Dear Jodie are you awake, Mum. Lol xx
Obviously no one had informed her that ‘LOL’ didn’t stand for lots of love. I texted back,
What’s wrong?
The landline rang. The landline was in the living room. I looked around and saw Stu, fully clothed, lying next to me on top of the duvet. I got up and hurried through to the lounge.
‘Hello?’
‘Jodie, love, you all right?’
She sounded all bright and breezy.
‘What is it, Mum?’
‘Oh, just ringing to see how you are, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know. Mum it’s one o’clock in the morning. Is Dad all right?’
‘Oh he’s OK, you know.’
‘So why the text?’
‘Well, we went to a lovely barn dance tonight.’
I sat on the sofa. The leather deflating under me sounded like a soft fart.
‘OK?’
‘Over in Cheshire with Val and Vernon.’
I’d never had the pleasure of meeting Val and Vernon. They were a couple from Halewood that they’d met on holiday recently. She had poker-straight hair (I swear, that was all Mum ever said about her) and he was very big in stretch covers.
‘Well, anyway, we were driving back – Vernon doesn’t drink coz of his bypass – and we went past Greg’s place. The farm, you know?’
Of course I knew.
‘Aha?’
OK, so she’d piqued my interest now.
‘When who do we see getting out of a taxi but your friend and mine . . . Debbie.’
‘Debs?’
I might have been groggy when she first phoned, but in the space of a millisecond I was wide awake.
‘That’s right. So I told Vernon to slow down, he’s got a delightful Daewoo . . .’
I got the impression that Val and Vernon were posher than Mum and Dad as Mum’s voice went a bit affected when she spoke about them.
‘And your Greg came out of the farmhouse and they went inside together.’
My heart was pounding in my chest. Well, it would have been odd for it to have been pounding in my handbag. Though maybe it was, actually, as the whole flat seemed to be vibrating in time to it.
‘Like Val said – oh she is funny, Val, you’d love her.’
‘What? What did Val say?’
Why was it so important to me what frigging Val said?
‘She said, “That could only be a booty call.” Do you know what a booty call is, Jodie?’
I nodded, and then realized she couldn’t see me.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘I just thought you’d like to know. Sorry if I woke you.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘I mean, it might not have been a booty call.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
Yeah right, what was she doing? Going round to milk his cows?
‘Anyway, I’d best get to bed. Vernon’s taking us to the Peaks tomorrow. I’ve bought a kagool especially and your father’s got binoculars.’
‘OK, Mum.’
‘And they are both big fans of the show.’
I nodded, said goodnight and hung up. I looked around the room. Stuart had left a half-pint glass of vodka on the coffee table. I grabbed it, took a sip and sat there, stewing. It all made sense now. Debs had been seeing a guy for sex and had asked Hayls not to tell me. This is because that guy was Greg. Was it any of my business? We’d not been married for years, there was no love lost between us and he was nothing to me now. So why was anger coursing through my veins? No wonder she didn’t want me to know. No wonder she’d not told Hayls his real name, inventing the nom de shag Mickey. Mickey! What sort of a name was that?
Actually there was nothing wrong with the name Mickey, I reminded myself. But how dare she? How dare she be all sweetness and light and accept drinks off me when she was bonking my bloody ex?!
I stood and paced the room, taking greedier and greedier glugs of the vodka. I looked out at the black Mersey, the lights from the prom shimmering on its restless slurping waves. No wonder it was restless tonight. Maybe it had just found out its ex was sleeping with its best friend, too! I walked angrily to the kitchen and grabbed the vodka bottle. The top was off, so I upended it into the glass and knocked it back. Then I grabbed my phone.
Hayls. Hayls would know what to do. I texted her:
Are you awake?
I waited. And waited. No response. I texted again:
Hayls?
Nothing. I waited another fifteen minutes. Staring at the clock on the wall. Staring at the Mersey. Staring at the sad, sad stars in the sky. Of course they were sad. Life was a fucking bitch! I grabbed my phone and texted Debs,
I’m so glad you’re shagging my ex-husband.
I waited. Nothing. So I sent another:
You dirty bitch.
I waited. Nothing. In frustration I threw the phone across the room. It hit the skirting board in the corner and ping-ponged back into the middle of the room. When I heard it vibrate, I ran to it, knelt on the floor and looked at the screen.
Text from Debs.
I opened it.
I asked Hayls not to tell you. It’s casual. I hope she told you that, too. Nothing to be jealous of. Speak tomorrow.
The phone shook in my hand. So Hayls knew. She had told Hayls? No wonder Hayls had said he’d got a new girlfriend.
Another text came through from Debs.
Some of us are not as lucky as you, Jodie, btw. And I am very lonely. Night night xxx
I threw the phone across the room again.
The party the next day was going to be horrendous, I just knew it. I’m sure that if I’d been in a better frame of mind and had had my requisite eight hours sleep I’d be like a kid on Christmas Eve. But I hadn’t. I’d stayed up pacing my flat, drinking enough vodka to flood a medium-sized island, and I’d woken up groggy, arsey and feeling like death. I’d had a bit of a barney with Stu, as he’d woken feeling even worse than me and assumed my bad mood was to do with his drinking and general rudeness to my (then) friends. I didn’t want to tell him the real reason why I was furious. It wasn’t really his issue, and who wants to know that their girlfriend is upset by something to do with her ex? It didn’t seem fair on Stu. Telling him how angry I was would have shown him I still cared about Greg, which I didn’t. Or I thought I didn’t. So why was I seething?
As I travelled on the train down to London I decided I was seething because not only had Debs kept something from me, but Hayls had, too. I realized that the whole thing was bringing back uncomfortable emotions and feelings from when I’d found Greg with Our Joey that fateful day. I was seething because it was a recurring theme. Maybe in a few years’ time I’d find out that Mum and Dad had moved Greg in and were living in a Sandalan-style ménage à trois. It all felt so gritty, so dirty, and as well as leaving me with a blood-boiling anger, it made me feel more than a little sad. OK, so I hadn’t exactly been close to the girls while I was at drama school, but since my return to the Pool of Life we’d slipped back into that cosy familiarity that best friends never lose. Or maybe they did. Maybe now I’d lost it. And that’s what left me feeling flat. As with the wedding debacle, when I’d realized I was losing Greg and Our Joey from my life, I thought that Hayls and Debs might have to be consigned to history, too. Or was I overreacting? Was it that important? Would we be able to get over it? Could we in fact weather the storm and come out the other side?
As the train careered through countryside I didn’t recognize I was struck by the navy blue and white sticker on the window that said ‘FIRST CLASS’. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I felt like a first class fool for feeling the way I did.
Look at me, I thought, Jodie McGee. The girl who was thrown out of drama school for breaking the rules. The girl who used to stack shelves in a supermarket for a living. Sat here in a first class carriage, heading to a glitzy showbiz party in London, all expenses paid, where there would be be loads of famous people, free champagne an
d hair extensions, boob jobs, party dresses and heels. This was the sort of journey most girls dreamed of making. So why couldn’t I enjoy it? Why couldn’t I feel buoyant with excitement, rather than anchored with pain? Because with me, it was a physical pain. Heartache wasn’t just something conjured up by Patsy Cline’s songwriters, they must have got it from somewhere, from their own shitty lives maybe, because it was real, and I hated feeling like this. Just because I had a job that lots of people would covet, and the alleged accompanying fabulous lifestyle, didn’t mean the crap stuff went away. I still had shit to deal with. For God’s sake, I seemed to be a magnet for it. I believe Dolly Par ton once said that if you wanted the rainbow, you had to put up with the rain. That I could deal with, that made sense. I just wish God, or whoever was up there pulling the strings of my puppet-show life, could send me an umbrella when the raindrops started to fall.
My phone was telling me I had three voicemails. (Well, it wasn’t telling me using words as such, but there was a written message on my screen). I dialled and listened to the first one.
‘Jodie, it’s me.’
Hayls.
‘Before you start getting your knickers in a twist about me knowing, think it through. Debs has put me in a shocking position. I wish to God she’d never told me she was seeing him. I didn’t tell you coz I didn’t want to upset you. Anyway, it’s up to her to tell you, not me. I don’t see why I should have to do her dirty work. I’m sorry I lied in the pub about, well . . . making that internet stuff up. I’m a knob, what can I say? But listen, Jodes, it’s not going anywhere. He’s only in it for the sex, and he’s told her that, but she’s practically picking out rings at Boodle and Dunthorpe. So I didn’t see the point in upsetting you. And I knew it would. D’you know what I mean?’
Yes, Hayls. I do know what you mean.
‘Oh God, I can’t believe this has happened. How did you find out? I’m mortified. Ring me. I’m going out of me mind here, I’m dead panicky for you. I can’t settle. I’ve just got to look at a piece of toast and I feel like spewing. Anyway, I’ll speak to you later, yeah? Love you.’
There was another message, thirty seconds later. Hayls again. This time with music blaring in the background.
‘I can’t believe this has gone to answerphone. That’s really unprofessional of you. LOTAN, TURN THAT FUCKING SHITE DOWN. Sorry.’
The music went quieter.
‘Can I order two large pepperoni pizzas with extra chilli on one and extra cheese on the other. Two lots of dough balls and two death by chocolates. We’re at three Stuart Road. Thanks’.
Then another message. Hayls again.
‘Jodie, ignore that. That was for Domino’s Pizza. Lotan’s forcing me to eat. Love you!’
Just then Trudy returned from the buffet car clutching cans of ready-mixed gin and tonic, a plastic beaker of ice and another lemon. She handed me a can. I cracked it open and slurped. I didn’t even bother with a beaker.
‘Good work, babes.’ She nodded, impressed. ‘Everything OK?’
I smiled. ‘Never better, babes.’
‘Oh good.’
No point telling someone with a weekly magazine column about my private life, eh? Although a few hours later I couldn’t help but blurt out something I’d rather not have told her.
When we got to Euston there were no taxis. Irritated beyond belief – we had more bags than a convention of Anne Widdecombe lookalikes – we started walking towards the hotel, where not only were we staying the night, but the party was taking place, too. Walking down the Euston Road, dragging wheeled suitcases behind us, frocks and catsuits slung over our arms in plastic wrappers, all Trudy did was moan about her heels hurting.
‘For God’s sake, babes, we can’t turn up at the hotel on foot. The paps’ll be there already and they’ll have a field day.’
‘You turn up for the studios on foot. Well, you make the taxi drop you off outside and you walk through.’
‘I know, but this is a proper posh party, babes. We’re so not gonna look like VIPs.’
I didn’t really care, as long as the walk wasn’t too long. But having lived in London I knew it was more than a stone’s throw from Euston to Park Lane.
‘We could get the bus?’
Trudy laughed, thinking I was joking. So I laughed back, pretending I had been.
We weren’t sure if we were going in the right direction for the hotel, but we marched on regardless, past constipated lines of traffic waiting for lights to change and start moving again, hoping to see a taxi sooner rather than later. Suddenly Trudy stopped and shouted, ‘THESE FUCKING HEELS!’
I looked down and she’d got one of her pin-thin stilettoes caught between two paving stones.
‘Come here,’ I said and dived down to wrestle it free.
As I did I heard her go, ‘Oh my God, Tony De Vit!’
‘What? Where?’
I stood up and looked at the stationary traffic, wondering if Mr De Vit was at the wheel of a Merc or something, but then I saw that Trudy was looking at a billboard pasted with a patchwork of club posters.
‘Tony De Vit’s playing tonight. D’you know who Tony De Vit is, babes?’
‘Course,’ I tutted. What did she think I was? Untrendy? Cheek! I looked at the poster she was considering. In big letters at the top, done in the style of neon lights, was the name Tony De Vit. But underneath was another name that drew me like a spider to a web.
‘You heard of him?’ I said, pointing at the name below as I felt excitement and panic compete like a rhythm section in my ribcage.
‘Mr Milk? Course, babes. He’s well fit.’
‘He’s not fit.’
‘He is fit.’
‘He’s gay.’
‘So? You can still be gay and fit. All my gay mates are well fit. And his music’s brilliant.’
‘You heard him play?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Did you meet him?’
She shook her head, then kept on walking. She didn’t even say thank you for freeing her foot. I grabbed my case and followed her, unable to believe I’d seen my brother’s DJ name on a poster in central London, announcing that he was playing with an A-lister DJ at a club that night. I felt a stupid amount of pride, which was now blotting out the panic I felt at seeing his name. That was his name, wasn’t it? I was sure that was his name. I’m sure that’s what he’d told me in his letter. Or maybe Mum had told me, or Dad.
‘D’you know anyone who knows him?’ I asked, calling after Trudy who’d now built up some speed. God she could work a heel.
‘Babe, if you wanna get VIP’d into a club just speak to the press office,’ she called dismissively.
‘I don’t.’
‘Aw, d’you wanna meet him, babe? Where are the fucking TAXIS?’
‘I don’t need to meet him. I’ve met him.’
‘Have you, babe? Oh this is taking the PISS.’
‘He’s my brother.’
She stopped and looked at me like I was mad. And in a way I was. Why had I blurted that out? To her of all people?
‘Don’t you dare put it in your column,’ I warned aggressively.
‘Take a chill pill, babes, that column’s about promoting my brand.’
Of course. Phew.
We eventually found a taxi. As we drove to the hotel I lied through my back teeth that me and Our Joey were close, but that we kept our siblinghood quiet as we didn’t want to cash in on each other’s success. Trudy was in turns fascinated, amazed, then bored. It was, of course, because I was talking about me and not her and her so-called brand. When we eventually arrived at the hotel she opened her purse and said, ‘Oh, babes, I’ve only got cards. Can you get this? It’s such a kerfuffle.’ Then practically leapfrogged over my case and out of the cab. I paid, got a receipt and toyed with asking the driver to take me back to Euston so I could return to Liverpool. Anywhere. I just knew this party was going to be dire.
By the time I decided to leave my palatial room, complete with its
own Jacuzzi, having drunk most of the complimentary bottle of champagne provided by the hotel for ‘Miss McGee with our warmest wishes’ and head to the party downstairs, I realized I was pissed as a newt. This wasn’t good. My producer would be there, the controller of the channel, everyone paying my wages basically, and if I couldn’t stand upright, well, what would they think of me? I checked my watch. It was just after six. OK, one more for the road and then I’d be ready to go down to the ballroom. But pouring another glass of bubbly I tripped over a Persian rug in my silver wedges and fell over, bottle in hand. Standing up I caught sight of myself in one of the many full-length mirrors in the room (which was about four times the size of my flat) and saw that I’d spilt the champagne. Over my crotch. Even in my tipsy state I realized that venturing down in the lift to an area where there might be photographers looking like I’d wet myself was not a good idea. I tried drying myself with the hairdryer in my dressing room (yes, there was a special room that you could get changed in) but the silver lamé started to singe a bit, so I decided to sit open-legged on the couch and turn the air con up full pelt. There was a little bit of champagne left so, to save further spillages, I drank it straight from the bottle. It was then that Stu rang.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Debs and Greg.’
‘It’s not important.’
Silence.
‘How do you know anyway?’
‘It’s Sunday, Jodie. I had to go to your mum’s for a roast.’
Oh yes, I’d forgotten that.
‘She couldn’t believe you’d not said anything.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Are you pissed?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it is kind of important. You find out your best mate’s done the dirty on you with your ex-husband, and—’
All She Wants Page 32
