Crazygirl Falls in Love (21 page)

Sam laughs,

“Don’t worry dog, the fire in your belly is a good thing. I
shouldn’t be telling you this but at work everyone goes through you
to speak with Sarah. You’re the only one ballsy enough, and that
includes the guys.”

“Really?” I can’t believe it, but Stalker has touched
something deep inside, in a non-pervy way, “wow, good to know.
Thanks Sam.”

Maybe it’s how besotted Mags looks as she
gazes at him, or that I was swept off my feet tonight by a red
t-shirt, or maybe it’s just the concussion talking, but for the
first time I see Stalker for who he really is – a harmless idiot.
With his sweat-pitted arm draped around Mags, his doting eyes
smothering her with love and devotion (‘
love and devotion, baby, I can’t get enough of all that love
and devotion…’)
I finally see the
unassuming, unfashionable guy beneath the onion-layers of pretence.
It’s odd, isn’t it? I had thought he was such a slimeball when we
first met, with all the compliments and lurking-in-corridor
tendencies.

I’m so happy to see Mags all lovey-eyed that
I pop down off the counter and give her another hug. Then Emma
suggests we do shots because apparently alcohol helps black eyes (I
didn’t see that one on House...). Stalker runs out to find
Arianna’s stash of tequila while Emma, Mags and I hunt for salt and
lemons. The four of us spend the rest of the night dancing in the
kitchen to YouTube clips. I manage to get two consecutive
Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For Yous
before Emma switches the clip to Best of ABBA, all
two hours and fifty three minutes of it.

Catching a cab home later I start thinking of how lucky I am.
Despite the punch in the face this has been one of the best nights
of my life. I wonder what the Stranger will wear tomorrow? I wonder
if we’ll hold hands and kiss and eat off each other’s forks and
come back home together and snuggle.

Life just does not get any better than this.

It’s 11:00 a.m. before I finally accept that
I’ve been stood up. The morning has turned into one of those
haunting, gut-wrenching life capsules where I’ll look back and
think,
How? How could I possibly have
thought that I, Penelope Amelia Jones, would have a happy ending?
God would never let me be happy. God doesn’t want me to be
happy.

It’s all down to karma. I’ve done wa-hay too much shitty stuff
in my life. Like the time I ran over that pigeon but didn’t stop
the car (I’m scared of pigeons). The time I ate three cheeseburgers
in front of a friend who was trying to get into modelling and was
slowly going insane from her diet of celery sticks and diet
Lukozade. The time I did a Terrible Thing to my ex
fiancé.

I woke today at zero-seven-hundred-hours feeling like a ray of
freekin’ sunshine, a big stupid smile plastered on my big stupid
face. I had literally launched myself out of bed with excitement
and anticipation. I took a shower, washed my hair, blow dried then
curled it into those long waves I do when I’m trying to look
sophistimacated. I styled it half up, half down then put on some
statement earrings. I powdered my arms and chest with glitter
bronzer, then oh so carefully put on the dress of the
day.

I’d chosen my shoelace strapped, satin cocktail number. It’s
one of those naked Rihanna dresses, knee length, with a slit
halfway between my hips and knees. I know I know, it’s the wrong
colour and a little (maybe a lot) risqué, but this is a revenge get
up. A few months ago Angrypants sent me a job to do on a Saturday
afternoon (due on Sunday morning) and I’d got so pissed off that
I’d decided to wear a sensual, erotic dress to her wedding. That’d
learn her.

The thing is, bronzer and nude-coloured dresses don’t gel
well, and I had found myself with a trickle of beige stains down
the front. I had to take it off and rinse it out, then do a quick
hair drier job on the fabric. Now it’s looking a wee bit splotchy,
and a lot crinkly. But no matter, because the Stranger would be
here soon.

I spent ages applying foundation and concealer to ugmo
face-bruise. The skin on my left cheekbone had grown puffy
overnight and the colour of my eye had morphed from blood red to
purple. The make-up helped, but the area still looked squinty and
discoloured. But no matter, because the Stranger would be here
soon.

9:30 a.m. came and went. I still wasn’t
panicking. The Stranger
would
be here soon. I made myself a coffee and put on an
episode of
Man v Food
to while away the minutes.

9:45 a.m. The driver called saying he was on his way but might
be a little late. The first pricks of worry had started to settle
in (that nauseous tummy churning feeling). I had told the Stranger
to be here at 9:30. Where was he? Why hadn’t he messaged or called?
I had picked up my phone and typed,

Hey, are you on your way?

10:00 a.m. and worry had officially settled in. I found myself
staring at his status on Whatsapp. It said that his phone had
received my message (the two ticks sign) but that the last time
he’d been seen was at 23:44 last night. Plus the ticks weren’t
blue, so I couldn’t assume he’d seen them. Not good. Where the hell
was he? Why wasn’t he checking his phone and replying? Thinking
Whatsapp might not be completely reliable I had followed up with a
text and a phone call, which rang out.

10:15 a.m. and the driver called saying he was downstairs. I
told him I needed a few more minutes, then had tried the Stranger
again. No answer. I tried a third time for good measure. Yep, the
phone was ringing, but no Spanish accented voice was presenting
itself at the other end.

10:30 a.m. and I had sent another message,

Hi, where are you? Are you just running late or are you not
coming? I really need to know, the driver’s waiting.

Taxi man was kind when I called back explaining the situation
(replace the word ‘explain’ with ‘tell a porky’ and ‘situation’
with ‘how I had a cue tip stuck in my ear and needed to extract
it’). He told me not to rush and that he’d happily wait until 11:00
a.m. for an extra twenty quid.

It is now 11:01 a.m. and the Stranger is ninety one and a half
minutes late. I have finally gotten it through my thick skull that
he isn’t coming, and if there was a ledge I could jump off I would
do just that. As it stands I’m only on the second floor, so I’d
just break a leg or something, and that wouldn’t achieve much. I’d
still be alive, still feeling this head throbbing, tummy turning,
overpoweringly cutting sense of soul-grief. It feels like my
stomach has dropped to somewhere near my feet. I feel exposed. Raw.
Steak tartare raw.

Thinking I might throw up I walk to my bathroom and sit on the
toilet seat. Unable to control the crestfallen feeling of
disappointment I grab a big wad of toilet paper and start sobbing
into it. This time reminding myself that it’s weak isn’t helping,
and the sobs continue unchecked. It’s sort of painful because bits
of tissue paper are getting stuck in my eyelashes and rub against
my eyeballs.

I think back to last night. I can’t believe
I fell for it, I had actually believed his red t-shirt meant
something, that his kisses had been sweet because he cared, that he
wanted to be with me properly when I knew, I fucking
knew
, he has no
feelings.

Love… My god. Love. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we
let ourselves get this way? Love unlocks your chest and heart and
means that some stupid loser, no different from any other loser,
can get inside and mess you all up. The Stranger didn’t ask for it.
The Stranger didn’t want it. He did something dumb yesterday,
wearing a t-shirt to joke around about being in a relationship, and
stupid me had taken it seriously. Stupid me had opened myself up
and my life wasn’t mine anymore. I was his, imagining that he might
be mine, that we’d have holidays and anniversaries together and
he’d think I was the most amazing person on the planet and buy me
Saturday morning pastries. Then with a careless, indifferent
gesture like not showing up today, he ripped me out and left me
crying like a rainstorm in this stupid bathroom with it’s stupid
basin and it’s stupid shower which keeps clogging so that every
time I bathe I feel like I’m having a half-shower,
half-bath.

Worse than feeling stupid, I feel irresponsible. How could I
have been so rash, recklessly blundering into another situation
where I could get hurt? How could I have let this happen after He
Who Shall Not Be Named? Haven’t I learnt my lesson by now? Men are
bad for me. End of story.

After a few minutes of the
Waterworks-and-Self-Pity show, my Right Brain starts talking back
to emotional, cry-baby Left brain.
Are you
serious? You’re crying over this jerk? Get your shit together
woman, he isn’t worth it and you
know
he isn’t worth it.
I mean, when Patrick Swayze died,
that
was worth crying
over. There was a man who made billions of women drool with his
shirt drenching dance moves and not putting Baby in the corner. Not
to mention that song (
She’s like the wind,
through my tree-e-e...
) Awesome tune. And
here you sit, crying over a nobody shithead who has never composed
a number one hit in his entire life? Girl, you are bonkers. Stop
crying and at least
try
to lift yourself out of this.

And so Right Brain takes over, but because
there is still so much emotional glass splintered pain in my body
which needs to be released, Right Brain channels it into the only
other outlet available: Rage. I wipe the tears off my
cheeks.
Just who the hell does he think he
is anyway
?

I grow angry, then angrier, and soon I’m so worked up I begin
to worry about walking back into the kitchen where my phone is. If
I touch that keypad right now I’ll be sending the Stranger a
message so abusive, so absolutely incredibly totally vile that it
might classify as inhumane (or turn into a stream of incoherent
gibberish). Either way, it’d be bad. It’ll make me look stupid and
mean. It will make me look like I care, and I’ve done enough of
that to last me a lifetime.

Composing myself, I walk back to the kitchen and try calling
Chloe again. I’d been trying to reach her all morning to apologise
for the last minute cancellation and check on how her date went.
She hasn’t answered any of my calls, and doesn’t answer this one.
I’m pissed off, and it shows in the voice message I
leave,

“Chlo, where are you? What’s going on? Why
aren’t you answering your phone or my messages? The Stranger stood
me up. He
stood me up
. And now it looks like you’re pissed because I cancelled on
you even though you told me repeatedly how you didn’t want to go to
this stupid wedding. Or you’re having amazing morning sex with
Antonio. Either way, screw you! I’m sorry if you’re upset with me
but I need you! I have a face that looks like a vacuum cleaner’s
been sucking on it all night, and life is shit. Life is really
fucking shit!”

I regret it as soon as I hang up.
Oh nice one Penny, reaaal nice
. Now not only are you a stood up loser, you’re a rude,
hypocritical stood up loser. I cancelled on Chloe last minute and I
have the audacity to leave her an abusive voicemail? I immediately
call back, leave her an apology then try Mags. Mercifully, she
picks up,

“Hi Penny!” She chirps.

“He didn’t come.”

“What? I can’t believe that. Maybe he’s just late?”

“Believe it, because he’s an hour and a half late and isn’t
returning my calls. He isn’t coming and Chloe isn’t picking up
either. I have a black eye, no date, no friends and no
dignity.”

“Don’t say that, I’m your friend. Besides, there’ll be plenty
of other people at the wedding.”

“What, the fine folk of the singles table? The paunchy
accountant and sickly old man and twelve year old nephew from
Newcastle?”

Maybe Angrypants was right, maybe I don’t wanna sit at the
Singles Table after all...

“Well… Yes there’ll be those, but you might meet someone nice.
I’m sure Chloe would still go if she knew. I’d come but I’m
tutoring all day. What about Emma?”

“She rock climbs Saturday mornings.”

“Oh Penny, I’m so sorry. You can go on your own, there’s no
shame in that.”

“What about Angrypants? She makes me feel like a failure every
minute of every day, and now I have to confirm it with my
conspicuously absent plus one?”

After a bit more self-indulgent moaning and many reassuring
words from Mag, I feel marginally better. I let her get back to
that unrepentant brat she tutors on weekends. She does it for a bit
of extra cash. He’s one of those rich Southwest snobs with
‘developmental’ problems. i.e. he’s a mean little shit.

I call the driver to say I’m coming down. I don’t really have
a choice. Chucking a sickie at work is one thing. Chucking a sickie
to your boss’ wedding when you’re the only one of her colleagues
who has been invited, well, that’s quite another.