Diary of a Crush: Sealed With a Kiss (4 page)

‘Like Tracey Emin or Jake and Dinos Chapman,’ Dylan added.

I glared at my father who merely raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Oh my God! You’re like something out of Jane Austen. You’ve been asking Dylan about his prospects, haven’t you?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Have you got to the part where you ask him whether his intentions are honourable?’

‘Oh we covered that bit quite early on,’ Dylan assured me. ‘Relax, Edie, it’s all good.’

‘You can’t trust him,’ I said, stabbing at the jacket potato with my fork. ‘He’s sneaky.’

‘Thank you, young lady.’ Dad was smiling the smile of someone who wished they still had the power to withhold my TV privileges. ‘I am sitting right here.’

‘Yeah and I’d like to know why.’ I prodded my jacket potato around a bit more before pushing my plate away.

‘Your mother’s been very upset,’ Dad began, and I sighed heavily while Dylan gave me a warning nudge with his elbow.

‘I know that she’s being a little unyielding,’ (I snorted at this), ‘but she’s having trouble letting go.’ Dad’s voice was very gentle but there was a slight bite to his words, which stopped me from bursting forth with a rant about how utterly pissed off I was with her whole unyieldy routine.

To cut a long story a little bit shorter, Dad thinks it would be a good idea if Dylan came round for Sunday lunch, as every time they’ve met up till now, he’s either been drunk, trying to do rude things to me or scruffily dressed. I can’t really say that the inclusion of a side of roast beef and some Yorkshire puddings is going to help matters but apparently that goes to show how little I know.

Dylan’s started freaking out about going to lunch tomorrow. Really freaking out.

‘I don’t do parents, Eeds. I’ve barely got one of them, let alone having your two on my case,’ was his cheery greeting when I popped back to his on the way home.

His room looked like it had been attacked by a savage band of clothes-eating demons..

‘Hey, noted and what’s with all the clothes?’ I said, clearing a tiny patch of duvet free of jeans so I could sit down.

‘I haven’t got a thing to wear,’ Dylan wailed, clutching at his hair and then sending me a death stare when I giggled. ‘It’s not funny!’

‘You know that you actually turned into a girl when you said that?’ I giggled again and then gave up because he’d obviously buried his sense of humour under the pile of T-shirts on the floor.

We leafed through his clothes and couldn’t find anything suitable to quell my mother’s fears about him.

I love Dylan and I’m used to his quirky dress sense but it’s not parentally friendly. I held up a particularly hideous shirt, which featured pale blue ruffles cascading down the front, that I’d always wanted to burn.

‘What the hell were you thinking, D, when you bought this? It looks like a bingo caller died in it.’

Dylan snatched the shirt out of my hands. ‘Really not helping,’ he growled.

In the end, I went to find Paul and begged for the loan of a Fred Perry shirt and a pair of trousers, which his mum had bought him for Christmas and had been stashed at the bottom of his wardrobe ever since. I threw them at Dylan.

‘OK, look, you can wear these and then we’ll never, ever talk about it,’ I said sternly.

Once he’d changed, Dylan nearly refused to let me see his makeover but I barged through the door and gawped at the transformation. Dylan looked, well,
normal
and UnDylan-y. He also looked like he was uncomfortable in his own skin, which was an entirely new vibe for him. He kept pulling at the shirt and trying to smooth his hair back while he stared stonily at his reflection in the mirror.

‘I look like I’m going to a fancy dress party as a bloody townie,’ he finally spat. ‘God, I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you.’

Then I realised something important. That this wasn’t about what Dylan wore. It was the very fact that Dylan existed that was bugging my mum. ‘I don’t want you to,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t care if you have weird dress sense and she doesn’t either. Not really.’

Dylan turned and looked at me with a quizzical expression, even as he started yanking the shirt off so violently that buttons pinged into the four corners of the room. ‘Sometimes, Eeds, you need to come with subtitles.’

‘It’s you that she’s bothered about because we’re together and she’d have ended up being bothered about Carter if we’d got more serious. So, it really isn’t what you wear, though I’m never going out in public with you if you wear that bingo-caller’s shirt.’

Dylan shrugged and all the muscles in his chest shifted in the most delightful way. I swallowed hard. Because I’ve seen Dylan without a top quite a lot, like, really a lot. But sometimes it’s like I’m seeing all that olivey skin for the first time and it gets to me all over again. And he hadn’t kissed me once since I got there. Plus, was it just me or had the room suddenly got very warm? Dylan’s eyes locked into mine and I realised it wasn’t just me.

‘So she automatically hates me because I’m taking away her little girl,’ he practically purred and started prowling towards me. It was all very predatory and guh-making.

‘Yeah, I think it’s because I’m an only child and they had me quite late. Makes her extra-squicky about boyfriends, y’know?’

I couldn’t decide what to do with my body, which seemed to have a pretty good idea itself and was straining towards Dylan who was still doing a good impersonation of a panther. ‘Sometimes I actually feel lucky that my dad walked out on me years ago and my mum’s too messed up to ever be bothered about what I’m getting up to.’ He paused. Looked me up and down and then pounced on me. ‘Or who I’m getting up to!’

‘Don’t say that!’ I squealed as I landed on the bed, quickly followed by Dylan launching himself at me. ‘I’m sure your mum does care about you.’

But then Dylan cupped my face and there was kissing. Languid, long kissing that left me breathless and giddy and mothers and fashion decisions didn’t seem that important.

Poppy is working my very last nerve. We’re rehearsing every night for four hours until Halloween. Which is not only costing a fortune in renting out the rehearsal room but cuts into my Dylan time, my down time and just about every other time you could mention.

Nothing else to report really. Dylan reckons he has the whole Sunday lunch sitch ‘under control’, to which I say a big ‘yeah, right!’

Also, this new boy is moving into the flat with Dylan and the others. He’s called Julie. No, he’s not. But he has a sort-of girl’s name that begins with J that I can’t remember and he’s in a band called The Sweet Janes and Dylan knows him ’cause he comes in Rhythm to put up flyers.

I’ve never seen his band but when I told the others they got really excited. Even Poppy! In fact, Poppy was worse than Atsuko and Darby and she doesn’t normally get that into boys.

‘So, it’s definitely the singer from The Sweet Janes?’ she suddenly said mid-song at last night’s rehearsal.

‘I s’pose.’ I was too busy trying to remember the bridge to the chorus. ‘D knows more than I do.’

‘You’re no help,’ she said between gritted teeth. ‘He’s gonna be living with your boyfriend.’

I so wished I could remember his name but I contented myself by tormenting Poppy with a constant refrain of, ‘You fancy him! You fancy the new flatmate with the girl’s name. You love him! You want to kiss him!’ And then she hit me really hard… so I stopped.

The day of the Sunday lunch. I feel like I’m going off to a UN peace summit or something. And why did I agree to let Dylan wear what he normally wears? I should have forgotten all that crap about Mum hating him just because he was doing me and insisted on outfit veto rights.

Dylan is a god. There can be no other explanation. There I was, thinking he was a not-so-run-of-the-mill boy with slightly dubious dress sense, good with his hands and his mouth and a paintbrush and easel, and actually that was all an act. Because I think he must have drifted down from somewhere where they make gods after the miracles he performed over Sunday lunch.

First of all, he turns up wearing a very modified version of his usual geek chic. A pair of grey Dickies trousers that were actually held up by a belt instead of half-falling down, a black shirt that didn’t have anything rude painted on it or any buttons missing. God bless him, he’d even shaved and tried to brush his hair.

And did I mention that he had a huge bunch of flowers clutched in his hand?

I actually felt a bit tearful because even after feeling so weird about his own absent parents, he was going to all this trouble to ease
my
parents’ fears.

‘I love you,’ I mumbled and then flung my arms round his neck. ‘I really, really love you.’

I could feel his smile against my cheek. ‘I am pretty damn loveable.’

I gently disentangled myself from him. ‘Yeah, and modest too. But, hey, joking aside, thank you and you know exactly what I’m talking about.’

And from the moment he thrust the bunch of gerberas at a rather taken-aback Mothership, I knew we’d probably get out of the lunch alive.

It was very awkward to start off with. Mum was talking too fast in this really high-pitched voice and not looking Dylan in the eye and Dad would say, ‘Dear?’ and then they’d go into the kitchen for two minutes, leaving Dylan to pull horrified faces at me.

We sat down to eat and for a while it was OK. Mum had catered for a football team and all the ‘Why yes, I would like some mangetouts’ and ‘Gravy anyone?’ took up some time. Not enough time though.

Despite the civilised clink of cutlery and our best china and the posh veg, it was like a bloodbath. Poor Dylan got interrogated like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. How many A-levels did he have? Had he run up huge student loans? What did his father do for a living? Wouldn’t it make financial sense for him to live with his mother?

Dylan’s shoulders were sinking lower and lower, even though I kept squeezing his hand under the table, and I opened my mouth to tell my mum to back the hell off when Dylan suddenly put down his knife and fork and said, ‘Look, my dad walked out when I was eleven and my mum suffers from depression. I don’t really have proper parents and it’s hard for me to understand where you’re coming from.’

That shut Mum up. She opened her mouth, thought better of it and closed it again. Instead she took a huge gulp of her Chardonnay.

I gave Dylan’s thigh a warning pinch but he put his hand over mine and continued. ‘I’m not trying to be rude, Mrs Wheeler. I know that I haven’t always been good to Edie in the past. I wish I could change that but I can’t. And you’re right to be suspicious of me but I would never do anything to hurt her. I love her and I just want to make her happy.’

There was this long silence and I looked at my plate and the gravy that was going cold and congealing. I felt slightly sick.

I looked up and Mum was taking another glug of her wine and – I looked extra closely to be sure – there was a little tear trickling down her cheek.

Then Dylan picked up his knife and fork and began cutting up a roast potato like everything was normal.

Of course, my mum started crying and that made me start crying. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on the flimsy excuse that he wanted to load the dishwasher and took Dylan with him.

‘I can’t believe you were so rude to him!’ I turned on her the minute we were alone. ‘How could you ask him all those questions about his family and stuff? How do you think that made him feel?’

Mum just cried harder and it was horrible. Mums aren’t meant to cry. I’d only ever seen her cry once before when my great-grandma died and although I was absolutely furious with her, I got up and went over to her.

‘Mum, please stop crying,’ I begged and patted her gently on the shoulder. As soon as I touched her, I was enveloped in her arms and she pulled me down so I was half-sitting in her lap.

‘Hey! I’m not five any more,’ I spluttered. ‘I’ll break your legs.’

We ended up on the sofa with my head in her lap and some serious head-stroking going on.

Then I embarked on this big speech about how I was eighteen and had to make my own decisions and I was not, repeat NOT going to spend my gap year with the grand ’rents. And that she had to manage to at least be civil to Dylan.

‘Sometimes being a parent is hard, sweetie,’ she said after I’d finished being all assertive. ‘It’s not like you came with an instruction manual. When you were born, you were this tiny little thing and I loved you so much. I knew I’d do anything to protect you and keep you safe. And that feeling doesn’t go away just because you’ve got a boyfriend and a weekly wage.’

‘I kinda realise that, Mum. But Dylan… he’s really special.’

I looked up at Mum who then had the audacity to wink at me. ‘How long do you think he rehearsed that speech for?’ she demanded with a naughty smile that must have been a trick of the light.

‘Still made you cry though, didn’t it?’ I tried to wriggle upright but she wasn’t having it.

‘You being all grown-up and striking out makes me feel slightly like a spare part. That you don’t need me any more,’ she admitted slowly. ‘And it makes me feel old.’

This time I did scramble up so I could hug her. Hugging her is like coming home. It’s utterly familiar; the feel of her in my arms, her hair tickling my cheek, the smell of Chanel No 5 and something that’s particularly
her
.

‘I’ll always need you,’ I muttered. ‘But, like, not in the same way as before. I hate you not speaking to me and being angry with me so can we please just make up?’

And that was that. Though I’m still not sure that I want to move back home even though I can’t keep staying at Poppy’s and Mum would really bust a move if I shacked up with Dylan.

When I mentioned that it would be a really positive step for our new understanding if she calmed down about me sleeping with him, she just did that selective memory thing that mothers are so good at.

By the time Dylan and Dad had re-emerged (Dylan later told me he’d had to nod and smile politely while he got a rundown on the many and varied problems Dad was having with his computer’s operating system) Mum and I were having another glass of wine and arranging a mother/daughter bonding spa weekend.