top speed of thirty, and on a cold day we’d be lucky if it even starts. So much for a life of crime.
It’s my birthday in a few weeks. How can I be thirty-four and without a boyfriend? Maybe Mum is right. My eggs will be well and truly stale by the time I want babies.
Malcolm was lovely and took me for fish and chips after the catastrophic do at the Snograss’s.
The only interest Ashby had shown was to ask how long I had known Malcolm. I’d quickly made sure to say that it wasn’t serious and that we’d only known each other for a short time, but he’d just waffled on about how Essex Earring was up for a promotion at Lynworths. Then to make matters worse, Elizabeth posted tons of pictures on to Instagram tagging me and ‘my boyfriend’ Malcolm. To make things doubly worse, Ashby had commented on one of them, saying, how we made a lovely couple. Gutted. It was an awful photo too and clearly showed that I’d gained weight since we split. Too many Besties. I’m seriously one BFM (big fat mess).
Have ordered a bunch of self-help books from The Book People. Couldn’t believe how cheap they were. Was only going to buy one but couldn’t decide which one it should be and came to the conclusion that as I was in such a bad way the more the better. Cheaper than therapy anyway and Imogen swears by them. Mind you, she’s not much of a recommendation.
Not a good day. Looked in the mirror and felt sure my jawline was sagging. I’m only thirty-three; surely one’s jawline shouldn’t sag at thirty-three? I’ve got crow’s feet too. Around my eyes that is, not my jaw. Ordered some very expensive face cream that Imogen said was fantastic. She didn’t tell me that the price was also fantastic. Forty quid for face cream. What a shame you can’t get fake anti-wrinkle cream. Read somewhere that Joanna Lumley only ever uses Astral cream. Checked photos of Joanna Lumley and decided I’d best go for the expensive stuff.
‘Buy cheap, buy twice,’ my mother says, and she’s quite right of course.
Can’t believe I have invites coming out of my ears and it’s not even February yet. Why is it when you have a boyfriend you don’t get invited to anything and then when you haven’t got a boyfriend, the whole world invites you? It’s like all my friends want to fix me up. Huh, they’ll be lucky. I can’t fix me up, nor can my sister, or Mak and Imogen. I’m not fixupable. Must focus on the Guildhall ball, that’s the big one after all. Must have a date for that no matter what happens.
Checked my messages and saw Marcia Plumb’s invite. Yuk, don’t want to go to that. Marcia’s an ex-alcoholic and spends her life telling everyone, ‘I was twelve years sober.’ I always think she’s going to say ‘I was twelve years a slave.’ She always tells the same gruesome story of how she fell off the wagon, only to climb back on a year later and then usually shows the scars on her wrist. Just in case you hadn’t twigged how bad it all was. So they’ll be no booze at that do and if Ashby is there with Essex Earring I’m not going to get through it on tea and sodding cake. Unless, they have blueberry muffins but I’m not sure muffins alone will do it. No alcoholic drinks allowed in the building it said on the invite, and mobile phones will be confiscated. Blimey, she isn’t Kim Kardashian. Still, I imagined she was afraid we’d phone for booze delivery. Wouldn’t be surprised if the guests are frisked for hip flasks on the way in. Don’t know anything about addiction but feel sure it must be horrid. After all, I know what I’m like with pork pies. Although I know that’s not as bad. Then there’s Jeremy’s fortieth, which will be alcohol free as he won’t allow even a whiff of it in the house. Have to go or Rita will make my life hell. And then there’s Lynworths post-Christmas do. Totally forgot about that. Never could get my head around Christmas parties in February. Totally weird. Mak said it was because the halls were cheaper to hire and it was good for team building. Can’t believe I have another work do and still no bloody date to take me. Imogen had bagged Mak for this one which meant I was left stranded again. Can’t believe I have two big dos to go to and not a man in sight.
Spent the rest of the morning depressing myself by trying on all my clothes and seeing how big my arse looked in them. Phoned Mak and Imogen to see if they wanted to go for an alcohol-fuelled lunch at The George. After all, one more dinner isn’t going to make much difference is it?
‘Sounds abfab darling,’ Mak had said cheerfully. ‘I could do with a roast. Give me fifteen minutes. I’m balls deep in ironing; us backdoor bandits know how to live you know.’
Imogen had answered in tears.
‘He’s done it again,’ she’d sobbed. Remembered she was supposed to be away on a dirty weekend in Brighton. Seemed Daniel’s mother had suddenly been taken ill. Imogen was all forgiving as usual and said she shouldn’t be too hard on the little weasel. I didn’t like to remind her that his mother had died the year before, supposedly. What a git.
Was just trying on a chiffon top that I’d got on eBay, when there was a terrible racket from next door and it wasn’t Harry Bloom’s drums.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Not the drums Jilly,’ I hear Harry say in a high-pitched voice.
There’s a crash of cymbals and I wince. I open my window and see part of Harry’s drum kit lying on the pavement.
‘How can you say no?’ she cries. ‘Have you any idea how important this is to me? I swear these drums mean more to you.’
‘Jilly …’
Another crash ensues as the base drum shatters on the pavement. Does the woman have no respect for Sundays? I open my door and peek around. Jil
ly strides from Harry’s flat, her eyes are wild. She’s dressed in riding jodhpurs. I’m starting to wonder if she has any other clothes. She holds a guitar in one hand and I watch in horror as she drops it over the banister.
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘There might be someone down there.’
There’s a horrible cracking sound as it lands.
‘Mind your own business you nosy bitch,’ she snarls in her horsy voice.
I gasp. What a cow.
‘I do live here,’ I say, ‘and I could have been walking into the flats when you dropped that.’
‘What a shame you weren’t.’
What a cow.
Harry appears behind her and pulls a face.
‘Jilly,’ he coaxes. ‘Come back inside and we can talk about this.’
‘Sod off Harry,’ she shouts, marching back in to the flat.
‘Oh no,’ he groans.
There is another crash, and then Jilly storms out and pushes past me.
‘Drop dead Harry,’ she screams.
We watch her rush down the stairs and hear the main door slam.
‘What did you do that was so bad?’ I ask Harry.
He exhales.
‘Eight hundred pound drum kit that was.’
He runs his hand through his hair.
‘Women, they’re a real pain,’ he mutters.
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Present company excepted,’ he says with a smile.
There’s no denying Harry Bloom is a very attractive man. Shame he’s up his own arse most of the time. He is now blatantly looking at my breasts. I don’t believe this. Honestly, you’d think after a break-up he’d have the decency not to come on to another woman.
‘Jilly wants to get engaged, like today,’ he sighs. ‘I’m not ready for that, at least not with Jilly. Did you see that temper?’
I nod.
‘I think your Jimi Hendrix days are over. She threw your guitar over the banister.’
‘Right,’ he says in a resigned tone.
There’s a pounding on the stairs and we look at each other.
‘Oh blimey, sounds like she hasn’t finished. Was there a drum she forgot?’ I ask.
‘Bloody hell,’ exclaims Mak. ‘What’s been going on? There are bits of drum kit everywhere.’
‘Oh hello,’ he adds on seeing Harry. ‘I’m getting the feeling they’re your drums.’
‘O. M. G.,’ says Imogen from behind him. ‘It looks like a war zone downstairs.’
‘Harry’s girlfriend proposed and Harry turned her down,’ I say.
Imogen whispers in my ear,
‘Do you know you haven’t got a bra on? You can see right through that blouse.’
‘Bollocks,’ I mutter, backing into my flat. No wonder Harry Bloom can’t take his eyes off my tits, I’ve got the things on show.
‘We’re going out for lunch,’ I hear Mak saying. ‘Why don’t you join us? I reckon you could do with a drink.’
‘O. M. G.,’ says Imogen. ‘You can see your nipples.’
I stare in horror at my reflection in the mirror. I might as well have gone out naked for what difference it made.
‘Harry’s coming with us,’ calls Mak.
‘Oh great,’ I grumble.
Chapter Fourteen
Lunch is a very boozy affair with Imogen opening up about her love life, just for a change. By her third glass of wine she’s crying into her Yorkshire pudding. You’d never think it was Harry Bloom who’s just had a break-up. I’m amazed how understanding he is. Not anywhere as near up his own arse as I had imagined him to be. He is dead grateful that we helped clear up his broken drum kit. Can’t say I’m that sad about it. At least I’ll get some peace now. It turns out that horsy mouth Jilly didn’t only propose but already had the church booked.
‘Well, shiver me timbers and call me Woody,’ gasps Mak. ‘That must have been a shock. Still one must be grateful for small mercies. She could have turned up with the vicar.’
‘Don’t you want to be married?’ Imogen asks tearfully, blowing her nose for the umpteenth time.
‘Well, yes, but I’d like to have some say in it.’
‘I don’t blame Daniel,’ says Imogen, ‘After all he has to think of the children.’
Think of himself more like. Mak and I yawn and refrain from reminding her that the oldest child is now sixteen.
‘Ooh, how did your night go at the Snograss’s?’ asks Mak. ‘I’ve not had a chance to ask you?’
‘Yes, how was your escort?’ adds Imogen.
I shudder with embarrassment. I really don’t want Harry Bloom knowing that I had to pay someone to take me out. I focus intently on my roast beef while their eyes focus intently on me.
‘Well …’ pushes Imogen. ‘Was he nice? Did Ashby get jealous?’
I try to look poised and in control but fail miserably.
‘Well …’ I begin without any real clue as to what I’m going to say when Imogen says,
‘How much was it?’
‘Not much,’ I lie.
Great, so now I’m well and truly buggered. Not only does Harry Bloom think I’m on Tinder but now he’ll think I’m so desperate for a man to take me out that I have to hire one. Talk about desperate of Camden. The worst thing is that it’s all true.
‘It was a bit of a waste of time really,’ I say nonchalantly, studying the dessert menu as if it was an exam paper.
‘How much was it?’ repeats Imogen.
There really is no stopping her. She’s like a dog with a bone sometimes.
‘Ooh,’ I say, without thinking, ‘they have spotted dick with custard.’
‘Don’t expect too much,’ laughs Mak.
Harry Bloom looks at me with what I feel sure is pity in his eyes.
‘More booze?’ says Mak.
We all shoot our hands up.
‘I’d much rather be with you guys anyway,’ Imogen declares. ‘Daniel can go fuck himself.’
‘Quite right,’ agrees Mak.
‘Maybe I should text him though. Ask how his mum is,’ she adds thoughtfully.
Mak frowns. Clearly he is also surprised to hear of Daniel’s mother’s resurrection.
‘Who’s for spotted dick, then?’ I ask to change the subject.
After all, it does seem like spotted dick is the only dick I’ll be getting for a while
‘I’ve got a date for the Christmas do,’ Mak announces suddenly. ‘He’s gorgeous and his name is Jasper. I can’t wait for you all to meet him.’
Imogen looks crestfallen.
‘But …’ she begins.
‘I know, sorry love. But you’ll get someone I’m sure.’
‘Christmas do?’ questions Harry.
And then Imogen has a brainwave.
‘We always have our work Christmas party in February,’ she tells Harry. ‘I don’t suppose you’re free are you? Only my boyfriend can’t make it and I really don’t want to go alone.’
I seriously don’t believe her chutzpah. The worst thing is that Harry Bloom only says yes.
*
Monday 22nd January: 11pm
Hurrah, fears of being a spinster are no more. At last Tinder has come up trumps. Am now a devotee of online dating. Feeling happy and positive about the man situation for a change.
Spent the evening at Rita’s and it was a total nightmare. Jeremy was in a weird mood. Insisted on wearing his dog collar the whole evening while Rita argued it made things hard for the kids. I don’t know about the kids. It made things hard for me. I’m afraid to do anything when he’s got that thing on. Even sipping a glass of alcohol free wine seemed sinful. Alcohol is forbidden at Rita and Jeremy’s so they give me some awful alcohol free stuff when I visit. It smells like cat piss. Can’t believe my mum wants me to have a life like Rita’s. A life without alcohol and swearing, I mean bollocks to that.
Jeremy’s face was permanently red with indignation at Rita’s use of the word ‘sod’. No matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t seem
to avoid using it. Honestly, it’s not like Rita swears all the time. Sod and sodding are the only swear words that she uses, if they can even be considered swear words. Rita argued that the word ‘sod’ was biblical and quoted ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ in her defence. I was a bag of nerves in case I said it too. Was doing really well until I said ‘blimey’ and Jeremy jumped on me. Not literally you understand. It would have been a bit out of order if your sister’s vicar husband jumped on you. He rarely jumps on Rita these days, let alone anyone else. He then proceeded to cross-examine me, asking if I wanted him to blind me. Seriously thought he had cracked at this point and was fully expecting a family massacre. After all, with his maniac kids and Rita, I wouldn’t blame him. And then he shoved his Apple Mac under my nose. Blimey was short for gorblimey which it seems is also short for God blind me. That’s what Wikipedia said anyway. How was I supposed to know that? Reached a point where I was scared to open my mouth in case the words had a double meaning. Spent the entire time avoiding vomit, breast milk, and double meaning words.
Rita went on about how her four-year-old was a child genius ‘He’s a clever little soldier, aren’t you?’ she’d said, kissing him. ‘He sits on the loo all by himself now.’
So can I, but I don’t go around telling the whole world I’m a female Stephen Hawking.
At one point the noise reached dangerous levels. I’ve been to rock concerts that were quieter. Brat-face genius, Niall, (who was named after Rita’s ex. Jeremy doesn’t know that of course. There’s a lot Jeremy doesn’t know.) grabbed my phone much to my horror and proceeded to slide back and forth on Tinder.
‘Aw bless, he’s trying to find you a man,’ Rita had cooed.
Was afraid he’d agree to an orgy. I’m game but not that game. Outcome, however, was very good. Can confirm that brat-face Niall found a lovely man named Nick who thought it very funny that my four-year-old nephew was helping me find a date on Tinder. Luckily he didn’t report us to the NSPCC and fortunately overlooked Niall’s message of ‘Arrrrrrh……………..HIV’
