Say You Love Me, Stevie C

by Michelle Gayle

  Tommy Roberts? He’s meant to be one of the guys Stephen plays poker with. WTF?! I want some answers. And I want them NOW.

  8.48 p.m.

  Voicemail. This is not the time for Stephen to have his phone switched off.

  8.53 p.m.

  Still can’t get hold of Stephen. Absolutely stewing. Don’t even feel like going out any more.

  1.30 a.m.

  Home. Smashed. Feel like shixbhjkl.

  2 a.m.

  Just Vomiteeed.

  2.30 a.m.

  Vomited…

  3.15 a.m.

  Vomited…

  3.55 a.m.

  Dying!

  Saturday 7 March – 7.31 a.m.

  Woke up clutching my phone like a child sleeping with their teddy. Even as near to death as I felt, I must’ve still wanted to hear from Stephen. Checked my phone – nothing.

  Still feel terrible. Never felt this hung-over before. How much did I drink?!

  8.15 a.m.

  Dressed. But feel like the walking dead. Grrr.

  Mum came in to check that I’m all right. She offered to make me some toast.

  “No, thanks.” Reckon even the sight of toast would make me want to hurl again.

  “You kids have got to watch your drinking,” she said.

  “Even when you’re depressed?” I asked.

  “Especially when you’re depressed. Were you upset about the Metro article?”

  I nodded.

  “I knew it would hit you eventually. I said to Alan you were taking it too well.”

  “Oh. Is that why you asked if I was all right?”

  “Of course it was. Have you managed to speak to him?”

  “No.”

  She gave me a hug and told me that she was sure it was going to be fine.

  Really love Mum sometimes.

  Told her that I didn’t want to go out after reading the Metro story. And what a misery guts I’d been. Even Rupert felt bad for me. He bought me a cocktail. “It’s a special one. It always cheers me up,” he said. But it made me feel worse. Then got so hot that the sweat was dripping off me.

  “Thanks for looking out for me, Mum. And sorry for being such a cow sometimes.”

  8.55 a.m.

  Well, I’m at work. (At least in body.) Kellie phoned on my way in. Said she was worried about me.

  “You were acting really weird, Rem. Do you think someone could have put something in your drink?”

  I thought about it.

  “Rupert,” we said together.

  “That special frickin’ cocktail.”

  I told her about them taking drugs on my night out in Shoreditch. And that James promised he’d try not to do them any more.

  “Well, they definitely looked like they were on something last night,” Kellie said.

  I called James, ready for the rant of my life, but got voicemail. Probably didn’t have the energy to do it anyway. Then I tried Stephen again. Voicemail.

  “Stephen. I’ve read the Metro article and you’d better— Uggggh!” I quickly dropped the phone and rushed to the toilet just in time for what is hopefully my last puke.

  I hate Rupert. Putting drugs in my drink is plain evil.

  9.30 a.m.

  Well, being sick over the phone seemed to work wonders because Stephen has just called. Apparently Netherfield Park’s manager – Mark Keane – made everyone in the team switch off their phones. “MK”, as he’s known, felt they’d be inundated with calls from journalists and that would interfere with preparation for the game.

  “Shouldn’t really have it on now, but I had to phone yer. Especially after hearing your message. Are you OK?”

  “Physically? I’ll get over it. Mentally? Well, that depends on what you have to say,” I said.

  “Look, I wasn’t involved. I’ve been playing poker – that’s all.”

  “Yes. With Tommy ‘I want a transfer’ Roberts.”

  “I know how the transfer request looks but he wasn’t involved either. It’s just that Becky’s not having it, even though I swore on my mum’s life he’d been playing poker with me.”

  I stayed silent.

  “And I’ll do the same for you if yer like,” he offered.

  I knew he wouldn’t swear on his mum’s life if he was lying.

  “No. It’s OK. You don’t have to swear on anything,” I told him. “What d’you think I am – paranoid?”

  1.10 p.m.

  Lunch break. I’m finally starting to feel normal again. The brain fog lifted at about eleven-thirty – right after Isabel came back from a coffee run and handed me a double espresso. Now feel ready to face the world. I’ve been thinking about the silence in the salon yesterday and the fact that people kept asking if I was OK. It must mean that everyone who read the article thought Stephen was guilty. So I’ve sent a text to Malibu and Mum: Just so u know, Stephen had nothing 2 do with scandal reported in Metro. He was playing poker. Fact. Love Remy x

  Now going to have a word with the girls in the salon.

  1.55 p.m.

  “Oh, by the way, girls,” I said. “Just so you know, there wasn’t any need to keep yesterday’s Metro article a secret. And although I’m sure you had a great time discussing it, for the record, Stephen had nothing to do with the incident. He was playing poker. Got that? Good.”

  You should’ve seen their faces!

  Courtney came into the kitchenette a few minutes ago to apologize. Although she handed me my diary first.

  “Is this yours?” she checked, holding up the record of my life.

  Thought I’d put it back in my bag. “Yeah, it is. Where was it?”

  “On the reception desk.”

  Dear God, please let it have been closed.

  “We weren’t being nasty when we talked about the Metro article,” Courtney continued. “We kept it to ourselves because we didn’t want to upset you, that’s all.”

  Told her it’s OK and I understand, because I’m actually embarrassed about my freak-out at lunchtime now. Methinks a combination of exhaustion, whatever was in my drink, and stressing about the article briefly turned me into the Feminazi. But that’s nothing compared with the embarrassment of someone reading my diary. I wonder if Courtney did…? No, she wouldn’t. Thank God she found it. Courtney Hamilton: I salute you!

  4.25 p.m.

  Stephen’s match with Sunderland kicked off at three, just as my manicure/pedicure arrived. Luckily, I was feeling much better – I’d only had waxes up until then (and had just about coped) – because the smell of nail varnish mixed with my client’s cheesy feet would have made me heave if it had been any earlier.

  Checked the score when I’d finished and Netherfield Park were losing 1–0. BAD.

  John Miller from ADF Printers called five minutes ago to give me a price for some loyalty cards. Said he’ll email me some designs later. GOOD.

  That gave me the opportunity to check the score again. And not only have Netherfield Park equalized but Stephen scored the goal! Described on BBC Sport website as a looping header. Sunderland 1, Netherfield Park 1. PERFECTO.

  Twenty minutes to go.

  5 p.m.

  OMG. Stephen scored again – a toe punt apparently (whatever that is). The match has ended Sunderland 1, Netherfield Park 2. And Stephen was named Man of the Match. Can’t wait to see him. Going to do some big congratulating tomorrow night.

  Will Google “toe punt”.

  5.40 p.m.

  Stephen’s amazing.

  I texted: Well done baby. U deserved it. x

  And he sent back: Ta. U up 4 ‘celebrating’ 2mrw?

  Me: Oh–hhh yes!!

  Great minds so–oo think alike.

  8.15 p.m.

  Got home. Crawled into the shower, brushed my teeth, sank into my PJs and then tucked myself in bed by ten to eight. That’s when James finally phoned.

  “James, I called you twelve hours ago. I could’ve been dead by now.”

  “That would’ve made two of us,” he replied, “I’v
e been on the worst comedown ever.”

  “Yeah, well at least you took drugs deliberately. Imagine how you’d feel if you’d drunk an innocent cocktail, only to find out it had been spiked.”

  “What?!”

  “Yep. My drink was spiked. Probably with MDF.”

  “That’s what you build stuff out of, Remy. You mean MDMA.” He laughed.

  “Sorry, I’m not an expert on drugs like you and your precious Rupert.”

  “Come on, Remy, that’s not fair.”

  “I’m upset, James.”

  “Who wouldn’t be,” he agreed.

  “But it’s about more than it being spiked. It’s about who spiked it.”

  “Have you found out? Who was it?” he asked.

  “I think… Well, I’m ninety per cent sure it was Rupert.”

  “Ugh! I should’ve known. You’re so predictable, Remy. Upset about your boyfriend? Well, bloody sort him out instead of picking on mine!”

  “Everything’s fine with Stephen. He had nothing to do with that Metro story. He was playing poker. So get over yourself and listen to the facts.”

  “Yeah, right. A ‘listen to the facts’ speech from someone who’s denying a whole newspaper article about her slut of a boyfriend!”

  “James! Trust me, Rupert—”

  “Rupert bought you a cocktail out of the kindness of his heart. It may have had a couple of extra shots in it, but he would never have put drugs in it! I’ve had enough of you and your lecturing. When are you going to work out that you’re just a WAG – no one cares what you think!”

  As hurt as I was, I said calmly, “You’ve changed, James. It’s obvious you’ve chosen Rupert over me – and that’s fine. But I don’t think I can be friends with you any more.”

  And that was it. The end of two years with my bestie. Now going to have a little cry.

  Sunday 8 March – 10.25 a.m.

  Wow. I slept for thirteen hours. Didn’t even know that was possible.

  When I checked my phone, I had three missed calls from Malibu, two from Stephen and one from Kel. Must have slept through all of them.

  Malibu had called because Mum told her about me being sick.

  She was shocked when I told her that I think Rupert spiked my drink – “Although James claims that he just added some extra shots.”

  “Yeah, right. That wouldn’t make you start sweating the way you’ve described. And he’s still out of order even if it was just extra shots, because he should have told you – you would’ve limited how much you drank after that.”

  Which I didn’t. No wonder I was so ill.

  “This Rupert bloke sounds like he needs strangling. But if James can’t see that, you’re right to stop being friends with him,” Malibu said.

  I asked how the wedding plans were going and she said that apart from getting the dress, she’s had nothing to do with it.

  “All I know is what date and time to turn up. Gary’s done the lot. He’s so wonderful.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. And then we both sighed.

  Kel called to see how I was doing too. And Stephen wanted to know if I was still up for meeting up. Said he’s going for a swim then taking Angus to see some tourist attractions – the London Eye, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and maybe even Madame Tussauds.

  “Yer free to come with us, Boss Lady. But if not, I’ll pick you up once we’ve finished. Yer up for coming back to mine?”

  Just you try and stop me!!

  11.15 a.m.

  Wow. Alan actually came into my room. He’s been acting like I’d eat him alive if his foot touched my carpet before now. OK, maybe he had a point, but for some reason this morning, he was willing to take a chance.

  “Hey buddy. Heard ya had the mother of all hangovers yesterday.”

  “Yeah, it was murder.”

  “Ahh. That takes me back. We used to get our Friday pay packet and convert it into alcohol. Left with nothing by midnight. Reg used to say we might as well work for the brewery.” Alan went visibly red after mentioning Dad’s name.

  “It’s OK. You used to be Dad’s best friend – I’ve got over it,” I told him. “And anyway, my drinking’s nowhere near that level.”

  “Hope not.” He was trying so hard to be nice. But I could tell he was nervous. “Me and your mum are going to the King’s Head for brunch to celebrate – I’ve finally got myself a job.”

  Alan’s been looking for one for nearly three months. He was head foreman at the building company he used to work for in Australia, and I think he expected to walk into the same kind of job here. Wrong.

  “Congrats,” I told him.

  “Cheers, mate,” he replied. “Anyway, we were wondering if, er … well, if you’d like to come with us?”

  This would be my first public appearance with my godfather since he became my “stepdad”. I wouldn’t have been seen dead with the pair of them before but thanks to the Netherfield WAGs, I now know what it’s like to be demonized just because of the person you love. Besides, I don’t think you can help who you love, because even when I read the Metro story, I couldn’t hate Stephen. In fact, if anything, the time I spent hoping and praying that he wasn’t involved seemed to make my love stronger. It made me realize what I’d be losing if we broke up. Just need to man up and tell him.

  “Sure, I’ll go to the King’s Head with you,” I said

  “Great,” Alan replied with a big grin. As he left, just before he got out of the door I said, “Um, Alan, can I ask you a question? Do you really like those new living room curtains?”

  “No comment,” he replied.

  Anyhoo, better get ready because we’re leaving at twelve. But first, going to take a moment to release two imaginary white doves into the sky, as a peace symbol.

  11.45 a.m.

  OMG. What are the chances? Dad has just called and said he’d like to meet me for lunch to discuss something. I couldn’t tell him I was going out with Alan and Mum – would have felt like a traitor. So I said, “Um… Can we make it a late one, like about three or three-thirty?” So I could fit both in.

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m meeting Elizabeth. The latest I can do is two.”

  Two?! That was cutting it ridiculously fine. “Might be a bit difficult, Dad.”

  “Oh… All right then.” He sounded so disappointed, it killed me.

  “Go on then. I’ll meet you at two. Where?”

  “I’ll book the King’s Head.”

  “Oh no! I mean … really? Shouldn’t we try somewhere else?”

  “Why, when we know how good the food is there?”

  Arguing against that would have been unrealistic – Dad knows how much I love the King’s food, so I said, “You’re right. See you later.”

  Lawd knows how I’m going to pull this one off.

  1.50 p.m.

  When they are searching for a new James Bond, they won’t need to look any further than me – Remy Louise Bennet. Boy was I slick today.

  All through brunch I was wondering how I could make sure that Mum and Alan were gone before Dad arrived. The stress of it almost put me off my stack of pancakes – ALMOST.

  Turns out the BATs are big on PDAs. When Mum wasn’t stroking Alan’s hair, she was doing a girly giggle she’d discovered God knows where. Forget teen, this was before puberty – most probably a throwback to her infant-school days. Who knows, but I’ve never heard it before. Never. Not in my eighteen years on this earth. Don’t get me wrong, Alan’s quite funny, especially now we’ve smoked a peace pipe. But it was ridiculous for Mum to “tee-hee-hee” like that. Literally all Alan had to do was breathe and she’d giggle.

  So–oo embarrassing.

  And I definitely couldn’t chance Dad witnessing them. He would have been devastated. So when Alan wondered if we should stay on at the King’s to catch Sunday football, I knew my mission: get the BATs out of the King’s ASAP.

  If the film critics had been watching, they’d have written: “Remy Bennet’s acting was more pantomime than 00
7.” But who cares – it worked.

  “Ugh, ugh, ugggh,” I went, clutching my stomach at exactly half one. “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  Mum sprang to her feet and was by my side in a shot. She slapped the palm of her hand on to my forehead. “Oh no. You do feel a bit hot.”

  “Do I?” *Ahem* “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I do… It’s … OK. You guys stay here. I’ll try to make my way back home. I’m sure I can …” I put on the sickest voice ever and croaked “… look after myself.”

  “No way. Alan, get the bill. We’ll have to take her home.”

  Now in my bedroom, supposedly sleeping it off. They’re in the living room watching a movie, and I’m waiting for a loud bit so I can tiptoe out.

  Prepare for your P45, Mr Daniel Craig.

  3.45 p.m.

  Busted. Judging by my missed calls, it looks like the BATs knew I was missing about three minutes after I’d walked out the door. So I called Mum when I was on the way back from the King’s.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Sorry, Mum. Felt like I needed some fresh air and didn’t want to disturb you. You’ve done enough.”

  “I was worried sick,” she replied.

  Kissed her on the cheek when I got back home.

  Just hoping Arnold Becket doesn’t grass me up. He’s the King’s landlord and he was proper surprised to see I was back and sitting at a table with Dad.