“He won’t ask,” She replies confidently.
“He will. And you have to promise you’ll say yes.”
“No.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun.”
“It won’t.”
“Do it for me.”
“Why?”
I consider explaining that the number of nights she’s spent at home alone watching Friends reruns is a cause for psychological concern. No one likes Friends that much.
“Because no one likes Friends that much.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it. Do it for the potentially gorgeous children you might be depriving the world of.”
“I hate kids.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
But just as I think I’m out of ideas…
“I got it! Do it to peek into his dark and disturbed soul. Surely a guy that hot has some serious issues or flaws.”
“Oh geeeeeeeez,” she throws her lipstick into her clutch, “alright.”
“Woohoo!”
I grab her in a side hug and start singing, “You’re going on a da-ate! You’re going on a da-ate!” and jump up and down, trying to lift her with me.
“I’m not going on a date,” she laughs, trying to untangle herself, “he hasn’t even asked yet!”
We make our way back to the dance floor. Antonio is waiting for Chloe but the Stranger is nowhere to be seen. I eventually find him in a dark corner drinking vodka with more of the Beautiful People. My step slows as I approach. I can’t help but be intimidated by the Spaniards. All of them could be models straight out of a Ralph Lauren window display.
“Hi,” I greet him.
“Mi amor!” He seems thrilled to see me. I wish he didn’t, now it’s going to be thrice as hard to accomplish Mission Get-Him-To-Start-Thinking-Of-Me-As-Girlfriend-Material.
Courage, Penny.
“I think I’m going to head off, I’m about to faint from hunger.”
“You no wait, and come home with me?” He leans in so the others can’t hear.
“No, I don’t think so. You see, when I get really hungry I get angry, and when I get really angry I get hangry. And you do not want to see me hangry.”
The joke is lost on him and his smile disappears. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he leans down to kiss me on the cheek (not a lingering kiss, but a short peck) and says something really odd that I ponder for the rest of the night,
“I respect you, Penelope.”
***
Welp, it’s been a long, lazy Sunday. I went for a run when I got up, came back and messaged Mags to see if she still wanted to come over for Epic Fry Up Bad Movie time. I’m not much of a cook but frying bacon, eggs, sausages, mushies, spinach and toast is something even a culinary-challenged person like myself can pull off.
Mags doesn’t cook at all, ever. When she was little she tried making apple crumble but used a plastic dish instead of porcelain, almost poisoning her entire family with the toxic fumes billowing out of the oven. Her parents issued a permanent kitchen ban and when she left home she never bothered to relearn. It’s probably best for all involved, bless her but she is the most absent minded person I know. London would probably have another one of those monster historical fires if she ever turned her stove on.
I always ask her round whenever I bother cooking anything. No one should have to live on Chinese take-out and canned soup alone, least of all sweet, freckly Mags. Plus, I love her company. There’s no one I’d rather schlep about the apartment with.
We’ve spent the afternoon chatting and watching DVDs. Don’t tell anyone, but Mags and I share a passion for super cheesy movies. Last week we watched Labyrinth (You remind me of the babe. What babe? The babe with the power. What power? Power of voodoo. Who do? You do. Do what? Remind me of the babe). I will argue to the day I die that David Bowie jumping around in tights was the most brilliant idea for a movie ever. Mags and I had started bounding round the apartment to Dance Magic Dance, scream-singing “What kinda magic spell to use?!” before the General started ramming his walking stick against the ceiling below us. If half deaf Mr Harold is bothered, then true we were probably being too loud.
Today has been much less rowdy than last Sunday, so far no complaints from the man and his dog below. We’re watching my new TV show obsession, Girls. I’m a die-hard fan of Sex and the City, but I gotta say it is a little bit ‘fantasy unicorn fairy world does New York’. Girls is much more real, much more applicable to our dark, depressing lives (okay okay, my dark and depressing life). You know how in SATC all four characters have it all – great looks, great careers, an endless supply of incredible outfits they’d never be able to afford in real life, and the only thing missing from their lives is a good man? Well, the Girls crowd are a tad more realistic, what with all the money and body and professional issues. And Lena Dunham rules.
Mags has been telling me about her date with Stalker. As she chirps away, I can’t help but fail to understand two things. First, it’s already Sunday (where has the weekend gone?) and second, Mags actually went on a date with that guy.
“... so I had to mark exams all day, but in the evening we went to the Red Pearl for cocktails. He’s nice, but there were a few tiny things about him I wasn’t sure about.”
I pause the episode on a particularly unflattering shot of Marnie. I hear my phone ping but I ignore it.
“What’s the dealio, gangsta?” I try to mimic his faking-the-funk accent but Mags doesn’t appear to have heard me,
“It’s not that I don’t like him. I do. We got along and he dresses well, plus he’s interesting and cute…”
Are we still speaking about the same guy?
“But… well… he’s not a great kisser.”
“What happened?”
There’s a bag of Malteasers on the coffee table, amongst the greasy plates of bacon fat and toast crusts. I grab a handful and start popping them in my mouth.
“It’s too embarrassing to say,” she cringes.
I raise an eyebrow and offer her the packet (after taking a giant handful myself). She grabs the bag but doesn’t take any chocolate, instead starts ripping away at the plastic. Crunching away, I try to put her at ease,
“I once kissed a guy who literally tried to suck out my left eyeball. Was it as bad as that?”
“No,” she giggles.
“Is he overstepped the lip boundary?”
“It was more… there were a lot of teeth involved. Do you know what I mean?” I nod and she continues, “And saliva, but he does have a rather large mouth.”
“It’s not that big!” I laugh.
I quickly check my phone. Wellity wellity wellity, it’s the Stranger. I read it quickly,
Why you leave last night? I would like to see you. My place later today?
“Penny, it was like a fortress of teeth!”
She squeals while scrunching her nose, pulling a cushion up to her face. I quickly type a message back,
Do you have a dinner invitation for me? And maybe some flowers?
Then I turn back to my friends,
“Mags sweetie, as long as you weren’t thinking, ‘God Almighty in Heaven when will this end,’ it’s okay. Practice makes perfect, you’ll eventually teach him to withdraw the tooth-troops.”
I smile and place my hand over hers. Giving it a little squeeze I take the remote in my other hand, but just before clicking Play my phone pings,
You know I don’t do that
I feel sad for a moment. Well mister, no date, no hanky panky, cos that’s how I roll.
We finish the packet of Malteasers (okay okay, I finish the packet of Malteasers) which makes my mouth feel dry and unpleasant. Mid-episode I turn back to Mags,
“I thirst. Should we make sangrias?”
Monday - He Who Shall Not Be Named
I’m slouched at my desk, struggling to keep my fat head erect so that my eyes can meet the monitor’s screen. Why did I insist on sangrias last night? Why do I consistently forget
my obligation to be a fully functioning human being the day after I drink? And how come all that greasy food we ate yesterday failed to soak up the wine? Damn you Extra Lean Smoked Bacon Rashers, damn you to hell.
I see Stalker approaching from the opposite end of the office. Wanting to avoid having to pretend like I have any interest in what he has to say, I look down at my phone, but my desk is not my apartment – I can’t block out sudden, unwanted social interaction – and within less than a minute he’s leaning on the edge of my work bench.
“What up, dawg!?”
“Hi Sam, what is it?” I greet wearily, shifting my strained neck tendons to face him, brain creaking in protest.
“Meeting time!” he sings, walking past me towards the conference room.
What? 11 a.m. already? I had accepted Angrypants’ invite when I first got in this morning but yikes, I haven’t read the scope yet. I don’t even know who the client is! Bloody Schmermesco bustin’ my balls...
“Come along Jonesy, we don’t have all day,” Sarah taps my desk with her long sharp fingernails as she glides past.
She waves me into the room. Angrypants refuses to call anyone by their first names. My surname is actually just Jones, but she doesn’t like that. I saw the email about the job this morning but only had time to accept the invite before rushing on with Schmermesco. All I know about this new project are the team (me, Stalker, Angrypants) and that it’s important, because Sarah never wastes time on internal meetings unless it’s bringing a bucket load of cash into the firm.
This is my first case with Stalker and I tell you what it couldn’t have come at a worse time. He’s new to the firm so I’ll have to teach him the ropes, he’ll likely blow the budget because all new Associates do, Schmermesco is bustin’ my balls (as previously mentioned) and just to add a bit of personal drama Mags fancies him. God only knows why, he told the entire floor this morning about how he accidentally slammed a kitchen cabinet door on his head this morning because he forgot to take it out.
I mean, I don’t want to be all judgey and condescending, but… c’mon. Who forgets to take out their head from a kitchen cabinet before closing it?
I watch Angrypants follow Stalker into the conference room. I stand unsteadily from my chair (swearing off alcohol for life as I do), grab my pen and pad and walk gingerly in to meet them. I wish I didn’t feel so completely shattered.
“Might I say chief,” Stalker is sitting right up close to Sarah, “you’re looking very lovely today.”
I squint my eyes at him. Careful buddy, you took out one of my best friends this weekend.
“Give it a rest Grabowski, I’m on a tight schedule. And stop calling me chief. Ah, Jonesy, so glad you could make it.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly, taking a seat across from them.
“Rough night?” She asks, one eyebrow raised, her thick horn-rimmed glasses sitting precariously at the end of her long nose.
“No it was a quiet one actually, watched a couple of movies, ate some junk foo…”
“Whatever,” Sarah interrupts, waving her hand for me to shut up, “I don’t need to know the ins and outs of Meg’s arse regarding your personal life. Let’s get to it.”
I look down at my pad. This woman has an incredible knack for making me and my teammates feel like dimwit thieves stealing her precious time. I mean, where’s the love, man? I’ve been working with her the longest and she still bullies me as if I were a clerk. I wish I could say something to stand up for myself, but I never do. None of us do. This is a law firm and there is a strict hierarchy to adhere to. I am an Associate, she is a Partner. One day my time will come, or so I keep telling myself.
“Have you both read the brief?”
Stalker is nodding his head eagerly. I look up from the pad.
“For god’s sake Jonesy don’t look so worried. Did you read it?”
“I’ve been really busy on Tesco this morning.”
“I bet.”
She holds my gaze and stares me down, like I imagine a doctor would stare down an intern who accidentally left a pair of scissors inside a patient. You see, she had many, many mark ups on my first attempt at Schmermesco’s contract. Apparently she worked all weekend trying to include the reams of information I had missed out.
I go back to staring down at my pad.
“In a nutshell, the client is Lloyds and it’s a transaction. They want to sell Central Grand, ergo, we will be acting for the vendor. The kick off meeting is at 2:00 p.m. today at their head office. The two grads are busy on other work so it’ll be just you two on this one. To be frank, I’m happy about this. We cannot afford to stuff this one up. Lloyds are threatening to go out to tender on the next job if we don’t give them a smooth transaction.”
“Just one question…” I say before I’m cut off.
“Later. Read the agenda and prep yourselves. I have a meeting with Phoenix now that I’m already late for. See you both at quarter to two, downstairs.”
“Righty-ho, chief,” Stalker says, saluting her.
“Grabowski! Last warning.”
“But at my old company…”
But she is already out the door. Sam and I rise to go back to our respective desks, but like a piece of dark witchcraft Sarah magically appears in the doorway again.
“Jonesy, don’t forget to send me the surname of your plus one for this Saturday.”
Would it be rude of me to declare I’d rather babysit Brangelina’s entire brood than go to her wedding this weekend?
“Yes chief.”
I can’t help it. I force down the edges of a sly smile. She gives me a strange look,
“Why not invite that Spaniard from Friday the entire office seems to be talking about?”
Hmmm, interesting point. I’ve asked Chloe to be my date this weekend but I’m sure she won’t mind missing the hassle of spending the day cooped up in a reception venue in Brighton. But I can’t in good conscience invite him, he hasn’t asked me out and it looks like he never will. If I ask him first I’ll be giving him Hand, and we all know Rule Numero Uno: Never give a player Hand.
In my daydreaming I haven’t noticed Angrypants has walked back out. Stalker is grinning at me,
“Looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo,” he says, lifting his arm for a high five.
I reluctantly raise my hand and he smacks it, yelling,
“Go team!”
Back at my desk I look dejectedly at the time in the bottom right hand corner of my screen. 11:20 already?! My phone starts ringing and Chloe’s name pops up.
“Hey Chlo.”
“Hey, do you want to grab lunch today? Promise I won’t ditch you this time.”
“I’m sorry I can’t, I have way too much on.”
“Bugger. Let me know when you free up.”
“Sure, definitely. How’d it go at Rumba? Sorry I left.”
“No problem, Antonio and I were right behind you. We grabbed some sushi then shared a cab. Then he asked to dinner this Friday.”
I gasp.
“Yay! That’s super news, where are you two lovebirds going?”
“He suggested Nobu.”
I gasp again.
“That’s one of the nicest restaurants in London!”
“No it’s not, it’s a cluster fuck of nightmares. I won’t be squeezed between tables like sardines in a tin can.”
I say nothing. My silence and its associated disapproval say it all. Chloe sighs and continues,
“Don’t worry, I suggested Zuma instead. I’m not one to break a promise. But he did something weird on Saturday night and I’m not sure…”
“Oh no. Chloe… no!” I interrupt.
“What?”
“Don’t talk that way about him, you’ll only talk yourself out of this date. You need this date.”
“That is such a masculinist thing to say, nobody needs a date, but besides it’s a non-issue because I told him I’d go.”
“Alright!” I pump a fist in the air, “honey I hate to a bitc
h but would you mind if I call you back later? I’ve been put on a case with Stalker but first I need to finish another report which has about a million review comments and the track changes are stuffing up the formatting and...”
Chloe laughs, tells me to chill out and hangs up. I stare for the briefest moment at my phone as I drop it back on my desk. I hope the Stranger texts me today… But before I sink into a super cheesy daydream about him and me and a yacht and a deserted island I shake it off, Taylor Swift-styles. I have work to do! I power through lunch, right up to the moment Stalker pops over to my desk and says it’s time to go. I sigh. I barely made a dent in Schmermesco and I’m not prepped at all for the Lloyds opening meeting.
Sarah is waiting for us in a taxi downstairs. She talks about the wedding for most of the journey. As much as I am totally not looking forward to celebrating her ‘special day’ (pfft, marriage, what a stupid institution), I also cannot wait for it to be over. All she’s talked about besides work for the past two years has been this blasted wedding. Jonesy, do you think ivory suits my complexion, or should I stick to traditional white? Jonesy, peonies or normal roses? Jonesy, cream and white dahlia blooms or taller lilac stems? Jonesy, which song should we play as we sign the wedding certificate, Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F or Piano Sonata no. 15 in C Major?
As the months rolled on my patience grew thin, to the point where I would see her in the hallway and run in the opposite direction. I’ve felt like the office’s Gingerbread man for months (run run run as fast as you can), and believe you me, I’d much rather be eating gingerbread than acting gingerbread. Mmm… gingerbread…
We arrive at the Lloyds office and sign in at reception. It’s all very standard. Clients know we are off the charts expensive (you don’t wanna know how much I charge per hour, and you’d die if you knew Angrypant’s rate) so clients are usually waiting for us in a designated room. Today is no exception. Security clear us to level 24 where a kind, matronly receptionist is waiting. She says the Lloyds team are waiting and walks us to the meeting room.
I walk in first, Angrypants and Stalker following close behind. We are quite a stylish sight – two tall ladies in black suits and banker shirts, a young lad in a dark grey number with a Hermes tie and French cuffs. Even if he does sometimes forget to take his head out of cupboards, at least he looks the part of a lawyer.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 7
