“Oh no, you can’t do that, love. It’s the appraisal meeting on Monday.”
“Right. Well, in that case… I’ll ask Courtney to carry it,” I said, remembering she arrived with a huge handbag today, to hold her change of clothes. Right on cue Courtney walked out of the loo. I had to pick my jaw off the floor.
While I was giving it “boss chic”, Courtney was dressed for a flipping brothel! Her “skirt” was so short it breached the Trade Descriptions Act and should actually be called a crotch warmer. She wasn’t even wearing tights with it.
“Don’t you think you’ll be cold in that?” I asked, seeing as it’s been one of the coldest Februarys on record.
“No. I’ve got my coat,” she said. Then she put on a pink Puffa jacket that stopped just above her waist. There was no way it was going to keep her warm, but I suppose she was brave enough to test the Tanarama booth, and now nothing was going to stop her parading her Bronze Goddess legs. They didn’t look too bad either. In fact, if she hadn’t copied my hair, I’d say Courtney smashed it today. It was the mother of all makeovers.
We left the salon around six-fifteen and got to the Netherfield Park stadium just in time for kick-off. I knew Angus would give a blow-by-blow account of the game as we were watching. And as I’ve pretended to be a Man United fan – while actually knowing nothing about football and caring even less – I thought I’d cleverly avoid being found out by letting Courtney sit between us. But I needn’t have bothered. Once I introduced them, and Angus clocked her legs, I might as well have been in Peru!
“Courtney? What a beautiful name. Are yer a model by any chance?” he said. Then out came compliment after compliment. Blah, blah, blah. On top of that, Courtney could actually discuss every shot, foul, pass and save. She was like a football expert. Anyhoo, by half-time the two of them had most definitely become one.
I, meanwhile, was beyond bored. I really don’t get the appeal of watching twenty-two grown men chasing after a round leather object. Although my heart beat faster every time Stephen touched the ball. He was the one good thing about today because he was easily the best player in the Netherfield Park team. Missed scoring by centimetres when he took a long-range shot that curled in the air and hit the crossbar.
“Oooh!” the whole stadium went. But, unfortunately, Wayne Rooney was on fire and scored twice in the second half, causing loads of Netherfield Park fans to leave in a huff about ten minutes before the end. I wished I could have gone home too, and skipped the players’ lounge. Be confident, Remy, I told myself, because that’s what Zoe Westwick would have said. I strode in, lagging way behind the new lovebirds. A group of WAGs were huddled together near the bar having a chat. Impact: seven metres due north.
The easiest thing to do was to change direction – left or right – to avoid any awkwardness. But I clocked that Terry Dawson’s girlfriend, Paris, was one of them, and she’s always been lovely to me, so I thought I’d be big: forget the fact that she hasn’t called, texted or BBMed, and smile at her. But she didn’t smile back. She and the WAGs glared at me for a few seconds and moved to the other side of the room in a mass strop.
“Slut,” Anna Hargreaves, the goalkeeper’s wife, muttered as they went by, and they all giggled.
I could feel my face go red.
Now I can think of a hundred and one things I should have said back: gold-diggers, users, shallow idiots. But at the time, all I did was look helplessly across to Courtney and Angus for a bit of support. They were standing at the bar, exchanging flattering remarks. Would have had more support in a liquid bra. Ended up standing on my own in a corner of the room and going through my phone as if I had a trillion and one text messages, when really I had none. And I was so angry I could feel tears coming to my eyes. No way was I going to let the WAGs see that they made me cry. I was just about to leave the room when Robbie walked in. It was weird seeing him in the flesh again. I have to admit that he’s still good-looking, and does dress well, but he’s also still a complete and utter twot. He bowled past me and headed straight for a Katie Price lookalike (standing beside Paris) and gave her a full-on kiss. Straight after, he smugly looked over his shoulder to check that I’d spotted him. What an A-HOLE.
I was wondering if Katie Price on a budget was the girl Robbie had cheated on me with when a blonde girl I didn’t recognize approached the group of WAGs. She spoke to them for a bit and then walked up to me.
“Hiya–aa. Are you Stephen’s girlfriend?” she asked.
If she’d been sent to draw up a peace treaty, she was a v. strange choice. Hate to use Rupert’s words but if there is such a thing as WAG dot-com, this girl was it. Her hair was a lion’s mane of straw-coloured extensions, the front of her suede shoes had a platform so high, I thought a train was going to pull up, and if she had added one more gold chain to her neck, she would have hit the floor, face first.
Still, I was interested in what she had to say so I said, “Yes, I am.”
“Yeah, thought as much. I’m Danielle, Tony Winter’s girlfriend – he’s just joined the club. What’s your name again?”
She gave me a smug smile and then glanced back at the WAGs. She must have caught that Hargreaves hag Anna’s eye, because Anna muttered something to the other WAGs and they all laughed. I felt my face burn again – how could I think they’d be interested in making peace with me? And did this Danielle really think I was stupid enough to believe she didn’t know who I was?
Fine. If she wanted to be a bitch, I could be a bitch too. “My name? Megan Fox,” I said.
“Oh, like the actress?”
“Yeah. Just like the actress. Can you excuse me for a minute?”
Wasn’t sure what I was going to say as I headed for Anna Hargreaves, but I was pissed off enough to tell myself that it needed to hit her where it hurt.
“Hey Anna, congratulations,” I said, smiling like all five members of One Direction were in front of me.
She looked confused. “For what?”
“You are pregnant, aren’t you? How far gone then?” I stared at her stomach. “Hmm. I’d say four, five months. Give me a call and come to my salon – you can have a pregnancy massage on me.”
Yeah, I think that just about did it.
As I walked away feeling much better, I saw that Stephen had come into the room – Angus already obediently by his side, Courtney in tow. Yes, it’s childish but I actually considered launching into a big snog of my own to get back at Robbie. There was no time, though, because as soon as Stephen clocked that the twot-face was there, he said, “Let’s go.”
“I know the result sucks but you were excellent, babe. By far their best player,” I told him as we got into his car.
He smiled. “Cheers.”
“Aye, you were brilliant,” Angus agreed. Then he had a fifteen-minute rant: “But the defence were useless! The strikers crap.” In fact, everyone except Stephen seemed to be either lazy or rubbish. “What they needed today was ten of yer, Stevie.”
Stephen told us his manager had singled him out for praise in the changing room after the game but went ballistic at everyone else – effing and blinding. It wasn’t because he expected them to win against a huge club like Man United but because of the lack of effort.
“He’ll definitely start yer next week. No worries about that,” said Angus.
As a car is a v. enclosed space, it was not the ideal moment for the cabbage soup to make a silent but violent comeback. But it did.
“Aw Jesus, Stevie boy! What’ve yer been eatin’?!”
When we got near to his hotel, Courtney asked Stephen to drop her off at Canary Wharf Tube.
“Och naw,” said Angus. “It’s too late for yer to be travelling on yer own. I’ll get you a cab.”
“But I live the other side of London. It’ll cost a fortune.”
“Naw worries, you’re worth it,” he said. “Now, whereabouts is it?”
Courtney told him her address.
“Dou–ble–yew… ele-ven. Sev–en yew… ef.” An
gus repeated her postcode as if he was learning a foreign language, but I have to admit, I thought he was a gentleman for calling her a cab. He even waited with her in the lobby for it to arrive, while we went up to Stephen’s room.
“Angus did say W11 7UF, didn’t he?” Stephen checked, fiddling with his phone. “This taxi app’s playing about. Not sure it’s taken my payment.” He phoned Angus. “Big Man, I think it’s gone through but give Courtney my number and tell her to call me if the taxi driver wants paying when she gets home.”
Looks like Angus isn’t the gentleman I thought he was.
Sunday 1 March – Malibu’s Frickin’ Birthday!
8.30 a.m.
Can’t believe Mal has her birthday dinner today and I won’t be there to celebrate. Actually woke up crying.
“You OK?” Stephen asked when he heard me sniffling.
I was facing away from him so I said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Probably just picked up a cold. I’ll go and get a tissue,” as there’s nothing he can do about my big sis refusing to speak to me. I dashed to the toilet and silently cried it out. Stephen was sitting up in bed reading a text message when I came back into the room. He had a frown on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is it bad news?”
“No. No. It’s nothing. Look, I’d better go for a warm-down jog. We can have breakfast after that – OK?”
“Sure,” I said, but he was acting weird and seemed to avoid making eye contact with me. But what really made me suspicious was the way he kept his phone with him when he went to the bathroom to freshen up, and then he put it in his tracksuit pocket.
“If yer need anything just call,” he said as he left. “I’ve got my mobile with me.”
Yes. I bloody well noticed!
9.30 a.m.
Stephen’s back, taking a shower, and he’s actually left his mobile on the chest of drawers. I really want to check it. Does that make me paranoid? This is the crossroads I had with Robbie: and when I read Robbie’s phone messages, of course, the lying cheat was busted! Surely that experience, coupled with the way Stephen acted this morning, means it’s completely reasonable to check Stephen’s phone too. It’s better to know if something’s going on, right?
9.35 a.m.
Everything has been wiped. All calls and text messages.
Why would he delete everything? Is it because Stephen’s smarter than Robbie? Smart enough to get rid of the evidence? Maybe I should have it out with him. But if there’s an innocent reason for everything being deleted, I’ll look terrible for going through his phone. Don’t know what to do!!! My life is a hot mess at the minute. That’s what I started thinking when Dad called earlier and we ended up talking about Malibu, even though he’d actually phoned to remind me about the appraisal meeting tomorrow.
“I haven’t forgotten, Dad,” I said.
“And is the sales ledger done?”
“Er… Not quite. But it will be.”
“Good. You know what your Uncle Pete’s like. What time will you be getting to Malibu’s birthday dinner?”
“Oh … that. Don’t think I’ll be going.”
“But you have to! It’s her birthday.”
“I don’t think she wants me there, Dad.”
“What’s happened now?” he groaned (he’s v. used to our fallings-out).
“Um… Just stupid girls’ stuff.” Couldn’t tell him the real reason, Mal would be done with me FOR EVER.
“Shall I have a word with her for you?”
“Could you, Dad? Ple–eease.” He’s always been ace with getting us to make up.
“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
10.30 a.m.
I still haven’t mentioned the phone thing to Stephen. There’s probably a valid explanation. So, decided to stop being paranoid. It’s been bloody hard. Angus, Stephen and me had breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and Stephen could tell something was wrong with me, as whenever he asked whether I was OK, I gave a monosyllabic “yes”, “fine” or sometimes an ice-cold “couldn’t be better”.
But then Malibu phoned!
“Hey Rem.”
“Mal, I’m so sorry. And I know I’ve made a good job of looking like a crap sister, but as stupid as it sounds, I had your back – I swear.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she said. Then she began to sing, “Happy birthday to me…”
“Oh yeah. Quarter of a century – you’re getting old.”
“Oi, you cheeky git. Just make sure you and Stephen are at The Savoy for my birthday dinner tonight.”
“You want us at The Savoy? Tonight… Seven-thirty…” I repeated, then looked at Stephen to check he could come. He nodded. “We’ll be there,” I told her.
Stephen said he’s happy for me that she called, and he’s been brill about coming. Correction. He’s brill full stop. I’ve been stupidly paranoid about all that deleted stuff on his mobile. He isn’t Robbie.
And now I’ve got my sister back, I can’t stop grinning.
2.45 p.m.
There ARE three people in our relationship. One of them is blond, six foot four and a blooming pain in the bum. No wonder I’ve been para about Stephen, seeing as I don’t have him to myself. When is Angus going to understand that sometimes a boyfriend and girlfriend need SPACE?
He was in our room, watching movies with us until about one-thirty and then said, “Aw naw, just remembered. Don’t think I brought a suit with me. Will jeans be allowed at The Savoy?”
I frowned. He can’t actually think he’s coming? But sure enough: “I better not take the chance and go buy some trousers,” he said. “What time is it tonight – seven-thirty?”
“Um, Angus… I don’t think—”
“There are some decent shops in the shopping centre on the other side of the footbridge, if you need to buy something,” Stephen cut in. So I threw him some fierce eyes. But he just ignored me, and before I knew it we were all traipsing across to Canary Wharf Shopping Centre. I went because I wanted to buy Mal a present – got her some yummy mummy moisturizers and massage oils. Angus is still there buying some linen trousers (even though I advised him not to). Will put my foot down and tell Stephen that Angus can’t come – as soon as he comes off the phone to his agent.
5.45 p.m.
Just want to spend some time with my boyfriend, the LOVE OF MY LIFE, without his v. annoying best friend tagging along. Is that a crime? Cos Stephen made it feel like it was when I suggested that Angus shouldn’t come tonight. Even though I was proper nice about it. “Stephen, I don’t think Malibu has an extra space,” I said. I also added that Malibu and Gary were probably paying for our meals and it would be a liberty to expect them to pay for someone they didn’t know.
“Of course it would. Tell them I’ll pay for him,” he replied.
“Ugh! Again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
So, I decided to deal with one of the many things that do my head in about Angus. “Don’t you think it’s a bit strange for a grown man not to pay his way?”
“The Savoy’s going to be too expensive.”
“What, like everything else? You’ve paid for every meal he’s had, the Kings of Leon tickets, and I know you must be footing the bill for his hotel room too. You even bloody paid for Courtney’s cab.”
“Well, he’s unemployed at the moment.”
“Of course he is. Who wouldn’t be if they knew they could live large by sponging off you?”
“It’s not sponging. We come from one of the poorest parts of Glasgow. It makes where you live look like Disneyland. And this move to Netherfield Park has been massive for me financially, so if I can help my friend get out of there, I will. Cos that’s what we do – we look after each other.”
“More like you look after him.”
“For now, but he intends to get a job. There’s more work down here – that’s why he’s moving into the flat.”
“What, your flat?”
“No, Father Chris
tmas’s. Of course my flat!”
Aa–aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!
Anyhoo, taking Angus along to The Savoy paled into insignificance after that, so called Mal and she said it would be fine. They’ve just dropped me home to get ready and gone to the local for a pint.
7 p.m.
Not comfortable with what I’m wearing for two reasons:
1. Robbie bought it. Wish I could afford to burn everything he bought me – I hate him that much. But The Savoy’s an upper-class place. And upper-class places need upper-class clothes. ASOS or Primarni just won’t do, and the only designer gear I have was bought with his credit card. But trust me, when the money from the salon starts rolling in, they’ll all be on a bonfire – even the leopard-print Vivienne Westwood – pronto.
2. I swear my butt has got bigger. Why else would this dress feel so blooming tight? Checked what Mum thought but she said, “You look great. Healthy. Unlike those size-zero girls on the telly nowadays.”
Would normally have got angry but feeling sorry for her tonight. She’s not coming to the birthday dinner because she went to Mal’s for Christmas. “Tonight,” she said, “is Dad’s turn.”
Wonder how long Mum and Dad can keep up not being in the same room?
Aha! Text message. Stephen must be outside.
11 p.m.
OMG. Malibu is on another level.
For the record, I’d like to say that if it wasn’t for the situation, I’d nominate Gary for Boyfriend of the Year Award. And rename him Platinumballs, too, because everything was done to perfection.
The location: Couldn’t believe people like us were eating in a swanky place like The Savoy. It had uniformed staff to greet us at the door, glistening chandeliers, ornate decoration on the ceilings and huge flower displays. It was like a movie set for the ballroom scene of Cinderella.
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 8
