“Well—”
“Of course he should have picked Robbie,” interrupted Terry. “But trust me, it’s not the first time someone’s made that mistake!”
Terry and Robbie began to laugh.
I blushed.
Gary’s jaw dropped open.
And Malibu and Dad looked gutted for me.
So, I thought about it for a second: Be big. Be strong.
Then I jumped out of the chair and shouted, “Fuck you – dickheads!” at the TV screen and stormed out. I could hear Dad apologizing to Mrs Johnson about my “disgusting language” as I marched towards the kitchen. OK, it wasn’t the best representation of the Bennet family – I know that. But when the red mist comes down, you don’t have time to check yourself, do you? Anyway, after I calmed down a bit, I went back and apologized, then politely announced that I didn’t feel well and asked Dad to take me home.
“Wait a minute, Rem,” Malibu called out as we got to the front door. I turned and waited for her to waddle up to me as fast as she could. “You need this,” she said, handing over the magazine she was carrying. “Page twenty-five. Zoe Westwick. Relationship tips.”
Been trying to get hold of Stephen ever since. Left two voicemail messages but he hasn’t got back to me.
8.30 p.m.
Still getting Stephen’s voicemail.
8.35 p.m.
Reflected on my behaviour at Mal’s house. Decided that from now on I will be queen of self-control. Sent Mal a text.
Me: Hey sis, sorry about earlier. How about coming in for that VJ tomorrow to make up for it? xx
And she sent back: Yay! Cu about 11. PS Potty-mouth incident now forgotten. xx
9 p.m.
Still nothing from Stephen.
9.15 p.m.
“Can’t help thinking he’s avoiding me,” I said to Kellie. Had to call someone as was going mental.
“He probably just needs to get his head together. Cos, to be honest, having Robbie outplay him like that is a bit embarrassing. Anyone else maybe – OK. But not that on top of the love triangle.”
“Love triangle? There is no love triangle,” I snapped.
“Yeah. But you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. That makes it sound like there’s still something going on with me and Robbie.”
“But you must have some feelings for him still?”
“Nope. None.”
“So why haven’t you gone to watch Stephen play?”
“Er… Well… OK, I have feelings like hate and I’m sure he hates me too, so I know it’ll be awkward to be in the players’ lounge together. But that’s all it is. Seriously, there’s no comparison. If I had to spread them both on toast, Robbie would be Marmite and Stephen would be the best ever strawberry jam.” As I’d already told Malibu, I thought I might as well tell Kellie too. “I love Stephen. Proper love. Not school crush crap.”
“Oh.” She didn’t sound very happy for me.
“Why, what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s just … well, it’s only been three weeks.”
“Since we got back together – yeah. But I felt it when we met in Turkey, to be honest. And then last week, when we finally—”
Whip-whoo, she wolf-whistled.
“Kel, why do you always have to cheapen things?”
“OK. Shagged then.”
“That’s even worse. And anyway, it was more than that. It was…” I couldn’t resist smiling. “Look, I know it might sound poncey but it was special.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, the moon and stars aligned,” she groaned. “Does he love you too?”
“I dunno.” I sighed. “Thought he might before, but tonight hasn’t filled me with confidence.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Just ask him.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Hi Stephen. How are you? Do you love me? Yeah, people have conversations like that every day. This isn’t EastEnders, Kel.”
“OK, well don’t ask him then. Tell him yourself. See what he says. At least then you’ll know where you stand. Plus that will make him feel better about the love triangle.”
“Kel!”
“I mean the fact that there definitely isn’t one.”
“He knows there isn’t one,” I told her.
10.30 p.m.
Mum knocked on the door earlier and asked if I was all right.
“I heard Stephen had a bad game. Don’t worry, love, Newcastle are renowned for their tough defence.”
Mum knows even less about football than I do, so it was obviously a line that Alan had fed her.
“All right, Mum. I’m over it already. OK–aaay?”
Blooming hate this house sometimes. #NeedPrivacy
Stephen still hasn’t called. And all I get is voicemail. He’s clearly turned off his phone.
Maybe he’s had enough of me. Wants a PROPER girlfriend who will be glad to go to games. One who actually likes football. And hasn’t made him part of a poxy non-love triangle.
11.30 p.m.
Had given up waiting for Stephen to get in touch and climbed into bed, prepared for a sleepless night, when he finally called. Said his battery had died. I was so happy to hear from him that my bad mood instantly disappeared.
“Well done today, baby,” I chirped.
“Well done?” he said in disbelief. “I was shite.”
“No, you weren’t. You were—”
“Absolute shite. Even my dad said so.”
I hadn’t meant to patronize him but he obviously thought I had.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” I said, then borrowed a little from Mum and a little from Dad. “The Newcastle defence … are really hard to crack.”
“Yeah, well a certain person managed to do it,” he grumbled. Confirming that Robbie Wilkins is the bane of my life. I knew I needed to make it clear that:
1. There isn’t, will never be and has never been a love triangle.
2. There is an ocean between how I felt about Robbie and how I feel about Stephen.
The only way to do that was to man up and say that I loved him.
“Remy,” he said at the exact same time as I said, “Stephen.”
“It’s OK. You go first,” I told him.
There was a long pause.
“Look, I’m tired. I’d better go to bed and call you in the morning.”
“Oh… All right.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Me? Nothing much. Let’s catch up tomorrow.”
And after he ended the call, I whispered: I love you, I love you, I love you.
12.30 a.m.
Couldn’t sleep so decided to finish the sales ledger. The salon made £450 profit this week (would have been £570 if the Tanarama had been working). It’s the highest total yet. And I’d be skipping around if I wasn’t as on edge about Stephen. I should have gone to the game. The guilt’s killing me now. AND he probably thinks I’m a crap girlfriend. Hope he’s not going to dump me.
1 a.m.
Just finished reading the Zoe Westwick article in the magazine Mal gave me. It’s about a book she’s written called How To Keep Him. Apparently the women that have taken her advice have had phenomenal results. “Two hundred weddings and counting,” she claims. Got a bit annoyed to begin with because of the first line of the article: “There’s nothing more unattractive than a paranoid woman.” Humph! I thought, what’s Mal trying to say? But it got proper interesting when I read on. It lays out tactics to help show confidence in yourself. “Confidence,” Zoe Westwick says, “is a big turn-on.” So, instead of getting jealous when you notice that a female in a film or mag has caught your boyfriend’s eye, the Westwick way is to try talking about how pretty she is instead, to prove that you don’t feel threatened.
OK. Can’t criticize the way she looks but whenever I’ve noticed Stephen gawping at Megan Fox, I must admit, it’s wound me up and I’ve started to say that I’ve heard this or that about her – anything negative re
ally. Does that make me an “unattractive paranoid”?
The second half of the article went on about sharing as many interests with your partner as possible. And if you don’t share any, pretend until you do. Zoe Westwick calls it “Fake it till you make it”. Ugh! Can you imagine me pretending to like football?! Besides, it’s not exactly one up for the sisterhood, is it? Thanks, Mal. But no thanks. Methinks I’ll be giving it a swerve. Unless I’m absolutely desperate.
Dear God, please don’t let Stephen dump me tomorrow.
Monday 23 February – 7 a.m.
Aaaaaagh! Must change alarm. The old-fashioned telephone briing! briing! sounded cool before, but with lack of sleep (due to boyfriend worries) now sounds like a drill in my head!
7.15 a.m.
Showered.
Eyes: V. tired (like their owner).
Head: On my relationship. Hope Stephen’s in a better mood today.
Right. Better get some make-up on.
7.55 a.m.
Malibu phoned just as I was getting ready.
“You’re up early,” I said.
“Yeah. Lately, the baby always starts kicking around seven o’clock.”
“Well, maybe it can start working in the salon for its auntie then. As soon as.”
“You tired?”
“Knackered.”
“What about changing the time you open? I definitely wouldn’t open at nine if it was my salon.”
Malibu has loads of things that she would or wouldn’t do if it was her salon. All of them do my head in.
“Mal,” I groaned. “You know Kara’s opens at nine.”
“Yeah, but that’s because Kara’s twisted. Every other salon opens at ten.”
“Agreed. But I’m not going to give an hour’s head start to the competition twenty doors down the road.”
“But Kara’s still Kara early in the morning, whereas you – you’re a moody-knickers version of yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“Are.”
“Not!”
“See. Listen to you now.”
“That’s because a certain person is keeping me on the bloody phone when I need to get to work.”
“Fine. I’m just trying to help.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Got it. I’d get a beautician to open up for me. Would buy an extra half an hour in bed at least, that would. Yeah, that’s what I’d do if it was my salon.”
“Yeah, well” – I paused – “that might be a good idea.”
“Told ya. I’m full of them. Anyway, just reminding you about that Vajazzle today.”
“How could I forget the highlight of my day?”
“Good. And did you read that Zoe Westwick article?”
“Yes–ss.”
Ugh! I swear she’s turning into Mum.
9.05 a.m.
Great. Nothing like bumping into your old, smarmy boss – the competition twenty doors down – when you look and feel like crap. Yet another thing Malibu’s right about: whatever time of day, Kara is still Kara. She’s well up herself, 24/7.
“Oh, someone did say that you open at nine like we do,” she said. “How’s business – busy?”
“Brilliant. Couldn’t be better,” I told her as I unlocked the salon’s door. “How’s it going with you?”
“Oh, extraordinarily well.”
“Great,” I said, even though I knew she was lying. With the recession on, Kara’s is way too expensive.
“Oh, um … Remy,” she called. “I heard you have a problem with your Tanarama booth. Call me old-fashioned but I’ve always said that I’d rather invest in people over machines. Granted, it may take a little longer but you just can’t beat the personal touch. Anyway, please feel free to send people along to us until it’s fixed.”
“Actually, it should be getting fixed today,” I pretended, “so I doubt that will happen.”
“OK. Well, here’s hoping the salon works out for you.”
Works out for me? Blooming cheek. Tah-dah! is going to be a great success – end of. Ugh! Hate the way she still makes me feel like Remy “the apprentice beautician” rather than Remy “the badass businesswoman” … who is, admittedly, slightly grumpy this morning.
I love Malibu’s idea of getting one of the beauticians to open the salon for me, but it’s a big responsibility – she’ll have to be trustworthy and hard-working. So decided to bring my diary with me to write notes about them as they work. Good things. Bad things. And this is the genius part: will secretly award points – the first beautician to reach fifty will win!
Got a name for the competition too: Salon Idol!
CONTESTANT ONE: Lara West – 24 yrs
• Good points: A v. good beautician. Expert waxer (but bloody well knows it). Has a good set of clients.
• Bad points: Suspect that Lara thinks I don’t know what I’m doing. OK, maybe I don’t yet but that doesn’t give HER the right to think it!
• Sob story: She used to work from home but neighbours complained about her clients parking in front of their drive. They even got a few of them clamped. That’s why Lara thinks it’s easier to rent a space from me.
CONTESTANT TWO: Courtney Hamilton – 20 yrs
• Good points: Has a v. nice way with customers. Great at selling products – kerching!
• Bad points: Tends to give adjectives a girly ending, like “horribubble” instead of “horrible”. Very annoying.
• Sob story: Her hair. It’s tragic. Mainly because of her toddler hairstyle. (I swear it’s been cut by her mum and lined up with a bowl.)
CONTESTANT THREE: Isabel Ferrer – 26 yrs
• Good points: Super quick at manicures.
• Bad points: Corrects people when they call her Spanish by saying that she’s Catalan. She did explain the difference to me once but my mind wandered (never been into history) so I’m still clueless as to why Barcelona (where she comes from) isn’t really Spain. Also, don’t know if it’s because things are lost in translation but she can be a bit abrupt.
• Sob story: She’s a single mum with a two-year-old son.
I usually like the beauticians to arrive ten minutes before opening time. It’s sort of an understanding, rather than a rule. But at ten to nine Isabel was the only beautician here. (Not the start I anticipated for Salon Idol.)
Was going to award her a point but realized it would be difficult for her to open the salon on top of her baby duties. So decided to count her out of it.
Courtney eventually turned up at nine. “Sorry, but the trains were impossibubble this morning.”
Lara got here two minutes ago. She apologized then added, “But I think you’ll have to accept that we’ll be late now and then, if you’re going to have a nine o’clock opening time.”
“Well Isabel seemed to manage it,” I told her.
Anyhow, I’m v. disappointed and have decided to award them both zero points.
OMG. Feel like a judge on Eurovision!
10.30 a.m.
The Salon Idol competition is hotting up. Lara has had two customers – both for waxing. Courtney has only had one, though it was for a couple of treatments – manicure and pedicure. So going to give them both two points.
Tried James earlier (as forgot to call him back yesterday) but only got his voicemail. Probably a good thing, as still majorly pissed off about him calling me a gold-digger.
I’ve just phoned Tanarama’s UK head office to get them to send an engineer to fix the spray-tan booth. Have also done my first treatment of the day – an eyebrow wax for Vicky Lynch. She requested me. Vicky was a regular at Kara’s but came to the salon opening party and said she was very impressed, especially with our prices.
“They’re so much cheaper than Kara’s.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re getting the promotional prices at the moment but even when they stop, we’ll be cheaper.”
“Perfect. As long as you’re just as good of course
.”
“Oh, we are,” I said as I escorted her up to the waxing room.
But the real proof of that will be whether she comes back.
11.05 a.m.
Malibu has cancelled her vajazzle.
“Got my wires crossed,” she said. “It’s pregnancy yoga today. Have to try and keep my bits the same for after I’ve had a baby, if you know what I mean. It’s all about the perineum, they make you squeeze it in and—”
I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and shouted, “Too much information.”
Was relieved to get out of it, to be honest, so didn’t make a fuss. “No worries. Enjoy your class.”
Besides, the spare time won’t be wasted because if a client doesn’t walk in, I’ll just spend it doing some more spying observing for Salon Idol.
11.30 a.m.
Omg. Can’t believe Amy “local bike” Fitzgerald had the cheek to walk through the door!
Said she wanted to use the Tanarama booth because she’s heard good things about it. I was going to tell her it wasn’t working – honestly I was – but then she started boasting about Lance Wilson…
“Lance loves me brown. And I want to be the perfect colour to go with my wedding dress.”
“What colour’s the dress?”
“White.”
“Oh.” Does she have no shame?
“Lance helped me pick it. He’s got the best taste. It’s a bustier dress because he loves my boobs. Well, he says he loves my everything. We only got engaged a few months ago but we’re getting married in eleven weeks. Lance just couldn’t wait. I suppose you don’t when you’re with the right person.”
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 3
