I flop back down on to my unmade bed.
At least I didn’t update my Facebook status.
*
‘Whisk the eggs, darling! Whisk!’
I growl into my bowl of sloppy eggs and shrivel away from Mum. She overheard me asking Siri how to make a Victoria sponge and was suddenly gripped by the idea of passing down her ‘baking secrets’. She arranged our baking lesson immediately and, one week later, here I am. Hating life and cursing Amy from afar.
‘Darling, you are not whisking properly,’ Mum cajoles me, sticking her head into my bowl. ‘You need to whisk, darling! Whisk! It’s all about the wrist action!’
I freeze as my body convulses in disgust.
That is a sentence you should never hear your mother say.
‘Mum!’ I snap, as she tries to grab my arm so we can whisk in unison. ‘Look, I need to whisk at my own speed, all right? I can’t whisk under pressure.’
Mum staggers backwards as if I have just asked to be emancipated.
‘Well, then!’ she puffs in exasperation. ‘You can’t apply for The Great British Bake Off, can you?’
I blink at her, dumbfounded.
What?
‘Never have I ever suggested that I wanted to apply for The Great British Bake Off,’ I say flatly. ‘Why would I want to do that? I can barely boil an egg.’
Mum throws her arms in the air. ‘Fine,’ she says, ‘fine! You keep whisking. I want to watch the rest of my programme. Then we can carry on.’
‘Fine,’ I say, glueing my eyes to my sad eggs as Mum bustles out of the kitchen.
We’re not even making a cake! Mum insisted that we needed to ‘master the basics’ first.
This is not how I should be spending my Friday evening. This is not how any 26-year-old should be spending their Friday evening. It’s July! I should be sat in a pub garden with a glass of prosecco, not stuffed in a kitchen fighting the urge to thwack my mother with a wooden spoon.
My phone vibrates and I look up.
You have a new match!
Idly, I pick up my phone and click on Tinder. I am desperate to get this bloody date out of the way so I can delete this thing. I never imagined how much admin was required. I woke up this morning to a shirty message from one guy because I hadn’t replied to his message in four hours. I was asleep! He messaged me at 3 a.m.!
Honestly, it’s not worth the aggravation. I think I’d rather join a nunnery.
My eyes scan my phone as four images spring on to my screen in turn.
Jack, age 28, London.
Oh, I remember him. He’s the one with all the group photos. I still swiped right, which is awkward because it must mean I fancy all of his friends.
My phone buzzes again.
Jack has messaged you!
I raise my eyebrows and open the message.
Hi Georgia. How are you? Lovely smile.
I cock my head and type a message back.
‘Georgia!’
I jump as Mum swings back into the kitchen, glaring at me.
‘Have you been on your phone this entire time?’ she cries. ‘Have you been wasting time, after I’ve slaved away trying to teach my daughter the secrets of our family recipes?’
I guffaw at her.
Secrets? Unless Nigella Lawson is my long-lost cousin, there is nothing secret about this.
‘Have you whisked the eggs?’ Mum demands. ‘Have you been whisking? Have you even tried, Georgia?’
Mum always says my name as if I’m a runaway convict.
‘Yes,’ I say crossly, ‘of course I have.’
Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, then . . .’ Mum grabs her own bowl and holds it in front of her. ‘Let’s see if it matches mine. You’ve had plenty of time!’
I watch in panic as Mum turns the bowl upside down above her head. The eggs stay stuck to the bowl. Mum shoots a look at me as if she’s just pulled out the sword of Excalibur.
My insides squirm.
How far will I go to save face?
‘Well?’ Mum prods. ‘Well, Georgia? Did you whisk the eggs?’
I did whisk the eggs. I know I had a small break but I did whisk them. I bloody did.
Defiantly, I grab the bowl and tip it above my head. Before I even have the chance to change my mind, the cold eggs slop on to my freshly washed hair and slide all down my face. I squeal.
I try not to wince as raw egg drips through my eyelashes and runs into my clenched mouth.
Mum shakes her head at me and looks me up and down, then slowly whispers the phrase I hate most: ‘Silly girl.’
This is not how I should be spending my Friday evening.
CHAPTER SIX
4TH AUGUST
To do list:
TINA. GAS BILL
Find seven doves (Bianca. Not important. Wedding is ages away)
Finish design, add to portfolio
Do colour wash (running out of pants, urgent) !!!!!!
Call Amy
Oh my God and holy hell. Who needs to join a gym when you have to single-handedly change a double bed?
I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted, and I once accidentally walked up the stairs at Covent Garden tube station.
I rub my forehead with the back of my hand and feel irritation growl up my back.
This is such a boring way to be spending a Saturday. I’ve been trying to change the damn bed for what feels like hours. I wasn’t planning on changing my sheets today, but then I caught Tina peering at my fake tan stain and wasn’t left with a great deal of choice.
I scowl at the duvet, which is bunched up in the corner of its cover in a sad knot.
I grip the corners of my fitted sheet with my fingers and stretch it across my enormous mattress.
Come on. Come on, you stupid mother—
Argh!
I lurch backwards as the sheet pings back off the mattress and shrinks into a pathetic ball in the middle of the bed. Irritation snarls inside me.
For God’s sake. Why is this so difficult? Is this my life now? Will I be doing this for ever? Will they find me, aged ninety, gripping the corner of my unmade bed whilst desperately clinging on to a bottle of Lenor?
I’ll literally be on my deathbed. My unmade deathbed.
This is so unfair. As an adult, you are expected to know how to master all sorts of impossible tasks without any training or instruction.
I mean, why weren’t we ever taught this at school? I have to change my bed once a week and I am still waiting for the day when memorising the full digits of pi will come in handy.
(3.14159, thank you very much.)
My phone lights up and my eyes flit down in irritation to the screen, which is flashing amongst my rebellious bed sheets.
After a week of awkward messaging, I am finally going on this Tinder date with this Jack guy. We’re meeting at 8 p.m. at a very edgy place called The Hook. Which will be interesting, as there is nothing edgy about me. I have zero edges. If I were a shape, I would be a sphere.
I try to ignore the anxiety snaking up my chest at the prospect of meeting a complete stranger.
But still, at least I am going on the date. One date, as Amy insisted. Then I can delete the stupid app and go back to falling in love with strangers on the tube.
I run my fingers through my hair and drop my phone back on to my bed.
I actually think Amy’s list may be having a good effect on me. It is barely 3 p.m. and I am fully showered, moisturised and am willingly changing my bed sheets. Look at me, I am Victoria Beckham.
And I went on a run this morning, and I didn’t die in the process!
I pull myself back to standing and glare at my naked bed.
Urgh. Why is this so hard? Is it supposed to be this hard? I wish there was someone who could do this for me. Not like a maid. But a self-changing bed?
Actually, that’s a great idea. Maybe I’ll take it to the Dragons and make my fortune, and then I can just buy a bo
yfriend instead of going on this stupid Tinder date.
Although, I don’t want to date a gigolo.
I stride down the street and try to ignore the pain searing through my feet as they pulsate in my pointed heels. I glance at my watch.
8.07. Shit.
A gust of wind whips up my back and I push my fingers through my hair as the August sun beams between the tall London buildings. This is not how I wanted to be seen arriving on my date. Late, windswept and phoneless.
Shortly after my bed fiasco my phone decided to throw itself into the bath. Thankfully I had already organised with Jack where I was meeting him, but now my phone has been laid to rest in a giant bowl of rice.
I turn a corner and finally spot The Hook. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
Obviously it is covered in fairy lights and bunting. I wouldn’t be overly surprised if I were served a drink by a man dressed as an avocado.
I blink as I scan around the entrance, waves of heat crashing through me. I can’t see him. Oh no. Why can’t I see him? Why isn’t he here? Where is he? He said we’d meet outside. He said he’d be wearing green. He’s not here.
Nervously, I push my way inside.
Oh my God, he’s not here. Where is he? He’s stood me up. This is awful. Will I just have to go home? I can’t believe I—
Oh. He’s there.
My frantic eyes land on a young guy walking out of the toilet. He has dark hair, stubble that runs across his jaw, and is wearing a green jumper.
I relax slightly.
I take a deep breath and walk over. He looks up and smiles at me.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Jack? I’m Georgia.’
Jack’s eyes flick down my body and then meet my eyes. For a second, he almost looks surprised to see me.
‘Hey,’ he says eventually.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say. ‘Shall we get a drink?’
Jack’s mouth twitches, he glances over his shoulder and then back at me.
‘Sure.’
*
Amy lies on her stomach and pulls the Monopoly board closer towards her.
‘I think,’ she says slowly, ‘I’ll buy Mayfair.’
I scowl at her.
‘You only want Mayfair because you know I want Mayfair,’ I say.
Amy grins. ‘No I don’t. It’s a good investment.’
I make a loud, jokey sigh and glance at my stack of fake money piled up next to me. I wish I was actually this rich. Could I persuade anyone it was real money?
Mum pops her head around the living-room door. ‘Roast will be ready in half an hour, okay?’
‘Thanks,’ we all say in union.
Tamal fishes my phone out of the bowl of rice and looks at it. ‘Has it been in here all night?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much for trying to fix it.’
‘No worries.’
‘So, you weren’t tempted to make it work when you got back in from your date?’ Amy asks in a lofty voice, her eyes still glued to her cards.
‘No,’ I reply, ‘I just went straight to bed.’
‘Ah,’ says Amy, playing with the plastic houses, ‘then you must have been quite tired when you got in.’
I laugh. ‘If you want to ask me how the date went, just ask me.’
Amy looks up at me and grins. ‘Do I have to?’
To be honest, I have been desperate to speak about it since I arrived. I glance over my shoulder to check Mum isn’t feathering about in the corner. The last thing I want is for her to hear I’ve been on a good date. She’d update her Facebook status in seconds.
‘It was really fun,’ I grin, ‘we got on really well. We just stayed in the bar and chatted all night. I got quite drunk actually,’ I add.
A smile spreads across Amy’s face and she pulls herself up to sitting.
‘Good!’ she says triumphantly. ‘I knew you’d have fun! Are you going to see him again?’
I feel my cheeks flush. I want to see him again, and he did kiss me. That’s a good sign, right?
‘Hopefully,’ I say.
‘Well!’ Amy grins at Tamal. ‘Hurry up and fix Georgie’s phone so we can see if he’s messaged you!’
Tamal looks up from the phone and raises his eyebrows. ‘Good news,’ he says, ‘I think it’s working.’
Despite myself, I feel my stomach lurch. I have been wondering all morning if Jack has messaged me. I quickly move over to Tamal as my phone springs to life.
Ah ha! It worked! It’s alive!
I grin at my lit-up phone. I feel like Dr Frankenstein.
I eye Amy and Tamal, who are grinning at my phone like toddlers.
Oh God, I don’t know how I feel about my sister and her boyfriend seeing this. What if Jack’s messaged me something totally inappropriate? Or something really soppy and embarrassing? I should put a stop to this.
I carefully lean over to try and grab the phone, when it vibrates.
Jack has messaged you.
My stomach jerks. Amy squeals and I snatch the phone out of Tamal’s hand before he can open it. I need to read this first. I click on the message excitedly, and as my eyes scan the message the bubbling excitement turns into prickling fear.
Amy and Tamal lean in towards me, waiting.
‘What?’ Amy presses. ‘What did he say?’
My eyes are glued to the phone. I take a deep breath and read the message aloud.
‘It says,’ I gnaw my lip, ‘“Hey, Georgia, sorry this is late notice but it looks like I can’t make tonight after all. Let me know if another night works for you.”’
I raise my eyes to meet Amy’s. She’s blinking at me in confusion.
Amy looks at my phone, her eyes wide. ‘What time did he send that?’
‘Half eight,’ I say weakly. ‘Half an hour after I met Jack.’
‘But,’ Tamal screws up his face, ‘you went on a date with him?’
I shrug limply. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Well, then . . .’ Amy turns to face me. ‘Who did you go on a date with?’
I drop my phone in my lap, anxiety squeezing at my heart.
‘I don’t know,’ I mumble.
Who did I go on a date with?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Running schedule:
04/08 1k (August is not the time to start running. Sweat patches are uncontrollable.)
I stare blankly at my computer screen, mindlessly typing figures into one of Bianca’s budgeting spreadsheets. For once, I was relieved when Bianca asked me to balance her wedding budget. Since Sunday, my brain hasn’t stopped spinning.
I attempt to swallow the dry lump lodged in the back of my throat.
Who did I go on a date with? I’m sure I asked his name. I spent an entire evening with him, laughing, sharing stories. Who was he? I didn’t mention this to Amy, but I told this guy a lot about me. All about my job, my family, my life. I don’t even know who this guy is, and now he knows so much about me.
I glance up as Natalie slips into the office and shuts the door behind her. She pulls Sally’s chair over and slots down next to me. Sally has been in meetings with Bianca since 9 a.m., thank God.
‘How’d it go?’ Natalie grins, picking up my hand cream and squirting a generous amount into her open palm.
I avoid looking at her. ‘How did what go?’ I ask, knowing full well what she’s talking about.
‘The date?’ Natalie asks.
Panic spikes inside me at the mention. I sigh.
‘Yeah, great,’ I say bitterly. ‘But it wasn’t him.’
Natalie frowns at me. ‘What do you mean?’ Her mouth falls open as the thought hits her. ‘Oh my God. Were you catfished?’
‘No!’ I retort. ‘The opposite. Dogfished. I was dogfished.’
Natalie screws up her face. I pull my tired, square eyes away from the spreadsheet and explain the whole story, my stomach squirming at every detail.
‘Wow,’ Natalie breathes when I finish. ‘Well, I didn’t think you were going to say that.’
‘Well,’ Natalie says, ‘look on the bright side. At least you can cross one off your list, right? You said to Amy you’d go on one date.’
I cock my head. I hadn’t thought of that.
‘Good point,’ I say, as I reach into my bag to get my diary. My hand claws at the inside of my bag hopelessly. Panic pricks at my skin. I bury my head inside the bag.
Where is it?
‘You all right?’ Natalie asks, as my head is engulfed by the lining.
‘No,’ I say, my heartbeat starting to race. ‘No. I can’t find my . . . my diary’s gone.’
‘Your diary?’ She repeats, ‘Your notebook, do you mean?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Panic spins up my throat. ‘You know, the notebook I take with me everywhere, I just call it a diary. It’s got all of my . . . stuff in it. I need it.’
I ram my fingers through my hair, fear clawing at my body.
Where is it? Where is it?
Natalie leans forward. ‘Did you leave it at home?’
I begin taking all of the items out of my bag frantically. ‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I always keep it in this bag. This is the only bag I use. I take this bag with me everywhere. I never take it out. It’s not here.’
I pull the final objects out of my bag and then look up at Natalie. Her almond eyes are wide behind her thick glasses. My list was in that diary. Amy’s list. Why isn’t it in my bag? Where has it gone?
I can’t have lost it. I can’t.
Natalie looks at me helplessly and I gape back at her. She opens her mouth to speak when my phone vibrates next to me. My eyes flick down and land on a text.
Hi. It’s Jack from Saturday, you left your notebook with me. I’m free tomorrow night if you want to meet back at The Hook. Let me know x
My stomach drops.
‘What?’ Natalie catches my expression. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s him!’ I manage, my throat burning. ‘Jack! Fake Jack! He’s got my diary! He stole it! He wants to—’
‘Georgia?’ Sally’s sharp voice interrupts me. ‘Where are you? Ah. We need you in this meeting.’
I blink at Sally, a cold sweat forming on my brow.
I can’t go into a meeting now. I can barely speak. I need a serious lie-down and a shot of whisky.
The List That Changed My Life Page 5
