Pride and Premiership (7 page)

“See what I mean? What did I tell you about having a back-up plan?” she said. “A fail-safe. You need bloody options.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts,” she cut in. “It keeps them on their toes, for one. And for two, it stops you from giving yourself completely – which is important.”

“Why? That’s not the way you treated Lance,” I said.

“Yeah, and look where that got me.”

She broke up with Lance a year ago, and I thought about all the boys she’s gone out with since: Roger, James Murray, Garth Williams, Jermaine Dixon, Simon Taylor, Jake Kasper. And now she’ll probably add Goldenballs to the list. She’s a proper pulling machine. Not like me, who has only slept with one bloke who’s very far from fit, one who’s fit but was secretly dating my worst enemy (I hate you, Ray Pearson) and one who’s only fit when he’s just cut his hair.

“What d’you mean? You’re happy, though,” I said.

“Yeah … I am. But still. Get with it, Remy. Besides, it’s not like it’s gonna be hard. Even
I
can name a guy that’s probably still gaga about you.”

“Like?”

“Like … Spencer.”

I imagined Spencer just after he’s cut his hair: Hmm. Then I imagined him as he is most of the time, and reminded her that he’ll be back off to uni in about 2.2 seconds. “Loughborough an’ all. That’s bloody miles away. That’s why we broke up. Remember?”

“So?” she said. “You’re not looking to get married. You’re just making sure you can’t get played. And a player CAN’T get played.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure if playing’s my thing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should check whether Robbie feels the same way first. I don’t trust him, Rem. He’s a bloke, for a start. Plus I’m not into that ‘leaving his mobile at the hotel’ crap. That’s why I reckon I forgot to tell you.”

“OK. Point taken. Let’s just change the subject. By the way, Lance called for you yesterday. I forgot to tell you, too.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said.

“And I told him you’ve pulled a footballer. You should’ve heard him. He sounded gutted. A gutted little cad,” I added in Kara’s posh voice, giggling.

Malibu didn’t join in. She sighed. “Yeah, well, they’re all the same.”

“But not Roger,” I reminded her, thinking:
And maybe not Robbie.

“No, not Roger,” she admitted. “That’s why he’s my fail-safe, but…”

“But what?”

“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Grr. I hate when she does that. It’s like she thinks I’m still a baby or something. I understand loads. I got an A in GCSE English, for a start, and you can’t do that without being good in comprehension. Fact.

“And what about Gold— I mean, Gary?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“Do you think a footballer can be good?”

“Doubt it. But he is surprising me,” she said. “Some of the texts he sends are really deep. Like quotes from philosophers and stuff. So… I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Really?” I said, happy because that meant Robbie deserved the benefit of the doubt too (though I must admit his texts aren’t exactly deep).

“Yep,” she replied. “Besides, anyone that says they want to take me to the Orchid Bar deserves it.” As she said this, Malibu broke into a massive grin.

“The Orchid Bar!” I squealed. “No way!”

We’d seen so many celebrities coming out of there in all the magazines that we read, and now my sister was going to be one of them!

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“You’re so–oo lucky,” I told her.

Day Six in the dysfunctional Bennet house, and yet again Dad spent the night on the sofa. This morning I popped my head round the living-room door and asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

“Sure, love. Why not?” he said, looking sheepish.

Didn’t bank on bumping into Mum in the kitchen, though. She was up double early for Saturday shopping. Maybe she should buy some “moody knickers” tablets while she’s at it. That would help everybody. Anyway, after the look she gave me when I walked in, I didn’t bother to apologize for bringing Dad into our argument yesterday.

Yay! Robbie has just texted:
Getting on the plane princess. C u when I get back. x

He’s boarding the plane but has still taken the time to text ME. He definitely deserves the benefit of the doubt.

(Still not a very deep text, though.)

Just remembered Malibu’s going to the Orchid Bar tonight. And the way my parents are going, I doubt they’ll be off down the pub – which means that they’ll stay in and ignore each other instead. I’d rather stick a hot needle in my eye than hang around their misery, so I’ll text Kellie and James. One of them must have something to do tonight:
Hey guys its Saturday whats going on? Lets partyyyyyyyy.

Result! Kellie has a birthday party to go to in Shepherd’s Bush. (She had been just about to invite me.) And James is going to hit the bars in Old Compton Street. He says I’m very welcome to go along. Decisions, decisions.

Had the day from hell and need my NVQ, pronto! Then I won’t have to sit at the reception desk with Malibu at her nail station – the first one behind me – boasting about the Orchid Bar and Goldenballs all day long.

“The Orchid Bar!” the beauticians squealed when she told them she was going there first thing this morning.

“The Orchid Bar!” all her clients squealed when she broke it to them (within two seconds of them sitting down.) “Wow!”

Yes. Wow. Bloody. Wow.

I wouldn’t say I was jealous, but I was definitely irritated by the way she acted like Goldenballs is perfect but never mentioned the fact that she’s doing the dirty on him with Boring Roger. No. Her little fail-safe speech didn’t even got a look-in. Isn’t the universe supposed to punish people for stuff like that? Because I can’t understand why I – the one who isn’t stringing along two blokes – am coming off second while everything is going so perfectly for Malibu.

1. Why can’t Goldenballs be the one in Ayia Napa and Robbie be taking ME to the Orchid Bar?

2. Why does Goldenballs play for a bigger football team than Robbie?

3. Drive a better car?

4. Text her more?

5. And why is it that even my loveliest message from Robbie will probably never compete with one of hers, because Goldus Bollockus always comes up with something deep and bloody meaningful?

I felt even more sorry for myself when Malibu’s client Plastic Fantastic screeched, “The Orchid Bar? Omigod, it’s so–oooo you!” when she heard the news.

“So, what does your Gary look like then?” she asked as Malibu started filing her nails.

“Oh, he’s ama–aaaaazing. The spitting image of Will Smith,” said Malibu. Then she stopped filing, looked towards me and said, “Isn’t he, Remy?”

I thought,
this is it
. This is the universe hitting Malibu right back in her face, because Goldenballs may have a lot of things on Robbie, but he is nowhere near as good looking. In fact, even though the club was dark and I’ve only seen him once – and it was a week ago – I’m 110% certain that Will Smith HE AIN’t.

I cleared my throat. “Well, actually he’s er … he’s er…”

I could feel everyone in the salon focused on me. And Malibu was eyeballing me. HARD. Her pupils were saying, “Back me up.” Not in a threatening way. They were
begging
.

I turned to Plastic Fantastic. “He’s … a … a …”

Then I caught sight of Malibu’s begging eyes again.

“He’s a… Ugh.” I sighed. “He’s a dead stamp of him. Yeah.”

I just couldn’t do it. Family loyalty and all that.

“Oh my god. AND a footballer,” said Plastic Fantastic. Then she gave me a look of pity as she said, “Well, you never know, you could be next.”

Aaaaaaaaargh! I hate being patronized!

“Actually, I’m sorted,” I told her through gritted teeth.

“Oh, really?” she replied, looking surprised.

“Yes. I’m seeing Gary’s mate, Robbie Wilkins. He plays for Netherfield Park Rangers,” I announced.

“Good on ya, girl. So are you going to the Orchid Bar too?” she asked.

“Er, no. We can’t. He’s a … way.” I was starting to regret opening my big mouth.

“Shame! Where’s he gone?” asked Plastic Fantastic.

“Ayia Napa,” Malibu answered for me, and I don’t know whether she timed it deliberately, but the words left her lips just as everything and everyone had taken a pause – the phone, conversation … BREATHING.

So much for family loyalty.

“Ayia Napa?!” everyone repeated. It was obvious from their voices what they thought. That he’d cheat on me.

Cheat on me? Listen to what I’m saying – he CAN’T cheat on me because I’m not even his girlfriend. YET.

But I’m now even more worried (if that’s possible). And he’s there and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Malibu came in to model the dress she’s wearing to the Orchid Bar tonight. Can’t believe she had the cheek to warn me about my LBD for the date with Robbie when her dress was so tight, you could see what she’d had for dinner!

It was also luminous orange, to match her luminous orange nails. She called it her neon look and said it’s going to be big this summer.

“This is the face I’m gonna pull for the paparazzi,” she said. Then she pouted her lips until they looked like Angelina’s.

I must admit, she looked great. Goldenballs will be well impressed. She said she’s planning on them becoming the new Posh and Becks.

Does Victoria Beckham know about this
? I thought.

James just called. “How ya doin’?” he asked, like Joey from
Friends
.

I ran my fingers through my hair and said, “I need a look. What about going blonde?”

He’s told me time and time again that going blonde will ruin the condition of my hair, but he repeated it one more time and said he’ll work some long layers into it.

“Hmm,” I said. “I was thinking … a fringe.”

“A fringe will be too drastic. It’s best to take baby steps,” he said.

“Oh. OK.” I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Remy?”

“Nothiiing.”

“Reme–eeey?” he insisted, and it was obvious he could tell something was up.

“OK,” I said. “What chance do I have? Robbie’s probably already had about thirty stunning girls throw themselves at him in Ayia Napa.”

“But you’re stunning too,” he assured me.

“I’m not. And even if I was, I’m not size eight with big bazookas, am I?”

“Remy, Malibu is Malibu and you’re YOU, a fabulous individual. Besides, I actually think you’ve got an advantage – boys like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. Now are we zhushing it up tonight or not?”

“Um… No, I forgot I was meant to be going out with Kellie,” I said.

But I actually made my decision as soon as he said “meat on her bones”. What makes him think that’s a compliment?!

Oh well, I’ll get over it. Now I’m going to phone Kel.

Dad was in the living room watching
The Bourne Identity
when I told him I was going out with Kellie.

“Great,” he said. “Make sure you tell your mum.”