‘Ah, was it very obvious?’ he said, with the hint of a blush.
‘Yep, ’fraid so,’ I said, smiling at his reddening cheeks.
‘You were this cool, hot girl. I was intimidated. I didn’t want to bore you.’
‘Cool hot girl!’ I exclaimed. ‘I work in a doctor’s surgery in Tiddlesbury. I live above a kebab shop.’
‘Yeah, but you had pink hair and biker boots and great legs. I was never a cool kid at school.’
‘Matt, I was definitely not a cool kid at school,’ I protested. I didn’t want to mention just how traumatic school had been for me at this point though.
Anyway, on our first date he took me to a lovely, posh Italian restaurant, in one of the affluent villages on the other side of Nunstone. He ordered these gigantic gooey balls of mozzarella, and laughed at the way I moaned with pleasure as I ate them. As he laughed, he relaxed, and I liked seeing him relax. I liked helping him to relax. I interrogated him then. Well, he claims I interrogated him. I maintain I was simply trying to get to know him. He said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever spoken about myself so much.’ Although that’s not what I remember most about our first date. What I remember most is how halfway through his main course he put his knife and fork down suddenly, wiped his mouth quickly with his napkin and looked at me seriously.
‘Fanny, I work extremely hard,’ he told me urgently. ‘People say I’m a workaholic, and when they say that I don’t think, Oh, I really need to take it a bit easier. No, I think, Good, I’m glad you think I’m a workaholic. You see, the thing is, Fanny, I’m going to retire from big business at forty-five, which sounds very young. But that’s my game plan. My, er, my dad died two days before he was due to retire at sixty-four. And so, well, that’s the game plan. That’s why I work so hard now.’ And he picked up his knife and fork and, without looking at me, said, ‘I just wanted to warn you. I’d like to see you again. But, I should say that my work can make me quite stressed, sometimes.’
‘Have you thought about yoga?’ I asked him.
He looked puzzled for a moment and then he laughed. I thought, Blimey, Matt Parry is intense, complicated, nothing like me, nothing like anyone I’ve ever met before. But I remember thinking, I’d be good for you. I, Fanny Taylor, could be good for you, Matt Parry. I’d never thought of myself as being particularly good for anyone before. But best of all, I didn’t feel scared, and that in itself felt like a very good thing.
Chapter 21
Mother was up this morning before I left for work. She was sitting at the kitchen table. I thought, Oh, God, she’s going to hit me with another ‘let’s talk about that day’. But no. She wanted to talk about feelings.
‘Jenny, tell me how you’re feeling about me leaving your dad,’ she said. It was ridiculous. I hate talking about my dad. I hate thinking about my dad. Blimey, I wish I never thought about him at all, but unfortunately he does pop into my head fairly frequently. I suppose you just can’t help the fact that your dad is a seismic presence in your life, even when he is an arse. It’s normally when I see other people with their dads that I think of him. Sometimes dads bring their children to the surgery, and I get a little pang of ‘my dad would never have done that’, or we’ll be out in Nunstone and I’ll see a dad doing the pub quiz with his daughter and buying her drinks and meeting her boyfriend. You can see the respect in her eyes and the tenderness in his. That’s when I start to think, I wish my dad wasn’t so cold, or just, I wish my dad liked me. I have to force myself to think of his positives then, otherwise I’ll be stuck in the ‘my dad’s an arse’ headspace for ages. So I’ll consider how he’s not afraid to wear pink, he speaks very good conversational French, he was visibly upset when our dog died, he plays a phenomenal game of Scrabble, his name, Jack Taylor, could almost be a whisky, until other non-dad thoughts plant themselves in my mind.
I do have one nice memory of my dad though. At least I think it’s a memory. It could just be a daydream that I’ve had so often, I’ve mistakenly started to believe it was real. It isn’t a particularly dramatic reminiscence. I am about three or four years old and we’re in the garden, he throws me up in the air and he catches me and swings me round. Afterwards we go inside, I’m tired and I fall asleep on his lap. He cradles me and strokes my hair. But it could well have been a dream, because I can’t think of another time when he voluntarily touched me. Nope. Not ever. No pecks on the cheek goodnight, no pats on the back to say ‘well done’ or ‘good luck’. Not one hug. Didn’t he ever read any books on parenting?
So if I was about to start discussing my relationship with my father it wouldn’t be with my mother at 7.30 in the morning after having spent a large portion of the night thinking about a man who wasn’t my husband-to-be. One Mr Joe King. So, I backed straight out of the kitchen. It wasn’t safe to breakfast in there. All in all, an unfortunate start to the day.
The cameraman, Disgruntled Dave, is back at the surgery to film Marge. He’s more fed up than ever. If he carries on like this I’m going to slip him the Smiling Fanny Manifesto. I actually think he could be quite handsome if he didn’t have the unattractive aura of a man who desperately didn’t want to be where he is. He’s in his early to mid thirties, swarthy, he wears his combats well, but he’s just not happy. Mind you, he has been filming Marge all day, in her head-to-toe leopardskin ensemble, so perhaps it’s unfair of me to expect him to be perky.
‘I met my Timmy on match.com. He’d just moved to the area. He winked at me. Well, at my profile. Then he sent me a message saying, “Hey, good looking, I like what you got cooking.” Well, if I’m honest, I wasn’t blown away.’
Marge said ‘blown away’. Joe King said he was blown away by me. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me either. Perhaps he wasn’t with those nineteen-year-old twins after all. I keep drifting back to last night, in the garden, lying next to each other on the grass, listening to his breathing. The bit before I ran away.
‘No, I wasn’t blown away by my Timmy’s message. But, I was blown away by his picture. And he was twenty-seven. I was thirty-six. I wrote back, “It’s a sweet chilli chicken stir-fry, thank you very much, and if you play your cards right you can sample it one day.” And he said, “I would like to play my cards right very much.” And I replied, “Well, then I accept your kind offer of dinner,” and he came back with a restaurant and a date. I liked the fact that he’d taken the initiative then. So, we had a great first date and about three months later I made him my sweet chilli chicken stir-fry.’
‘Doris!’ I throw my arms open to greet my favourite patient as she walks into the surgery. ‘How are you, lovely?’
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, Fanny, love, must not grumble. And I have been giving my Big Send Off a fair bit of thought. I’ll just sit myself here and discuss it with my best girl.’
I wink at her and mouth the words, ‘You’re my favourite patient,’ before saying, at full volume, ‘Right, so did you decide on a dress code?’
‘Yes, I’m very pleased with it. The film Grease.’
‘Oh, Doris, I love it.’
‘Do you really, love?’
‘Absolutely, it’s a great one. You can do the sexy Sandy or the sweet Sandy or go for the classic pink lady. It’s great for the guys too. All ages know the film.’
‘That’s what I thought! I hope you’ll be there as a sexy Sandy with that man of yours.’
‘Oh, Doris, I don’t like to think of you not being there.’
‘Oh, I’ll be there, don’t you worry.’
‘Just you make sure you are.’
‘And it has to be at the community centre. We had a lovely do there for my Little Stevie’s christening.’ She smiles, the dreamy smile that is always in attendance when she mentions her grandson.
‘Doris.’ Dr Flemming pokes his head out of his office.
‘Oh, I hate it when you’re efficient. I was enjoying my chinwag with Fanny here.’
She gets up and tootles into his office.
‘We certainly do
have an energetic sex life,’ Marge continues, wide-eyed and animated, confiding to the camera. Then, she leans forward so that her fully grown hounds escape the confines of her leopard-print top, produces a little breathy giggle and follows it up with a wink.
Next to her, I place my blurry head in my hands and slowly and gutturally utter the words, ‘Oh, holy mother.’
‘My Tim knows how to pleasure a woman.’
Surely, there’s only so much we, or the BBC Three viewers, need to know.
‘He’s very adventurous.’
‘That’s enough now, Marge,’ I say in my best head of reception voice.
‘And he’s very well endowed.’
‘Now, stop it, now. We are working, Marge. In a doctor’s surgery.’
‘Oh, Fanny, stop being a prude!’
‘Prude, I’ll have you know I’m a sex goddess.’
‘He likes a little spanking.’
‘Marge!’ That was my firm puppy trainer voice.
‘I know how to keep my man happy,’ she says smugly. As though I don’t!
‘So do I.’
‘He likes it outside.’
‘Outside?’
Oh, Disgruntled Dave, why are you encouraging her?
‘Yes, in the open air. I think it’s the risk of being caught he enjoys.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Dave,’ I sigh, wearily.
‘There’s a nice field out past B & Q.’
‘Marge, I run there. Now I’ll have images.’
Luckily, I’ve never met Tim so the image is somewhat blurrier than it could be. Not that I need to meet Tim. I know all there is to know already.
‘There’s a little lay-by, with a gate.’
I wait until she’s doing her titillating lean forward into the camera before I break the news.
‘My boyfriend stops to wee there sometimes.’
I have finally silenced the Marge. I tap away at my computer triumphantly.
‘I think I’ll stop now for some lunch.’ Disgruntled Dave sounds tired. He puts his camera in its bag. ‘Will it be all right to leave this under here?’ he asks, indicating his bag under the desk.
‘I might sell it on eBay. Or shoot myself a little pop video.’ I smile.
‘Should I move it?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ I’m grinning away at Disgruntled Dave, but he’s too disgruntled to smile back. ‘Leave the bag here, honestly. It’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, with absolutely no hint of a grin, before walking slouchily off to lunch.
That’s it. I lift my holdall onto my lap and pick out a neutral bloke-type card and then in capitals, not in my scrawly writing, I copy out the Smiling Manifesto for him. See what I did there? I left out the Fanny. It would be very obvious where it came from if I gave him the Smiling Fanny Manifesto, what with me being called Fanny. I wait until Marge has to go and see the nurse about a prescription and then I slide the card into the side pocket of Disgruntled Dave’s camera bag. I don’t know what he’ll make of it, or even if he uses this side pocket at all. It might lie untouched there for years and years. Disgruntled Dave might buy a better bag and take this one to the charity shop. But then someone could purchase the bag, discover the note and they may just think, Perhaps I should have a go at this.
I have never mentioned my anonymous note giving to Matt. He knows we gave Trudi, his ex-girlfriend, a note in Nunstone, on that first night. But he’s under the impression that it was an isolated occurrence because Philippa and I were moved by her pretty dress and a fair bit of wine. He doesn’t know about the Smiling Manifesto at all. He’s noticed that I often strike up conversations with random people when we’re out together though. He says it makes him feel like a carer for the mentally ill. There’s a lot that Matt doesn’t know about me. I suppose I didn’t want to put him off me by telling him all my stuff. But, somehow, I could imagine myself telling Joe King everything. Like it’s meant to be. That was a line in his song, I’m sure it was. He thinks that we are meant to be. And what if we are? What if Jenny Taylor and Joe King are absolutely 100 per cent meant to be together? How can you know? You can’t. The only way you can know is by taking the dangerous risk of finding out. Oh, why am I even having these thoughts? Why do I feel as though nothing will ever be the same again?
Chapter 22
I had a drink after work with Marge and Disgruntled Dave. It was an avoidance tactic. I didn’t want to go home and defend myself against Mother’s new-found delusion that she’s Oprah and that feelings have to be talked about and trauma revisited. Going for a drink was a win–win. Not only has it delayed any potential discussion of feelings but it’s also provided me with a tingle of tiddliness, which could come in handy should the situation arise.
Neither Dave nor I really got a word in, but when Marge went to the loo I found out that he’s single and a bit out of sorts at the moment because he’s been working abroad, he says it feels strange to be back. He was very direct, articulate and honest when he answered my rapid-fire interview questions. And there’s definitely a bit of a young Robert Redford about him. So who can I set him up with? Philippa? Hmmm. Now Philippa is very discerning, but the pro is that he has a creative job. Admittedly I’m using the term rather loosely in the case of I Like ’Em Big – and, I think, there might lie the cause of at least part of his disgruntlement. The con with Philippa is that he could well fall in love with her and she will probably snog him and leave him, and then he could feel even worse. Although perhaps a little snog as a pick-me-up is all he needs. And talking about pick-me-up snoggers, what about Mother? Hmmmm. On the whole I am really working on the liberal thing, but the thought of my mother with someone twenty years younger is still really icky for me. And, yes, I know Demi Moore did it. But that was Hollywood, where they have plastic surgery and Botox, and this is Tiddlesbury, where we have a doctor’s surgery and Posh Nosh. And even if he is into older women, he would probably prefer a stable one. Still, I’ll force Mum and Philippa to come to Marge’s house-warming next week and he can choose for himself. I’d call that a good deed.
Later, as I stand wrestling with the lock to get me into the flat, I have a vision of me as a bridesmaid at Mum and Disgruntled Dave’s wedding. But it’s not Matt who’s at the wedding with me. It’s Joe King. He looks beautiful in a suit. I press my hands to my face to dissolve his image from my mind. I don’t care that I’m smudging my make-up. I so need this to stop. I want him exorcised from my brain.
I enter the flat and walk into the living room. The curtains are pulled shut even though there’s a bright blue sky outside. Mum and Al are sitting next to each other on the sofa huddled around my laptop. Fleetwood Mac is playing on the stereo. Fleetwood Mac is always playing on the stereo at the moment.
‘Is someone ill?’ I ask, flopping in an armchair.
Neither of them look at me but they both shake their heads.
‘What you watching?’
‘I love him,’ Mum says without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘You what?’
‘Mick Jagger,’ Al says to the computer.
‘You what?’
‘Your mum loves Mick Jagger,’ Al repeats. ‘We’re watching the Rolling Stones on YouTube.’
‘But you’ve got Fleetwood Mac on the stereo.’
‘Yeah,’ Al agrees.
The video obviously finishes because Al leans back and starts smiling and moving his head along to Fleetwood Mac. While Mum, on the other hand, sits up a touch and begins to open and close her mouth like a child who wants a bottle.
‘Mum, are you all right?’
She nods. She’s still suckling.
‘Mum?’
Mum ignores me and instead turns to Al. The strange thing she’s doing with her mouth continues only now there’s a slight look of alarm in her eyes.
‘Have you got any saliva?’ she asks, leaning very close to him.
Al looks at her seriously and then joins her with the baby mouth. Finally, he
shakes his head.
‘None at all.’
‘It’s very strange.’
‘Hmmm.’
I stare at the pair of them. They’re still at it. Together they look like fish.
‘Perhaps we should have a cup of tea,’ Mum whispers.
‘I would love a cup of tea,’ Al says earnestly.
‘I can’t move though,’ Mum confides.
‘Hmmmmphf,’ Al agrees.
They both turn to me. I cross my arms and pretend to be Supernanny.
‘What’s been going on here?’
Neither of them responds.
‘Tell me. Mum? Al?’
Mother’s started to giggle. Al’s just joined her.
‘Mum? Al?’
Mum’s rotating her torso as she giggles and giggles. Al’s head is bouncing up and down. I spring up from my seat.
‘You’re stoned, aren’t you?’
They think that’s hysterical.
‘Al, I can’t believe you got my mother stoned.’
‘She had the stuff.’
‘Mum!’
‘Damien the Dealer was very kind.’
‘Mum!’
I flop back into the chair, shaking my head.
‘Please make the tea, Fan,’ Al pleads.
‘Is cocaine like this?’ my mother squawks.
Chapter 23
‘I can’t believe you brought me here,’ Philippa humphs.
‘It’s my good deed.’
‘Since when does a good deed involve pimping your best friend?’
‘Times are tough.’
Mum wasn’t feeling well this evening so decided not to come to Marge’s house-warming party. I suggested a little detox might be in order but she just turned her nose up. Al’s not at all happy because it’s pub quiz night and he’s down three men. Well, women. I couldn’t interest him in coming here either, which I can well understand, because it’s basically lots of people who don’t know each other, and are far too sober to chat to each other, standing in a new-smelling home trying not to get marks on anything. Still, at least I’ve got Philippa, hopefully she’ll cheer Disgruntled Dave up. She has been known to cheer many a man up in the past.
Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy Page 11
