by Jean Ure
I am now the only one who is not dressed up! I could always go and change, but there doesn’t seem much point. I remember all the other waiters as being quite boring. Some of them were really old. So I am going to stay as I am and be the Ugly Sister!
Sunday
I do so wish that Ali would learn to communicate. It wasn’t just us and Auntie Jay that went for a meal last night. Gus and his dad came, as well!!! And Ali knew about it. All the time, she knew about it! She wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see them waiting there, when we went downstairs to meet Auntie Jay. We were! Me and Tash had absolutely no idea they were coming with us. And there was me, looking like the Ugly Sister, and Tash and Ali all dressed up, gnash gnash, much grinding of teeth. Ali dressed up, and me dressed down! I looked such a sight, I just wanted to die.
Jo came with us too, and as there wasn’t room for us all to squeeze into one car Auntie Jay said that somebody would have to go with Gus and his dad. Normally I’d have seized the opportunity. I would have been in there just sooo fast. There would have been no stopping me! But last night I was just, like, too shaken for seizing opportunities. Too demoralised. Well, I mean, I wasn’t dressed for it. I felt so dowdy! I felt so plain. Tash, on the other hand, being all glammed up and oozing confidence through every pore, was practically halfway in before Auntie Jay managed to haul her back out. She said, “Ali! You go.”
Tash was not best pleased, I could tell. In fact she tried to cram herself in after Ali, but Auntie Jay just hauled her out again. She said, “You two come with me and Jo,” and firmly pointed us both in the opposite direction.
Tash muttered darkly all the way to the restaurant. “Don’t see why she gets to go with them.” I didn’t, either, to be honest. I thought that probably Auntie Jay reckoned she was giving Ali some kind of treat, not realising that Ali does not regard boys as a treat. Not that I cared; I was too busy brooding over missed opportunities.
I have now had time to think about it and realise that it just goes to show, what they always say in Glam Girl: BE PREPARED. Ready for that chance meeting which could change your life. For that dream boy that might turn up on the doorstep. In other words, even if you are merely flobbing about at home, you cannot afford to neglect your appearance, for who knows when the door bell might ring and Mr Wonder Guy be standing there on the doorstep? It could happen! They know what they are talking about, those people at Glam Girl. As I said to Tash, “We ignore them at our peril.”
Well, I have learned my lesson. The whole evening was thoroughly miserable! I just hate hate HATE not looking my best. Tash, of course, had a great time as Orlando was there and she was able to goggle at him, and even brush past him as she made her way to the Ladies. She still hasn’t actually spoken to him, but even just feasting her eyes on his divine form is enough – for the moment – to keep her happy. Happy, do I say? Ecstatic, more like! She has been going on about it ever since, and I just know she dreams about him in bed.
Auntie Jay was hugely amused. She looked at Tash ogling Orlando, and whispered to me, “Is that the sort of thing you consider hunky?”
I said that we thought he was rather good-looking. “We think he looks like Orlando Bloom.”
Auntie Jay said, “Aha! So that’s why you wanted to come here?”
I said that it was why Tash had wanted to come. I said that she fancied him like crazy, and Auntie Jay nodded and said, “That explains why she’s all got up like the fairy at the top of the Christmas tree!”
I haven’t told Tash that this is what Auntie Jay said; it would be unkind. In any case, what does Auntie Jay know? She might be smart and sassy, but she is almost as old as Mum and really has no idea what sort of boys we go for.
We sat at two tables, like this:
It was an absolute total waste, Ali sitting next to Gus; she hardly said a word to him all evening. He hardly said a word to her. Mostly they both just sat in silence. He really isn’t into girls. I mean, for once Ali was
looking quite presentable, so that I wouldn’t have been ashamed to tell anyone she was my sister. I felt kind of sorry for her, being so tongue-tied and awkward and Gus doing nothing whatsoever to help, but they are as bad as each other. If they can’t be bothered to make a bit of an effort and just be normally civil – well, quite frankly I wash my hands of them. That is the sort of mood I am in.
I irritably demanded of Ali this morning, as we gloomed about in the aisles of Tesco (Tash still being up on cloud nine and generally out of things), why she hadn’t told us that Gus and his Dad were going to be there. Ali, in her vague way, said, “I assumed you knew.” She then, maddeningly, asked what difference it would have made.
I hissed, “I would have put different clothes on!”
If she had asked me what for, I think I might have screamed and bashed her with a tin of mushrooms; but she just studied me a moment, like trying to work out what the problem was, and said, “I’m going to do frozen stuff this week … pies and stuff. Ready-made meals. Is that OK?”
I said, “Oh, do what you like! What does it matter? I’m sick of food.”
Ali said, “Yes, it’s such a bore, isn’t it? I wish we could just live on pills.”
I certainly have no desire to live on pills, as there are too many things that I would miss. Chips, for example. Crisps, for example. Chocolate. Raspberry pavlova. Doughnuts. Indian meals, Chinese meals, pizza. I do actually quite like food. Nevertheless it is a great bore having to work out what you are going to be eating every week. Having to go shopping. Having to put stuff away. Having to wash up, having to wipe up. Even just having to open tins. I think I’ll be quite glad when Mum is back.
Monday
Something I forgot to mention yesterday (still being in somewhat of a dudgeon about the weekend’s disaster): Jo is going off to Australia! I cannot help feeling sorry for poor Auntie Jay, left on her own. It’s like she’s been jilted. I have discussed it with Tash, and we think that she and Jo must have had a lovers’ tiff. Well, more than a tiff if Jo is getting out. Looking back on it, they didn’t sit together in the restaurant, and I realise now that they didn’t really talk all that much – to each other, I mean. Auntie Jay spent most of her time talking to Gus’s dad, and Jo talked to me and Tash. It is just so sad. I think I am a big romantic at heart … I want everyone to be in love. I want everyone to be happy!
Tuesday
Still nothing from Wackeen. I am trying very hard to be philosophical, but it is so difficult when Tash is going on and on about Orlando all the time. She actually suggested this morning – quite seriously – that instead of staying home and eating Ali’s frozen meals we should go into town every day and eat pizzas. Well! I am all in favour of eating pizzas. Unfortunately there is just one small drawback, and that is money. We have somewhat overspent even as it is, and I would hate having to go running to Auntie Jay at the last moment to beg for a loan.
I put this to Tash, and she sighed and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” but I could tell that she was tempted. She is really gone on Orlando! I can sympathise with her, as I know what it is to weave fantasies. I know that a person can become completely obsessed so that it takes over their whole life. But I do just wish she would stop wittering on about him!
Wednesday
Attempting to be chummy, as we came back from school together (Tash having gone racing madly into town to see if Orlando was in the pizza restaurant), I remarked to Ali that I felt so sad for poor Auntie Jay. Ali looked at me in surprise and said, “Why?”
I said, “Being jilted.” And then, knowing how clueless Ali is about these things, I added: “By Jo.”
Ali said, “Jo isn’t jilting her.” I thought to myself, oh, dear! Ali is so naïve. I remembered the time when Tash and I were talking about Auntie Jay and Ali went all pinched and quiet.
I didn’t want to upset her, I mean I was just looking to have a nice, normal, sisterly chat, not some kind of confrontation, so very quickly I said, “OK, but she’s still going off to Australia.”<
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Ali said, “So what?”
I said, “Well, poor Auntie Jay, left on her own.”
There was a silence after I said this. I could see Ali’s face contorting, like she was on the point of saying something, and then deciding against it, and then nearly saying it, and then not saying it, until finally she burst out with: “Jo’s always been going to Australia. That’s why she gave up her flat.”
I said, “Oh?”
Ali said, “Yes, because the lease had run out and she didn’t want to renew it.”
“So why is she going to Australia?” I said.
Ali said, “Because that’s where her boyfriend is.”
To say that I was stunned would be to put it mildly. I said, “She’s got a boyfriend?”
Ali said, “Why shouldn’t she have?” She then went on to tell me all about him; how his name was Mark, and he ran a sports centre, and he’d been married before and had two kids, but the kids lived with their mum, who lived in Melbourne, while Mark lived in Perth, “which is right the other side of Australia.”
How on earth does she know all this??? It’s just another example of Ali never telling us things. She is so secretive! She keeps everything hugged to herself; it’s not at all sisterly of her. Somewhat grumpily I said, “Auntie Jay is still going to be left on her own.”
“Maybe not for long,” said Ali.
I said, “What do you mean, not for long? D’you mean she’s found someone else?”
At which Ali immediately went all vague and said, “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know!”
I don’t think, probably, that she does, though with Ali you can never be sure. She has now gone into mysterious mode and refuses to discuss it. Talk about maddening!
When Tash turned up, which she did a bit later, I tried telling her about Jo and her boyfriend and his two kids that live in Melbourne, thinking it would interest her, but all she could talk about was Orlando. She had seen him! She had touched him! They had spoken!
“He’s Italian!” Screeeeech.
She still doesn’t know his name. She still hasn’t had a proper conversation with him. Not like I had with Wackeen. She hasn’t actually had any sort of conversation with him. All that happened, as far as I can make out, is that Tash went prancing into the restaurant, deliberately crashed into him, cried, “Oops, sorry!”, he cried, “Oops, sorry!” (in an Italian accent), Tash splashed out on one measly little helping of dough balls and came screaming back home on cloud nine, flushed with success, to tell us about it.
She is still telling us about it, two hours later. I’m sure I didn’t go on like this about Wackeen! It really seems a bit excessive. Plus I am beginning to think that this guy doesn’t actually look like Orlando Bloom at all. There is a picture of the real Orlando in this week’s Glam Girl, and quite frankly Tash is deluding herself if she reckons her Italian waiter bears any resemblance. The real Orlando is gorgeous. Her one is really rather coarse. He has big red hands and a huge nose and pimples. She is welcome to him!
Thursday
Such excitement! We have seen underpants!!! I am tempted to add, “Like it’s the first time?” But they were hanging out to dry on the balcony below, a whole little line of them, all different colours, fluttering in the breeze. Really cute! It was Tash who first caught sight of them. She came giggling over, going, “Underpants!” and stuffing her hand into her mouth. Ali looked at her like she was mad. Tash squealed, “Come and see!” so I went, and we leaned out together and speculated which ones belonged to Gus and which ones belonged to his dad. This naturally led to further speculation as to what sort of underpants the divine Orlando would wear. Tash’s Orlando, that is; not the real one.
I said, “He probably wears those horrible flappy things.”
Tash screeched, “He does not!”
Well! How would she know? She doesn’t, of course. Trying to be helpful I rushed to get my latest copy of Glam Girl, where there is a double page spread entirely devoted to male under garments. A fascinating subject!
We sat at the table and pored over them, deciding which were the most sexy. I chose some stripy purple ones, Tash went for mock leopard skin. Rather vulgar, and very brief. We tried to interest Ali, but she took one look and went, “Ugh! Hairy legs!” I said that Orlando probably had hairy legs, being Italian. Tash, defiantly, said that she liked blokes with hairy legs, at which Ali and I, in chorus, shrieked, “Yeeeurgh!” At least there is something we agree upon.
Shortly after we had done our underpants survey, Tash suddenly, for what seemed like no reason at all, said to me that if I still haven’t heard from Wackeen by the end of the week, why don’t I try writing to his sister and asking her to forward a letter. I know why she said it. She feels sorry for me! She has Orlando, and I have no one. But as I said, I don’t know what his sister’s name is. I can hardly just put “Joaquin’s Sister” on the envelope. Tash said she didn’t see why not, but I told her I am not that desperate. I don’t need her feeling sorry for me, thank you very much! I mean, it is nice to know that she cares, and I’m sure that I would feel the same in her place, but considering she doesn’t even know what Orlando’s name is, let alone the name of his sister … I rest my case! And anyway, he is nowhere near as good-looking as I first thought.
But why, why, why didn’t I get Wackeen’s address???
Friday
The most terrible panic. We had just got back from school – me and Tash; I don’t know where Ali was – when the phone rang. It was me who answered it. I heard Auntie Jay’s voice ring out merrily in my ears: “OK, girls! Spot check, five minutes.”
I couldn’t immediately think what she was talking about. I went, “S-spot check?”
Auntie Jay chirped, “I promised I’d give you due warning.”
And then I remembered … way back when we first moved in she threatened us with the odd visit to make sure we weren’t trashing the place or turning it into a festering heap of garbage.
I said, “Oh! Yeah, right … spot check. No problem!”
Auntie Jay said that she would be “Up in five.”
I slammed the receiver back and reeled away across the room, feeling faint and moaning, “Spot check … Auntie Jay’s coming up!”
Tash shrieked, “Not now!”
I said, “Yes, now! In five minutes!”
“She can’t!” wailed Tash.
But she could, and she was, and as we gazed around us, in a kind of stupefied fashion, I realised that a festering heap just about describes the way we have been living. It’s odd, cos you don’t notice it until you are suddenly forced to see it through someone else’s eyes. What we saw was not pleasant. For starters, there were clothes all over the place. Literally all over. Clothes on the sofa, clothes on the chairs, clothes on the floor, clothes on the table … clothes littering the bed, clothes draped over the bathroom door, clothes hanging off the backs of chairs. Muddy trainers on the draining board. Knickers – heaps of them! – in the middle of the floor. Filthy gym kit scrunched up in a corner. A pair of someone’s tights, possibly mine, dangling from the lampshade.
There were also: (dirty) dishes in the sink, (dirty) dishes on the draining board, (dirty) dishes on top of the stove, not to mention bedclothes in the bath (the ones we’d washed but hadn’t yet got around to ironing). As for the table – well, quite frankly, you couldn’t even see the table for the junk that was cluttered on it. Books, papers, make-up, tissues, old crumpled crisp packets, gungy sauce bottles, jars of marmalade, bits of bread, stale biscuits, toast crumbs, orange peel, apple cores, sweet wrappers … These are just a few of the things I happen to remember. Usually when we sit down to eat – if we do sit down – we’ve just been clearing a space in the middle. Looking at it now, the way Auntie Jay was going to be looking at it, we could see that in fact the place was a tip.
That was when panic set in. I screeched, “Do something, do something!” and began snatching at the dishes in the sink and frantically piling them into the cupboard underneath, amongst t
he cleaning stuff. Tash seized a bin bag and began sweeping all the junk off the table. I went round grabbing clothes and stuffing them haphazardly into drawers. Any drawers! Lots of them went in with the knives and forks. Just so long as they were out of the way. We took the bedclothes out of the bath and crammed them into the bin bag, which we then bundled under the sink. It was all rather disgusting, really; I mean, mixing dirty stuff in with clean stuff, beautiful spotless sheets all scrunched up with orange peel and yucky apple cores, but we simply didn’t have time to get it all sorted. This was an emergency!
At the last minute I went to the fridge to put away an open carton of milk that Tash had missed and found that the freezer bit at the bottom wasn’t quite closed – again. There seemed to be something stopping it, and when I looked inside I saw what it was: ice. Huge great mounds of it, spreading all over like some kind of creeping crystalline fungus. Obviously somebody who shall remain nameless but certainly wasn’t me had gone and put stuff in there without bothering to check that the door was shut properly and without putting the bucket back in front of it. (I strongly suspect that it was Tash, though she denies it. But it is the sort of slapdash thing she is capable of.)
All I could do, with great presence of mind – well, I think it showed great presence of mind – was bash at the ice with a hammer, knocking enough chunks off it to get the door closed, in the hope that Auntie Jay wouldn’t want to look inside cos quite honestly it was like something out of the polar regions, a great frozen waste, and I didn’t want us getting a bad report. Specially not after Mum went to all that trouble when we moved in, giving us lessons in fridge-door closing.
I’d just slung the hammer back under the sink when there was a knock at the door. Tash, running distractedly about the room with her dirty trainers, squeaked, “Help, help, what shall I do with these?” and flung them in the oven. I clawed up a pair of knickers that had escaped my earlier clothes gathering and stuffed them under a sofa cushion. In the nick of time. Phew!
