Me: Sorry was out earlier. What are we doing tonight handsome?
Stephen: Hello gorgeous. Movie maybe?
Me: Yay!
Stephen: What do u want 2 watch?
Me: U choose.
Stephen: U sure?
Me: Positive. xx
Stephen: OK. I’ll pick u up from salon. How does 7pm sound? x
As we were texting, I overheard Isabel’s client – Big Sue – waxing lyrical about the cabbage soup diet. It’s worked wonders on her – she’s already lost ten pounds in her first week.
“The only problem with it is that you can get a bit windy,” said Sue.
Isabel said she doesn’t need to diet. “I am one of deeze people who can eat anytheeng I want and not put on even a pound.”
How frickin’ annoying.
“Isabel,” I said. “Do you fancy swapping your six-thirty bikini wax with mine at six? Then you can leave early.”
“Deese would be fantasteek. More chance to get to de childminder on time.”
Yep. And it also means that she won’t be here when Stephen arrives. So I texted him to say: Yes baby. 7 will be perfect. xx
#Winning
6.55 p.m.
Last clients of the day have left, and after tomorrow I may not need to drink coffee ever again: I almost have a Salon Idol, which equals a lie-in for me while my winner opens up. Woo-hoo! Thought it was going to be Courtney but Lara smashed it today with four waxes, two manicure/pedicures, and a couple of her clients bought some products. The score is: Courtney: 27, Lara: 29, and all Lara has to do to clinch the title is turn up before ten to nine tomorrow.
Now just waiting for Stephen. Proper looking forward to the cinema tonight. Intend to snog him to death.
11 p.m.
It’s official. The honeymoon period is over.
Came to a grinding halt about a minute after Stephen came into the salon. Everything had gone to plan until then. He walked in. I slinked up to him, didn’t say a word and planted my lips on his mouth. (The first kiss of ten thousand, I thought at the time.) Then broke away to see his most mischievous smile yet.
“You’re in a good mood,” he said.
“Yep.”
“And why’s that then?”
“I could tell you. But I’d have to kill you afterwards. And—”
I was cut off by the sound of a car horn. Not just any car horn. Stephen’s car horn.
“Ah, that will be Angus,” he said.
“Angus?”
“Couldn’t leave him on his own, could I?”
I turned my head to see Stephen’s X6 parked outside. Angus, sitting in the front passenger seat, waved. Gutted, I waved back: Adios, cinema snogathon.
“No … course not,” I said. “I’ll just get my bag. Then we can—”
The horn beeped again.
“Stevie boy, yer’ve got a call,” Angus boomed loud enough for half of London to hear him.
“You go. I’ll just lock up,” I told him, and really took my time about it too, as needed to recover from the disappointment.
Stephen was still on the phone when I got in the car.
“Och naw, I’ll never be a southern softie,” he was saying.
“Not while I’m about!” Angus, who’d had the decency to move to the back seat, called out.
Stephen’s accent was suddenly stronger than I’d ever heard. “Yer both know I’m Glasgee till I die.”
“Aw, is that right?” said Angus before bellowing, “Yer should have heard him talking to the estate agent today, Angie – he sounded more English than the Queen.”
Angie? WTF?!
At that point, seeing as Stephen had barely acknowledged my arrival, I made a very loud, deliberate “Ahem.”
He took the hint. “Um … anyway, thanks for helping out me mam. And, er … yeah, thanks… OK, we’re just goin’ to catch a film now, so I’ll get the big man ter phone yer after that.” Then he ended the call, started the engine and began to drive. “Saw some great properties today, Boss Lady, didn’t we, Angus?” he said, trying a little too hard.
“Aye. They were great. And the estate agent wasn’t too bad either.”
I didn’t reply.
Stephen tried again. “So what did you do today, gorgeous – anything special?”
Zoe Westwick would have ignored his conversation with Angie and told him about looking at a property too – “what a great shared interest”, she would have said as they discussed the coincidence. But I, Remy Bennet, was busy trying to work out what Angie had done for his mum, whether she had an ulterior motive for helping (like stealing my man!) and why Stephen was so damn nervous.
Before I could answer, Angus said, “Shame you haven’t met Angie, Remy. You’d love her. And she’d love you too. Although… Have yer told Angie about Remy now, Stevie boy?”
“Well, I, er… Haven’t, um, really had the opportunity.”
“What about just now? What about at the Newcastle game – that she wasn’t supposed to go to but did all of a sudden?” I said.
“Only because you didn’t,” butted in Angus.
“Angus, naw. She has ter work, I’ve already explained,” Stephen snapped. I could tell it was a sore point, but how could I explain that I didn’t go because I was scared of seeing Robbie without him taking it the wrong way? I couldn’t. So I stayed quiet. Thinking, Why hasn’t Stephen told Angie about me? Does he still care about her or something?
Got to the cinema still unhappy about the Angie situation. Stephen wasn’t happy about me not being happy. And Angus chomped his way through a large cone of mixed popcorn.
“What a film, man!” Angus said as the credits began to roll at the end.
“Yeah,” Stephen and I sighed.
We stayed quiet on the drive to my house too. A courtroom drama was running in my head though. The case for the prosecution went something like this: The Accused: Stephen Campbell. Alleged crime: Still liking Angie McMillan. Evidence: He used to go out with her, and now she’s going to his matches, doing favours for his mum, talking to him whenever I’m not around (probably). He hasn’t even told her about me! Proof that he intends to get back with her.
The case for the defence: Stephen wanted you to come to Newcastle, not Angie. Would he really introduce you to Angus if he was stringing along Angus’s sister? And if he does end up with her, it will only be after you’ve pushed him straight back into her arms by not going to matches, coupled with your “unattractive, paranoid” behaviour.
Verdict: I’m a numpty.
“This is silly,” I said as Stephen walked me to my front door. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I think it’s because I’m exhausted. Worked my ass off today. Didn’t even have a lunch break.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Cos I’m the hardest-working woman in the beauty industry – simples,” I replied, trying to make him laugh. He didn’t, so I leant forward and kissed him, but it felt a bit one-sided to me. “Do you want me to stay at yours?” I offered. “It’ll only take a minute to pack my stuff.”
“Er… Naw, it’s OK. It’s late and I’ve gotta ice my foot when I get back – knocked it in training.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll see yer tomorrow.”
“But you’re going Kings of Leon tomorrow.”
“Well … let’s speak tomorrow then.”
“Fine,” I replied. Remy With Attitude again.
11.25 p.m.
Just phoned Kel and told her all about Angie. “Am I’m overdoing it? They’d broken up by the time they were fifteen.”
“Yeah, but it was first love. Which can be worse because loads of people hold feelings for their first love.”
“Ugh! What is it with me and men?” I moaned. “I thought he was different.”
“He still might be. I suppose it depends on whether or not you can trust yourself. You know – your gut feeling. Because with me, I can tell when a guy’s into someone else by looking in his eyes.”
“Well, that’s because you k
now what to look for – seeing as you’re always at it yourself.”
“Oi! I’ve been faithful to Jack for precisely sixty-five days now.”
“Congratulations,” I said sarkily, because this is a record for Kel. Her flakiness with men is legendary.
“Thanks. If I can do it, everyone can.”
I wanted to agree with her but I don’t live in a bubble – I read the newspapers and mags, and I’ve even experienced it myself. That’s why I replied, “Except maybe a Premiership footballer.”
“True,” she admitted.
And now I’m actually depressed.
1 a.m.
Trying to picture Angie. Hoping that she’s a female version of Angus – big and butch.
1.10 a.m.
Wonder if Kellie’s right, and he loved her?
Bet he did. Bet he told her that he did too. Why, oh why hasn’t he said it to me?
Thursday 26 February – 6.30 a.m.
Wide awake, half an hour before I need to be, fretting. Boyfriends – who needs ’em!
6.45 a.m.
Can’t stand feeling like this. But will keep calm and carry on, as they say. Work to do. Money to make. No time to be moping about where I stand with boyfriend. And I’m not going to phone him either. No way.
7 a.m.
OK. I cracked and phoned him.
“Hey, gorgeous. What time is it?” he said with a yawn.
“Oh, um … six forty-six. Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“Aye. But don’t worry about that. Everything all right?”
“Yeah… Perfect. I was just thinking about you … so thought I’d call.”
“Good thoughts, I hope.”
“Er… Yeah. Very good.”
“Care to elaborate?” he asked playfully.
Cool. He wanted a flirt? Well, I would be Mademoiselle Flirty.
Put on a vampish voice and said, “Well, it was quite… How can I put this? Um… Look, do you still have feelings for Angie – yes or no?”
Oops.
“Angie? Of course not. What makes yer think that?”
“Well, you haven’t told her about me, and you don’t seem as into me as you were before. I offered to come to yours last night and you preferred to ice your blooming foot.”
“Don’t be daft. Why do I need to tell an ex about my new girlfriend? And I would’ve much preferred to spend the night with you.”
“So why didn’t you then?”
“I was a little pissed off with yer yesterday, to tell yer the truth.”
“But I apologized for snapping and—”
“Naw. Not about that. Something else.”
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I’d prefer you to tell me you’re looking for a flat, not one of your beauticians.”
It all came out after that. Courtney assumed he knew about my flat adventure and bombarded him with questions when he phoned the salon. Did he like it? Did he think I was going to take it? And if I did, would I move in straight away or wait the two months?
“She was going a mile a minute until she realized I didn’t know what she was talking about.”
She left him wondering why I’d never mentioned moving out of my mum’s and getting my own flat. And when I didn’t tell him about it after he asked why I’d missed my lunch break, he thought I was trying to hide it.
“No–oo, of course not,” I told him.
It was his turn to sound apologetic. “Think we’ve both been getting our wires crossed.”
“Sure looks like it.” I put on my vampish voice again. “I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”
“Tonight?” he asked.
“You’re at Kings of Leon tonight.”
“Aw, yeah. So I am. Tomorrow then?”
“Deal.”
Okey-doke. Honeymoon period resumed.
7.30 a.m.
Showered.
Heart: Cooking with gas.
Mouth: Can’t stop smiling.
Brain: Doing overtime!
Just remembered that I’m going out with James straight after work, so will need to find the most “Shoreditch” thing in my wardrobe.
Hmm…
7.45 a.m.
It’s designer. It works. The Queen rates her enough to make her a dame. And, most importantly, it has passed the sniff test – so even though I wore it to the NY steakhouse the other night, would it be skanky to wear my leopard-print Vivienne Westwood dress again?
Tried on a few other things but the leopard print definitely works best because it has a “vintagey” style about it. Ugh! Can’t believe the word “vintage” is leaving my lips. Or how nervous I am about what Rupert will think about it.
Why, oh why am I trying to impress someone that I don’t even like?!
11.30 a.m.
On the way to work, I decided that if Malibu was going to ignore my texts, it was time to give her a call. So, stopped at Ace Café and bought a double espresso (didn’t want to sound grumpy). I was a big ball of happiness by the time I got to the salon, and was just about to call Mal when the Tanarama engineer turned up. He was swiftly followed by Lara – earning the point she needed to win Salon Idol. Yay! Lie-in for me tomorrow! Will tell her the good news at lunch.
Really rate Courtney though. When the Tanarama engineer was finished with the filters, he said the best way to tell whether I was happy with them was to give the Tanarama booth a trial run. As I’m out with James tonight, I didn’t want to take the chance – turning up in Shoreditch fifty shades of orange would not have been a good look. So I thought I’d ask one of the girls to do it; thought they’d understand. Wrong. They looked like they’d rather chew glass. So decided the most sensible way to select a victim guinea pig was Rock, Paper, Scissors.
I was quite lucky at it in primary school, but today it wasn’t happening. Lara was first out, then Isabel, leaving me to fight it out with Courtney in the last round.
I was about to lose when her hand came out to wrap around my fist. I must have looked gutted because Courtney then said, “It’s all right. I’ll do the trial run,” and saved me. Spent the full six minutes in the booth too, even though she was trying our darkest colour – Bronze Goddess. It’s a big contrast to her usual (quite pale) skin, but I thought she looked great when she stepped out. Sort of like a bowl-haired version of a Kardashian sister.
“Totally tantastic,” she said when she checked herself out in the mirror.
Love it when a plan comes together.
1.30 p.m.
The thing about X Factor and American Idol is that (a) the contestants enter the competition themselves and (b) they actually WANT to win it. Two major points that were, unfortunately, missing in my little contest.
Another crucial point is that those competitions offer a huge prize – a million pound recording contract etc. – whereas mine was a bit of a duffer.
“Get in half an hour earlier – why would I want to do that?” Lara asked.
“Um … er…”
“Will you be offering a discount on my rent?”
“Um… No.”
“A percentage of the product sales?”
“Er… No, don’t think so.”
“Well, I’d rather keep things as they are then, thanks.”
The lunch break didn’t improve, as shortly after, Stephen called to say he’d managed to wrangle one more Kings of Leon ticket.
So wanted to see him, but Kings of frickin’ Leon – shit. Shit. Shit.
Luckily, I had a valid way out: “Oh–hh no. I’m going out with James tonight.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand. He must know how much yer love them.”
“Yeah… True. I’ll, er … give him a call.”
Aa–aargh! Nightmare.
1.35 p.m.
I can’t blow James out. Not now. Not when he needs me.
1.45 p.m.
Still torn between boyfriend and bestie.
What to do? What to do?
1.50 p.m.
Have a pl
an!
2 p.m.
“They’ll be on stage about nine, so it means yer’ll miss a big chunk of the concert,” Stephen said when I told him that I’d whizz over to The O2 after first spending an hour with James.
“I know,” I told him, trying to sound gutted. “But he needs my advice.”
“Well, you’re a very good friend,” he told me.
Aaaah. He’s so supportive.
James – not so much. “You at a Kings of Leon concert?” he laughed after I explained my plan.
“I know. Not exactly Rihanna, are they. But Stephen loves them.”
“And you must love him if you’re willing to put up with that noise.”
I smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“What?!”
“Got to do a wax now. Let’s talk about it later.”
7.15 p.m.
Right, work done. I’ve slipped into my leopard-print dress. Now it’s Shoreditch and Kings of Leon time. The first part of the night will need patience. The second, earplugs.
Friday 27 February – 7.35 a.m.
Showered. Moisturized. Dressed: In leopard-print dress again (stayed at Stephen’s).
Last night almost had a perfect ending, though it didn’t start out well. Would rather stand naked on a podium in Trafalgar Square than go to Villa House again. Couldn’t wait to leave the place. It’s a v. expensive and beyond-poncey private members’ club, where people pay fifteen hundred pounds a year to use its swanky restaurant, bar and two lounges. Every room is decorated black or white, and sometimes they’ve really pushed the boat out by making the odd bit of furniture black AND white. So–oo Shoreditch.
James said he’s saving up to join. “It’ll probably take a year but it’s worth it to be comfortable.”
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 6
