My Dating Disasters Diary (7 page)

When he finally got there I dropped down suddenly,
meaning to land right in front of him to give him a bit of
a surprise and a laugh, but instead I miscalculated and
kind of landed on top of him, which meant we both
crashed to the ground. My fall was broken by his body so
I was OK, but he was pretty winded so I suggested we sit
on the bench until he recovered.

After a few minutes he seemed OK so I suggested
climbing the tree again but he just said, 'No thanks. I
don't like heights.'

'You're scared of heights? But that tree isn't very tall.
Can't be more than ten metres and we don't need to go all
the way up.' I grinned reassuringly. 'It's not exactly the
Empire State Building or anything. If you did fall out of it
you wouldn't end up looking like a squashed tomato like
you would if you fell off the top of a skyscraper.'

But this didn't seem to reassure him – in fact he went
quite grey and sweaty so I reckoned he must have one of
those phobias Liz talks about. Decided to stop talking
about falling from heights altogether, which seemed to
work as he calmed down a lot, although he still looked a
little shaky. And maybe a bit embarrassed at me seeing
him looking so scared.

I tried to make him feel better by saying, 'Look, it's
OK. My friend Liz says lots of people have stupid
irrational fears about something or other. It doesn't mean
you're a wimp or anything. Well, it might but it's not
definite. You've probably just got a psychological
problem.'

'Are you saying I'm a nutter? Thanks a lot.'

'No, of course not,' I soothed. 'You've just got a phobia.
Loads of totally cool people have phobias. I've probably
got one too. In fact I have. Yeah, definitely.'

'You have?' He sounded interested and less annoyed.
Good. 'What are you scared of?'

'Me? Oh, erm, lots of things. Yeah, um . . .' God, what
could I say? Desperately tried to remember Liz talking
about daft stuff people freaked out about. Ah yes! 'I'm
claustrophobic actually. You know, scared of being
trapped in small, confined spaces. Yeah, I'm dead scared
of that.'

'Oh, yeah,' he said sympathetically, 'that's an awful
feeling.'

'Yeah, it is,' I said. However, not wanting him to think
I was a basket case, I thought I'd better water it down a
bit. 'Of course it doesn't usually affect me much. I mean,
I'm fine going in lifts, even if I get stuck in one
occasionally, and I don't mind when I'm in the car with
Dad and he drives through tunnels. One time, when I was
little, Dad took us on the train through the Channel
tunnel, which was pretty cool. Imagine being under
thousands of tons of earth and millions of
gallons of water for miles and miles above you . . . You
OK?'

He looked a bit pale and sick again. Maybe he was
aquaphobic – scared of water like dogs with rabies.
Decided it was best to change the subject and steer clear
of watery stuff.

'I don't fancy potholing though – sounds boring – but
I went down an old mineshaft when I was on holiday in
Wales once and it was cool.'

'Doesn't sound like you're claustrophobic at all then,'
he said sceptically. He sounded annoyed too.

'Oh yeah, I definitely am. Well, a bit anyway. I mean,
I'd hate to be buried alive in a coffin. Can you imagine it?
People think you're dead but you've actually been in a
coma and when you wake up you discover you're
trapped in a coffin under the earth. You try and push the
lid up but all you can do is scratch the surface with your
nails so you start screaming but no one can hear you. That
would really scare me.'

He said, 'Please just shut up about it, OK? Please.' He
got up and started to walk away from me.

I hurried after him. 'Hmm, maybe you should sit
down again. You don't look very well. You didn't have
the chicken nuggets for lunch, did you? They looked
pretty minging. Maybe you've got food poisoning.'

He said, 'I'm claustrophobic.'

Trying to lighten the mood, I giggled. 'Bloody hell.
Maybe it would be easier just to tell me if there's anything
that doesn't scare you so I know what to talk about.'

He didn't sit down but after a while he seemed to
recover, and with his hands in his pockets he started
moodily kicking an empty twisted Coke can that had
been lying at his feet.

'Hey,' I said, 'watch this!' I got my right toe under the
can and flicked it up onto my head, then bounced it off
my chest and back down to my left foot. Flicked it to the
right foot then left and right again. Managed to do
another fifteen keepie-uppies before I missed one.
William was staring at me, well impressed. Good.
Hopefully this had made him forget about being trapped
in coffins or splattered on pavements.

I kicked the can towards him. 'Your turn. Let's see how
long you can keep it up. Think you can beat me?'

'No, I'm, um, not that good at it. Not with a can anyway.'

'Bet you are. Go on, try it.' I flicked the can onto his
head. It bounced off so I headed it right back to his chest
and it fell onto his toe. 'C'mon, don't be a wimp.'

He tried to kick the can up onto his other foot but
missed by a mile and it skidded off the path into the duck
pond. Bloody hell, he really was useless.

Trying to make him feel better, I said, 'Look, yeah,
you're right, cans suck. Let's go borrow a ball and have a
proper kick around. We can use our bags as goal posts
and play penalties. Bet you're shit-hot at that.'

'Nah, I think I'll just go home now.'

I hurried after him. 'Right, OK, yeah. I'm off too. Don't
know about you but I'm starving. So, erm, are you my
boyfriend now?'

He turned to me. 'No, Kelly Ann. I don't want to be
your boyfriend.'

'But why not? You said you liked me. It's because I'm
not blonde, isn't it?'

'No, it's not that.'

'Too skinny?'

'Nah, it's just, well, um, no offence but, you know, I
want a girlfriend and you're just, well, not sort of girly
enough. More like a boy really.'

'Oh.'

'You're not upset? I mean, I never promised to go out
with you. Today was just a sort of trial. It's not like I'm
dumping you or anything.'

I flushed. Bloody hell, he wasn't feeling sorry for me,
was he? I put on a totally unconcerned, happy voice.

'God, no, it's cool. No worries.'

'Right, well, see ya.'

'Yeah, see ya,' I said brightly.

I trudged home, depressed. Things hadn't gone too
well. What was I going to tell Liz?

I'd avoided Liz's phone calls and emails last night but she
got me this morning at break. 'So how did it go with
William? C'mon, tell all. I want to know every single
detail. Did you snog him? When are you seeing him
again?'

'Hmm, well, no, not really. I don't, er, think we'll be
meeting up again. The thing is, we sort of, erm, drifted
apart.'

Liz stared at me sceptically. 'Don't be stupid. You can't
"drift apart" when you've not even snogged once. Drifted
apart my arse. Tell me what happened!'

'It's private, Liz,' I said with quiet dignity.

But privacy and quiet dignity are impossible when
your best friend is the nosiest person in Scotland and
pretty soon she'd dragged the whole story from me.
Every embarrassing detail. Oh God.

Liz was disappointed and unimpressed. She shook her
head. 'I'm sorry, Kelly Ann, but really I think you haven't
yet reached the necessary level of psychosocial development
to deal with boyfriends.'

Liz could be a pompous pain in the arse at times. I
wasn't putting up with this. 'What's that supposed to
mean? Are you saying I'm not grown up enough? You've
a nerve, given that you still play with the same My Little
Pony Santa got you when you were six.'

'That's just a memento of childhood. Perfectly wellbalanced,
psychologically sound, mature individuals
keep mementos.'

'And the Barbie doll you got for your seventh
birthday.'

'Also a childhood mem—'

'Whose hair you washed and braided last week.'

'Hmm, well, OK, I still do
some
childish stuff but really
you need to grow up a bit with boys. I mean, you beat
William at running, climbing and football. Couldn't you
have let him win at one of them at least?'

'Deliberately, you mean? Why would I do that? No
boy would respect someone who just let them win.'

Liz sighed. 'Yeah they would. Boys only don't respect
you if you let them do stuff like groping your boobs on a
first date or—'

'Yuck! I'd never do that. On a first or any other date.'
Then I laughed. 'Mind you, I don't suppose any of them
would want to. Not with me anyway. Would you ever let
a boy do that?'

'Well, not on a first date. Obviously. But maybe when
the relationship has shifted to a deeper, more committed
phase and mutual trust has been established.'

'When's that?'

'Third date.' Liz giggled. 'Guess what?'

'What?' I said, giggling as well now.

'Peter's asked me out for a meal. A proper meal. In an
Italian restaurant with candles and cloth napkins.'

'Oh my God. That's so cool,' I said, genuinely
impressed.

Liz has had boyfriends before although none had
lasted this long and most finished after one or two dates.
Probably because she spent the whole time psychoanalysing
them, which usually meant telling them how
pathetically weak, neurotic or nuts they were. However,
unlike me, she has snogged quite a few boys, and one had
bought her chocolates afterwards. And she's even been
on a date to the movies twice, though not with the same
boy. But out for a meal? And at a real grown-up
restaurant, not just Burger King or McDonald's? It just
seemed so sophisticated. I wouldn't let anyone grope me
but I wouldn't mind being asked out to a posh restaurant.
Provided the boy paid of course.

Hmm, good point. Peter wasn't known for being
generous. In fact, he'd a reputation for being a bit mean
and it was rumoured that when he was at school he used
to charge people to borrow a rubber because of 'wear and
tear'. Don't really believe that but I do know he recycled
a previous year's birthday card for his mum, hoping she
wouldn't remember. She did and gave him a black eye.
Social work found out and got involved but I don't think
they were that sympathetic towards Peter, and his mum
got off with a warning.

'Are you sure Peter is treating you, Liz?'

'Of course. He's not at school like me. He's got a
proper job. A salary. Anyway it'll cost me a fortune
getting clothes and stuff for it so it's only fair.'

The rest of the time Liz chatted about what she was
going to wear – she would need new shoes, skirt, top,
jewellery and make-up – and what she was going to tell her
parents, who don't like Peter and think he's pretty shady.

Officially Liz was going to be at my place and sleeping
over. That's the great thing about a mobile, which Liz's
parents bought her for safety reasons so they could
always keep in touch: you could be absolutely anywhere
and your parents will never know, but the fact that they
can call you means they don't check.

Well, except for Gary last month, who said he was at
Chris's but had actually managed to con his way into a
pub with the help of two older cousins. When his parents
called they heard the background noise of clinking
glasses, music and the barman shouting last orders.
Disaster. Why can't parents text, for God's sake?

Chris called and asked me to go into town with him this
afternoon to help him choose the new football boots he'd
been saving up for, but I told him Mum was making me
help clean the house and then I'd planned to go to Liz's.

He said, 'No problem, we'll go tomorrow. Most of the
sports shops are open then.'

Went over to Liz's this afternoon an hour before she
was due to meet Peter. I expected her to be looking
fantastic by this time, as I knew she'd been preparing all
day, but when she opened the door she was still in her
dressing gown with white gunge on her face and a pair of
pink knickers on her head. She also smelled bad.

I came in and said – stupidly, I suppose, 'Aren't you
ready yet?'

Liz said, 'Yeah, actually I am. I decided on a casual
look tonight but I'm not sure about the knickers. Maybe
black would be classier.'

Very funny. As we climbed the stairs to her bedroom
she told me Peter had texted her to say he'd had to
reserve a table an hour later than he'd hoped so she
wasn't running late. Oh my God. He'd
reserved
a table.
Couldn't help being impressed. Imagine having a friend
who had a boyfriend who reserves tables in restaurants.
Knew Liz was pleased too but was trying not to smile
because of her face-mask thing.

'What have you got on your face?'

'Egg white. It's supposed to be good for the complexion
but you have to leave it on as long as possible for best
results. I've had it on for six hours now. And I've got the
yolk on my head. I read somewhere that egg yolk makes
a fantastic conditioner for blonde hair. The knickers are to
stop the egg white and yolk mixing. Don't want to be
covered in omelette.'

We went into her room and Liz cleared a space on her
bed for us both to sit down. Close up, in the confined
space of her bedroom, the smell was awful. 'Are you sure
you used a fresh egg, Liz? You smell a bit like Terry
Docherty's stupid stink bombs.'

'Oh God, do I? I never noticed. Got a bit of a cold
today.'

Liz went off to shower, thank God, and I opened the
windows to let out the smell before I gagged. How could
she not have noticed? When she got back she looked a lot
better without the egg white and knickers. Smelled better
too.

Two hours later and Liz was finally ready. She was wearing
her new skirt, tight black top, drop earrings and high
heels. She looked really old and could easily have passed
for eighteen. Well, sixteen anyway. Definitely.