PJ Staples and I have been drinking together since shortly after I arrived. I had strolled up to the bar and ordered myself a Prosecco with OJ, and within a few minutes a shaven-haired, tattoo-parlour-loving, ripped and chiselled meathead was beside me, asking my name.
I picked up immediately that he was from somewhere east. His opening line had been,
“’Ello luv, I’m Staples, but my mates call me PJ.”
“I’m Penny, nice to meet you.”
“My bruv used to call me PJ as a kid and it stuck, d’you know wha’ I mean?”
“Sure.”
An awkward, quiet moment had then arisen. Normally I would have asked a question to avoid said moment turning into one of those horrible, strained silences, but I didn’t this time, because I didn’t care. I’d stopped caring about anything. My life was in shambles, my relationships a putrid slop of failure, my career in tatters. So what did I care about social niceties at this stage? Fuck this guy and his lack of conversational abilities.
Instead of making polite small talk like I normally would, I had looked away and continued gulping my mimosa in silence. What I wasn’t expecting was what he’d say next. It was the very last thing I was expecting from Mr A Bit Romford,
“So... I fucked Sylvia Platt last weekend.”
Say whaaaaaaaa? This new friendship had derailed even faster than I had originally anticipated. Who starts off a conversation with a line like that?
But what PJ Staples lacked in style, he made up for in intrigue. I found myself nodding, my eyes wide as saucers, eager as punch to hear the end of his tale. I don’t watch TOWIE myself, but I’d seen what’s-her-face on an episode on Celebrity Come Dine with Me (best show ever!) where she’d insisted she doesn’t allow kisses on the first date. I had thought it had sounded a little thin, a little ‘the lady doth protest too much’ thin. Because let’s be honest, we all kiss (if not more) on the first date.
It was a shame PJ Staples had the charisma of wet cabbage. His tale of ultimate B-list Celebrity frivolity was about as interesting as watching a scab form. He explained that he’d been in Dubai last week to train a group of budding personal trainers. Whilst living it up, Dubai-styles, he had met Ms Sylvia at a bar somewhere and that was that.
I couldn’t quite believe the boringness of it, and had declared his narrative simply wasn’t good enough. I needed details! Saucy, scandalous details! I asked him whether she was any good in bed. He said she was incredible,
“I’m not even joking, she’s proper fit, proper salt, d’you know wha’ I mean?”
I had asked what he thought of her in general. He said she was awesome and that he was in love, couldn’t get her out of his head and had started stalking her Twitter account.
After that first wee chat I had taken a mental step back. Here was a guy who refers to himself as PJ Staples, who is as vanilla as they come (and tries to compensate with some interesting arm-ink, which isn’t fooling anybody) and he picks up Sylvia Platt. Sylvia Platt, guys! She’s so beautiful she’d hit a 9 easy, maybe even a 9.5. The ‘gentleman’ sitting beside me, on the other hand, is a 3. So what exactly is going on here? Us girls are now settling for more than two points down the Dating Scale? That can only mean one thing – there are no good men left. Or Sylvia Platt had some ridiculous beer goggles on that night, were a below-average 3 suddenly became a solid 8.
Seeing as he’d just declared his love for a raven-haired sex goddess, I determined PJ would be a safe bet to continue my drinking with. I would have preferred a less retarded chat-buddy, but beggars can’t be choosers. It was either PJ Staples, the couple in the corner both playing on their phones and ignoring each other, another couple nearby sitting in a cloud of palpable awkwardness (I’m guessing it was a Tinder date) and a junkie lurking near the stairs.
Plus, I had to start somewhere with this whole ‘making new friends’ experiment. So I ordered another round for myself and PJ, then tried to engage the bar-guy in conversation too, because hell, I’m not above a bit of bartender brown nosing.
The more drinks we had the less stilted the conversation became, and I started noticing PJ inching closer, trying to put his hand over mine, and I suddenly realised he was interested.
I should have gone home at that point, but I stayed. I stalwartly ignored the signs that this guy would be wanting much more than to hang out for the remainder of the evening, letting me go on my merry way at close. Stupid, huh?
More stupidly than that though, I moved onto hard liquor until Professor Buzzkill told me I’d had enough. I immediately started abusing the nice barman, then just as quickly decided that dancing would be a really good idea. I dragged my new friend onto the dance floor (read. an empty corner of the pub) with my last drink, and soon my feet got too sore in my heels so I ripped them off and threw them across the bar. Eventually, PJ started suggesting we should leave. I had laughed it off each time until he got frustrated, grabbed my arms and started dragging me towards the door.
And here we are now. I have broken glass in my foot and am being dragged out of the bar by a drunk skinhead, who is in love with a celebrity fantasy but obviously thinks I’ll do for the night.
I keep fighting him, pulling back with all my might, desperate for someone to help. But the people in the pub are reluctant. Professor Buzzkill is polishing a stein glass, deliberately looking in the opposite direction. And I don’t begrudge him that, because I’ve spent the last thirty minutes dancing barefoot in his fine establishment, sloshing drink everywhere, yelling the lyrics to songs at the top of my voice and making a right fool of myself. The couple of patrons scattered about are looking down and around and anywhere but the scene unfolding in front of them by the door.
I don’t have the physical strength to fight PJ off, and as we inch ever closer to the door I feel my world caving in. The ground is hard beneath my feet but it feels like it’s giving out as my legs turn wobbly from the shock. I’m about to be dragged out into a small, dark side street, and I’m petrified.
“Don’t worry, luv,” my abductor barks as he continues to pull me towards him through the door.
“No!” I manage to squeal, emerging from my shell shock, but still not knowing what to do besides hold my ground for as long as I can. I can’t believe I got myself into this situation. I can’t believe this is happening to me.
Just as I’m about to scream for help a warm feeling approaches from my left and I see it’s Blue. He steps between myself and PJ, forcing my captor to release his grip. PJ takes a slight step backwards as Blue faces him,
“That’s no way to treat a lady, mate.”
I see they are almost the same height. Blue has his arms raised slightly, his voice low and calm. Everything about his body language is saying ‘I don’t want a fight’. PJ fucking Staples doesn’t pick up on those cues, or chooses to ignore them,
“Nah bruv, she’s coming.”
“I do believe I have some say in this,” I interject shakily, feeling marginally more confident now that I have protection and wanting Blue to be safe before anything else. If he gets hurt because of my stupidity I don’t think I could live with myself. But my body is shacking like a plate of jelly, so I stay behind Blue and step on my tippy toes. Peeking over his shoulder I shakily quiver,
“I’m staying here.”
“Listen bruv,” PJ says, ignoring me and raising a hand to grip Blue’s shoulder, “back off.”
“You’re touching me,” Blue says evenly.
“Yeah, what of it?” Staples starts posturing, leaving his hand firmly clamped over Blue’s collarbone.
“Rather you asked first, old boy.”
“Is there a problem?” we hear a loud boom behind us.
It’s Professor Buzzkill. The gruff middle aged barman has left his refuge behind the draft beers and stein glasses and has approached us.
“No problem guv, we was just leaving,” Staples says, releasing his hold on Blue.
“No,” Blue says very slowly, moving his eyes from Buzzkill
to PJ, “I’m taking my friend home, and you’re to stay here. A chap ought to respect when he’s not welcome.”
Blue puts his arm protectively around my shoulders. I lead him to the corner of the pub where my bag and shoes are, then we shoot out of there quick as we can. I pray Staples has the sense not to follow us and cause trouble. Thank god, he doesn’t.
We begin the walk down Moscow road, Blue’s arm still hugging me around my shoulders. I can feel that he’s trying to steady my trembling body, but it’s not helping because the further I emerge from the shock and fear that had paralysed my heart and body, the more my muscles become gelatinous goo. I consider putting my shoes on but my hands will probably be too shaky to tie the straps, and the pain in my foot is so strong that I’m certain shoes would be agony. So I limp along, the pain and muscle-goo getting worse with every step.
“Blue... Thank you...” I eventually manage to squeak.
He stays quiet but continues to hold me as we walk-limp to my apartment. At about the halfway mark I let out a howl of banshee proportions (side effect of stress hormone release perhaps), before starting to cry in earnest. But we don’t stop, we continue until we’re outside my building.
Blue takes both my shoulders in his, forcing me to face him. I keep my gaze planted firmly on his shoes. My eyes feel sore and red, my nose is in danger of dribbling a nasty snot stream and I must look a state. I don’t want to meet his eyes with the shame and guilt of it all, but he shakes my shoulders in the international gesture of ‘look up at me’, so I do.
“What were you doing in there, Penny?” His eyes are furrowed with concern and his voice is low and gentle.
“I don’t know,” I say through the sobs, “I didn’t have a very good day today.”
And I tell him about Chloe, the Incident, He Who Shall Not Be Named and my dramatic resignation. I even tell him about the Terrible Thing, because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from today it’s this – the truth always comes out. Blue looks a tad taken aback when I go through that part, but as quick as his expression of astonishment appears, it’s gone again, and he listens patiently to the end,
“So that’s what happened. I was feeling like such a loser and some company, any company, seemed an improvement to staying at home.”
Blue interrupts, looking stern,
“You’re going to get yourself killed with that sort of attitude. You cannot drink alone with strange guys, you of all people know how untrustworthy men can be.”
“I know!” I wail, and the shame starts to spiral again and I’m crying into his shoulder because I don’t want him to see my face anymore.
“Hey,” he starts again, more softly now, “Hey, it’s okay.”
He’s stroking my hair and cooing sweet words of comfort. I know they’re just words, but they’re helping. I’m drenching Blue’s shoulder with this avalanche of emotion that’s tearing me in two from the inside out,
“No it’s not okay,” I sniff, “I’m a walking catastrophe. I thought I wanted all these exotic, fancy things, like a brilliant career and a fancy apartment and one day seeing Jerusalem, and maybe I still want all that, but more than that I want the simple things. Good friends, a decent boss, a boyfriend who stays loyal, a job where I can leave at five or six. I want a house and a garden and birthdays and anniversaries, and most of all I want this life of utter disorganisation and chaos to stop. I want it to stop, Blue.”
He’s nodding for me to continue. I don’t exactly want to tell him the next part but I soldier on because being honest with him and with myself is starting to feel very liberating indeed,
“But you know what’s worse,” I begin again, “no matter what I tell myself about how fabulous my life is, I hate being single. I hate it I hate it I hate it! I hate it when people ask me if I’m single, I hate it when people don’t ask me if I’m single. I hate waking up every weekend knowing that every boring, mundane stupid task I have to do I’ll have to do it alone. I hate having no one who cares about me and I miss having someone to care about. And most of all I hate having to socialise with single men, who are even bigger losers than I am.”
“Hey!” Blue laughs gently, “I’m single!”
“Not you, I mean the others. The guys with selfie addictions who you just want to slap they’re so annoying, the ones who whinge about how they’re so nice but girls always screw them over, the ones who steal my tips or stand me up. Or the guys like tonight, the borderline-rapists with their, ‘hey I just bought you a drink and paid you a compliment, so why aren’t you sleeping with me yet?’ attitudes. The players and the wankers and the thugs and the depressives and the deviants and the ones that are a combination of all of the above, I can’t stand them!”
I want to continue but my energy is sapped. Plus my foot is killing me, I’m standing like a stork on one leg to relieve the pain. I slump my shoulders in emotional overload defeat and finish simply with,
“Tonight scared me.”
“I know,” Blue replies. He’s quiet for a moment before continuing, “You’re not the only one who feels that way, I mean, about being single. Most of us are feeling something along those lines, perhaps not quite to that extent but at least partially. It’s just that some put on a better face than others. You’ve got a brave face, my little peanut.”
“Maybe, but it’s just that, a face. You saw what happened tonight, with all my bravado I become putty when something legitimately threatening happens.”
“But that’s normal. I panicked too when I saw that mug trying to drag you out of there.”
I don’t respond for a minute. I want to forget the events of the last half hour more than anything in the world. What I would do for one of those Men in Black memory eraser thingies. I’d erase not only tonight but the past eighteen months too.
“Hey, how did you know I would be at the pub tonight?” I ask.
“You have much to learn, Young Peanut,” Blue smiles.
“No seriously, how?”
“I didn’t, you forget we live in the same neighbourhood. I love a pint at the Arms, the bartender there, he looks like something straight out of an 80s cop show don’t you think?”
So it was a fluke I was rescued tonight. As I absorb the information, that I was a fluke away from being subject to god knows what by a sexual molester, I have a second of clarity, the first moment I’ve felt wholly lucid since I don’t know when. Maybe there is someone looking after me upstairs? Maybe Dad was right, and Grandma is having words with God on mine and Emma’s behalf, giving us as much divine protection as she can muster?
“Then I guess it was my lucky day,” I tell Blue, whilst secretly thinking, if you’re out there Grandma, thank you, you little legend.
Blue nods and we stand quietly.
“Blue?” I venture.
“You know you’re going to have to start calling me by my real name at some point?”
I ignore him,
“I am incredibly grateful for what you did tonight. I didn’t deserve that chance, not after everything I’ve done.”
“You’re very welcome, just don’t ever do it again. Now let’s get you out of the cold, and what’s going on with your foot, you’re hobbling all over the place?”
I open the front door and we head up past the General’s apartment and to mine, and I think over and over and over and over again of how lucky I am that tonight finished as just a near miss, nothing permanently scarring or worse. It was a very close call, and probably my last chance to make a change (If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change, hey, yeah! Na na na, na na na, na na, nah...)
Tuesday – Glenn Medeiros
I don’t remember Blue leaving last night. I wake to a ray of sun peaking through the curtains of my sitting room. I’m lying on the sofa, my duvet wrapped around me. Blue must have carried in the cover from the bedroom after I nodded off.
Dear lord, I hope I wasn’t sleeping with my mouth open again.
I yawn and stretch, replayi
ng the events of yesterday evening. Blue and I had tried scaling the stairs up to my apartment, but by then I could barely hold any weight on my bad foot. Seeing my distress Blue carried me over his shoulder to the bathroom.
You know how I thought I’d reached rock bottom yesterday afternoon? Turns out there’s another, deeper kind of rock bottom, one where you’re sticking your dirty, smelly, blackened foot under the eyes of a really nice and good looking guy who has to tweezer bits of glass out from the shredded folds of your foot flesh. It was mortifying. Utterly mortifying. It hurt like a bitch too, and by the end my foot resembled dirty, scaly, mashed up tomato puree. Gross, embarrassing, horrible. And excuse me but just how dirty was the floor of that pub to have turned my feet black? Wait a minute, scratch that thought, I don’t want to know.
After all the glass was out Blue helped me rinse, dry and disinfect my foot, then carried me to the sofa. After thanking him I don’t know how many times we had started talking. Really talking, in that light, pleasant way he and I seem to have fallen into, but with important themes cascading throughout our verbal melting pot. It felt substantial. It felt real. You know when you see a Disney movie as a kid and it seems all lovely and fluffy and fun, then you watch it as an adult and you’re like ‘Holy shit, what’s with all the blatant racism and underage marriage and Pinocchio’s Road to Paedophilic Catastrophe? How did I miss all that?” Well, that’s how I felt last night, but not in the negative Disney-writers-are-perverts-and-need-to-be-investigated-by-a-taskforce kinda way (especially the makers of Pinocchio) but in an ‘I-had-no-idea-I-was-living-in-a-state-of-delayed-puberty-and-it’s-time-to-grow-the-fuck-up’ kinda way.
So Blue and I talked. We talked about the future, what mark we wanted to leave on the world, what we wanted to achieve. I had tried to frame my incoherent single-is-shit ramblings from earlier into something semi-apprehensible. I wanted to get healthy, start eating right and drinking less, and maybe run a marathon. I needed a job which wouldn’t take years off my life expectancy, with a manager I respected and could learn from, and maybe go in-house, because consulting was too competitive and nasty, filled with Angrypants’ at every turn. It would be nice to get out into the countryside more often, I’d lived in London for years and hadn’t even seen the Cotswolds yet. I wanted to be brave and try new things, like maybe this bog snorkelling thing he had mentioned on Saturday. Then I told him a deep, dark secret that I’d never admitted to anyone, least of all myself - that regarding his question at the pub after the wedding, the answer was yes, I think I did want a kid one day.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 24
