by Niamh Greene
From Sexy Girl: Maybe his wife doesn’t want him back. Maybe she loves someone else. Maybe it was a big mistake getting married to him in the first place.
From Shaz: I hope you’re right! He doesn’t deserve either of them in my opinion.
From Angel: This so-called relationship is based on nothing more than primal lust.
From Sexy Girl: Don’t knock lust – friendship doesn’t keep you warm at night!
From Comfy Pants: Hello there, Julie. I was just wondering if you’ve ever tried hipster pants. They’re much more comfortable than thongs.
From Devil Woman: Are you for real? The girl doesn’t need advice on what pants to wear!
From Comfy Pants: I’m just saying – hipsters don’t ride up like G-strings do. M&S do a great six-pack. I’ve never looked back since I started wearing them.
From Devil Woman: Girl, you need to get a life.
From Graphic Scenes: Can anyone tell me when the hot sex is happening?
Eve
Dear Charlie,
My blind date with Cyril the accountant was a complete disaster. I should have known things weren’t going to go well when the only magpie for miles around flew straight past me while I was on the way there. You used to think I was silly to be so superstitious, but everyone knows that one magpie equals a whole lot of sorrow, and this bird almost mowed me down he was so intent on singling me out for special attention.
It had been agreed that we were to meet in the lobby of the Sheldon Hotel for lunch, and because it’s not all that far from the flat I stupidly decided it would be a good idea to walk there. I thought walking would help to clear my head and get rid of the nerves that were fluttering in my chest. After all, this was going to be my first date in two years. It was a big deal. Who knew what could happen? Cyril could turn out to be perfect for me. Doubtful, as I still couldn’t think of a thing we might have in common or what I could say to him, bar mentioning the trouble on the stock markets – not that I really knew what all that was about of course. But maybe he’d surprise me. Maybe he’d be charming and witty and not at all like the stereotypical picture of an accountant I had in my head. Maybe he’d fallen into accountancy because his parents had pressured him into it. Maybe numbers and spreadsheets and balancing books did nothing for him and he really wanted to be an artist. Maybe we’d look at each other and fall madly in love at first sight. It wasn’t very likely, but it was possible.
Thinking about it all had made me really nervous, and that’s why I decided to walk – I knew it would help calm me down. The trouble was, Anna had insisted that I had to make a bit of an effort to impress Cyril so I wasn’t allowed to wear my favourite flat shoes. She said that if I wanted to look the part of a happy-go-lucky single girl about town then I was at least to put on some slutty high heels. She tried to persuade me to wear a low-cut top as well, but I drew the line there. I wore my failsafe wool polo neck instead – the one you once jokingly said made me look like a librarian, although I tried not to think about that.
Anyway, I forced my feet into my one pair of heels and set off, but the thing is, I’d forgotten how walking in anything more than an inch can be so treacherous. I’ve become so used to going everywhere in my trainers that I ended up tripping over my feet every few steps. I had to slow right down and sort of tiptoe along the footpath to avoid falling flat on my face. It’s no wonder that magpie picked me out of the crowd – I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.
By the time I wobbled unsteadily into the hotel I was fifteen minutes late. I wasn’t that worried though. Anna told me that you’re allowed to be late for a blind date – in fact it’s almost part of the deal. Arrive late in case your date hasn’t shown up yet; don’t sit at the bar looking like a total loser and craning your neck every time the door opens: those are the unwritten rules. But it turns out that Cyril didn’t know about the rules, or if he did he’d decided not to abide by them.
I spotted him the minute I entered the lobby. He was the only one wearing a too-tight suit and reading the Financial Times while all the other red-blooded males were downing lunchtime pints and chewing open-mouthed on cheese toasties. He was holding the paper really close to his face, like he was short-sighted or trying to hide – I couldn’t figure out which, and by then I didn’t care. I was so relieved to have made it at all that I limped across to him, introduced myself and was just about to collapse on a stool and rest my weary feet when he looked me up and down, checked his watch, said he couldn’t have a relationship with someone who wasn’t punctual, folded up his beige Burberry trench coat and left without saying another word. I had just broken the record for the shortest blind date in history. So I wobbled home again, completely deflated.
Anna was really annoyed when I told her what happened. In fact, she wanted to call and threaten him with physical violence. It took me ages to convince her not to. She says I’m to forget all about him and that just because he wasn’t the One it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t persevere and keep looking for love – or a good shag at the very least. I said I never got a chance to find out if he was the One or not – he hightailed it out of the lobby too fast (and there was no way he was getting me into bed: anyone who wears a polyester suit is definitely not my type).
Anna said I can’t give up and I have to put myself out there. I said I didn’t particularly want to put myself out there – that ‘out there’ was far too scary and I was happiest where I was: holed up in my flat, not being rejected by complete strangers. Then she said I had to cop myself on and that she wouldn’t be as happy as she was now with Derek if she hadn’t taken a few chances on the way. I didn’t want to tell her that ending up with a man who likes to wedge himself into my G-strings is not my idea of a successful relationship. But then who am I to judge? I haven’t had any sort of relationship since you left – successful or otherwise. Perhaps sharing your underwear with a sixteen-stone man wouldn’t be all bad. Perhaps I should try to take more risks.
If I’m honest with myself though (and Mary the therapist tells me that’s part of my problem), I always knew that this blind-dating lark would never work. I’m destined to be alone for the rest of my life, and I think I’d be far happier that way.
I didn’t tell Anna that, of course. She’s so gung-ho on finding me true love that I couldn’t tell her the truth. She’s already talking about organizing another date for me. I’m dreading it after this disaster, but I know better than to say no to her – she’s more determined than ever to find me someone new. So I lied and told her that I was looking forward to it. I’m not sure she believed me though: I’m not much good at telling fibs. If only I’d been more observant when we were together. You lied to me for so long that if I’d been paying attention I could have become an expert. Then again, if I think about it, I used to lie to you too.
Do you know that, secretly, I never agreed with you about the marriage thing? The reality is I used to fantasize that you’d change your mind about marrying me. I used to dream that you’d whisk me off my feet and I would get the chance to wear a meringue dress, have fifteen bridesmaids and dither between choosing chicken or beef for the wedding menu. Silly, I know. I hate chicken and beef, but fish is still not an acceptable option. That’s according to the wedding magazines anyway, and they are the authority on all things bridal. I know this because I’ve been buying wedding magazines for years – that’s another secret of mine. I started subscribing to three within a month of meeting you, which seems a lifetime ago. I have quite a collection now. In fact, if I wanted to I could pull off an intimate ceremony for ten or a grand affair for 400 without even batting an eyelid. I have the flower arrangements, music and colour schemes all decided. I could get married tomorrow if someone proposed. But that’s very unlikely to ever happen. Especially now that even complete strangers are rejecting me before I can utter a word.
Mary the therapist says I need to move on from this little setback. She says the process of healing will involve one step forward and one step back and that I’ll ev
entually reach a peaceful place full of love and acceptance. Thinking about it, she spends quite a bit of time talking about the rocky paths I’ll need to travel and the mountains I’ll need to climb before I find the love-and-acceptance part, but she seems pretty positive it will all come good in the end.
She’s suggested that it might be a good idea to paint the flat a nice, colourful shade to cheer myself up. I told her I was perfectly happy with the flat the way it is – beige suits me – but she said that bright colours can be a real mood adjuster and that coating everything in a sunny yellow would do wonders for my state of mind. I wasn’t too sure about that. I mean, I know yellow is supposed to be a cheering colour, but I can’t help but think of bananas when I see it and you know how I feel about those. I still have nightmares about being called Chimp at school because of my unusually long arms. I know I grew into them eventually, but all the teasing has never left me.
Anna thinks painting the flat is a great idea. She says it’s a scientific fact that bright colours improve a person’s mood. That’s why she’s now insisting that Derek wear blue and red all the time. She thinks if he starts to feel manlier he’ll stop raiding her underwear drawer. She’s convinced that wearing strong primary colours can make a man’s testosterone increase, and she thinks that if Derek dresses like Superman then he won’t want to try on her frilly knickers. I told her that there has to be more to it than that, but she says she’s going to try it and if that doesn’t work she’s going to start him on hormones. Only problem is that Derek is needle-phobic, so she might have to knock him out before she can inject him. I’m hoping she doesn’t want me to help; she kind of looked at me knowingly when she said that.
Anyway, I might give the colour thing a try. It can’t do any harm, I suppose, and Anna says she has the perfect handyman for the job: Derek’s friend Homer. Homer isn’t his real name; his real name is Murray. Anna doesn’t know why everyone calls him Homer, but I’m sure it must be because he loves The Simpsons. Anna says he’s a great painter and decorator, but I have my doubts, especially if he’s anything like his namesake. Anna also claims that once the flat is sexed up in a vibrant shade of yellow, I’ll feel brilliant, but from the uncertain look on her face when she said it, I think she might have been telling a little white lie herself.
Eve
Are You a Fabulous Fibber?
We all tell little white lies, but are you more than economical with the truth? Do our quiz and find out!
Your best friend asks if she looks fat in her new dress. Do you tell her:
a)She looks amazing – just like a supermodel.
b)She might need to drop a pound or two – just to tone up.
c)She looks clinically obese and you won’t be seen in public with her unless she does something about it – quick.
Your partner asks how it was for you. It was less than spectacular, but do you say the experience was:
a)Fantastic: the earth really moved.
b)Not bad, but maybe it’d be a good idea to try something new now and again, just to spice things up a bit.
c)Terrible: you fell asleep halfway through.
At the end of a disastrous restaurant meal, the waiter asks how everything was. Do you say:
a)Gorgeous: this place deserves a Michelin star!
b)Quite good, but maybe they could use less seasoning next time?
c)Awful: you feel like throwing up. And you’re not paying either.
A salesperson undercharges you for that fabulous dress you’ve been lusting after. Do you:
a)Tell her immediately. You couldn’t wear it in good conscience if you didn’t.
b)Keep quiet, but make a donation to charity for the amount afterwards.
c)Say nothing – it’s not your fault if she’s stupid. And now you can afford matching shoes as well.
Results
Mostly As: Sometimes the truth hurts – but you need to get a backbone, sister!
Mostly Bs: Good effort. You’re the diplomatic type, but in serious situations sometimes you may have to take a tougher stance.
Mostly Cs: Ouch! Try a more softly-softly approach or you’ll have no friends left, girlfriend!
Molly
I’m in Gianni’s Italian restaurant with Tanya and Al, eyeing a nine-inch pizza with all my favourite toppings: anchovies, pineapple and pepperoni. When Gianni himself slapped it down in front of me I fell on it in ravenous hunger, grabbing a large slice and stuffing it into my mouth as fast as I could. But it tasted like chewy cardboard and I couldn’t swallow. In an instant my appetite vanished. Now I’m pushing the pizza round and round my plate, cutting off tiny pieces of doughy crust from the edges and then piling them up in the centre to keep my hands busy.
I look around me. The place is almost deserted except for the three of us and a loved-up couple in the corner. I haven’t been here in a while, but it definitely used to be a lot busier at lunchtime. It used to be buzzing in here. Where is everybody now? Do they know something we don’t? Maybe Gianni’s has had some sort of hygiene scare we haven’t heard about. Maybe it’s been raided by the health and safety authorities and it’s going to be closed down. Maybe my pizza is drenched in teeny rat droppings that are invisible to the naked eye – that might be why it tastes so awful. I push my plate away and try to erase the image of a rodent nibbling pepperoni slices from my mind. I’m starting to regret coming here at all. It sounded like a good idea when Tanya called to suggest it, but now I know it’s been a mistake.
‘Does this pizza look funny to you?’ I ask Tanya, who’s busily shovelling pasta carbonara into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in a week.
‘I don’t think it’s the pizza, Moll,’ she replies.
‘Really?’ I ask, wondering if maybe I should order a salad instead. That might be safer. Rats don’t like lettuce, right?
‘I think it might be your… situation.’ She chooses her words carefully. ‘It’s completely natural to lose your appetite when something like this happens. Do you want some of my pasta?’
I look at her creamy pasta dish and my stomach flips. I feel queasy even looking at it; I definitely don’t want to taste it. Usually I love pasta, but these are unusual times.
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I might just have another drink.’ I look around to see if I can catch Gianni’s eye. I don’t usually drink alcohol at lunchtime, but I’ve already downed a glass of wine – and I want another.
‘Yeah,’ Al says, tucking into garlic bread. ‘Like when Dougie dumped me, remember? I couldn’t eat a thing. Of course then I progressed to phase two. That was even worse.’
‘What’s phase two?’ I ask, trying to get Gianni’s attention. He’s too busy flirting with the busty teenage waitress in a miniskirt to notice me. I need some more wine, and fast.
‘That’s when you can’t stop comfort-eating,’ Al says. ‘You’d gnaw your hand off if you thought it would numb the pain.’
I look at my chapped hands, at the chipped nail polish and ragged cuticles. They don’t look very appetizing. They look like the hands of an eighty-year-old woman – one who hasn’t moisturized in fifty-odd years.
‘Yeah, you usually put on at least a stone, but it varies… depending on the circumstances.’ He eyes me across the table. ‘Someone in your situation could easily put on two, maybe more.’
I try to imagine myself two stone heavier. I’d have to kiss goodbye to skinny jeans and start wearing full-length tent dresses, great big billowing ones that would hide me and my massive behind. That might be no bad thing: skinny jeans are a crime against womankind in my opinion.
‘I think we should change the subject,’ Tanya interjects, frowning at Al. ‘Molly doesn’t need to listen to this.’
But Al is on a roll. He can’t be stopped.
‘Then of course there’s your skin. That’s the next to go.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask. Piling on the pounds after heartache I’d heard about before, but skin disorders as well? This is new.
�
�I always get boils on my chin after a break-up. I had to get one lanced once, don’t you remember? The doctor said he’d never seen so much pus come out of one boil before. It was vile.’ Al lifts a slice of pizza from my plate without asking and proudly takes a bite. The cheese oozes slowly out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh God, yeah.’ Tanya laughs in spite of herself. ‘Didn’t we give that boil a name?’
‘Judy,’ Al says, wiping his lips with the red paper napkin.
‘That’s right,’ Tanya says. ‘Judy! She was a shining star – just like Judy Garland!!’
Suddenly it all comes flooding back. I do remember it now. It was David who named that boil Judy. Al had just broken up with the latest in a long string of disastrous men, and David had cooked us all a delicious three-course dinner to take his mind off things. At some drunken stage of the evening we’d started talking about the massive boil on Al’s chin and David had decided it was so impressive that it would be a sin not to name it. So we’d cracked open a bottle of champagne and christened it Judy – then we’d drunk some more until we all ended up in a heap of laughter round the table. It had really cheered Al up.
That was right before Mum and Dad died. Right before all our lives were shattered into a million different pieces.
It happened on a beautiful winter’s day a year after David and I first met. We’d asked Mum and Dad over for a special lunch to celebrate our anniversary. David had been really keen for them to come. Of course, they’d met him loads of times before that, and they loved him to bits, but for some reason he was adamant that they had to join us that day. He said he had something special to say and he could only say it if Mum and Dad were there. I was curious, but I didn’t question him too much: David liked surprises and I decided to humour him. So, I persuaded Mum and Dad to come with promises of lemon chicken and roast potatoes. Dad had joked that he hoped David was cooking, not me, because the last thing he needed was a bad bout of indigestion. Then Mum had told him off and said they’d be delighted and that they’d be there by one. But one o’clock came and went and they never arrived. They never made it because, on the way, a lorry came round a corner too fast and ploughed straight into their car and they were both killed instantly. Wiped out in the blink of an eye, just like that.
