Our Joey was here. He’d been working for Skippy Skips every Saturday answering the phones in the office (which Greg’s mum used to do before she died) for the past few months now. In fact, Greg’s dad liked to joke that Our Joey’s voice was so girly most customers thought Greg’s mum was still working there. Our Joey was sat in a corner with what was commonly known as ‘a gob on him’. That is, he looked like he was in a foul mood. Oh dear, maybe his hot date wasn’t going well. Our Joey had brought this lad he’d met in some club in town the week before, a club called Sadie’s Bar Royal, and the lad was sitting there next to him, also in a bad mood. I was the only person in the room – well, barn – who knew they were on a date – apart from Our Joey and the lad, of course, who was called Mooey – because I was the only person who knew he was gay. He’d not told Mum and Dad yet; he said he was biding his time till he was eighteen, and until then he’d just go to clubs in town and not explain which ones he was going to. Everyone at the barn dance assumed Our Joey had just turned up with a mate.
Debs sidled up to me wiping some Marie Rose sauce off her rubber dress with a serviette.
‘I feel a cunt for Hayls, Jode.’
‘I know,’ I echoed, though I didn’t at all.
‘Are your nerves gone? Are they jangling?’
I nodded. ‘I think it’s gonna be soon. I just saw Teresa-May putting candles in a cake.’
‘Have you given him your present yet?’
‘No, he said he’d get it later, when everyone else has gone.’
‘What was it again?’
‘Signet ring and Meet the Fockers on DVD.’
Debs nodded, impressed. Just then I saw Mooey pushing his way across the dance floor and putting his coat on, like he was leaving.
‘Mooey! Mooey! Where you going?’ I started following him out and he spun round.
‘As far away from your brother as possible,’ he said, and you could hear the tears rising in his voice.
‘What Mooey? What’s happened?’
‘I can’t say it. It’s too hurtful.’
‘Has he dumped you?’
‘Dumped me? I’ve only known him five minutes.’
I looked round. Our Joey was still stewing in the corner and looked away as I looked over at him.
‘OK, Jodie. D’you wanna know why I’m getting off?’
‘Er, yeah.’ I was starting to find the slight edge of hysteria in this fella’s voice quite unnerving. If he wanted to go, fine. The last thing we needed was someone ruining my proposal with a hissy fit.
‘Coz your “brother”’ – he actually mimed the inverted commas. No, this fella had to go – ‘Your “brother” . . . had the cheek to say to me . . . to say to me . . .’
I had this image in my head of one of those Airplane movies and the camera cutting back to see me putting a noose around my neck. Jeez he was dragging this out.
‘He said . . .’
And I hang myself . . .
‘He said that your Greg was better looking than me.’
I let out an involuntary chuckle. Was that all? Mooey gasped, as if I’d agreed with an argument that all children under the age of five should be slaughtered to a backing track of The Smiths’ ‘Reel Around The Fountain’. I realized I’d done a bad thing.
‘You heartless . . . bitch!’
With that, he seemed to clutch some imaginary pearls, spin round on his cowboy boots and speed away from the barn.
What a bizarre thing to be upset about. It was as clear as the nose on anyone’s face. Mooey was no way better looking than Greg, and if he couldn’t cope with Our Joey being honest then he needed to get over it. Of course Our Joey had said Greg was better looking. Greg was the best-looking fella in Merseyside. And he was about to propose to me!
I felt faint every time those words entered my head, but that might have been because I’d only eaten two battered prawns all night and drunk gallons of punch – I didn’t want a fat stomach in case people thought I’d only put my jacket on back to front to hide it. The enormity of the situation hit me like a brick on the back of my head. All the roads I’d travelled in the last five years had been leading towards tonight. We’d joked so many times about getting engaged and getting married. Greg knew exactly what sort of big day I had planned; it was just a matter of when he would surprise me with the big proposal. And that time was now. We were soulmates, he’d shown me that. I’d been there for him when his Mum had died; we’d been for weekends away together to the highlands of Scotland (he was right, the mountains were pretty big); our families had met and got on like a house on fire (I’m sure Mum actually flirted with Greg’s dad, who she remembered as being ‘a bit of a catch in his day’); we’d even decided on baby names we liked (Connor for a boy, Edie for a girl). I stayed over at his place; he’d stayed over at mine (admittedly when Mum and Dad had gone to Beddgelert for the weekend). I’d even started a wedding plan in my Hello Kitty jotter, which Greg had made suggestions for:
WEDDING PLAN
Location: St Hilda’s C of E Church, Hunt’s Cross. Must start going. How late can I leave that?
Bride: Jodie Paula McGee
Groom: Gregory Adam Valentine
Bridesmaids: Deborah Rawcliffe, Hayley Johnson, Amelia Melrose (Greg’s cousin’s little girl. Adorable in photos if that rash clears up), the little girl off the Andrex ads (Our Joey’s idea. Not sure practical).
Presents for bridesmaids (think that’s what you have to do): charm bracelet with two charms on: J for Jodie and G for Greg.
Page Boy: Joseph McGee (though he wants to be a bridesmaid)
Best Man: Kelvin Fitzpatrick (Greg’s best mate)
Transport: Greg wants me to arrive at the church in a low loader skip carrier, pleasantly decorated for the occasion – I am a person not a house clearance. (I would prefer a red London bus.) My dad the postman is insisting on GPO vans driving everyone (must price up mattresses for back).
Music: Enter church to ‘Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles (Greg’s idea. Like it. Unusual). Hymns: ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ (as used in Princess Di’s wedding. Mum is insisting) and ‘Oh Jesus I Have Promised’ (the catchy version). During the signing of the register: special song composed and sung by Hayley Johnson (working title: ‘One Sausage Roll, Two Lonely Souls’). Leaving the church: ‘Perfect Moment’ by Martine McCutcheon. (Greg not happy about this. Wants ‘Praise You’ by Fat Boy Slim.)
Poetry Reading: by Joseph McGee. He wants to write a poem (hope it’s not rude or that one he read at his sixteenth: ‘There once was a bishop from Birmingham, who buggered the boys whilst confirming them.’ It gets worse. I can’t actually write some of the words down).
Groom’s outfit: White suit; white shirt; turquoise tie; white shoes; turquoise carnation; white trilby.
Bride’s dress: Self-designed strapless white, tight-fitting, with inlaid butterfly motif, which Mum’s mate Maureen is going to make; white trilby and veil; lacy fingerless gloves; 20-foot removable train.
Wedding breakfast location: Greg’s dad’s barn.
The meal: Prawn cocktail starter. Chicken Kievs with mixed vegetables main. Tiramisu pudding.
Wedding cake: a wedding cake (must look up options – would really like Death By Chocolate, but worried about staining dress).
DJ at wedding party: Joseph McGee.
First dance: ‘The Power Of Love’ by Jennifer Rush (Greg’s mum’s favourite song – remembering the dead etc.).
Honeymoon: The Maldives (must find out where they are, cost etc.).
Divorce: Not a moment too soon! (Greg wrote this. Greg is a bastard).
Wedding Invites: Tasteful, understated. Possibly using that photo of the pair of us done up in Wild West gear from when we had that weekend in Blackpool. Though not too happy about this coz makes me look a bit gozzy. Alternatively go to one of those makeover places that make ugly people look like Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. If they can make Fat Brenda from Now is the Winter of Our Discount Tans look half decent, imagine w
hat they can do for us. (Phone Brenda and ask her where she got it done, cost etc., without being rude about her looks/figure/having her jaws wired not working coz she kept pureeing chips and drinking them through a straw.)
Flowers: Turquoise roses (check if these exist or if we’ll have to put white ones in jug of water and food colouring, like in primary school experiment)
Make-up: Subtle, understated, heavy on the fake tan.
Something old: Necklace from Nana.
Something borrowed: Necklace from Nana (I never asked if I could have it and then she died. Oh well, it’s what she would have wanted).
Something blue: Turquoise flowers (check if turquoise can be described as blue. If not, navy blue knickers – but make sure they don’t show through the dress).
Vows: Write our own. Not arsed either way about obeying coz want the wedding to be traditional, but with a twist.
Ideas don’t like: The Bo Peep theme as suggested by Our Joey. The Madonna theme as suggested by Our Joey. Roller Disco in Barn as suggested by Our Joey.
Date: Watch this space!
As Veejay and the Bull reached the end of their current number, Pillsbury Doughboy took to the mic and said, ‘Ladies and a-gentlemen. If you could please be upstanding . . .’ to which Hayls could be heard yelling, ‘That’s unfair! That’s unfair! What if you’re in a wheelie?!’ and the bloke in the wheelchair looked dead proud of her and slapped her on the arse.
‘. . . and if I could invite the birthday boy to the stage, please!’
A round of applause went round the barn as Greg appeared out of the crowd and clambered onto the stage, which was admittedly a very grand term for what appeared to be a row of upturned pallets. Someone dimmed the lights and Teresa-May walked through gingerly with the cake, her face looking waxy in the flicker of the candles. The band started to play ‘Happy Birthday’ and we all began to sing. I followed the cake through the parting crowd so I could get a prime position nearer the stage, ready for the imminent proposal. I didn’t want to stand too close, though, in case it all looked pre-planned. I had to remember to act surprised – possibly falling short of fainting – so I positioned myself three people back from the front. Just close enough, but not desperation close. I realized I was shaking, more out of excitement than anxiety. Greg found me in the crowd and winked at me, I winked back like I was in on the secret plan, and as the song drew to a close I felt Debs slip beside me. She squeezed my hand tightly and mouthed, ‘Good Luck,’ as Greg blew out all the candles with one headbanging blow. This got another round of applause and the lights came back up again. Damn! I wished he wasn’t wearing those hideous dungarees. He took the microphone from Pillsbury Features and tapped it like they did at soundchecks for big gigs. It sent a ricochet of feedback around the barn and Pillsbury barked at him, ‘It’s on, you meff!’ I wanted to punch him. I realized I was getting very overexcited. I was shifting my balance from one foot to the other and slapping the sides of my thighs with my fingers. Greg’s dad hopped onstage at this point (which was odd, what did he have to do with the proposal of the year?). My excitement just kept bubbling up and up and up, like an overfilled kettle coming to the boil. It was only a matter of time before I was going to start squealing with orgasmic joy!
But Greg was speaking. So I tried to keep a lid on it.
‘Er, I just wanna say a few words, coz I’ve got a bit of an announcement to make.’
I nearly swooned. I did. My legs buckled and I did a backwards headbutt on some bloke behind me, who shoved me back upright and said, ‘Are you all right, love?’ to which I snapped, ‘Fine! Shut up he’s talking!’ Then I shot him a quick smile coz I sounded dead bitchy. God, I was all over the place.
But actually he wasn’t talking. He seemed to be struggling to speak, poor love. Well, it was a big deal, proposing to your beloved in front of eighty people in denim and check. Oh, but now he was talking. Finally!
‘Erm. Before my mum died . . .’
‘God rest her soul!’ a drunken aunty called out.
‘God love her!’ agreed someone else.
‘God love the BONES of her!’ someone else outdid them.
‘We went on holiday. In a motor home. To see all the places she’d ever wanted to see.’
I noticed Teresa-May was fighting back tears. I wanted to scream out, ‘Cheer up, love, this is gonna have a happy ending!’ but I kept my lips firmly shut.
‘And she sat me down and we had this chat and she said she wanted me to be happy.’
And at this point he started to struggle again.
‘Anyway. I . . . talking of happiness . . . there’s something I want to say tonight. And . . . that . . . is . . .’
And then he stopped. God, he had the audience on the edge of their seats/cowboy boots. He closed his eyes like he was finding it really hard. Bloody hell, time to put the poor guy out of his misery. So I did it. I couldn’t help myself. I screeched at the top of my voice, ‘YES!’
His eyes flickered up and over to me. He looked bewildered. People turned to look at me. I felt I had to explain, so I screeched again.
‘YES, I WILL MARRY YOU!’
Still, he looked dazed.
‘WELL THAT’S WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY, ISN’T IT? AND THE ANSWER’S YES! I WILL MARRY YOU!’
Silence. People were looking at me like I was mad. There were a few nervous giggles from the back of the barn. I couldn’t work out why Greg was looking so shell-shocked. I’d done him a huge favour and helped him out. What was his problem?
At this point his dad took the mic off him and spoke: ‘What Greg was going to say was – and this is our special announcement tonight – that on this the occasion of his twenty first birthday . . .’
I heard someone behind me say, ‘She’s pissed.’
And someone else agree, ‘I know, she’s got her coat on back to front.’
‘We are delighted to announce that Greg is going to step up to the plate and become . . .’
Say it. MARRIED!
‘A fifty per cent partner in Skippy Skips! Way hey!’
Way hey? Way bloody hey? A cheer went up around me and my head began to spin. I looked at Greg, who was staring at me like he was very, very scared.
Oh God. I’d got it wrong. I’d got it wrong on so many levels. I looked at Debs, who had frozen mid-gurn, possibly at the point when she’d realized I was making a holy show of myself. I felt my knees buckle once more and I backwards headbutted the bloke behind me again. He levelled me and I heard some more mutterings about the state of my inebriation.
I had never been so completely and utterly mortified in my whole life. I turned quickly and ran from the room, sweat pouring off me. Or at least I attempted to run. There were so many bloody people in my way it took me about five minutes to get out of the place, and people were looking at me either with disdain, amusement or fear. Make way for the mad woman, their eyes seemed to say.
And who could blame them? I was. I was completely mad. I had to be. How else could I have got it so wrong?
I eventually pushed myself out of the barn and staggered into the moonlit yard. I stood there, catatonic with shame, and burst out crying.
‘Jodie! JODIE!’
I could hear Greg shouting behind me as I trampled across the field behind his farmhouse. I had no idea where I was going, but I was definitely walking with purpose. The purpose being to get as far away from the Barn of Shame as possible.
‘Jodie, where you going y’knob?!’
I didn’t answer him. I didn’t even turn round, I was that embarrassed. Especially as I hadn’t bargained on how muddy the field would be and had splattered my boots, legs and skirt with what was probably manure. As if I wasn’t humiliated enough, I couldn’t let him see me looking like this.
‘Jodie! Come back!’
‘I’m fine!’ I shouted. ‘I’m just looking for a taxi!’
‘In the middle of a bloody field?!’
‘I’m absolutely fine!’ I said, and with that I felt the ground di
sappear from under me. The next thing I knew I was tumbling face down into a ditch.
‘ARGH!’ That was the sound of the tiny bit of dignity I had left vanishing into the ether. I’d scrunched up my eyes, as if that would break my fall, and when I opened them I saw a velvet black sky and a full moon. Jeez it was bright. For some reason I’d thought the field was floodlit, but now I realized it was moonlit. Advancing squelching noises told me Greg was running over. I saw his face peer into view, blocking out the moon like a doctor in a horror movie, his eclipsing curls singed with moonlight.
‘Jodie!’
‘Leave me alone, Greg. I’m not in a good place right now.’
He nodded. ‘I know. You’ve gone arse over tit into a ditch, you dozy melt.’
He held out a hand, took mine, then pulled me up like he was yanking an onion from the earth. I popped out with about as much grace. My beautiful white boots were brown with mud, and my skirt, too. I didn’t even dare look at my state-of-the-art back-to-front blazer. Greg turned, not letting go of my hand, his face snapping from black to white as the moonlight hit him. God, even through a veil of vexation his beauty had the power to take my breath away.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Greg, you know what it was all about. Please. Don’t rub it in.’
I tried to pull my hand from his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go. I was hating this. I just wanted to run. Far, far away. As far away from this God-awful mess as was humanly possible.
‘You thought I was going to propose to you?’
‘Well, you told me you had a big announcement to make. Me and the girls just assumed . . .’
‘It was about Skippy Skips.’
‘I know that now.’
‘What made you think . . .’
‘You gave me money to get me hair done. You kept asking me what I was wearing. You never ask me things like that. So I thought . . .’
All She Wants Page 10
