I’m not really a fan of heart-to-hearts. If I’m honest, I’d prefer to borrow someone’s dentures and chew a replica of
The Angel of the North
in the table leg than have a discussion about emotions with Jade. I suppress a fleeting notion that I could phone Gemma and get her to do this for me.
‘There’s no easy way of saying this, but it’s about Pete,’ I tell her.
Her eyes widen. ‘
What did he tell you I did?
’
‘Nothing.’ I regret this already.
‘I thought I could count on him not to tell anyone,’ she scowls.
‘All he said was that there was a tricky moment when you met on your night out.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Near enough, yes.’
She straightens her back. ‘That sounds about right.’
‘I think he feels
he’s
to blame,’ I add, hoping this makes him sound chivalrous, like Mr Darcy or someone, as opposed to a bloke who’s had a fifteen-year love affair with doner kebabs and whose proudest achievement is completing the final level in
Call of Duty
.
‘Really? I don’t know why he’d think that,’ she says, before adding, ‘not that it was
me
who jumped on him or anything.’
‘Of course not,’ I reassure her. ‘But the thing that strikes me is this: obviously there’s been this . . .
moment
. . . between the two of you.’
‘
Moment
, yes,’ she repeats, deciding she likes the euphemism.
‘And it feels awkward – that’s natural. But it’d be a shame if you let this get in the way of your friendship. I know he values that more than anything else.’
I have used this ‘shame to get in the way of a beautiful friendship’ line many, many times before. This is the first time it’s actually been true and not simply an easier way of saying, ‘I want to run a billion miles away from you as fast as is humanly possible.’
She silently dissects this information, looking mildly disappointed at the idea that he’s failed to be overcome with lust for her. ‘Well, I must admit, I miss our coffees,’ she decides eventually. ‘And I miss him being my friend. There, I’ve said it.’
‘You know what I’d do if I were you? Invite him for a coffee tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she concedes.
I sit back, satisfied in the knowledge that that’s my emotional tête-à-tête done for this decade.
Chapter 38
Gemma
Jean-Paul Sartre said: ‘Hell is other people’. But he was wrong. Hell is actually a public speaking course in a forgettable conference room in Haydock, in which I am standing before seven strangers to read out the words to ‘Wee Willy Winkie’.
I’ve only reached the second line before my hands start leaking sweat, my throat constricts and I get tunnel vision each time I make eye-contact with Adrian, the boss of a company that sells vertical blinds for conservatories.
My arms are by my side because I mustn’t fidget – fidgeting, according to my notes, seems to be akin to satanic worship, and I’m trying my utmost to do as the public-speaking tutor says. Project. Relax. Deliver the words
WITH FEELING
, which makes
me
feel like I’m being asked to do my third take in a porn film.
‘Are the children in their bed, for it’s past ten o’clock?’ I conclude, as majestically as I can. I look up hopefully.
Adrian from the blinds company is fixing his comb-over. Jill, the ophthalmology manager next to him, is texting under her folder. The others are either looking out of the window, eyeing up the refreshments table or, in the case of Bob the NHS Manager, fast asleep.
‘Hmm.’ Our tutor, Rosie, rubs her chin, perplexed. ‘Not quite got it, have you, Gemma?’
When Rosie introduced herself, I warmed to her immediately. She’s a round-cheeked, ruddy-complexioned, twenty-first century version of Mrs Beeton, with a booming voice and hand gestures that make her look like she’s conducting an 80-piece orchestra.
She told us we’d be safe with her, that she’d take me and the seven other hapless delegates under her wing. I had dreams of addressing the crowd like Hillary Clinton by the end of the day and so far we’ve been treated to a wealth of insider tips, including learning the first line of your speech by heart so you don’t have to look down, to – her ultimate tip – checking your flies are closed before approaching a lectern.
To be fair to Rosie, everyone else has shown improvement.
But for some reason, while her words are going into my ears and I am completely au fait with the
theory
, none of it is translating into reality. Which, rounded cheeks or not, is pissing Rosie off no end.
‘I’m sorry to sound exasperated, but everyone else has got this,’ she huffs. ‘Do you remember what I said about delivering
with feeling
? That’s the point of us using a nursery rhyme. Pretend you’re saying this to a child. You’ve got to entertain them, beguile them. Don’t worry about what anyone thinks. Sound like a loon, we won’t care!’
I nod sullenly, despising myself and my abject failure to beguile anyone but the fly that keeps hovering around my ear. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
She purses her lips as if she’ll let me off this once. ‘How about we take it from the top?’
I’d hoped to be able to sit down and eat my caramel wafer biscuit in the corner actually. Instead I nod, pick up the words to ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ with trembling hands and remind myself that there are only seven people here. And it’s only a nursery rhyme.
I clear my throat. I pretend I’m all alone, there’s nobody else here, and all I’ve got to do is deliver these funny little words –
with feeling
– about a weird bloke in his pyjamas running round town and waking kids up. Easy.
I’m about to begin, when I have a small moment of inspiration. I think back to the panto my dad took me to see when I was about seven,
Jack and the Beanstalk
. I think of how over the top they all were, how animated. The inflection in certain words, the ups and downs of their voices.
That’s
what she’s talking about! That’s how I’m going to give it all I’ve got!
‘Wee Willy Winkie RUNS through the town.’ Pause for effect. ‘UPSTAIRS! Downstairs. In his nightgown.’ Breathe. ‘RAPPING at the windows. CRYYYING through the locks! Are all the children in their beds? It’s PAST eight O’CLOCK!’ I restrain myself from taking a bow and look up breathlessly. ‘Better,’ Rosie concedes flatly. ‘Right, who’s next?’ I sit down, deflated, as a text arrives. I’m supposed to have turned off my phone, but what the hell. If Jill the ophthalmology manager can get away with it, why shouldn’t I? I surreptitiously pull the phone out of my bag and hold it by the side of my chair as I glance at it. It’s from Alex.
I don’t care what you’re doing, your afternoon CANNOT be worse than mine. x
I compose a text back.
Public speaking course in a crap hotel. Bloke next to me has B.O., there’s no aircon & tutor is a Nazi.
He texts back immediately.
You win x
I’m in the kitchen that night, practising what I’ve learned. It actually sounds better, astonishingly so. I prance round the room, employing the optimum number of hand gestures, doing my best to channel some stature. I make eye-contact with my reflection and begin a speech I fantasise would bring down the house.
‘Baa Baa black sheep, have you any WOOL!’
‘Have you been drinking, Gemma?’ I rotate in shock. Belinda is in her silk dressing gown, an oversized roller propped on her fringe.
‘No. I was practising—’
‘You don’t need to explain! Talking to yourself is usually the sign of someone highly creative.’
‘Really?’
‘Or clinically insane.’
‘There’s only one person around here in danger of fitting that description,’ mutters Flossie, walking in. She’s been for a swim in the pool and is wearing a huge, terry towelling robe and a cap on her head. ‘How was your day at work, Gemma?’
‘Oh, not bad, thank you, Flossie. I was on a public speaking course because I’ve got to deliver a big presentation in a few weeks. It’s not really my cup of tea.’
‘You’re nervous?’ she asks.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Just a guess,’ she shrugs. ‘Try not to be though. Work is important, obviously. But nothing’s worth losing sleep over.’
Flossie stays to chat for a couple of minutes before heading back to her flat, at which point I casually ask Belinda about the reason behind her beautifying session.
‘Are you going out tonight?’
‘Um . . . yes. To Il Buco,’ she says quietly.
‘With James?’
She nods. ‘He wants to get to grips with my trusses.’
‘On a Friday night?’
‘He’s very dedicated.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t a . . . date?’
Her lips twitch as she is poised to deny it, then changes her mind. ‘I don’t know. Do you think it might be?’ she asks, like a cheerleader who’s been invited to the prom.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Oh God,’ she replies, her mind clearly going into overdrive.
‘He’s lovely, Belinda. I’m sure you’ll have a whale of a time.’ She looks uneasy. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Of course. But it’s
not
a date – honestly. Right, I’d better run. Give Dan a kiss for me, won’t you?’
Belinda being out means that, for the first time in weeks, Dan and I have some romantic action that amounts to more than a fumbling quickie. It turns out it was about time, judging by the mild astonishment on his face afterwards. ‘You were a bit . . . sprightly,’ he comments as I snuggle into his arms, post-coitally fuzzy.
And although he’s only joking I suddenly feel paranoid about whether he’ll read something into the upsurge in my libido.
‘I needed the exercise,’ I reply. ‘I wonder how long we’ve got before your mum comes home?’
‘No idea,’ Dan says, reaching over to open the door slightly so we can hear her come in. ‘Where’d she go anyway?’
‘Out with James. I must admit I was jealous – they were off to that new restaurant in Nantwich. It feels like we’re never going to eat out again. Or drink out. Or just . . . GO out. God, I hate being broke.’
I pull a sulky face for comic effect. But Dan looks entirely serious as he lowers his eyes and says, ‘Yes. Me too.’
That Saturday, Dan and I are finishing breakfast in the kitchen as one of Belinda’s dance lessons is finishing in the conservatory. We’re dragged in for an impromptu twenty-minute session ahead of Flossie’s birthday party, and Dan does his best to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. He fails miserably at this charade, especially when Bobby suggests trying a lift and Dan has several hilarious (not) opportunities to pretend to drop me.
Afterwards, he goes for a swim while I dig out my interiors folders, deciding that another Saturday night in might be a good opportunity to finally grill my boyfriend about his opinion on the living-room décor.
Only he bursts through the door with other ideas. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he announces. ‘We’re going out tonight.’
I open my mouth to argue. ‘Don’t argue,’ he says. ‘This is on me. And I won’t take no for an answer.’
Chapter 39
Dan
Mum gives us a lift to Liverpool. I’d forgotten what she was like behind the wheel of a car until now. She leans forward in her seat, clutching the steering wheel like it’s the reins of Santa’s sleigh, employing her horn with wild abandon and hovering at clear junctions for minutes, before tootling across at the exact moment an articulated lorry thunders towards us.
When she drops us off on the Dock Road and we walk into the city centre, it’s clear that Gemma is determined to understand how I can afford this night out. The money is playing on her mind more than anything else: more than any food she’s about to eat or fun she might be about to have.
And it’s the fact that we can’t just enjoy a night on the tiles that makes me realise I’ve made the right decision, even if I’m not in a position to let Gemma into it yet.
I press my lips against her hand. ‘Don’t ask me about it again, Gemma. Let’s just enjoy tonight, for old times’ sake.’
‘You make it sound like we don’t have good times together now,’ she responds defensively. ‘We have a great relationship, don’t we?’
I have no idea where this has come from, but I gave up trying to analyse these sorts of questions years ago. ‘I just can’t stomach another ready meal, that’s all, Gemma. And it was that or my mum’s Balti chicken roulade,’ I grin.
I take her to the Salt House Bacaro, a buzzy little place in Castle Street, without a table to spare. We eat like kings, devouring ludicrous amounts of cheese and wine.
All that matters is that we have good, not-so-wholesome fun together. I want her to let down her hair, unfurrow that brow; I want to light up that face again and make her laugh until she can’t move.
‘How’s Pete’s love-life?’ she asks, as a waitress removes our plates. ‘I could never work out why he dumped Sarah. She was lovely.’
‘She was horrendous,’ I put her straight. ‘Miss Piggy on acid.’
She tuts. ‘You are vile.’
‘Anyway, he’s in love with Jade, he had to dump her.’
‘Oh, still? God loves a trier, I suppose.’
Pete and Jade’s trips to the coffee shop finally resumed this week after he built up the courage to ask her to come again. It’s not entirely clear if it was his sparkling personality or the doughnuts that were the draw.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ I ask Gemma. And when she shakes her head, I say, ‘Let’s get out of here then. We’re going on an adventure.’
It’s a blistering summer’s night, with a clear black sky, dredged with stars. I love walking through the city on nights like this. Past the hipsters spilling out of Camp & Furnace, students making the floors shake in Magnet, girls dressed like birds of paradise in the glare of Concert Square. The streets are incandescent, a playground for grown-ups.
I take Gemma’s hand and we head up Hanover Street, dodging a couple locked in a kiss as I realise too late that we’ve slid into the throng of a hen party. My arse is smacked, and I’d obviously feel violated, if my girlfriend wasn’t informed with a wink that she’s a lucky lady.