by Austin, Lucy
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Liv promises, hugging me again. ‘Let’s hang out this weekend. Come find me here.’ She does a sideways glance at Paolo and Paula who glare back at her. ‘And take no notice of them,’ she whispers. ‘Unlike me, they actually do need to get laid.’
CHAPTER 4 - FLIP FLOPS
I first met Liv while living at a hostel in Sydney, where we happened to end up sharing a room – and a weekend job cleaning it. I tackled the loos and cleaned the kitchen – a traumatic experience given that backpackers just drank beer and ate beige food – while Liv had the slightly easier job of doing the hoovering and finding out who was shagging whom for the owner to then broadcast over the tannoy. Loud, funny and beautiful, Liv has no restraint about her whatsoever. And when someone speaks their mind like she does, it brings out the same feeling as when you go shopping with someone who is a size eight – you live vicariously through them. Liv is this strong, cold blast of fresh air, one of those girls that make life much more interesting by just having her in it.
I admit I was in awe of Liv when we were first introduced. She just went right in as if we had been friends for years, telling me the finer details of her bikini line and all about the man in room 16 who she’d caught peeing in the microwave. However, I then discovered that she too was a sucker for a celebrity gossip magazine and a good lip gloss and somehow we ended up spending the rest of time there putting the world to rights – well, as much as you can when you’ve led a relatively wholesome sheltered life with few cares and are cheerfully living hand to mouth, knowing fully well your parents could bail you out at any point. We would sit on our balcony overlooking the street with fags in hand, drinking our way through some indescribably bad wine and reflect on everything that ever happened to us that led us to this point. Given half the chance, we would still be doing that, only that there is now the small matter of her being very pregnant indeed.
When our time in Australia came to an end, we both went home to our respective countries and kept in touch sporadically, mainly by filling out those ‘round robin’ quizzes, the last question always being ‘who do you think is least likely to fill out this?’ – the answer inevitably being ‘Kate’ or ‘Liv’. Despite being able to email, writing letters added more gravitas to our friendship, exchanging news – news that went something like this. She, getting distinction in her MBE: Me, finding a job as a secretary and hating it as the office had no windows: She, getting onto the fast-track programme at a bank and seriously earning big bucks: Me, leaving that secretarial position for another secretarial position with windows: She, becoming the youngest ever director of a regional division: Me, taking a touch typing course in order to become a marginally better but still mediocre PA: She, getting a fiancé with a very American sounding name – Chip/Chad/Chuck or something: Me, still nursing a broken heart from an ill-fated holiday romance.
Then a while ago, I got an email saying that Chip/Chad/Chuck or something was cheating on her, so she was leaving everything behind and travelling to Europe.
The doorbell rang and there she stood with her Louis Vuitton suitcase looking fabulously blonde, dressed in skinny jeans and stiletto boots. ‘Jesus Christ, bitch, you could do with a makeover!’ was the first thing to come out of her mouth. She was right as I was spending my downtime wallowing in unlovable mode and had let it go a little, wearing my university sweater with old coffee stains on it, sporting eyebrows that were nearly joined in the middle and skin that could have done with a truckload of foundation. I hadn’t been particularly bothered, because as with all things, when it is only down to self-perception, I thought I looked okay. And besides, with no love life to speak of and no one to impress, what did it matter?
My flatmate Claire immediately hated Liv for the simple fact that she was pretty and had one of those figures where you not only have boobs but a waist – as my brother would say, ‘a rare treat’. On the other hand, Claire was perfectly attractive to look at, but definitely had two separate ‘domestic’ and ‘nightclub’ looks. Like the rest of us, she had to work a little harder.
During the time she lived with us, Liv showed us how it could be done if you had actually read the self-help book. Not only did she find work at the Globe, Paolo was so impressed with her business acumen that after a few weeks he made her a partner. Translated, this meant that he had found someone to work every weekend or any day when he fancied time out.
After she found herself a business to run though, things went a bit wrong. She met someone who she should never have clapped eyes on – Claire’s ex-husband and my old classmate, Andy Happy. Back in the day, Mr Happy was ridiculously mature looking for a fourteen year old. I remember thinking he looked about thirty years old but that I must be missing something, as the girls seemed to love him. The night we met him at the pub on the corner, nothing much had changed, just that he had finally grown into that chest hair and had a tan line where a wedding ring used to be. I introduced them thinking nothing of it, but to my dismay, instead of reading into my rolling of the eyes behind his back, Liv just laughed at everything he said. It turned out that my friend was vulnerable after her break up and was in need of some male attention.
The following day, Mr Happy stood at the bottom of our fire escape holding a bunch of garage carnations. It seemed so cheesy and reminiscent of Pretty Woman that I naively thought the old Liv would take the piss but no, the new Liv thought he was just romantic and proceeded to fall, hook, line and sinker for him. Over the next few months, while his furious ex-wife and I would be trying to watch Millionaire Matchmaker, he’d be sat there in our lounge, only to then stay over on the sofa bed and subject us to noises that through the paper-thin walls, sounded suspiciously like bad sex.
‘You do know that Andy’s idea of foreplay was putting his beer down,’ whispered Claire before snapping at me. ‘Thanks a bunch Kate, I’m now getting awful flashbacks.’ Relations were now at an all time low and she wasn’t going to forgive me anytime soon.
All that time I had joked with Liv in Australia about men who rev their engines at the traffic lights and walk a big dog to make up for their lacking in a certain department, and now there she was with a boyfriend who did just that. I just didn’t have the heart to say anything because what did I know? I misjudged my own big romance hadn’t I? Whenever out and about, Mr Happy was always saying hi to people and telling her how many parties he was regularly invited to. Liv would just think, wow, there he was with 300 friends on Facebook and she was the one he was choosing to spend all his time with. Not long afterwards, she announced she was moving into a new flat with him.
Claire just shook her head in dismay. ‘He’s the most immature, tight, selfish bastard you’ll ever meet. She’ll find out.’
While Liv and Mr Happy now co-habiting was good for Claire and myself as we got the sofa back, it also meant me having to hear all these anecdotes about how kind he was when as far as I could make out, he was anything but. Liv paid for everything – the nights out, the groceries and the bills – everything. And as he didn’t drive, she would give him taxi money to go visit his parents, as he never seemed to carry any small change. I ask you, what man doesn’t carry small change?
As far as I could see, the only time he did shout her something was when he very generously made her pregnant – news that she delivered to him thinking he would be over the moon. Instead, he pretended to be okay with it to her face, only to immediately get a taxi back to his parents, leaving her shaking her mobile for signs of life.
When a note from him eventually arrived, delivered by his clearly mortified father, she just rang me up blubbing very loudly. ‘He says he has stuff he needs to do before settling down’ (sure, like maybe grow up?), before retreating to her new flat to mourn.
But while fickle Mr Happy may not be into the idea of parenthood, his parents most certainly are. Having found out about the situation, instead of turning a blind eye, they’ve become totally on board with the whole thing – a little too on board, says Liv. This enthusi
asm must stem from relief that their divorced son has finally produced an heir (although, I still have my theories about a few illegitimate hairy-chested offspring walking around). When they are not apologising for their son, Yvonne and Peter are taking her to all her hospital appointments and buying stuff for their unborn grandchild – stuff that normally features some shade of yellow.
‘They take the tags off so I can’t even take them back,’ Liv moans. ‘Christ, this is a really weird situation. Got all the in-law hassle, but without the man. Gee, I’m one lucky lady!’
She’s right. This whole set-up is more than a little dysfunctional. But she knows and I know that for now, it’ll have to do.
CHAPTER 5 - DATE NIGHT
‘Darling, why on earth are you here now? Don’t you know it’s terribly naff to be on time,’ moans Anna, offering her cheek and taking a bottle of five quid wine off me.
‘Sorry,’ I say, taking off my coat and following my friend down the corridor, thinking that Anna’s got some cheek for telling me off for being on time when her own time keeping is notorious – she just doesn’t do it full stop. When she promises a time it is always half an hour later, and even then I’m hanging around in a newsagents reading magazines for a good twenty minutes after that. Added to which, she’s always armed with excuses but rather irritatingly, never an apology, forcing me to always have a back up plan just in case she changes stuff at the last minute. ‘I’ve been hanging around a bit today. Let’s just say, it wasn’t a normal nine-to-five day.’
Just as I’m about to elaborate, she looks at me with a slightly impatient expression on her pretty face. ‘I live my life avoiding nine-to-five days actually,’ she says. ‘You know me, always buck convention.’ I automatically roll my eyes as soon as her back is turned. I hate it when Anna tells me she is programmed differently from the rest of the working world, as though it is an affliction and not something that she has any say in. Like when people tell you they’re eccentric when in truth, truly eccentric people don’t notice they are. ‘Since you’re early, you can help me cook,’ she says, as I follow her into a tiny little kitchen that is a hive of boiling activity.
‘Tell me,’ I venture, trying hard not to pull a face as I stare suspiciously into a saucepan of heavily boiling gruel. ‘What’s cooking?’
Anna takes the lid off the steaming pot and then pokes a wooden spoon into the goo, before shoving it in my face to taste. ‘Italian Three-Bean Chilli,’ she sings with an accent as though she were Antonio Carluccio.
‘Yum!’ I exclaim, not meaning it at all and get on with the task of chopping up some iceberg lettuce.
Seriously, have I really stayed on in London after the most soul-destroying day being pulled apart by recruitment consultants, for slop with twenty different pulses?
‘How many of us tonight?’ I ask, all of a sudden suspicious about the dinner party format.
‘Four,’ she replies, winking at me. And then the penny drops. Oh dear lord, she’s not organised a blind date today of all days? If there is one thing I hate doing on a Monday evening, it’s going on a blind date. It is on a par with meeting up for a Sunday afternoon walk in the park and then wondering why sparks don’t fly. Aside from Valentines Day, attempting to generate romance on a Monday is just totally unacceptable. I need a drink fast.
‘Anna, please say you’ve not set me up. I’m not in the mood. Seriously, I’ve quit my job and have been in and out of agencies all day,’ I sigh.
Anna stops and looks at me. ‘Seriously? Please say you didn’t just say that. And just when I’m about to introduce you to a nice man!’ she says, stirring her one-pot wonder. ‘Out of work! You kept that quiet over the phone. Oh well, with any luck you’ll have a new one by the time date number two arrives. Admin jobs are ten a penny.’ She sounds so confident that I’m going to like him and unless I’m being completely paranoid, she almost makes it sound compulsory that I will see him again. Bossy pants. ‘Anyhow, we have five minutes before he arrives. So tell me, aside from your job debacle, what’s new?’ Anna switches into perky mode and for a brief minute, I’m feeling giddy with anticipation that she might be really going to ask me about me. ‘Seriously though, what are we going to do with you?’ she says, ruffling my hair.
‘Can I just say in my defence, you are not getting me at my best.’ I reply, smoothing my hair down and feeling ever so slightly annoyed as I’m wearing a particularly cheap looking interview suit and left my best lip-gloss at home.
Anna takes off her apron and unties her hair, shaking it as though she were in a shampoo ad. ‘Loveless! Now jobless! Sitting in cafes. You need to get your shit together soon my darling. Tick-tock tick-tock.’
I catch my breath, wanting her rant to be over with. ‘Hey, go easy. It wasn’t easy leaving that job,’ I say.
Ignoring my protests, Anna looks momentarily thoughtful. ‘You’ve given me an idea though. Not your love life – hopefully we’ll be sorting you out on that front tonight. A job. I have a friend of a friend called Victoria – Victory Flannery Veakins. She’s the person to go to when you are pretty unemployable. I’ll call her.’
Just as I’m about to say no thanks, the doorbell rings. Going to answer it, she tells me to get the indescribable looking starter out of the oven – a mound of tortilla chips, cheese, sour cream and guacamole. It looks so messy it’s the kind of food best eaten by oneself in the dark.
Just then my best friend from school – and Anna’s boyfriend of nearly a year – walks in and gives me a kiss on the cheek, looking at me for a second longer than normal as though he knows something is up. It’s been a while since I last saw Stan and I forget how handsome he is. With that short brown hair of his with its double crown, olive skin, chiselled jaw line and green eyes, he makes me catch my breath. It’s just a shame I know him too well.
‘You look tired,’ he says, studying my face, which in my experience is always code for saying I look rough. He’s right. I’ve got a spot on my face, massive bags under my eyes and I noticed in the reflection of the tube mirrors that my foundation shade doesn’t match the colour on my neck.
‘Hurry up you two, no time for PDA, I need help. God, the things I do for friends!’ she moans, sounding like a billionaire philanthropist having to organise a car boot fair. ‘Kate, for crying out loud use some of my make-up. Never seen you looking so haggard.’ She sounds so exasperated, I’m starting to wonder if I’m supposed to thank her for springing a blind date on me. Will I? Unlikely. I rush into Anna’s bedroom to plaster on whatever make up I can find, just as the doorbell rings. Anna squeals and shouts down the corridor. ‘Remember what I said Kate. Do not under any circumstances be yourself!’
At this point, I really should be questioning the status quo of my friendship with Anna, but despite my reservations, this feeling of excitement that comes with a potential romance is second to none. You just never know, he might be absolutely amazing and the one to iron out all my regrets and make me move forward. Deciding to let Anna off the hook again as I know she has good intentions, I smother concealer under my eyes so I look ridiculously alert. Having it all in front of you is by far the best bit of being single. I just wish they knew how to bottle this feeling of anticipation for when the going gets tough. Having been standing in the doorway watching me tart myself up, Stan wishes me luck as I walk past him as though I’m about to go for an audition. He then pauses and looks like he’s about to say something else, when in walks a jaw-droppingly handsome man who looks like he could chew me up and have me for breakfast. Oh hello!
‘This is Chris,’ introduces Anna proudly. ‘Chris, this is my good friend Kate and my boyfriend Stan.’ We do a polite kiss on both cheeks. Stan says hello, stares at him up and down, before slightly shaking his head and disappearing into the kitchen. I know that he’s thinking the same thing as me as I know him too well. There has to be a catch.
Over those greasy Tortilla chips covered in rubbery cheese, I discover that there is a catch. And unfortunately, it’s rather a big one. F
or, while devastatingly handsome, Chris doesn’t half like the sound of his own voice. In fact, as with someone who clearly spends a great deal of time doing dancing moobs in the gym mirror, instead of quietly getting on with the business of life, he’s been kissing his ‘guns’ and is confident – ridiculously so. No sooner do I try and interrupt with an anecdote of my own than he sits there feet tapping, clearly waiting for me to finish so he can come back with his own equivalent story. Seriously, he should just put his hand up and be done with it. It’s the Chris show and I can’t imagine he’ll actually stop long enough to find out what I think at all because you know what? He couldn’t give a toss.
‘So how do you know Anna?’ Chris leans in to me flirtatiously, making me reel in shock that he’s finally asking me a question. And now that he is, I’m attempting to hurriedly dislodge a stringy bit of mozzarella from halfway down my throat so I can splutter something before his next anecdote.
‘I met her in an Australian hostel a few years ago,’ I say, thinking at this point Chris might ask a few more questions about this time, only to find Anna then starts telling the exaggerated story about how she rescued me from being hit by a surf board on Bondi Beach (or rather, she casually assisted the lifeguards in hoisting me on a rescue boat to avoid my bikini bottoms going up my arse). But no, not even my story of being knocked unconscious by a learner surfer called Dale generates a two-way conversation with Chris. He prefers to use us as prompt cards to talk shop some more.
‘I’ve travelled a lot too you know,’ he declares. In between noisy mouthfuls, he proceeds to tell us how he doesn’t like conventional places like Australia, but prefers to step off the beaten track.
‘Not like the rest of us plebs,’ I joke, only for Anna to kick me under the table. Yes, it turns out that travel bore Chris is one of those that doesn’t so much as follow a guidebook, as chuck it out the window and write a new one, sucking on a second-hand biro in deep thought, halfway up a mountain with only a goatherd for company.
