Diary of a Crush: Sealed With a Kiss (3 page)

‘I appreciate that, Edie, but he’s hurt you before and he’ll hurt you again.’ She said it with such finality. Like it was just this inevitable thing that would happen.

‘He’s changed and I’ve changed,’ I protested. ‘I’m less, well, less… less
crushy
this time. I’m more in control.’ Because telling her that I’d made Dylan my total bitch was not going to go down very well.

But I might just as well have not bothered at all.

‘Yes, well, I’ll bear that in mind when you’re crying as though your heart will break because he’s proved himself to be completely unreliable.
Again!
’

Huh! That’s so like my mum to throw my own words back at me like dirty laundry that she wants me to put in the washing machine myself.

‘Look, it’s different this time. We’re like committed to each other.’ I could actually feel my face turning blue with the effort of trying to explain this. She, on the other hand, was looking more and more pissy with every word that came out of my mouth.

‘If by committed you mean that you’re having sex with each other…’

Mum now looked like she’d just taken a slug of hydrochloric acid. The effort not to roll my eyes and huff nearly killed me. ‘Yes,’ I admitted unwillingly. ‘I’m having sex but you don’t have to worry because we’re being really responsible and I’ve had a sexual health check and we’re using contraception…’

Considering that there’s been many an excruciating time when
she’s
sat me down and jawed on in great and embarrassing detail about sex, casually dropping clitorises and IUDs into the conversation when I’ve been trying to eat my dinner, I have no idea why what happened next actually happened next.

One minute I was chattering away about my trip to the sex doctor and how Dylan and I had decided to carry on using condoms rather than me going on the pill, the next she’d made this weird hissing sound through her teeth and slammed the coffee mug down on the table so hard that it shattered, spilling Kenco decaf all over the pair of us.

‘Mum?!’ I shrieked, as I jumped up and ineffectually tried to shake the coffee stain off my
Manchester Roller Derby
T-shirt. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You are not to have sex! Not in this house, not with that boy,’ she shouted, loud enough that they probably heard her up in the Pennines. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’

That made me mad enough to forget that I’d decided to be all logical and reasonable.

‘Fine! I’ll just have sex with him in someone else’s house then!’

‘Oh no, you won’t!’

‘Oh yes, I will.’

The whole thing descended into a pantomime crossed with the shouty bits from the
EastEnders
omnibus. Until we decided that we weren’t talking to each other again.

Our worst ever row in the history of all our previous worst ever rows ended when Mum suddenly stopped screaming and banging cooking utensils down really hard on the draining board and said in a tight voice, ‘This just about does it.’

‘Does what?’ I screeched because once my volume knob is turned all the way up to eleven, it kind of stays there.

‘I’ve been talking to your grandparents and we’ve decided you should spend your gap year with them.’

‘But they live in Brighton!’ I protested.

‘Exactly,’ snapped my mum. ‘I’ve had it up to here with you, young lady.’

That was my cue to storm upstairs (in fact, it was probably more of a flounce, than a storm), pull down my suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and start stuffing random things in it. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing, which is why I’m now camped out in Poppy’s spare room with only odd socks and a lot of empty CD cases.

The girls came round after I did a four-way hysterical text thing in the cab over here. Atsuko reckons that my mum is having trouble cutting the umbilical cord ’cause I’m an only child. Whatever. I think she’s going through the menopause or else she’s inadvertently inhaled too many cleaning fluids in her time and it’s all catching up with her.

I think Poppy and Grace’s mum believes that I’m actually her daughter that she mislaid for eighteen years. Every time I make noises about moving home she says, ‘No need to make a decision yet.’ This is probably ’cause being a guest I don’t give her any lip and always help with the washing-up.

I think Mum
did
think I was staying at Dylan’s (which I thought about but realised that it would make a bad situation about a gazillion times worse – plus ick!, possible Carter encounters). She phoned today. Ostensibly to see if I had clean underwear but I’m sure it was to check up on me.

Instead, we had part forty-seven of The Row, which started just after she begged me to come home, then became ‘You need to have a proper life plan for your gap year’ to the familiar soundtrack of ‘we don’t want you sleeping with
that boy
in our house’. I tried to explain that I was saving money to go to America next year (not mentioning the Dylan factor in that plan) and once again pointed out that I could just as easily sleep with Dylan in someone else’s house at which point my mum burst into tears and I slammed the phone down on her.

Jesus! Why is she being so strange about this? I’m polite, I’m helpful (well, most of the time I don’t need to be reminded to put my mug in the dishwasher), I’m entirely funding my own gap year and road trip without asking them for a single penny and I’m having protected sex in a proper relationship with a boy I’ve known for over two years. Y’know, as teenage daughters go, they really don’t come much better than me.

Life is all hissy and tense at the moment when it should be really good because there’s Dylan and my job, which is pretty cool apart from the huge quantities of chip fat involved, and the band and Poppy. Instead, I feel like I’m walking about with a big, black storm cloud directly above my head.

It didn’t help that there was another Carter incident this morning. I was reaching up to get a mug out of the cupboard, humming along to the radio and generally trying not to think any Mum-related thoughts and there he was.

He didn’t say anything sneery, but came and stood right next to me, then reached across me for the peanut butter and let his hand brush against my breast. I could tell by the way his lips quirked that it wasn’t an accident.

It also wasn’t an accident when I picked up the kettle that I’d just boiled and splashed a tiny bit of very, very hot water on his evil, boob-groping hand.

‘Ow! Hell! Ow!’

‘Sorry,’ I trilled and then I turned round and gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look and he scowled and stomped out of the kitchen. I pretty much rock sometimes.

So does D. Poor D. He doesn’t know what to do to make the whole Mum angst situation better, other than crawl under a rock but he does try. The trying consists of asking me if I’m all right a lot and the buying of many bars of sugary confection because Dylan optimistically believes that when it comes to girls and their problems everything can be solved by large quantities of chocolate. Oh, but if only it was that easy.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep and I was sitting on his windowsill reading but mostly staring out at the street, when he sat up in bed.

‘Why are you still awake?’ he asked groggily, rubbing his fists into his eyes.

‘My head’s buzzing,’ I said softly. ‘Go back to sleep.’

But Dylan made me get back into bed by the simple act of reaching over and yanking me into it and then pulling the duvet over me and curling me up in his arms.

‘I hate that I’m not talking to her,’ I said, as he tried to get me to rest my head on his chest and I resisted because Dylan’s way too bony to make a comfortable leaning post. ‘I’ve never had an argument like this one before.’

‘All mothers are clinically insane. I think there’s a law or something.’

‘But I don’t want to have left home!’ I burst out. ‘I’m too young and stupid to have left home and it’s just too full-on.’

‘Like you’re all scared and small and the world is this big, vast thing that’s gonna swallow you up and you’re worried that no-one will even notice that you’ve gone?’ Dylan had obviously been listening to too much Radiohead but he had a point.

‘You’d notice if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?’ I asked and I wasn’t really joking. My voice sounded tinny and flat and Dylan hugged me harder.

‘You wouldn’t get to be not here because I’d notice way before that,’ he said firmly, his breath tickling my ear.

And then he stroked my hair very slowly and didn’t stop until he knew I was asleep.

Ha! Carter’s moved out. They came back from classes today to find that he’d done a flit taking the big telly with him and owing a month’s rent. Somehow I can’t find it in my heart to care.
So
over him cornering me outside Dylan’s room when I’m staying the night and making the most obscene remarks. I mean, really rude. So rude, that I didn’t dare tell Dylan because he’d have gone ballistic. Still, don’t have to worry about Carter any more.

Boys are very unstressy when it comes to stuff that isn’t girl-related. I’d have been all bothered about having to sort out a new flatmate but if Simon, Paul and D became any more laidback they’d fall over.

It’s just as well that my toothbrush is practically a permanent feature in their bathroom (Mrs Poppy doesn’t really mind, other than making me let her know where I’m sleeping so she doesn’t stay up worrying that I’m lying dead by the side of the road) because otherwise I wouldn’t get to see Dylan at all. What with him doing the art boy thing and me doing the waitress thing and Poppy making us rehearse every evening, crashing out in his bed is about the only quality time we get together.

Dylan popped in for lunch today.

‘I’ll have a cheeseburger with all the trimmings, a full-fat Coke and the biggest portion of chips you do,’ he said by way of greeting when I looked up from the espresso machine.

‘And hello to you too,’ I said distractedly, as I put the lid on a cappuccino for the harassed-looking suit who was giving Dylan the evil-eye for taking my attention away from the serving of his hot beverage. I’ve got pretty good at multitasking. ‘Thank you, see you soon.’

Dylan just winked at me. ‘If you get my lunch ready in super quick time, I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Oh yeah, you’re going to leave me a tip, are you?’ Which would like be a first.

Dylan rested his elbows on the counter and curled his tongue behind his front teeth. ‘I was thinking more of ravishing you in the storeroom, if you fancy it.’ Sometimes he was too bloody cute for his own good.

‘And they said romance was dead. Hello… can I help you?’

I continued making googly eyes at Dylan who was giving me a slow once-over in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate for lunchtime, and not paying much attention to whoever it was who’d come up to the counter when I heard a voice say:

‘Do I know you from somewhere? You look terribly familiar.’

I recognised that voice! ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

He was standing there, clutching his briefcase and looking terribly pleased with himself.

‘I heard a rumour that my daughter was actually still on this plane of existence so I thought I’d see if it was true.’

Dylan had straightened up from trying to look down my shirt and was shifting nervously from side to side as my dad threw him an appraising look.

‘And I know I’ve seen you somewhere before too,’ Dad said mildly, which is never good.

Dylan tried to bundle his bag and his sketchbook and his wallet under his arm so he could stick out his hand in greeting and ended up dropping everything on the floor.

‘Hello sir. Yes, I’m Dylan,’ he mumbled as he bent down to pick his stuff up.

‘Ah! That’s where I know you from. Last time I saw you, you were throwing up in my kitchen sink.’

The two most important men in my life were holding up my lunch queue and it felt like matter and anti-matter trying to collide. I had no choice but to introduce them formally.

‘Dad, this is Dylan, please behave. Dylan this is my father who I’ve inherited my sarcasm from. Feel free to ignore him.’

Then they shook hands and the earth managed to stay on its axis. Even when my dad spotted an empty table and gestured at Dylan, ‘Shall we?’

Dylan looked like he’d just been given two weeks to live and shuffled unwillingly after my paternal signifier. Anna went over to take Dad’s order and I hid behind the specials board to try and suss out what was going on and whether I needed to rush out and buy a bullet-proof vest.

Dad was being cooler than ice-cubes. He’s like a master tactician. When he’s like that with me, not saying much but giving me encouraging nods and little smiles, I often find myself confessing to all sorts of crimes, which used to result in being grounded and having my allowance stopped. Dylan was made of sterner stuff. Or moodier stuff, at least. He was ripping his napkin into little pieces (which is his favourite nervous habit) and refusing to maintain eye contact. Every now and again he’d open his mouth so I guess he was talking. He can be pretty fluent in monosyllablese when he wants to be.

My social anthropology was interrupted by some inconsiderate people who wanted to order drinks and I was so busy for the next half hour that it wasn’t until Anna told me I could take my break that I realised that Dad and Dylan were still sitting there.

Italian Tony gave me a plate with my usual lunch on it of a jacket potato with chicken and tomato on the side, absolutely, positively not touching each other, and I slowly walked over to them.

‘… so then I’m probably going to do a Masters and hopefully teach at the same time,’ Dylan was saying, leaning back in the booth. ‘That way I’ll still get to work on my own stuff but I’ll be able to earn some money.’

‘That’s sensible,’ Dad nodded. ‘Though it still seems to be a good time to be a YBA.’

‘A YB what?’ I asked, sitting down next to Dylan.

‘A young British artist,’ they answered in unison and I began to wonder whether I’d walked onto the set of
The Twilight Zone
.