“This is where the Queen was first seen with Prince Philip, you know,” Dad told us. He’d obviously OD’d on the Wikipedia research because he started to reel off tons of stars and important people who’d been there.
“And now they can add the Bennets to that list,” Malibu gushed.
“H’and the Johnsons of course,” added Gary’s mum.
The company: Even Angus was on form tonight – he actually made me laugh a couple of times. (Methinks he was desperate to impress Gary’s sister, Rochelle.) And his brand new trousers made him look proper smart. Actually, everyone looked smart. But I think Dad surprised me the most. He was wearing a new blue suit that was cut more stylishly than anything I’ve EVER seen him in before.
“Where’s it from?” I had to ask.
“Zara,” he replied. My face must have said it all – Dad’s actually heard of Zara?! – because he felt it necessary to add, “It was a present.” This Elizabeth has definitely got my approval.
Mrs Johnson wore a long purple dress with a high neck. Rochelle wore a LBD that made her look sexy and chic. Gary was in a grey Savile Row suit and Malibu’s silver dress was covered in Swarovski crystals – she looked like a precious bauble.
The speech: Actually the classiest thing of all. It would have been a triumph if it wasn’t for the circumstances.
“Happy birthday, my gorgeous,” Gary said to Malibu. “And to quote a very wise man, ‘Why wait when you can start the rest of your life today?’ Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Malibu said, with no idea where he was going.
“Good. Because this is why I’ve taken the liberty of… Arranging our wedding!”
Everyone gasped. Gary carried on excitedly. He told Mal that he wanted their baby to be born with her officially a Johnson. “I’m kind of old-fashioned like that.”
“Praise da Lord,” Mrs Johnson said, nodding with pride.
“So, I’ve booked appointments for you in four bridal departments, sorted the flowers and catering. All you have to do is come back here to The Savoy in three weeks – the twenty-first of March to be precise – and make me the happiest man alive.”
“Yes!” everyone except us Bennet sisters squealed. Methinks we were both struggling to catch our breath.
“For the first time ever she’s speechless!” Dad joked.
“Oh baby. It’s the best birthday present I’ve ever had!” Malibu finally managed to say.
She was so convincing, I almost believed her myself!
11.49 p.m.
Had just started this week’s sales ledger when Malibu called.
“I want you to be chief bridesmaid,” she said, cool as anything.
“Huh?”
“Will you be OK to get your own dress? I’ll pay you back. The theme will be pink.”
“Are you going through with it?”
“Of course I am.”
“But—”
“Chill out, Rem. I’ve got two plans.”
This is Malibu’s grand strategy:
Plan A: Go through with the wedding, hoping the gene pool swings Gary’s way.
Plan B: Go through with the wedding and if the gene pool doesn’t swing the right way, Gary will eventually forgive her because, “His mum’s a big Christian, Rem. He won’t want to get divorced.”
Is it me or is she cra–aaazy?!
Couldn’t tell her that though. Not after what happened the last time I opened my big mouth.
“Wow! I’d love to be your chief bridesmaid,” I gushed.
MONDAY 2 MARCH – 8.20 a.m.
Showered. Moisturized. Dressed.
Head: Thinking about Malibu.
Heart: Thinking about Malibu.
Maybe I should’ve told her that I don’t think Plan B will work.
Mum is proper excited about the wedding.
“Isn’t it great about Mal?” she said when she popped her head round my bedroom door just now.
“Huh?”
“The wedding. She sent me a text last night. I can’t wait.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” I replied with zero enthusiasm.
Just realized I haven’t heard from James. Wonder if he came out to his parents? Will text: Well???
11.25 a.m.
James says: No couldn’t do it. I’m such a wuss.
So I’m going to send: xoxo.
Missed my own eight-fifty deadline this morning. *slaps wrists*
Courtney looked like she wanted to tell me off. She’s taking this new role v. seriously. Gotta love her for that. Talking about love – methinks she’s mad for Angus. Just heard her describing him to her pedicure client. Although she doesn’t make him sound like Angus – more like a Greek god who happens to have a Scottish accent. She can’t stop going on about the football match either.
Courtney to EVERY customer: “We went to Man United against Netherfield Park on Saturday!”
Customer (in surprised tone): “Really?”
Courtney: “Yep. It was fabarooney. Get it? Rooney.”
Cue me squirming with embarrassment.
Called Kellie on the way in, to ask what she was doing for lunch, and ended up telling her about Stephen’s disappearing call and text logs.
“The fact that he deleted everything is definitely suspicious,” she said. “In fact when I become a divorce lawyer—”
“If you become one. You still have A levels and six years of uni before you pull that off.”
“It’s a wrap – trust me,” she replied. Kellie’s wanted to be a lawyer since we were about ten. That’s when we both got into CSI. Like everyone else into the show, I thought I’d specialize in forensics. Kellie decided DNA wasn’t her bag but that we could be a team: I’d catch the criminal with my meticulous investigating and she’d then get them banged up for life – CSI London-style. I gave up on forensics as soon as I started secondary school and realized I hated Science. Kel dropped her plan to rid London of criminals a year ago, when she found out that divorce lawyers tend to make way more money than criminal lawyers.
“Anyway, like I was saying,” she continued, “when I’m a divorce lawyer, deleting stuff on phones is exactly the type of thing I’ll use to nail someone for adultery. OK, it doesn’t prove guilt but it definitely hints at it, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I sighed.
“Although Stephen could be totally innocent of course,” she added. “What’s your gut feeling?”
“I’m ninety per cent sure he’s innocent,” I replied, thinking about how he’d held my hand under the table throughout Malibu’s birthday dinner. “But I reckon this Angie girl is dying to get her claws into him.”
“It’s who he wants that matters, not who wants him. Have you told him that you love him yet?”
“No. Every time I feel like it, something goes wrong. So annoying.”
1 p.m.
Been thinking about Malibu’s wedding a lot today. So, when Kel called to say she was going to be late for lunch, I asked, “Kel, if someone was about to make a big mistake, would you tell them?”
“Depends on what it was and who it was. Why, what have you done?”
“No, not me. Somebody – not anyone you know – is about to do something I think they might regret.”
“Only in your opinion though.”
“But as their … friend, shouldn’t I let them know my opinion?”
“Depends again. Are they happy with what they’re going to do?”
“Seem to be,” I admitted.
“Then no, don’t tell them.”
“But I feel like I’m not being honest.”
“Honesty’s overrated.”
“Kel, I’m being serious.”
“So am I. It’s selfish. Most people only want to tell the truth because it’ll make them feel better about themselves. Then they can pat themselves on the back and talk about how honest they’ve been. Well, what about the other person’s feelings? Can you imagine how gutted Tom Parker would’ve been if I’d told him that I was finishing with him be
cause of his halitosis? It was much better to tell him I needed to spend more time studying for my GCSEs.”
“No offence, Kel, but this is a bit bigger than Tom Parker’s bad breath.”
“Yeah, but it’s the same principle. Why would you want to burst someone’s bubble? Especially if it’s going to burst anyway.”
I wondered if that’s what she did with me on the phone earlier when she said Stephen could be “totally innocent”.
“Anyway, what happened with Robbie – anything?” she asked.
“Ugh! He’s an idiot! He—”
“Hang on, my mum’s trying to get through – tell me over lunch.”
1.55 p.m.
I’d even given Saturday night a movie title – Bitchfest at Netherfield Park – but Kellie was in a crap mood when she arrived because she’d just found out that her parents might be made redundant, so we didn’t get to talk about Robbie.
“Spent years slogging their guts out for the council and look how they get treated.”
Isabel, who was doing a manicure at the nail table opposite us, said, “Eet’s even worse in Spain.”
Seeing as it was an insensitive thing to say to my bestie right then – and also because I still have a tiny flashback of the way Stephen looked at her, EVERY SINGLE DAY – I made a point of replying, “Don’t you mean Catalonia?”
Don’t think she gets sarcasm, though, because she said, “No, I mean Spain – theee whole country,” as if I’d fallen out of the Stupid Tree and hit every branch.
To cheer Kel up, I told her that her parents were the smartest people I knew and so were bound to get another job. And that if she wanted to, I’d arrange for her dad to see a football match at Netherfield Park. “What team does he support?” I asked.
“You joking? He hates football.”
“Oh. Well, do you want to bring Jack then?”
“Ugh! Football’s boring enough without him adding to the mix.”
“Kel,” I groaned.
“I know.” She sounded disappointed in herself. “Maybe I’m not cut out for relationships.”
“Come to the next home game on your own then,” I said. After Saturday night, I don’t want to go to another Netherfield Park match without some serious back-up.
“Didn’t you hear me? Football’s… How do I put this nicely? Crap.”
“No one can hate it more than me,” I told her. “But it’s not about the football, it’s about the WAG watching. That’s proper entertainment. All the money in the world can’t stop how ridiculous some of them look. One of the girls there on Saturday would have cracked you up – Danielle, I think she said her name was. She looked awful, didn’t she, Courtney?”
Courtney frowned. “Don’t think I saw her.”
True. She was probably too far up Angus’s butt by then.
I started to describe Danielle’s hair, shoes and masses of gold chains. “She was a female version of Mr T.”
I knew Kellie was her old self again when she said in his voice, “I still ain’t goin’ to no game, fool.”
Everyone laughed.
“Please come with me next time, Kel?” I made puppy dog eyes. “I need your protection – they tried to eat me alive on Saturday night.”
She smiled. “All right, I’ll think about it.”
Eek! Phone’s ringing.
2 p.m.
Woo-hoo! Stephen has the keys to his flat. Said he’s going to pick me up from work and give me a grand tour.
4 p.m.
OMG! Totally forgot about the appraisal tonight, until Dad phoned. Said he’d try to make it an informal meeting and push Uncle Pete for us to have it at the King’s Head. “Um, Dad…” I began. “Stephen’s just got keys—”
“Please don’t try to get out of it. Your Uncle Pete’s convinced you will.”
“What? No, course not,” I told him, annoyed at Uncle Pete’s lack of faith.
Anyhoo, Stephen took me cancelling the grand tour very well.
Hmm. On second thoughts, maybe a little too well. He certainly didn’t sound close to being gutted.
Will not get paranoid about it.
But hope he won’t take advantage of me not being around by writing texts that he feels the need to delete. AGAIN.
4.05 p.m.
New plan! Phoned Stephen and asked him to meet me at the King’s Head for eight.
“I want to buy you dinner – the food there’s ace,” I told him.
“Never had a girl buy me dinner before,” he replied impressed. “You staying at mine after?”
It was a no-brainer but I pretended to weigh it up: “Hmm… OK then.”
Maybe spending our first night together in his new flat will be the perfect time to tell him the “L” word.
10 p.m.
Before she left work this evening Courtney spent a good five minutes trying to get some info about Angus.
“I don’t know that much, other than he grew up in a rough part of Glasgow and loves Kings of Leon,” I told her. But with him moving his attentions from the estate agent to Courtney to Rochelle so quickly, I felt like adding, “And I don’t think he’s cut out for relationships.”
But enough of all that. It’s time to talk about Stephen’s flat. There’s only one word for it: amazeballs. Well worth rushing through the appraisal meeting. Not that they noticed, as I became the ultimate professional. Got out the ledger, zipped through the figures like the maths guru on Countdown, and then announced, “So that means we made a grand total of fifteen hundred pounds’ profit in our first month.”
I was happy.
Dad was happy.
Uncle Pete – not so happy.
He sighed. Scratched his head. Gave another sigh. And then admitted, “It’s actually better than I anticipated. But can you estimate how much you expect to make next month, and then explain why you’re so confident that customers won’t disappear once the promotional prices end?”
Methinks my uncle is a glass-half-empty person.
Anyhoo, I think explaining that we’d still be cheaper than Kara’s helped his mood, but Stephen walking in positively lifted it. Uncle Pete loves football, and he gave Stephen a smile usually seen only at Christmas.
My smile may have been just as big when I noticed Angus wasn’t with him. Woo-hoo! I thought. But that little bit of joy lasted about five seconds.
“The Big Man’s outside,” Stephen explained, “talking to a girl.”
“Who now? He’s like a dog on heat!”
“Shh!” he hissed as Angus walked in, girl hanging off arm. If this new, wavy-haired “handbag” was in a BBC period drama, she’d play the part of Buxom Wench.
After introducing us Angus said, “Stevie, I was just telling Mandy about our pool. Well, I shouldn’t really say our.”
Were we making progress? Had Angus actually clicked that if there was a pool, it most definitely only belonged to STEPHEN? Answer: No chance.
“Cos we do have ter share it with the other seven apartments,” he said. He went on to describe “their” apartment as if it were the eighth wonder of the world. And he had plans for a big party too. “We’ll invite loads of—” He stopped just in time, thought about it and said, “nice people. Aw, and did I tell yer about our kitchen – it’s fit for a professional chef. I’ll be cooking yer some top meals in that, Mandy, if yer play your cards right. And what about the speakers in the ceiling – music in every room. It’s the only way ter live! And Remy, just wait to yer see the TV in Stevie’s bedroom – yer press the remote control and it glides out of a cupboard. How James Bond is that? And…”
Thought he was exaggerating, to be honest, but he wasn’t: Stephen’s flat is si–iick!
“Do you like it?” he asked, after giving me a quick tour. We were in the bedroom and he’d just demonstrated his James Bond-style TV.
“Of course. Perfect for parties. Bet you can’t wait to invite loads of nice people.”
He groaned. “Look, that was just Angus being Angus. Yer gotta take what he says wi
th a pinch of salt.”
Just then, the Big Man called out from the lounge. “Stevie, I’m about to start the Mayweather versus Hatton fight. Yer coming?”
“Boxing,” Stephen explained.
I frowned.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I know I was supposed to pretend that I love boxing too – notch up one more shared interest – but I just couldn’t. Instead I mumbled, “No, not really. I’ve got a rotten headache,” and went to bed. When it comes to boxing, Zoe Westwick and her “I love what you love” crap can go take a running jump. #ImOnStrike
Tuesday 3 March – 9.30 a.m.
It’s a long Tube ride to the salon from Stephen’s apartment. Twenty-two stops. And I finished reading the Metro after three of them. It was crap today – just pics of the TOWIE lot and toffs I don’t know, “Out and About”. So spent the rest of the time plotting a way to get rid of Angus McMillan that wouldn’t result in me being sentenced for life. Hmm…
But then I spoke to Malibu on my walk to the salon. How can I be losing it about Angus and his liberty-taking when she’s dealing with her massive problem so well?
“Hiya, just to let you know Gary’s mum has sent out the wedding invites, so look out for yours,” she told me. “I’m off to some bridal dress bookings now. I’ve got loads but I’d love you to be there for my last one.”
“Where is it?”
“Selfridges. Six-thirty.”
“Work finishes at seven though.”
“Surely you can make an exception this once – your big sis is getting married! Can you believe I’m actually going to walk up that aisle?” she said excitedly.
Well, no, I bloody well couldn’t. But hey, who was I to burst her bubble? “I kno–oow. It’s ama–aazing. See you there.”
Will get Courtney to lock up.
1.30 p.m.
Say You Love Me, Stevie C Page 9
