Crazygirl Falls in Love (7 page)

“How are you?” He asks, fiddling with his headband.

I can’t help but be self conscious about the state I’m in. My
upper lip and shoulders are covered in a thick layer of beady sweat
(I sweat in weird places), my cheeks are tomato red, my hair is
sweaty and plastered flat to my head and around my face, and I can
feel my makeup from last night pooling under my eyes (also known as
sweaty racoon face). It’s total and complete sweaty bush pig
action, and worse, the stench of booze wafts off my skin like a
foul cloud. Damn you sweat glands!

“You’re good?” He ventures.

“Yes, quite.” My voice comes out frosty as a
blizzard.

I’m not usually such a bitch, but it
was
the Eurhythmics last
night.

“What’s your name?”

“Penny.”

“I remember you from yesterday.”

“And I you.” I say with as much malice as I can muster,
“anyway, must get going.”

I turn my back to him and start walking.

“You think I was rude last night, don’t you?” He shouts from
behind.

I turn back to face him,

“I don’t
think
were rude, you were
rude.”

“If that’s how you feel, I am deeply apologetic.”

I can’t believe it, he’s smirking! It’s the most disingenuous
apology I’ve ever been subject to, and that’s saying something
(being a lawyer and all). I don’t quite know how to
respond,

“My Mum taught me there is never an excuse for rudeness,” I
blurt.

“Quite right. Then again, I’m sure even she
would have known it wasn’t
Sweet
Dreams
.”

He’s wearing that conceited look from last
night again.
Oh, the nerve!
I nod, and try to imitate his superior,
private-school-prissy-boy-higher-than-thou
accent,

“Indeed. Well I’m sure over the long years ahead of you you’ll
be having many sweet dreams. Alone.”

And I turn around to sprint back home. I shove my earphones
unceremoniously back into my lobes and turn the music up extra
loud. I desperately want to stay and tell him off properly, remind
him how insufferably rude he was, how he had embarrassed me in
front of my work colleagues, how he had made me feel like the scum
found at the bottom of a radioactive waste pond. But to be honest
I’m starting to feel a bit queasy again and I’d prefer to keep at
least some of my dignity, which would be completely obliterated if
I threw up on this guys shoes.

I hear him yell something behind me but it’s
muffled by the music. I put on
Nothing’s
Gonna Change My Love For You
again. It’s my
absolute favourite and if it doesn’t manage to cheer me, nothing
will. For the next half hour I put it on repeat. The world might be
full of shitty, selfish dickwads, but in Penny’s Music World men
are all sensitive romantic types. Like Michael Bolton and Bryan
Adams and the Backstreet Boys.

I’m running too fast. My body is demanding that I stop, so I
slow down the pace. As I near Queensway my thoughts turn from Blue
back to the Stranger. I wonder if he’ll message? I wonder if he’ll
ask me to salsa tonight? I know he’ll be there, all the Beautiful
People will be, and it’ll be awkward if I go and he hasn’t asked.
He might think I’m stalking him, he might think I’m desperate.
Before last night it would have been fine to go on just Emma’s
invitation, but maybe not anymore.

You know, I’m quite upset with myself about last night. If
both he and I were on the same page there wouldn’t be a problem.
But we’re not on the same page. I’m loath to admit it, but I want
him to be my boyfriend (god that sounds so pathetic, I will never,
ever repeat that out loud).

Not only that, but now all the power is with
him. He’s got Hand and I don’t like that. You should never let a
player like him get Hand. Take Mags for example. A few years ago
she hooked up with a guy we later started calling Nick the Dick. He
had introduced himself to her one night when we were all out (back
in the days of the Awesome Foursome – me, Emma, Chloe and Mags).
Mags succumbed to Nick’s lure and that night went back to his
place. The next morning she woke up to find a taxi waiting for her
at the front of his flat. She considered that a very bad sign, but
being the sweet girl she is didn’t confront him. She left quietly.
Well, sort of quietly. She couldn’t figure out how to leave his
apartment block because the gate required a code or something. She
was trapped inside for like, an hour, until another tenant walked
in with their morning shopping. By then she looked like that guy
with an axe from
The
Shining
, desperate to just get the hell
outta there. And yes, she missed the cab.

Mags’ one night stand was complicated further because she had
accidentally-on-purpose left her Tiffany necklace on his bedside
table. Getting his number off a crumpled business card she found in
the crease of her bra she called him and explained the situation.
She was sorry to be a bother but could she please get her necklace
back? He said that he was too busy to talk but what was her
address? He had hung up on her and the next day an express courier
arrived at her door with the necklace in a parcel.

She had called me afterward, crying. You’ve gotta feel for
poor Mags. There isn’t a clearer way of saying ‘I never want to see
you again ever in my entire life’ than by express courier. But
that’s what you set yourself up for if you give a wanker Hand.
Which is what stupid me did last night.

My legs grow heavier as I round my street. My chest is sore
and my legs feel leaden. I sprint up my stairs, the final push, rip
open my front door and collapse onto the floor of my apartment. It
takes me a few minutes to recover, and when I eventually get to my
feet again I immediately go to check my phone.

It’s in the same place I left it, on the mantelpiece by the
picture of my parents’ wedding. I adore that photo. Dad is wearing
his treasured purple crushed-velvet flare bottomed suit, his
perfectly groomed moustache with matching sideburns a celebration
of the wonder that is facial hair. Mum’s face is beaming under her
lovely Linda McCartney mullet. That photo usually makes me smile,
but not right now, right now I’m too nervous about checking who has
(or has not) messaged while I was out.

I press the middle button with a sweaty finger. There’s a
message from Chloe,

Where did you disappear to last night?

One from Emma.

Feeling better? Please don’t bail tonight. Meet you there at
8ish?

One from Mags.

Hi pet, I’m meeting Sam tonight for drinks, very excited!
What are you up to tomorrow? Feel like having a Penny Mags Retro
Movie date?

Nothing from the Stranger, and immediately I
feel the onset of that familiar ache. That irrational,
disproportional, deep sadness. That feeble, tired,
worthless
, kind of
sadness.

I lean over the bar to order a drink for Emma who has just
arrived. I’m wearing my most provocative outfit and I’m feeling
rather… well, rather sexy! You know those nights where everything
just works? My hair looks glossy and sleek (I’d be a lost soul
without my GHD), I’ve got my sparkly silver eyeliner on, my skin
feels dewy and clear and I’m wearing my Choos (I’m not one for
brands so when I find one I like I stick to it. Choos for heels,
Gucci for dresses and Wendy’s for burgers). The outfit is perfect,
Emma-the-fashion-critic just confirmed it.

“So,” Emma continues as I wave the bar guy over, “did he
message?”

The smile on my face says it all. I take a long sip of my pina
colada (by far my favourite cocktail, especially if it’s served in
a coconut),

“He did, it wasn’t anything mind blowing, but yes. Yes he
did.”

“What did he say?” Emma asks quickly before turning to the
barman, “one gin and tonic please.”

He nods and starts preparing. I continue,

“He said, ‘Hello’, then I replied with ‘Hello, how are you?”
and he replied with “Good, how are you?” and I replied with “Good
also’.”

I am all too aware at how lame that sounds but I can’t help
smiling all the more. I felt like I had flown up to the clouds when
I saw his name flash up on my screen a few hours ago.

Emma smiles kindly.

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“That’s great Penny, and it’s a good few words more than he
ever sent Lizzy.”

“Yeah?” I ask, sipping the coconuty pineappley froth off the
top of my drink.

I look over Emma’s head (she’s such a tiny thing, takes after
our mother) and survey the place. Still no sign of the Stranger,
but I can’t help appreciating how funky Rumba is. Every Saturday
this normally humdrum Shoreditch haunt turns into a passionate den
of Latino dancers as they come from every corner of London to
salsa.

Emma hands the bartender some cash and takes
her drink. Her theory is that as long as she sticks to G&Ts she
won’t get a hangover. I don’t know about that theory. For me it
doesn’t matter if you drink one type of spirit or several, it’s all
about quantity. Four glasses of different spirits will
never
do as much damage
as a whole bottle of tequila, a theory proven in second year uni
whilst playing the Jerry Springer drinking game (a shot every time
someone swears, two shots when a shirt gets ripped and three shots
whenever a chair is thrown). I was a very, very sick girl twenty
minutes after starting that game.

“Is Dublin coming out tonight?” I take
another sip.
Ahhh… alcoholic creaminess is
my friend…

“No, he doesn’t get a leave pass on Saturdays.”

I’m glad to hear it, what would I have to
say to the guy if I ever met him?
Hi, I’m
Penny. So, how’s that wife of yours, you COCK.
I wish Emma would stop seeing Dublin and Rusty, but I think I
know why she’s doing it. Might have something to do with the lack
of intimacy and commitment shown to her in previous
relationships.

You know, I can never understand why Emma’s been so unlucky in
love. She’s such a nice person and so pretty. I know I’ve said that
already, but hell, indulge me in one repetition. People often say
she looks like Natalie Portman. Tonight her hair is pulled back in
a high bun (which suits her love-heart shaped face) and she’s
wearing her ‘Blair’ dress. You know the Paris episode where Blair
convinces Chuck to return to New York after the whole ‘Whoops I
popped Jenny Humphrey’s cherry’ debacle? Well, the scene has Blair
in a strapless, scarlet red ruffle dress. Emma was so taken by it
that she made herself an identical copy, but hers comes to her
knees, so it’s more of a cocktail dress than a full-on evening
gown.

She and I are very different, in looks and personality. She’s
a short brunette with blue eyes (very ‘English rose’). I’m tall and
blonde. But not in that atypical Aussie beach babe way. I wish. I’m
too gangly, have no boobs and have brown eyes.

“Are you going to hook up with the Stranger tonight?” Emma
grins, sipping her drink.

Before I answer I scan the room for the squizillionth time.
They’re all here tonight – Arianna, Antonio, Emma - everyone but
the Stranger.

“Maybe, if he ever turns up. Do you think he’ll
come?”

“Absolutely, he’s probably just having dinner.”

Antonio has strut up behind me and Emma. He puts a strong arm
around each of our shoulders. He smells good. You gotta love a guy
who commits to his cologne. He yells into our ears,

“Hola, mi amores!”

“Hey
Antonio,
”
we say in unison. He is
positively dwarfing Emma, who in her ballet flats is a shrimp next
to both me and him.

“Penny! You didn’t say bye last night?” He says.

“That’s entirely your fault with all your
Sambuca shots, I could barely talk by the end of the night! But
it’s cool, I went for a run which sorted me out. Oh!” I turn to
Emma, “You would not
believe
who I ran into at Hyde Park
today.”

Antonio whizzes his head around so that our noses are almost
touching,

“Your friend from last night?” He asks.

I’m confused. Blue’s not my friend?

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“Last night your friend said she runs marathons. She also said
she likes Latin music, so I invited her tonight.”

“Wait a minute,” Emma detaches herself from Antonio’s grasp
and points an accusatory finger into his chest, “which
friend?”

“Hey guys.”

The three of us turn around. There is Chloe in a scarlet
flamingo-style dress and a large red flower tucked behind her ear,
her deep auburn locks curling softly down to her shoulders. Wowza.
She looks incredible. But she’s not looking at me, she’s glaring at
Emma. Emma glares back.