“A booth at Nando’s is comfortable but I’m not going to pay £1,500 a year so I can always use one,” I replied. “And their chips are £2.25!” Villa House’s rip-off price for a tiny plate of chips: £4.55. WTF?!
“No–oo. I mean comfortable with the people around you,” James explained.
And from that, I take it that he wants to be surrounded by “Shoreditch types” for the rest of his life – people who pride themselves on being individuals, yet they all have angular haircuts and wear out-there clothes.
Still, it was the most confident I’ve heard him be about coming out to his parents. He says he’s had enough of living a double life and wants to be true to himself.
“Plus, Rupert won’t see anyone who’s not out. He says he’d be living a lie too.”
“You can’t do it for Rupert though. You have to do it for you,” I told him.
“I am.”
“Well, do you think your parents suspect anything?”
He shrugged. “My mum’s always asking when you’re going to come over again.”
“Me?”
“I made out that I was seeing you. Hope you don’t mind.”
He looked embarrassed. Poor thing. “Of course I don’t. Maybe you shouldn’t rush into it then. Spend a couple of weeks dropping a few hints first.”
“But I don’t want to miss my chance with Rupert.”
Rupert. Rupert. Rupert. Don’t know why he’s so obsessed with that guy. He’s a grade-one a-hole. When he turned up, he kissed us both on each cheek again – mwah, mwah. And then he apologized for giving me evils the other night.
“I’m an absolute bitch when I’m wasted, dahling.”
“It’s OK.”
“You look fierce today though.”
“Thanks.”
“So much better than that gold dress and shoes. Eww,” he said, “they were just so WAG dot-com.” Proving he’s a bitch when he’s stone-cold sober too.
He then took us upstairs, and showed us the worst art ever – seen two-year-olds do better.
I left Villa House at nine and got a cab to the concert. I picked up my ticket (Stephen left it on the door), went through security, up the escalators and made my way to my seat, arriving just as the KOL had started a song called “Charmer”. Spotted Stephen and Angus straight away. (Angus is hard to miss.) They were standing up, hands in the air, singing.
“Boss Lady!” Stephen shouted over the music when he saw me. “They’re on fire tonight!” Then he grabbed my hand, raised it up with his, and sang along with Caleb Followill and about fifteen thousand fans. I figured that I would have to join in (like any fan would) and luckily, the song only has about seven lyrics so I managed to pick it up.
We stayed on our feet for the five songs that followed – waving our arms and singing our voices hoarse. (Well, I’d start out miming.) And I genuinely liked the last song, “Sex On Fire”. Kiss FM used to play a dance version of it, so I absolutely belted it out. Midway through, Stephen started to kiss me!
“Come back to mine,” he said in my ear.
“Are you sure you don’t need to ice your foot?” I teased.
When we climbed into bed later, Stephen told me, “Yer know, I’ve only ever seen the band with Angus. It’s brilliant to have a girlfriend who’s into them too.”
And this time when we did IT it was even more special than the first – and that’s saying something. So, thank you, Zoe Westwick. You’re frickin’ GENIUS.
Afterwards, we snuggled and his body fit perfectly against mine. We were like a pair of Russian dolls. I just knew it was the right time.
“Thanks for tonight, baby, it was amazing,” I began. “Actually, to be honest, I think watching paint dry would probably be amazing with you. And look, I know we’ve never spoken about our feelings or anything but … maybe we should… I mean, I don’t want to push you into saying something you don’t want to but … well … I definitely know how I feel about you. You see … I … Stephen?”
When I turned round to look at him, he was asleep.
8.40 a.m.
Jumped on a Tube and got in to work bang on time.
Mum called one minute later. “So you are alive then,” she said.
“Of course I am.”
“It’s common courtesy to let me know if you’re not coming home, Remy. You had us worried sick.”
I would have apologized and explained that my battery died – I’d had to charge it at Stephen’s – but the fact that she said “us” bugged the life out of me.
“Don’t know what Alan was worried about. I’m not his kid.”
“Do you have to be so rude?”
“No, but I’m an adult who happened to go out with James, then met Stephen and stayed at his. What’s the big deal?”
“A real, responsible adult would have called their mother to prevent her from having a sleepless night. Did you not get my messages?”
“OK.” I sighed. “I’ll call next time.”
“Good. Now how is James, anyway? Found himself a girlfriend yet?”
“No.”
“That’s because he’s got a crush on you. You do realize that, don’t you?”
2 p.m.
Considering writing to the Pope, as methinks Courtney should be made a saint.
She arrived at eight forty-five and asked for a “little chat”. Got the impression she wanted it to be in private so, as Isabel had just stepped in, I asked whether she wanted to talk outside.
“Good idea,” she answered, so I got my coat.
“Lara said you asked her to open the salon. Is that true?” she asked as soon as we were out the door.
“Yes,” I told her, a bit miffed that Lara had gone and discussed it.
“But she turned you down.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And all she has to do is come in at eight-thirty and check everything’s where it should be, right?”
“Yep.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“Well that doesn’t sound unreasonabubble.”
“Why, what did she say, Courtney?”
“I’d prefer not to get involved,” she replied. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll do it for you, if you like.”
When I thanked her, methinks my smile was big enough to eclipse the sun, and I’ve just got back from getting keys cut for her.
I tried calling Malibu while I was out (got too busy to do it yesterday). Life would be awesome if she’d talk to me. Thing is, we would have made up if we still lived under the same roof. Guaranteed. One of us would have wanted to borrow something by now – a mascara or lipgloss or whatever – and whoever was in need would break the ice: “Sorry about the other day. Erm … can I use your Touche Éclat, please?”
“OK–aaay.” Beef squashed – just like that.
It’s way easier to blank me now she doesn’t have to see me every day.
Her phone rang then went to voicemail. I pressed redial straight away, in case she’d run to her phone and just missed the call, but got voicemail again.
“Er… Hi Mal, it’s Remy. Remember me? Your little sister with the big mouth. Anyways, call me, text, email – you can even post a letter if you want. Cool. Right then. OK. Miss you. Bye.”
Felt a bit down so decided to call Stephen (he always makes me smile) but, unfortunately, Angus answered.
“We’re just in the estate agents,” he explained. “Stevie’s agreed the rent and is about ter sign the contract.”
“Has he found somewhere?”
“Aye. And it’s perfect. Shall I get him to call yer back?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and Remy – are yer coming to the game tomorrow?”
I paused. Malibu might not be talking to me but I could still hear her in my ears: Screw Robbie. Go and support your man! And I wanted to. But why was my heart beating so fast?
“Erm … yeah. I think so. Why?”
“Well, just if yer not, I was thinking of giving your
ticket to Jenny,” he whispered.
“Who’s Jenny?” I asked.
“The estate agent.”
Could I martyr myself one more time? Would Stephen even buy it? Maybe. But it didn’t matter because I’d made up my mind.
“Sorry about that, Angus, because I’m definitely coming,” I said.
6 p.m.
I just got off the phone to Stephen, who sounded happy about me coming to the match. Well … kind of.
“It’s a seven-forty-five kick-off, gorgeous. Are yer sure yer can make it? Even Superman would find it difficult to get from yer salon to Netherfield Park in forty-five minutes.”
“Oh, I can outdo Superman.”
“Aye, I’m sure yer can. And feel free to bring someone with yer as well.”
“Oh. Didn’t think you had another ticket. Angus tried to pinch my one for the estate agent.”
“I bet he did. He’s been trying to work his magic. You bring whoever you want. Angus can take her another time.”
Right. Guess I’m actually returning to Netherfield Park then.
Now, who shall I bring?
6.50 p.m.
Dad was my first call. Robbie or the Netherfield Park WAGs wouldn’t dare have a go at me in front of him; but he can’t come. Although he did solve how I’m going to make it there on time by offering to lock up for me. Then he’ll be going on a date!
“Is it with the same woman you brought to the salon opening?” I asked.
“Er… No. Someone else.”
“Really?” I said, surprised. “What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Well, I’m starting to discover that when you’re single and fixing the washing machines of women who are also single, the business tends to double as a dating agency.”
And to think I was worried!
Tried Kellie next but knew it was a long shot because of her Saturday job at Topshop.
“Nah. Even if I could leave work early, Saturday night is Jack time … unfortunately,” she said in a voice I’ve heard many times before.
“What’s happened now, Kel?” I groaned.
“Nothing. He’s just boring.”
“No, Kel. I know what you’re like and I don’t believe you. Besides, weren’t you boasting the other day about how long you guys have lasted?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Nothing. And that’s the problem. Do you know what he wants to do tomorrow night? Go to the cinema.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“We did that last week, and the week before, and the week before that. Boring.”
“Kel, some girls have boyfriends who don’t take them anywhere.”
“S’pose you’re right. Who will you take to the match?”
“Dunno.”
“Aren’t you nervous about facing Robbie any more?”
“Nope. More like bricking it.”
“You should take Malibu. She’d cut him down with one look.”
“I know.” I sighed and was just about to tell her that Malibu wasn’t talking to me, when Courtney walked by the reception desk. Something in my head went Ding! “But no worries. I think I’m about to get sorted,” I said.
8 p.m.
Turns out Courtney loves football. She even knew that it was an FA Cup match between Man United and Netherfield Park. I advised her not to book any treatments that will run on after six so we can make an early escape.
“It’s an honour to go,” she said. “It’s going to bring real meaning to the word ‘fabarooney’. Get it? Rooney… As in Wayne.”
My biggest hope is that Stephen scores three goals. My second biggest: that Coleen Rooney is there.
I’m not going to Stephen’s tonight. Have to prepare clothes for the big game tomorrow and also do a bit of Facebook stalking … I mean, investigating of Angie McMillan. I know Stephen said there’s nothing going on, but a girl can’t help being curious about a boyfriend’s ex… Can she?
Mum popped into my bedroom just as I was about to get my “stalk” on. She apologized about not making enough dinner for me and said it’s because I’m hardly around nowadays. With her antics with Alan, what does she expect?
“It’s OK, I’ll just have some cornflakes,” I said like a martyr.
Now for the stalking…
8.20 p.m.
Name: Angie McMillan
Age: 21
Lives: Glasgow
Relationship: It’s complicated.
Yeah, right! It hurts to admit but she’s pretty, blonde and bloody well thin!
8.55 p.m.
Back from our local AM/PM shop. Bought some cabbages and about to use them to make enough soup to last a week. Big Sue’s ten-pound weight loss has inspired me… Along with Angie McMillan’s Facebook page.
I will be thin, I will be thin, I will be thin!
9.45 p.m.
Tasty. Easy to make. Going to work miracles with my waistline. Cabbage soup, I salute you.
10.30 p.m.
Phoned Kel, as couldn’t decide what to wear to the match. At first she said I should play a little reverse psychology and face off the WAGs’ designer obsession with a little Primarni outfit.
“Let ’em see that you can look good on a twenty-quid budget!” she said.
“Don’t reckon they’ll think that somehow.”
“No? Well hit ’em with a work outfit then. One of the trouser suits.”
She was talking about the ones I’d bought in the sales at Zara. My “power” outfits, as I call them. V. useful for meetings with sales reps, as they wouldn’t really respect me if I was dressed like a normal eighteen-year-old underneath my salon coat: skinny jeans or leggings, etc. But would a trouser suit be right for a football match?
I frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah. Lets ’em know you’re a career woman, not a gold-digger, like them.”
Hmm. It would be the most un-WAG-like outfit in the players’ lounge, that’s for sure.
10.35 p.m.
Hark, what’s this I’m overhearing?
Creaking… BED SPRINGS.
Ugh! Buying ten lottery tickets this week. Not asking for millions. Just a big enough win to get out of this house!
10.45 p.m.
Have put headphones on and turned up the music loud enough to drown out the BATs. Rihanna’s “We All Want Love” has just come on. Sing it, Rih-Rih.
Wonder if Stephen loves me? Wouldn’t it be great if he did, and he told me tomorrow?! Maybe I’m getting carried away with the music but really want to text him something special.
Aha! Will look online for Kings of Leon lyrics.
11 p.m.
Found a song called “McFearless”. Methinks it’s a perfect title, with him being Scottish and all that. So I sent him this text: Ur going to score tomorrow my McFearless. Cu soon. x
And he sent back: Thanks gorgeous. Ace KOL song. xxx
Dear God, please let him say the “L” word tomorrow.
Saturday 28 February – Robbie Twot-Face Wilkins Day, Yikes!
7.32 a.m.
My alarm went off, shortly followed by my bum. I’m talking machine-gun trump.
Damn you, cabbage soup!
8.30 a.m.
Showered. Moisturized.
Dressed: Grey “career woman” power suit. (Decided Kellie was right.)
Hair: The return of the Cheryl Cole ad. (Still have to hit them with something they can relate to.)
Bag: Packed with lunch – cabbage soup in a Tupperware bowl. (It will take more than a few farts to defeat me.)
9 a.m.
OMG. Walked into the salon this morning to find a brand new Courtney at the reception desk. Her bowl haircut has disappeared. Instead, she’s rocking extensions that have been styled in the exact same hairstyle as me. WTF?! Didn’t know whether to mention it, as she was talking to a customer – our first Tanarama client of the day. Kerching!
“Morning, ladi
es,” I said (decided it was best not to).
“Morning, Remy,” Courtney sang back.
And the customer said, “Oh, is that your sister?”
12 p.m.
Before Isabel left for lunch, she said, “Your hair. Eet looks nice. But I prefer eet when eet’s simple.”
When is she going to understand that we can’t all be as naturally good-looking as her?
1.30 p.m.
Had my cabbage soup at one. Been farting ever since. The kitchenette now smells like death!!!
5 p.m.
If one more person mentions that Courtney looks like my sister, I’m actually going to scream.
5.50 p.m.
The roller-coaster that is my life!
1. My last customer of the day has left. GOOD.
2. Dad will be here in ten minutes to lock up so I can head over to Netherfield with Courtney. GOOD.
3. Lara thinks there’s a dead rat in the kitchenette because it smells so bad in there. (Oops!) BAD.
4. In just over an hour I’m going to have to endure a full ninety minutes of football. With Courtney and Angus for company. BAD, CHALLENGING and DOUBLE BAD (in that order).
5. It does mean I get to see Stephen. AMAZEBALLS GOOD.
6. But also Robbie. SUCKS-A-LOT BAD.
10.30 p.m.
Today is in the Top 10 of my worst days ever.
Dad arrived to lock up, reeking of Lynx for his date night. While I was waiting for Courtney to get ready, I handed him the keys and asked if he’d be able to drop the sales ledger home for me.
“Um… Well, I… Do you really need it?” he stuttered. This is what the thought of going to his own home has reduced him to.
“I usually add up the weekly takings at the weekend,” I explained. “But my bag’s too small.” I held up my dinky, for v. special occasions Chanel rip-off. “It’s OK. I’ll leave it till Monday.”
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 7
