Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  And then I remember. Now I know why he seemed so familiar yesterday. I’d seen this guy a few weeks ago, right here in Hyde Park. I’d been running my laps and had noticed a crazily clad man jogging towards me. As we passed each other his bright cornflower eyes had flashed. We had smiled to each other in that ‘keep-going-you’re-almost-there’ runner camaraderie kinda way. But also in a boy-likes-girl kinda way (I had thought anyway). After meeting eyes, smiling, then looking back down, I had thought he was really cute, except for his outfit which made him look like a high school wrestler crossed with Flo Rider.

  “How are you?” He asks, fiddling with his headband.

  I can’t help but be self conscious about the state I’m in. My upper lip and shoulders are covered in a thick layer of beady sweat (I sweat in weird places), my cheeks are tomato red, my hair is sweaty and plastered flat to my head and around my face, and I can feel my makeup from last night pooling under my eyes (also known as sweaty racoon face). It’s total and complete sweaty bush pig action, and worse, the stench of booze wafts off my skin like a foul cloud. Damn you sweat glands!

  “You’re good?” He ventures.

  “Yes, quite.” My voice comes out frosty as a blizzard.

  I’m not usually such a bitch, but it was the Eurhythmics last night.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Penny.”

  “I remember you from yesterday.”

  “And I you.” I say with as much malice as I can muster, “anyway, must get going.”

  I turn my back to him and start walking.

  “You think I was rude last night, don’t you?” He shouts from behind.

  I turn back to face him,

  “I don’t think were rude, you were rude.”

  “If that’s how you feel, I am deeply apologetic.”

  I can’t believe it, he’s smirking! It’s the most disingenuous apology I’ve ever been subject to, and that’s saying something (being a lawyer and all). I don’t quite know how to respond,

  “My Mum taught me there is never an excuse for rudeness,” I blurt.

  “Quite right. Then again, I’m sure even she would have known it wasn’t Sweet Dreams.”

  He’s wearing that conceited look from last night again. Oh, the nerve! I nod, and try to imitate his superior, private-school-prissy-boy-higher-than-thou accent,

  “Indeed. Well I’m sure over the long years ahead of you you’ll be having many sweet dreams. Alone.”

  And I turn around to sprint back home. I shove my earphones unceremoniously back into my lobes and turn the music up extra loud. I desperately want to stay and tell him off properly, remind him how insufferably rude he was, how he had embarrassed me in front of my work colleagues, how he had made me feel like the scum found at the bottom of a radioactive waste pond. But to be honest I’m starting to feel a bit queasy again and I’d prefer to keep at least some of my dignity, which would be completely obliterated if I threw up on this guys shoes.

  I hear him yell something behind me but it’s muffled by the music. I put on Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For You again. It’s my absolute favourite and if it doesn’t manage to cheer me, nothing will. For the next half hour I put it on repeat. The world might be full of shitty, selfish dickwads, but in Penny’s Music World men are all sensitive romantic types. Like Michael Bolton and Bryan Adams and the Backstreet Boys.

  I’m running too fast. My body is demanding that I stop, so I slow down the pace. As I near Queensway my thoughts turn from Blue back to the Stranger. I wonder if he’ll message? I wonder if he’ll ask me to salsa tonight? I know he’ll be there, all the Beautiful People will be, and it’ll be awkward if I go and he hasn’t asked. He might think I’m stalking him, he might think I’m desperate. Before last night it would have been fine to go on just Emma’s invitation, but maybe not anymore.

  You know, I’m quite upset with myself about last night. If both he and I were on the same page there wouldn’t be a problem. But we’re not on the same page. I’m loath to admit it, but I want him to be my boyfriend (god that sounds so pathetic, I will never, ever repeat that out loud).

  Not only that, but now all the power is with him. He’s got Hand and I don’t like that. You should never let a player like him get Hand. Take Mags for example. A few years ago she hooked up with a guy we later started calling Nick the Dick. He had introduced himself to her one night when we were all out (back in the days of the Awesome Foursome – me, Emma, Chloe and Mags). Mags succumbed to Nick’s lure and that night went back to his place. The next morning she woke up to find a taxi waiting for her at the front of his flat. She considered that a very bad sign, but being the sweet girl she is didn’t confront him. She left quietly. Well, sort of quietly. She couldn’t figure out how to leave his apartment block because the gate required a code or something. She was trapped inside for like, an hour, until another tenant walked in with their morning shopping. By then she looked like that guy with an axe from The Shining, desperate to just get the hell outta there. And yes, she missed the cab.

  Mags’ one night stand was complicated further because she had accidentally-on-purpose left her Tiffany necklace on his bedside table. Getting his number off a crumpled business card she found in the crease of her bra she called him and explained the situation. She was sorry to be a bother but could she please get her necklace back? He said that he was too busy to talk but what was her address? He had hung up on her and the next day an express courier arrived at her door with the necklace in a parcel.

  She had called me afterward, crying. You’ve gotta feel for poor Mags. There isn’t a clearer way of saying ‘I never want to see you again ever in my entire life’ than by express courier. But that’s what you set yourself up for if you give a wanker Hand. Which is what stupid me did last night.

  My legs grow heavier as I round my street. My chest is sore and my legs feel leaden. I sprint up my stairs, the final push, rip open my front door and collapse onto the floor of my apartment. It takes me a few minutes to recover, and when I eventually get to my feet again I immediately go to check my phone.

  It’s in the same place I left it, on the mantelpiece by the picture of my parents’ wedding. I adore that photo. Dad is wearing his treasured purple crushed-velvet flare bottomed suit, his perfectly groomed moustache with matching sideburns a celebration of the wonder that is facial hair. Mum’s face is beaming under her lovely Linda McCartney mullet. That photo usually makes me smile, but not right now, right now I’m too nervous about checking who has (or has not) messaged while I was out.

  I press the middle button with a sweaty finger. There’s a message from Chloe,

  Where did you disappear to last night?

  One from Emma.

  Feeling better? Please don’t bail tonight. Meet you there at 8ish?

  One from Mags.

  Hi pet, I’m meeting Sam tonight for drinks, very excited! What are you up to tomorrow? Feel like having a Penny Mags Retro Movie date?

  Nothing from the Stranger, and immediately I feel the onset of that familiar ache. That irrational, disproportional, deep sadness. That feeble, tired, worthless, kind of sadness.

  Still Saturday - Crazy Poo

  I lean over the bar to order a drink for Emma who has just arrived. I’m wearing my most provocative outfit and I’m feeling rather… well, rather sexy! You know those nights where everything just works? My hair looks glossy and sleek (I’d be a lost soul without my GHD), I’ve got my sparkly silver eyeliner on, my skin feels dewy and clear and I’m wearing my Choos (I’m not one for brands so when I find one I like I stick to it. Choos for heels, Gucci for dresses and Wendy’s for burgers). The outfit is perfect, Emma-the-fashion-critic just confirmed it.

  “So,” Emma continues as I wave the bar guy over, “did he message?”

  The smile on my face says it all. I take a long sip of my pina colada (by far my favourite cocktail, especially if it’s served in a coconut),

  “He did, it wasn’t anything mind blowing, but yes. Yes
he did.”

  “What did he say?” Emma asks quickly before turning to the barman, “one gin and tonic please.”

  He nods and starts preparing. I continue,

  “He said, ‘Hello’, then I replied with ‘Hello, how are you?” and he replied with “Good, how are you?” and I replied with “Good also’.”

  I am all too aware at how lame that sounds but I can’t help smiling all the more. I felt like I had flown up to the clouds when I saw his name flash up on my screen a few hours ago.

  Emma smiles kindly.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s great Penny, and it’s a good few words more than he ever sent Lizzy.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, sipping the coconuty pineappley froth off the top of my drink.

  I look over Emma’s head (she’s such a tiny thing, takes after our mother) and survey the place. Still no sign of the Stranger, but I can’t help appreciating how funky Rumba is. Every Saturday this normally humdrum Shoreditch haunt turns into a passionate den of Latino dancers as they come from every corner of London to salsa.

  Emma hands the bartender some cash and takes her drink. Her theory is that as long as she sticks to G&Ts she won’t get a hangover. I don’t know about that theory. For me it doesn’t matter if you drink one type of spirit or several, it’s all about quantity. Four glasses of different spirits will never do as much damage as a whole bottle of tequila, a theory proven in second year uni whilst playing the Jerry Springer drinking game (a shot every time someone swears, two shots when a shirt gets ripped and three shots whenever a chair is thrown). I was a very, very sick girl twenty minutes after starting that game.

  “Is Dublin coming out tonight?” I take another sip. Ahhh… alcoholic creaminess is my friend…

  “No, he doesn’t get a leave pass on Saturdays.”

  I’m glad to hear it, what would I have to say to the guy if I ever met him? Hi, I’m Penny. So, how’s that wife of yours, you COCK. I wish Emma would stop seeing Dublin and Rusty, but I think I know why she’s doing it. Might have something to do with the lack of intimacy and commitment shown to her in previous relationships.

  You know, I can never understand why Emma’s been so unlucky in love. She’s such a nice person and so pretty. I know I’ve said that already, but hell, indulge me in one repetition. People often say she looks like Natalie Portman. Tonight her hair is pulled back in a high bun (which suits her love-heart shaped face) and she’s wearing her ‘Blair’ dress. You know the Paris episode where Blair convinces Chuck to return to New York after the whole ‘Whoops I popped Jenny Humphrey’s cherry’ debacle? Well, the scene has Blair in a strapless, scarlet red ruffle dress. Emma was so taken by it that she made herself an identical copy, but hers comes to her knees, so it’s more of a cocktail dress than a full-on evening gown.

  She and I are very different, in looks and personality. She’s a short brunette with blue eyes (very ‘English rose’). I’m tall and blonde. But not in that atypical Aussie beach babe way. I wish. I’m too gangly, have no boobs and have brown eyes.

  “Are you going to hook up with the Stranger tonight?” Emma grins, sipping her drink.

  Before I answer I scan the room for the squizillionth time. They’re all here tonight – Arianna, Antonio, Emma - everyone but the Stranger.

  “Maybe, if he ever turns up. Do you think he’ll come?”

  “Absolutely, he’s probably just having dinner.”

  Antonio has strut up behind me and Emma. He puts a strong arm around each of our shoulders. He smells good. You gotta love a guy who commits to his cologne. He yells into our ears,

  “Hola, mi amores!”

  “Hey Antonio,” we say in unison. He is positively dwarfing Emma, who in her ballet flats is a shrimp next to both me and him.

  “Penny! You didn’t say bye last night?” He says.

  “That’s entirely your fault with all your Sambuca shots, I could barely talk by the end of the night! But it’s cool, I went for a run which sorted me out. Oh!” I turn to Emma, “You would not believe who I ran into at Hyde Park today.”

  Antonio whizzes his head around so that our noses are almost touching,

  “Your friend from last night?” He asks.

  I’m confused. Blue’s not my friend?

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “Last night your friend said she runs marathons. She also said she likes Latin music, so I invited her tonight.”

  “Wait a minute,” Emma detaches herself from Antonio’s grasp and points an accusatory finger into his chest, “which friend?”

  “Hey guys.”

  The three of us turn around. There is Chloe in a scarlet flamingo-style dress and a large red flower tucked behind her ear, her deep auburn locks curling softly down to her shoulders. Wowza. She looks incredible. But she’s not looking at me, she’s glaring at Emma. Emma glares back.

  You could cut the tension with a knife. I open my mouth to say something but Antonio beats me to the punch,

  “Hola mi vida!” He steps forward and tries to give Chloe a hug. She shrugs him off.

  “What is she doing here?”

  Chloe points to Emma and glares at Antonio as if he just sold their first born child for a slice of French toast. When he doesn’t answer (instead gives her a baffled look) she crosses her arms and turns to me.

  “Penny, what’s going on?”

  She gives me the same glare she gave Antonio (but replace ‘first born kid’ with… umm… favourite hat?). I open my mouth to reply but Emma beats me to it,

  “These are my flatmate’s friends. What’re you doing here?”

  “Who wants drinks!?” Antonio says loudly, realising the situation is not what it should be and trying to lighten the mood.

  “I’m outta here.” Chloe spits.

  She turns to walk back to the door.

  “Chlo, wait. Stay.” I take her arm and pull her back into the circle. I turn to Antonio,

  “Antonio, be a dear and get us three gin and tonics please?”

  I nod to the bar and send him on his way. It’s not my favourite drink, not by a long way, but when one is mid-weird situation you roll with the punches (and I know both Chloe and Emma like G&Ts). Antonio walks away scratching his head. Us three girls stand in a silent, awkward, tripody circle.

  “If I stay, I’m going to say something I regret,” Chloe warns me, looking Emma.

  “In that case, I insist you stay,” I smile.

  The joke bombs. I can’t help but feel a little offended. That was funny, wasn’t it? Guess the mood between these two isn’t conducive to humour.

  Chloe and Emma’s falling out goes back to Chloe and Crazy Poo (that’s a man by the way, not a bowel condition). You see, Chloe has a distinct dating pattern. It’s probably the worst one a girl could have, besides Maya who used to only be attracted to guys who had zero interest in her (until recently falling for Cupcake-Baking-Man-Friend). Before him, Maya hadn't been in a relationship for ten years. Anyway, we’re not talking about Maya. For the many years I’ve known her, Chloe has only dated alcoholics. It sorta fits, seeing as she’s a big drinker herself. Oh boy, the clobbered messes she has been out with… It’d boggle your mind, it really would.

  Chloe’s not an idiot, she recognises she’s got a problem. Since she and Crazy Poo split she’s vowed never to date another addict again. Thing is, since Crazy she hasn’t even kissed anyone else. Seems she really is only attracted to men who are dishonest, insensitive, unreliable and psychologically abusive. Why? I dunno. Maybe the nice ones bore her. Maybe it’s because these guys are dependent people, and they develop dependencies on everything in their lives, including her.

  She and Crazy dated for a year, and my stars, it was the perfect case study of a pendulum swinging, see-saw, rockedy rock rock relationship. When things were going well these two were the sweetest, cutest, most loved up couple you ever saw. They ate off each other’s forks, kissed nonstop, smiled at each other the whole night. Chloe wou
ld call him Cuddles and he would call her Crumpet. Most people would call that cringey, but personally I thought it was sweet and beautiful and I loved seeing my friend so happy.

  But when times were bad things got very ugly very quickly between Cuddles and the Crumpet. They never exactly fell off the Cliff of Relationship Insanity like so many of us seem to (including me with the Terrible Thing I Did to He Who Shall Not Be Named), but they came right up close to is shardy edges. When he was drinking, Crazy would get jealous, possessive and insecure.

  On one of their bad days Chloe stormed out of their apartment, saying she was going to meet me for dinner. He followed her and waited outside the restaurant, pacing. He later admitted he was certain she was cheating. He must’ve been relieved when he saw the tall, klutzy girl walking out of the restaurant arm in arm with his girlfriend instead of a dude to swing a punch at. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a one-off bout of jealousy. Whenever they weren’t physically together he would become irrational and convince himself that she was with other men. He’d accuse her of cheating even if she’d only popped out to by some yogurt and the paper.

  Personally, I think the root cause of all their problems was that pesky Dating Scale. Chloe is an 8 while Crazy Poo was a 6, maybe a 6.5 if you were being generous. He was punching above his weight and he couldn’t deal with the insecurity that caused. Besides the possessiveness and jealousy, there were massive brawls. One time, as Chloe walked away from him in the street mid-argument he ran up behind her and grabbed her long ponytail, yanking it back towards him so that her head and body jerked back. She told me that she had struggled, and he had ended up ripping out great chunks of her beautiful hair.

  That was the day his nickname changed from Cupcake to Crazy Poo. Chloe didn’t tell anyone but me about what was going on, so it’s not entirely Emma’s fault that she took Crazy’s side one night when we were out.