Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM GOVINDA! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Frances Frances Frances … if you were a bogey I’d pick you:) Govinda I was in the changing room at Richmond Park Sports Centre, limbering up for a ten-mile ‘warm-up’ run with the running club. This being the first run that I had undertaken in approximately ten years, I was a little anxious. But I’d already spotted Nellie out of the corner of my eye and was filled with an almost sexual excitement at the idea of an evening in her company. Fran the crack whore was BACK! I thought guiltily about Mum, who had hugged me tearfully when I’d left her house that morning. ‘I’m proud of you, Frances,’ she said, her hand shaking as she held on grimly to her dressing-gown belt. ‘I really am.’ I’d decided there and then to abort tonight’s stalking mission. Mum, dumped less than a week ago, was going to get into her car and drive to some poky church hall to ask for help from a bunch of strangers tonight – and I, dumped nine weeks ago, was going to try to run ten miles on unfit legs just in the hope of perving at my ex-boyfriend’s new love interest? But here I was. Doing just that. This mission was stupid and dangerous but what could I do? I’d had three ‘I still love you’ messages from Michael in a week! And if I didn’t find out what was going on RIGHT NOW I would lose it altogether. I’d narrowed down three possible explanations for Michael’s texts: He was having a rough time with beautiful shiny confident Nellie and wanted minging, grubby, mental Fran back. (This one was my favourite.) He was jealous about my dating and trying to fuck with my head. He was clinically insane and needed electric-shock therapy. It seemed abundantly clear that the only way to ascertain which of these it was, without directly consulting him, was to go underground and tap The Daniels. ‘Just one last time,’ I muttered to myself, as I shoved my clothes into a bag. Dave and Stefania would never know and Leonie … Well, I needed to talk to Leonie. And maybe Alex. But the idea of apologizing to either was a little beyond my mental capacity today. I locked my clothes away, said a short prayer to any God who might still be interested in me and marched out into the cold. ‘Hi,’ I said, to the human bouncy ball who appeared to be in charge. ‘Fran O’Callaghan. I emailed.’ ‘Oh, Fran, hi!’ He beamed. ‘Welcome! Everyone, shut up a minute. Let’s say hello to our newest member: THIS IS FRAN!’ I smiled awkwardly, feeling my cheeks redden, as a shiny brown column – Nellie’s hair – emerged from the crowd cooing, ‘Babe, what a coincidence! Hi!’ She kissed me on the cheek. This was ridiculous. What was I doing? ‘Oh, hi, Nellie! God, how weird. Of all the running clubs I could have joined! Bizarre!’ My voice was at least two octaves higher than normal. But Nellie seemed oblivious. She put her perfect hair into a thick elastic band, and said, ‘Well, hon, great to have you here. Let’s run together, yuh?’ ‘I’d LOVE that!’ I cried enthusiastically. Fool! She was running the marathon! I’d failed to qualify for the 800 metres at Sports Day and I ran like an animated vegetable! But I had to know what was going on. As we set off, I said, ‘You’d better do the talking, Nellie – I have asthma so I can’t talk and run at the same time.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘Me, too, babe. It’s just about fitness.’ Balls. But it wasn’t hard to get her talking. ‘So,’ I said, ‘how’s it going with the new man? What’s his name again?’ Without even needing to look I could see the extent of her smile as she jogged along with exaggerated slowness next to me. ‘Michael. And it’s amazing! God, babe, I am just out of my mind on this one! He came to my office at lunchtime today and took me out to Gordon Ramsay!I mean, can you believe it?’ ‘Wow,’ I said sadly, thinking about the ham bap I’d eaten at my desk. ‘Go on …’ I wheezed. Nellie actually jumped properly off the ground and let out a little whoop. My heart sank. If this perfectly poised, sleek posh girl was at the whooping stage she must be in love. ‘It’s moved really fast, y’know, he’s just so into me! I honestly think he might be about to propose!’ I tried not to be sick. ‘Wow!’ I gasped again. ‘I know!’ Nellie gushed. ‘I feel like the luckiest girl on earth. And do you know what, babe? He even runs me a bath every morning!’ Enough. ‘Need to stop and take some Ventolin,’ I gasped. ‘So excited for you. See you back at the club.’ I peeled away from the group and started to walk back along the river to the centre of town, trying not to lose it entirely. If you can’t take the heat then stay away from the fire, I told myself furiously. Why was I doing this to myself? But it didn’t matter. The point was that Nellie and Michael were in love. He ran her baths and I was toast. The texts must have just been an ego-massage: a little bit of bait to keep me keen. After all, why have one girl in love with you when you can have two? He had run me a bath on the day he’d dumped me. Had he already met her then? ‘Please, Michael, don’t propose to her,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t bear it.’ I stomped into the White Cross and pulled my purse out of my bra. ‘Gin and tonic,’ I said miserably to the barman. He looked at me with disgust. I was red and mad and sweaty. ‘Don’t worry,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll sit outside.’ I wouldn’t want me in my pub either. As I sat on an already frosty bench outside, my breath still coming out in fast, steamy clouds around my face, I wondered how I was going to get out of this crack habit. Perhaps there was a branch of Stalkers Anonymous in London. I felt an overwhelming wave of self-hatred. Mum was at Alcoholics Anonymous right now and I was here? Please, God, make it work for her. I heard steps crunching towards me and then husky laughter. It was Nellie, holding a gin and tonic. Of course. ‘Oh. Er … I was so far behind after taking my inhaler …’ I trailed off, smiling ruefully. It was very clear that I was lying and, besides, I was past caring. I’d lost the battle. She chuckled again. ‘I stopped to check you were OK, babe, and saw you duck into the pub. It made me laugh. Sod running! I’ve been training every day – I’m allowed one drink, aren’t I?’ She sat down next to me, without so much as a drop of sweat on her, her face smooth and clean and her expensive Lycra clinging to her toned legs. I shrank into my old jogging bottoms and pulled my hood up, wishing I could just expire on the spot, as she opened, ‘God, so Michael’s ex is apparently MAD – she keeps calling him and crying down the phone begging him to get back together with her and –’ The Nokia tune cut in and saved me. Never before had I been so grateful to hear it and never before had I been so happy to see Dave’s name. He was calling from a very noisy-sounding pub. ‘Where are you, Fannybaws?’ he yelled. ‘I’m in Richmond,’ I whispered, moving swiftly down the pub’s river terrace. The Thames looked hard and black and I was beginning to shiver. ‘WHAT?’ Dave roared. ‘I said, I’m in Richmond.’ Dave moved outside his pub and asked what the bloody hell I was doing down there. I glanced at Nellie: she was watching me intently, no doubt presuming I was on the phone to my boyfriend (cat) Duke. ‘Er, I’m running,’ I said, as quietly as I could. Dave burst out laughing. ‘You? Running? Fran, you run like a scarecrow! What’s going on?’ As I cast around for a reply, though, he got it. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Fran. You’re not following Nellie, are you?’ ‘No,’ I said obstinately. Then: ‘Well, yes.’ Dave sighed. ‘Stop it, Franny. Come up to Clerkenwell. Get in a taxi. You shouldn’t be anywhere near that girl. God knows what’s going on with her and Michael, but you’re only torturing yourself, love. Come to the Three Kings.’ Hang on. ‘Dave … are you at Gin Thursday?’ I could hear him puffing on a roll-up. ‘Aye. Get your scraggy arse out of Richmond and come and join us.’ ‘You mean Leonie’s having Gin Thursday without me?’ Dave chuckled. ‘Well she couldn’t very well have it with you. You’ve been cancelling her calls. Stop being a big gay and come and make up with her.’ ‘Is she there with Alex?’ ‘Yes,’ Dave said, drawing on his cigarette. ‘They’re properly together, Fran love,’ he added gently. ‘That girl has the loyalty of a stray cat in the mating season,’ I fumed. ‘Michael has ruined my life and she responds by shacking up with his buttfuck of a best friend? Who has hated my guts from day one? He tried to get me sacked yesterday! What the fuck, Dave? Is Leonie going
to start getting her muff waxed with Nellie fucking Daniels next?’ ‘I thought you were with Nellie “fucking” Daniels right now?’ Oops. I was with Nellie fucking Daniels. I looked round briefly but she was yacking away on her own phone, presumably to Michael, who was updating her on the latest fictitious outburst from his ex. ‘You can’t help who you fall for,’ Dave said mildly. ‘Fine, enjoy yourselves,’ I said resignedly, ending the call. Fucking Dave with his smug little life in Wimbledon. I began to walk back up the terrace towards the pub again. Maybe I should make friends with The Daniels. I was fast running out of other options. Chapter Thirty

  FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM FREDDY! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Fran, Sounds like you’ve had a shit time of it. Whatever’s going on, I’m sorry. Make sure you look after yourself. Remember to eat breakfast. Take a bath. Oh, and change your socks, you munter. Joking. Hope you’re OK. Say yes to a date. Two weeks tomorrow? Sunday, 14 March? I’m eating a massive pastrami sandwich. It’s so beautiful I might cry. Just so you know. Freddy X Date four: Toni To my delight, the Backstreet Boys started playing as I walked in. I suddenly felt a lot more confident about tonight’s date. It was the following Saturday and, since I’d discovered that Michael had taken to lunching Nellie at Gordon Ramsay, I’d been doing my best to accept that I’d lost him and divert my attention elsewhere. It wasn’t going that well but as Stefania hissed ‘encouragingly’, as I left my flat earlier, I was at least trying. Toni seemed 90 per cent homosexual but I didn’t really care. My evenings were currently spent staring at my phone and fighting with Duke Ellington; anything else marked a vast improvement. And, of course, there was always Freddy in two weeks. Although I’d got to the stage where I’d gladly go on a date with a badger, I did feel a little bit excited about meeting Freddy. He made me smile. Toni and I were meeting in the Islington Diner for a burger and milkshake and, if we got on, a bit of a rave-up in the Old Queen’s Head across the road. I was ten minutes early, purposely so: I wanted sufficient time to scoff an extra milkshake before Toni arrived. I loved milkshakes with an unhealthy passion. Dirty, fatty, sweet and wrong. I loved them. I smiled at the waiter as he made up my chocolate and banana fix. He was beautiful and dressed in a skin-tight stripy top, like Jean Paul Gaultier; he wiggled his bottom as he sang along to Backstreet Boys. I resisted the urge to join in with my best karaoke voice. Just as I started imbibing the satanic pleasures of the Diner’s banana and Nutella shake, a very feminine northern voice behind me said, ‘Frances?’ I turned round guiltily, straw in mouth, mid-slurp. Yup. Toni was gay. He looked at my milkshake and sniggered excitedly. ‘Hi, babe! I got here early so I could neck an extra milkshake in private but you’ve beaten me to it, you milkshake whore!’ Toni was all giggles and raised eyebrows; he was as camp as tits. He kissed me on the cheek, smelling absolutely delicious. ‘Mmm, you smell nice, Toni,’ I told him, patting the stool next to me. ‘Oh, thanks, babe! It’s Jean Paul Gaultier!’ he twinkled, crossing his legs and opening the menu. I chuckled. Perhaps he and the waiter would bond over their common Gaultier theme. The waiter evidently hoped so too: he came breezing over to our end of the bar, rolling up his sleeves to reveal two gigantic biceps. ‘Hi, there,’ he growled, completely ignoring me now. ‘What’s it to be?’ Toni pondered, without looking up. I clocked the waiter flexing his arms quickly and giggled to myself. It was going to be a funny afternoon. ‘So, Toni, you’re a celebrity booker then?’ I asked, as we slurped hard and loud. I already wanted Toni to become my GBF. We could bond over our love of dirty milkshakes and maybe become gym buddies, staring at hot men’s bottoms and making tits of ourselves in the free weights area. ‘Yah,’ he replied, turning towards me with an enormous smile. ‘And I just LOVE it!!!’ Toni, I could already tell, was someone whose speech would involve a lot of exclamation marks if it was written down. ‘So what does a normal day entail?’ I asked. He giggled. ‘Well, I work on Coffee Break, so all of the celebs you see on Matthew’s sofa were booked in by me. I basically spend all day chatting to agents on the phone!’ I already loved Toni. He was my kind of gay and he was already making me smile in a way I hadn’t since Michael had dumped me. He was wearing tight jeans with a torn vest and cardigan. ‘Wow,’ I replied. ‘That sounds totally awesome! Do you know Katie Price?’ Toni smiled fondly. ‘Oh, yeah, Kate and I have been working together for years. She’s such a doll, never causes trouble. Whereas …’ He rolled his eyes and whispered the name of probably the most popular woman in the UK. ‘Really? Oh, my God, tell me more!’ Two hours, two milkshakes and two mojitos later, Toni and I left, giggling like children. Toni was in the middle of some catfight on Facebook via his iPhone and was punctuating our ‘date’ with outraged screams every time a bitchy update came through. I loved him. By now it was half past nine and there was a queue outside the Old Queen’s Head. Friday-night drinkers in fashionable outfits huddled over Magners at heater-warmed tables on the pavement, and a woman who looked like Meatloaf sat on a high stool divesting people of their cash and stamping their wrists. A sign outside announced that we could expect ‘Broken Beatz n breaks + vigorous nostalgia’ upstairs tonight. My heart sank a little. We got into the queue but, like me, I could sense that Toni was feeling a little reluctant. He was chattering away about his Facebook catfight but kept breaking off to stare with dismay at girls who were wearing Ray-Bans even though it was dark. Tentatively, I said, ‘I hope they mash up their beatz with some Abba,’ and before I knew it, Toni had bundled me into a taxi, yelling, ‘Let’s just go to fucking Popstarz!!!’ Thirty minutes later we were dancing to ‘Billie Jean’ in a sweaty gay club that smelt of poppers and fart. I felt a fleeting stab of sadness that I couldn’t text Leonie, with whom I had a long and glorious history of dancing in farty gay clubs to ‘Billie Jean’, but pushed it away. I still hadn’t decided what to do about Leonie. Toni was the best dancer in the world, of course, and he was an immediate hit with the boys. To his left there was a child who looked like Brad Pitt aged twelve, to his right an enormous bald chap who looked like he lived in a gym, and behind him two lovely-looking boys with complicated hairstyles who couldn’t decide if they wanted to kiss each other or kiss Toni. I giggled to myself. This was easily the best date of my life. An exquisite specimen of a man wearing jeans and a waistcoat was dancing next to me, smiling. As the final rhythm section of ‘Billie Jean’ began to fade out and the opening bars of ‘Holiday’ tinkled in, he shouted, ‘I can’t believe Michael Jackson is DEAD! I had to take a fortnight off work when it happened! Would you like a pill, darling?’ I smiled and shook my head. Lovely Waistcoat Man laughed and grabbed me round the waist, guiding me through a dance routine that looked like something from an S Club 7 video. ‘This is like an S Club video!’ I screamed into his ear. ‘Yeah, I did their choreography, love,’ he replied. Amazing. I glanced about for Toni just as his back disappeared into the crowd surrounding the bar. In a normal club I’d have panicked, but here, in the farty environs of Popstarz, I felt totally content. I tried an experimental spin and crashed into a bony shoulder, which I grabbed and stroked apologetically, following the arm up to a man’s face, which was staring at mine in utter amazement. It was Alex. No. I looked away again. This was not possible. Alex in Popstarz? And, in the crook of his arm, wearing an elasticated bandeau dress from the eighties, was Leonie. She was staring at me with abject fear, her arm dangling awkwardly at her side. It had clearly just been round Alex. I stared at them both, at this utterly improbable spectacle in the middle of the dance floor at Popstarz, and tried to work out how to react. Alex might not have outed Mum but he’d handed my Chelsea tape to Hugh in an attempt to have me sacked. He was a weasel who had told Michael my news desk was for thick people and then gone on to steal my best friend. So, as far as I was concerned, the declaration of jihad that I’d left on his voicemail last week was still good. But there, standing in his arms, looking at me beseechingly, was Leonie, my very bes
t friend, the girl I’d been to playschool, primary, secondary and university with, the girl who had taught me how to kiss boys and forced me to eat when Michael dumped me. I missed her. Horribly. Surely I wasn’t going to have to deal with this at 1.36 a.m. in Popstarz? Just as I decided that it would probably be best for all parties if I just turned round, resumed dancing with Lovely Waistcoat Man and pretended this wasn’t happening, she detached herself from Alex and threw herself at me. ‘FRANNY,’ she yelled in my ear. ‘I love you so much and I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE CAN WE BE FRIENDS AGAIN?’ After a few stiff, angry seconds, I relaxed. I couldn’t live without Leonie. I smiled into her hair, which smelt of the same Tesco apple shampoo she’d been using since she was eight years old. ‘Yes,’ I shouted into her ear. ‘Your love life is your business. I miss you too, you old slapper.’ She screamed and hugged me even tighter. A week without Leonie was a bad week. ‘And Alex?’ she shouted, looking at him with an uncharacteristically slushy face. I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Leonie. I can’t.’ Alex was watching us, clearly feeling exceedingly awkward. I wasn’t bloody surprised. The devious, stinking bastard, trying to have me sacked like that. ‘I know it wasn’t Alex who sold Mum to the Mirror,’ I said. Leonie was delighted. ‘NO! OF COURSE IT WASN’T!’ ‘And I will talk to him about it on Monday and sort it out. But he tried to have me sacked,’ I shouted. ‘I just can’t go there. What you get up to is your business but I can’t play happy families.’ ‘RIGHT!’ she shouted, grabbing my arm and dragging me off towards the stairs. ‘We need to talk.’ Alex watched us go with pure fear in his eyes. Settled into a velvet booth in the even fartier indie room upstairs, surrounded by thin teenage boys who were dancing to EMO music and studiously ignoring each other, we talked. ‘You’re serious. You actually like him, don’t you?’ I said, starting to laugh. Leonie reddened but laughed too. Then Toni appeared, out of nowhere, plonked a vodka and Red Bull in front of me and minced off, winking. Now Leonie looked confused. ‘That,’ I sniggered, ‘is my date. Toni.’ She looked even more confused. ‘The guy from the Internet?’ ‘Yes. I’m on a date with a homosexual man, Leonie. Welcome back to my world.’ And with that we lost it. ‘It was Charlie Cunt-face Swift who sold Mum to the press,’ I told her, when we’d recovered. She nodded slowly. ‘That makes sense. Dave said he’ll nick anything for coke money. But how did he find out? I mean, presumably you didn’t just tell him your life story while he went down on you?’ I explained that Charlie had had unlimited access to family emails for a good thirty minutes on Saturday. ‘Poor you. Poor Eve. That’s fucking awful, Fran. What a bastard.’ ‘At least it’s got Mum going to AA. She’s been to the group every day since Thursday. Maybe it needed to happen.’ ‘Yeah, Dave told me. I’m so glad, Franny. I’ve been thinking about her a lot. But, God, Charlie. What a total bastard.’ Then she nicked my vodka and Red Bull, drank half of it, and yelled, ‘But I bet he was amazing in the sack, right?’ I couldn’t help but grin. ‘Mind-blowing! He even rogered me in the wet room!’ We both collapsed with laughter again. ‘So, Alex. Fran, we really do have to talk about this. I know about the tape thing at ITN. Alex didn’t give it to Hugh. He would never try to get you sacked. He really isn’t like that, Fran. He didn’t even want to do the Nick Bennett interview yesterday because he knew Hugh blackmailed you to get Nick in.’ ‘Of course he bloody well gave Hugh the tape. No one else even knew about it!’ Leonie shook her head. ‘No. I know what happened, Fran. The tape was in the bin – presumably you threw it away – and the work-experience girl … what’s her name?’ ‘Jacinta?’ ‘Yes, that’s the one. She sounds vile. Far too keen. Anyway, she saw it in the bin and gave it to the tape library because she was told that that’s what you do with lost tapes. No one there knew what the interview was for so it was passed around and eventually ended up on Hugh’s desk. And he already knew you’d been stalking Nellie because he’d had IT do some report on you. He bollocked Alex, too, you know … C’mon, Fran, do you honestly think I’d get involved with the sort of guy who sneaks round trying to get my best friend sacked? As if!’ I looked at her guardedly. I wasn’t sure about this story. Why would the tape have been in the bin? I’d hidden it in the bottom of my drawer. But she was obviously serious about Alex. And, I realized, with a slightly heavy heart, I was going to have to Be Nice. ‘You mean this, don’t you,’ I said slowly. ‘You actually like him.’ She blushed and nodded shyly. ‘Erm, well, for now, yes. Yes, I do.’ I sat back and sipped Toni’s teenage drink while Leonie admitted to having fancied Alex since she’d first met him. ‘I know he’s a bit ratty in the face,’ she giggled, ‘but there’s something about him … At first I just thought I wanted to scrub that smug smile off his face and, well, you know, ruin him a bit, but then I bumped into him in Borough Market a few days after Michael finished with you –’ I winced ‘– sorry, but it was a complete coincidence – and we went for tea and cake and, I dunno, Franny, he just seemed genuinely concerned about you and really sad about it all … I just realized that he’s actually this really sweet bloke. I think he’s a bit lost. A bit insecure.’ I stared at her in astonishment. She smiled weakly. ‘You don’t agree, do you?’ ‘Well, forgive me, Leonie, but it’s not very easy to. He’s always said vile things about me to Michael. I don’t understand what his problem is.’ Leonie hung her head. ‘And you’ve always been so vile about him!’ I said, clutching at straws. Then I started to smile. ‘Ah. You’re never vile about men. I should have spotted it. It was cos you liked him, wasn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘S’pose. That first night I met him at Gin Thursday when Michael arrived in London I felt a bit crap, like I was about to lose you. I sort of think he felt the same about Michael because you two were so in love’ – my stomach lurched painfully – ‘and we got chatting. And then after that afternoon tea it was sort of like we were the survivors of this horrid fall-out. We chatted for hours on the phone and went on a date to Southend. He bought me fish and chips, Fran, and he kissed me and it felt incre– No, too much, sorry. I did try to stop it, Fran, I went on that date in Dalston with the man who had vampire teeth and shaved eyebrows, remember? But it didn’t work. I couldn’t think about anything other than Alex all night. I’m a massive disappointment to you, aren’t I?’ ‘Shut it,’ I said, patting her hand. ‘Not at all. I just … It’s so messy!’ Leonie looked tormented. ‘I know.’ There was a brief pause while we watched the skinny teenagers shuffling around the farty dance-floor. ‘Have you talked about me? And Michael?’ I asked eventually. She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I said to him almost as soon as he kissed me that we could never talk about Michael because it would do my head in knowing anything about him, wondering whether or not I should tell you. So he hasn’t said a thing. He actually really understood and then he said, “Well, Fran’s fine, anyway. She’s dating, isn’t she?” and I told him, yes, you were a total hit. He was impressed.’ I pondered this for a bit. ‘Well, I don’t think you could have chosen a worse man to fall for’ – she coloured – ‘but you’re obviously smitten so … well … Just don’t talk about Michael, OK?’ Her face cracked in two and she hugged me fiercely, shouting, ‘I’m damn well going to bring you the man of your dreams with this Eight Date Deal!’ And with that we downed the remaining dregs of dirty Red Bull and went downstairs just as Britney started. Alex was still in the same spot on the dance-floor, looking like a frightened vegetable. ‘I owe you an apology,’ I said politely to him. ‘I’m sorry. The jihad is off. I know you weren’t responsible for what happened to Mum.’ ‘Absolutely not, Fran. Or the tape at ITN. Nasty business, that. Very unfortunate.’ I looked at him, long and hard, then gave him a watery smile. I didn’t really believe him but I’d been backed into a corner. ‘Well, see you around,’ I said carefully. He beamed like an eager child. ‘I’d like us to be friends again,’ he said. Friends? Since when had we been friends? But, because I was a useless knob, I nodded. And just as he held out his hand to shake mine, I leaned in to
give him an insincere hug and thus delivered my right breast into his outstretched hand. I fled to find Toni. He was at the bar surrounded by adoring young men. ‘Babe, something fucked up is going on, isn’t it?’ he said, handing me another vodka and Red Bull. I smiled. ‘Yep. That’s my best friend, shacked up with my enemy. I’m quite sure he tried to get me sacked only four days ago. Oh, and he’s also my ex-boyfriend’s best mate! Ideal, no?’ Toni roared with laughter and swept me into his arms. ‘Fuck ’em all! Let’s DANCE, OK?’ he yelled. We danced for ages, him with style and rhythm, me with neither. Leonie and Alex twirled around us several times and, much to my amazement, I observed that Alex was in fact a remarkably good dancer. I smiled awkwardly at them, wondering how this was ever going to work. The way he was looking at Leonie was scary. His pointy, angular little face was literally aglow. Somewhere in the region of four a.m., ‘I’ve Had The Time Of My Life’ came on and Toni dragged me on to the stage, yelling that he had Big Plans for us. Essentially we were to do the routine from Dirty Dancing where Patrick Swayze runs his hand down Baby’s knockers, she jumps off the stage into his arms and the whole place starts dancing in unison. After a slightly unpromising start we began to make headway – like most other ten-year-olds I’d spent hours working out the dance – and before I knew it, it was time to launch myself off the stage. A gaggle of gays stood by, whooping and clapping as I broke into a run. Heavy and uncoordinated after the milkshakes and Red Bull, I flew into the air like a polar bear. I crashed down on Toni’s head as his arms gave way, and we ended up in a heap on the floor, helpless with laughter. Toni gave me a smacker on the mouth and we hauled ourselves up, coming face to face with Leonie who was laughing and shaking her head despairingly. ‘You’re the most embarrassing person I know, Franny,’ she yelled. ‘And are you sure this man is homosexual? He’s all over you!’ I twirled her round and yelled that Toni was my favourite man in the whole world. And that, yes, he was gay, was she actually blind? Toni put his arms round me and started some sort of bump and grind routine as ‘Africa’ came on. I whooped loudly. Leonie, watching me over Alex’s bony shoulder, continued to send me fairly obvious visuals regarding Toni’s sexuality. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I shouted at her, as he got side-tracked dancing with the twelve year-old Brad Pitt-alike. ‘Look at him! He’s seen more cock ends than weekends!’ ‘Well, just keep an eye on it!’ Waistcoat Man danced up and stole her from Alex. Back from his brief romp with Brad Pitt, Toni grabbed me and screamed, ‘HAVE SOME POPPERS, BABE!’ shoving a bottle under my nose. I hadn’t done this since I was twenty-one – the novelty of what was essentially glue-sniffing had kind of worn off at that point but, well, what the hell? I inhaled deeply, and a few seconds later my head caught fire and the helpless laughter and whooping came on. Toni kissed me on the lips and yelled, ‘Oh, babe, what are you like?!’ in my ear. I had another toke, then stopped because I could feel my brain frying and Toni had started snogging me. With tongues. And, dear God, he had his hand up my top. I sat down suddenly on the dance-floor, my head spinning. In a blissful, glue-sniffed haze, I saw Alex remove Toni from my environs and Leonie bent double with laughter. Then I went back upstairs to sit on the velvet sofa and have a sleep. This was a strange night. An hour later, wedged against the window of the 29 bus with Leonie on my knee and a deadly kebab spilling its guts over us both, I found myself helpless with laughter again. Leonie had decided to come and stay with me ‘just in case you die of popper-poisoning’ and we were talking blow jobs. ‘I really believe it’s an important skill,’ Leonie said, as if she were talking about Photoshop proficiency. She fed me a mouthful of unidentifiable animal. ‘Of course I enjoy it, but I think a lot of women get it badly wrong and need to learn.’ I laughed even louder through my kebab. ‘Maybe you should write a book about it, or upload tutorials on to YouTube,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure we could all learn a lot from you.’ She smiled enigmatically. ‘NO! STOP IT! STOP THINKING ABOUT LAST TIME YOU GAVE ALEX A BLOWJOB!’ I yelled, occasioning the noisy bus to come to a standstill. Leonie smacked me lightly round the head, going red. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered noisily. ‘You see, I’m drunk. That’s the problem.’ ‘I’d noticed,’ she hissed back. ‘So please shut it! And, for your information, we haven’t slept together.’ I was aghast. ‘Oh, my God. It’s been weeks! You’re going to fall in love with him, aren’t you?’ She took a bite of the kebab, looked me in the eye and said, ‘Let us resume conversation on the topic of blowjobs.’ I’d missed this. Me and Leonie on a night bus with a kebab and a thorough analysis of the Blowjob. I could barely remember the last time we’d done it; being with Michael, wonderful though it might have been, had not provided the opportunity for many night-bus-and-kebab scenarios. Our Saturday nights had tended to be more of the sharing-a-bath-with-a-bottle-of-wine-and-the-papers variety. On the occasions when Leonie and I had got together, Michael had never joined us. When we arrived back at my flat, ready for further bread products and an assault from Duke Ellington, I looked at the picture of Michael and me on Brighton Beach and, in spite of the usual blow-to-the-stomach moment of sadness, I felt an unexpected sense of liberation. I was thirty. Thirty years old. Night buses and kebabs were still very much part of my agenda. Chapter Thirty-one