Guess Who I Pulled Last Night? (13 page)

Bets ate her cornflakes wondering how she managed to let
herself into such stupid things.  It was always the same, a couple of
glasses of wine, and she was up for anything, then, in the cold light of day,
she realised that she had agreed to go pot holing, or Morris dancing or some
other banal activity.  This time she had agreed to help Tom out with the
fashion show he was putting on, the following evening, with one of the dress
shops in town.  Bets was amazed at how well he was doing at the
shop.  After college Tom had spent a couple of months moping around,
trying to decide what to do with his life, then a job had come up at Men’s
Room.  It was only part-time at first, but Tom felt that he’d better go
for it, if only to appease his parents.  Tom was now Manager at the shop.
He had got on well with Brian and Cameron, the owners, right from the
beginning, and he showed a great aptitude for the sales patter and the business
side of things, so much so that within twelve months, Brian and Cameron had
retired to Magaluf and left Tom in charge.  Tom had told Bets, at one of
Amanda’s parties, that his master plan was for one day to buy them out, and so
it was within his interest to make sure that the business was successful. 
The fashion show was one of the phases of that plan. 

Bets smiled as she thought about the previous evening, when
he had conned her into helping out.  He had turned up at Amanda’s to give
Kathleen a lift home, and happened to mention that his make-up technician for the
show had let him down.

“She’s got chickenpox Bets. I can’t find anyone else, please
would you do it.”

Bets, who had quaffed a couple of glasses of wine on an
empty stomach, happily agreed.  “Sure Tom, no problem.”

The girl who had done the make-up demonstration that evening
suddenly started to slam all her products into a big holdall.  The batting
of her eyelashes at Tom, as soon as he’d walked in, obviously had no effect.

“I’ll deliver your orders next Thursday,” she snapped at
Amanda, before swinging her bag in the direction of Tom’s nether regions, as
she hauled it over her shoulder.

“Oh well, I suppose it might be quite good fun
Alfred.”  Bets rubbed his head as Alfred looked at her lovingly.  She
sighed heavily, at least she would be getting out of the flat for a while, and
Brian, and Cameron were jetting over for “Tommy’s finest hour," and they
were always good for a laugh.  “And who knows Alfred; I may meet a hunky
male model.”

That evening was the final dress rehearsal, something that
Bets was glad about as it meant that she didn’t have time to chicken out. 
She arrived in plenty of time. Her car boot full of make-up, hair products, tit
tape and whatever eight models may need.

“What exactly is it?” Tom asked, turning the reel of tape
around in his fingers.

“You are supposed to be the fashion expert around here; it’s
for keeping items of clothing in place, hence the word tit tape.”  Tom
looked at her blankly.  “Oh God Tom, if you have a particularly revealing
top and can’t wear a bra, the tape keeps you covered up.”

Tom smiled vacantly. “Ah, I see.  I don’t think that
you’ll need it though. I hardly think that Bazaar Fashions will be showing
anything daring.  An ankle maybe, but certainly not a pair of knockers!”

Bets laughed and hit him on the arm gently. “Stick it back
in the boot then, I just had some at home and thought that you may need it.”

“Nah, sorry.”

As Tom carried her bags through, Bets watched him smiling to
herself.  It was typical of Tom, taking a little time to understand, if he
did at all.  As he had got older, his cute, toothless baby face had
developed into that of a handsome young man.  He was square jawed, brown
eyed, with extremely long lashes that any girl would kill for, and unlike
Charlotte, he was tall for his age, nearly six feet, by the time he was
thirteen.  Having a brother who looked like a male model meant that young
girls were always pestering Charlotte, wanting to know where he was and whether
he had a girlfriend.  Tom as usual hadn’t realised how sought after he
was, all he was interested in was football.  He just didn’t understand the
effect that he had on the opposite sex.  Even when the local beauty queen
made a play for him, Tom thought that it was a case of mistaken identity.

As Bets lay in bed later that evening, she thought about the
last few hours.  She really enjoyed herself, working alongside Tom,
putting outfits’ together ready for the show tomorrow.  The models were
kind to her. She had been a little shaky at first, but a couple of them had put
her at ease, and everything had gone really well.  Her mind then wandered
to Stuart, if things had been different where would they be now, and what would
they be doing?  Bets knew that they would have only been together five
weeks, but she knew that their relationship would have moved on quite quickly,
if things had continued to be so good.  Bets turned over and smelled the
pillow next to her.  She had changed the sheets a couple of times since
Stuart had died, but she was sure that she could still smell his aftershave,
although she was probably imagining it.  Bets flopped backward onto her
usual side and stretched to switch off the lamp.  She pulled her knees up
to her sleeping position and closed her eyes tightly. She had enjoyed herself;
she thought, and although this made her feel a little guilty. Bets was grateful
to the girl with chickenpox for helping her to get some normality back in her
life.

“So, how are you feeling then?” Tom as forthright as ever
asked the following evening, “We didn’t really get a chance to talk last
night.”  Tom and Bets were already at the Civic Centre, making final
checks for the fashion show.

“Not bad I suppose, although it is nice to hear a straight
question rather than having people pussy footing around me,” Bets answered,
checking outfits on the rail against a list.

“Perhaps people don’t know what to say,” said Tom, working
ahead of Bets, putting the outfits on the rail.

“Maybe, I suppose I can understand why.  I mean, we
weren’t together long, so they perhaps don’t know how I’m feeling. 
Actually, I don’t really know myself, some days it’s as though he never
existed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I get on with things as normal, go to work, come home,
go swimming, go to Zumba or take Alfred for a walk, and I don’t really think
about him.  Then on other days he’s all I think about.  It’s always
the same memories, because let’s face it, it’s not as though I have a lifetime
of them to look back on, just a couple of weeks.”  Bets stopped what she
was doing, and pulled a hand through her hair, and then shook her head. “Urgh,
I hate feeling like this, not knowing how I should be feeling. You know I felt
guilty last night because I enjoyed myself, how silly is that, I hardly knew
him.”

“No it’s not silly. Stuart was special to you, and it
doesn’t matter how long you were together.” Tom's hand rested on Bets' head and
rubbed it.

“Yes, he was special, well at least I thought that he was
going to be, it may not have worked out.  I must say though, it did seem
right, and it was good, so good that I can’t even contemplate seeing anyone
else.  Is that silly do you think, playing the bereaved loved one?” 
Bets asked, as she moved along the rail, still checking her list.

Tom shook his head.  “No, I would have thought that it
was quite natural to feel that way.  In some ways, you are caught in the
middle, you’re sad and want to grieve, but you don’t really feel as though you
knew the person that has died, it’s just for a few days he made you
happy.  I suppose it’s like when Princess Diana died, all those people
devastated, but they didn’t know her personally.”

Bets nodded.  “Yeah, I suppose I can liken it to
watching a weepy film. You cry your eyes out, but you know that the woman dead
on the bed is only an actress.  She is probably walking around Hollywood
while you are still blowing your nose.

Tom smiled and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped
hair.  “Exactly, this is your weepy movie, so let’s just hope that there
is a happy ending.  Right,” he said standing back from the rail. 
“All done, so we’ve got two hours until the models arrive, three and a half
until the doors open, so let’s go and get something to eat.  That chippy
over the road is open.”

Bets was aghast. “No way, I’m not stinking of cod and chips
while I make up the models.  I want to look professional, and I may want
to slip my number to one of the males, someone like Si perhaps.  He’s not
going to want to call me is he, if he remembers me as the bird that smelt
fishy,” Bets cried.

Tom laughed heartily.  “He would be unlikely to call you
anyway; he’s as camp as a group of brownies singing If I Had a Hammer.

“I thought he may be,” said Bets. “But you know what I
mean.”

“Yes I do, but you will have plenty of time to nip home and
get washed and brushed up.  Then you will be all prepared for your
seduction of whoever takes your fancy.”

“I wish I hadn’t said anything now, don’t you dare to try to
fix me up.”

“As if I would,” laughed Tom, as he followed her out.

The evening had been a roaring success, both clothes and
make-up looked fantastic and one of the models had even tentatively booked a
massage session at Bets’ salon.  Brian and Cameron had caused uproar when
they eventually arrived, ten minutes before the show started.  Both were
dressed identically in cream safari suits, although Brian’s had short sleeves,
expensive Italian shoes and carrying what could only be described as a man’s
handbag.  Cameron made straight for Si, bedazzled by his snake-like hips
and broad shoulders.

“What a beautiful creature he is Elizabeth,” he whispered, out
of the side of his mouth.

“My God, you’d shite your pants if he even looked at you,”
cried Brian, light heartedly.  “Anyway Elizabeth, my greasy nose, what can
you do for me?”

Just as Bets was about to give an on the spot consultation
Tom came rushing in. “Bets, quickly come with me.  Isabel has stuck her
finger in her eye, and her mascara is running.  We need a repair
job.”  So Bets was dragged away to rescue the beautiful Isabel.

“Finally Ladies and Gentlemen I would like you to put your
hands together for our make-up expert, Miss Elizabeth Dobbs.”

Tom was standing on stage having just accepted the plaudits
for a very successful show and was now holding his hand out to get Bets up too.

As Bets stood beneath the hot lights, she could just about
see Charlotte, Amanda and their mum on the front row.  Charlotte was
whooping and circling her arm in the air, shouting to go Bets go, while
Kathleen tried to reach up to pull down the offending arm.

“So,” finished Tom. “Thank you all for coming, from myself
and Jean from Bazaar, and we hope to see you in our shops soon, thank you and
bye.”

Tom, Bets, Brian, Cameron and the models took one last bow
before the stage lights thudded off, indicating that it was time to go
home. 

Bets turned to Tom, who looked absolutely exhausted. 
“Thanks for persuading me to do this Tom.  I’ve really enjoyed myself, and
thank the girl who had chickenpox as well,” Bets gushed, kissing him on the
cheek.

Tom turned slightly pink.  “Erm, sorry, but there was
no other girl, the models were going to do their own make-up. You were an extra
little treat for them.  Charlotte and I just thought that you needed to
get out a bit more, you’re not mad are you?”  Tom put a hand on Bets
shoulder.

Slowly, her face broke into a smile. “No, I’m not mad. 
I really enjoyed it.”  She turned to Charlotte, who had just come on
stage.  “Hey you, is this true; there was no chickenpox girl?”

Charlotte grinned and ducked as Bets flung a hand out at
her. “Sorry, but I thought that you needed a bit of fun.”

“Well you did the right thing for once, so seeing as I’m in
such a good mood, who fancies a drink?” Bets looked at Tom and Charlotte.

“Sorry,” said Tom. “I’ve got plans.” He blushed slightly and
jerked his head towards the injured Isabel leaning against a wall, swinging her
car keys on her offending finger.

“Charlotte?”

“Yep, sure am.  I’ll just see if Mum and Amanda fancy
it too.”  She looked over to where they were chatting with Cameron.

“Okay,” said Bets.  “I’ll get my stuff then.” 

Bets went back to the changing room and started to pack away
all her make-up, humming to herself as she did so.

“Thieving beggars,” she muttered. “Someone’s had my
raspberry crush lipstick!”  Suddenly, she felt a hand on her back. She
shot around to see Si’ smiling down at her.

“First sign of madness you know, talking to yourself.”

It triggered in Bet’s brain that he suddenly didn’t sound so
camp. “Sorry, one of my lipsticks has gone missing,” she sighed unhappily.

“Typical of models I’m afraid; we’ll do anything for a
freebie.  Actually, I came back to give you this.” He passed Bets a piece
of folded paper, closing her hand around it.  “Nice make-up by the
way.”  Si’ turned and waved as he made his way across the room; Bets
opened the paper up.

“But I thought…” she called after him.

“Most people do, sometimes it’s easier to let them think
that.”  He waved again and was gone.

Bets looked down at the paper once more.

Simon Jeavons – 07789 432558

Call me

Bets smiled to herself, putting the paper into the pocket of
her trousers.  She finished packing her things away, and hoisting her bag
over her shoulder, went to find Charlotte.

“Oh well,” she whispered to herself. “I can always save him
for a rainy day, when I’m feeling ready.”

Excitement growing in the pit of her stomach, Charlotte was
wrapping up warmly, ready for a night of football action.  It was her
beloved blues playing, and since they’d been taken over by a mega rich Sheik
times were good; very good.  She had followed the blue side of Manchester
since she was about twelve years old.  Her dad had always taken Tom, but
one Saturday Tom had measles, so Charlotte had got his ticket; and suffered
ever since.  She sat in the stands in abject misery every other week while
her dad and Tom moaned, from start to finish.  Oh, there had been some
good times, but generally, it had been long years of torment for her and the
rest of the fans.  Until the current owners has come along and ploughed
billions into the club; now they were a force to be reckoned with.

Charlotte pulled on her lucky blue socks, although they were
now also very threadbare.  Despite all this Charlotte still rooted them
out of her drawer every week, hoping that they wouldn’t let her down. Sod the
quality of the team, it was all because of the socks.  She stuck her
woolly hat on her head, zipped up her thick, padded jacket and was ready to go;
all she had to do was wait for the familiar toot of the horn outside.  Dad
and Tom were already five minutes late, something, which never happened, but
Dad had probably had to wait for Tom to get back from Manchester.  Since
the fashion show, Tom had been dallying with the lovely Isabel, and he had
taken a day off today to go and say good-bye before she went on a two-week
modelling job in Spain.  Why they couldn’t have met Tom near the ground
Charlotte didn’t know, but it possibly had something to do with Tom being even
more superstitious than his sister? He insisted on following the same routine
every match day.  Then Charlotte was alerted to their late arrival by the toot,
toot, toot, from outside.

“Wish us luck Petula.”  Petula showed her backside in
response. “Hmm,” said Charlotte opening the front door. “Charming!”

“Evening gents, so what are your predictions?”

Tom glared at her fiercely. “Charlotte you know that it’s
bad luck to predict the score.”

“Oh shut up Tom, don’t be so ridiculous.  I reckon 2 –
1 to us,” snapped Charlotte.

“2 – 0 to us,” piped up Ken in the driver’s seat.

“5 – 0 to us,” sighed Tom.

Charlotte and Ken roared with laughter.

“Don’t be stupid, there is no way we will put 5 past
them.  Don’t forget that I’ve been watching them for twenty years longer
than you, so I know what can happen when we are the supposed favourites!” 
Ken shook his head in disbelief as he manoeuvred through the teatime traffic.

“Blimey Dad, they’re struggling at the bottom of the table,
and we are class. Tom might not be too far off.  Anyway, what happened to
not being allowed to predict the score dumb head?” Charlotte asked, scuffing
Tom’s hat off the top of his head.

“Well you two had already given us the bad luck, so what
difference does it make.”

“Pillock,” muttered Ken.

No more conversation was made until they were actually in
the ground, Tom was obviously sulking and Charlotte and Ken couldn’t be
bothered to talk to him either, so, all in all, it was a peaceful
journey.  As they flashed their cards to get through the turnstiles, the
atmosphere took over and they all started to chatter in anticipation. 
Charlotte loved match days and the thrill that they provided, as soon as the
ground was in sight nothing else seemed to matter, except a good result. 
As they made their way to the stand, Charlotte marvelled at the throngs of
people, all there for the same purpose.  Their expectant faces framed in
blue and white scarves, coats buttoned up to their chins against the
cold.  She loved the smell of pies warming at the back of the counter,
mixed with that of spilled beer.  Charlotte looked around, fascinated at
the number of men who insisted on trying to scoop the red hot meat from their
pies with their fingers, blowing on it so hard that they lost most of it down
their chests.  As they made their way through the crowds to the bar,
Charlotte could hear thousand and one different opinions on which formation
should be played.  Older men, like Ken, were harping back to the days of
Bell, Lee and Summerbee, telling anyone who would listen what they had missed,
while the younger ones stood around, putting bets on who would score first, or
moaning about the state of the lager.  The three of them stood in
expectant silence, sipping their drinks, eating their pies and reading their
programmes.  They were oblivious to the hubbub around them, only thinking
about the game, then with five minutes to go before kick-off Ken finished off
his drink, rolled up his programme and led his troops to the Battlefront. 
As they reached the top step Charlotte inhaled sharply, the sight of the green
expanse before her never failed to supply goose bumps; soon her heroes would be
setting foot on the hallowed turf, everyone’s expectations in their hands for
ninety minutes.  They edged their way down the line of seats to their own,
a perfect view right on the halfway line.  They sat down, still in
silence, saving their voices for the shouting and urging to come.  Charlotte
looked around at the sea of blue and white, feeling edgy and chilly she juggled
her knees up and down and thrust her gloved hands deeper into her
pockets.  As she looked up at the boxes behind her, someone caught her
eye; there was something familiar about his over coated back and the shape of
his head.  As they turned to the side Charlotte tried to see who it was,
but suddenly two men, also in the box, obscured her view.  Every time the
man moved into view Charlotte strained to catch a glimpse, but he had a bottle
of beer to his lips, and a baseball cap pulled down over his face, so there
were still no clues as to whom the mystery man was.

“Well it’s a full squad, no injuries,” Tom informed her.

“I knew it would be,” Charlotte replied before turning back
to the box, but the man had disappeared from view.

Suddenly, the regular anthem “Blue Moon” sped up to a
rousing finish to announce the arrival of the two teams on the pitch.  The
whole crowd stood up as one, clapping the eleven blue shirts onto their
stage.  The match announcer gave each player’s name in turn, each
receiving a rousing cheer that petered off as it got to the substitutes, and
turning to jeers for the opposition.  Then the referee put the whistle to
his lips as there was one last roar of “Come on blues."  Everyone sat
down to spend the next hour and a half in either ecstasy or agony.  Grown
men around Charlotte sat biting their fingernails as City quickly took charge;
they were making crunching tackles, and passing pinpoint balls to the on-rushing
striker.  There was a good chance within minutes, bringing the crowd to
their feet, but it hit the post, then suddenly everyone went wild, kissing and
hugging each other; City scored from the rebound.

“Come on!” Tom roared, punching his fist into the air.

Charlotte looked around at everyone; she loved to see how
each of them celebrated.  As she turned to the boxes once more she spotted
the familiar back, turning and walking inside to a throng of celebrating
supporters.

“God, he is really familiar, and it is bugging me as to who
it is.”  She turned to Tom, who wasn’t listening.

“What?” he asked distractedly, not even looking at her.

Before she could answer the noise behind her alerted
Charlotte; City was on the attack once again.

At half time, with a couple of missed chances and a failed
penalty appeal behind them, the blues went in on the ascendancy, leaving the
fans desperate for the next forty-five minutes.

“What about that then?” Tom took Ken’s face in his hands,
and kissed him on the forehead.  Ken ever the City fan, shrugged his
shoulders.

“I’m going to get some chocolate; does anyone want
anything?” Charlotte asked her two companions. They shook their heads, as they
unfurled their programmes.

Charlotte made her way through the celebrating fans to the
bar to buy her half time refreshments.

“A chunky Kit Kat and a packet of plain crisps please,” she
asked whilst fumbling in her pocket for change.

“You’ll never fit into that little short skirt of yours if
you eat that rubbish.”

Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat as she instantly recognised
the soft Irish lilt; her mystery man was revealed.

“Mr Devine,” Charlotte turned around to face him, his sweet
smell momentarily distracting her. “Err, fancy seeing you here…thank
you.”  She turned back to the young girl serving and passed over her money
in exchange for her “rubbish."

“Well it’s a surprise to see you here too; I never had you
down as a footie fan.”

The cadence of his voice practically mesmerised Charlotte,
as it gently wafted around her ears like a warm breeze, she was shocked at the
effect he was having upon her; she was almost excited to see him.  “I’ve
been a loyal Manchester City supporter since I was a child, what about
you?  I would have had you down as a red, you look like the type!” 
Charlotte didn’t expand on what the type was, but she knew that if he were
really blue Niall would not be happy with the insinuation.

Niall pulled his head back and laughed loudly, not at all
what Charlotte expected.  “Oh you did, did you?” The smile now disappeared
from Niall’s face. “Well I can assure you that I am not a red.”  Niall
thrust open his jacket to reveal a sky blue replica top.  A well-toned
body underneath was evident, which pleasantly surprised Charlotte.  “It
seems that you really have made your mind up about me, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” shrugged Charlotte. “I don’t know what you
mean.”

“You know that’s the biggest insult that you could give any
City fan, and the look on your face says it all.”

“Well perhaps behaviour breed's behaviour Mr Devine.  I
wouldn’t say that you’d always been pleasant with me either, in fact, I would
say that you are rather contemptuous of me at times.”  Charlotte stuffed
her chocolate and crisps into her pocket defiantly.

Niall grinned at Charlotte, his eyes shining brightly. 
“I suppose I should have expected that, an honest answer I mean.  I don’t
know you very well, but I imagine that straight talking is what you are all
about.”  He held his hand out to Charlotte.  “Please let me apologise
for appearing to be so rude.”  Charlotte took his hand and shook it,
allowing a small smile to creep onto her lips. 

“However,” Niall continued, “I’m afraid that people have to
earn my respect. They don’t get it by looking pretty and very sexy.  So I
suggest that we keep things to a professional basis Miss Price, and then no one
should be offended.” He turned to go, leaving an open mouthed Charlotte. 
“Oh and Miss Price,” he called over his shoulder.  “I suggest you tell that
boyfriend of yours to calm down before he has a heart attack, because I predict
we will win this fairly easily.”

Charlotte was so angry she couldn’t move for a few seconds,
almost stamping her foot like a small child.  “Tosser!” she muttered under
her breath and pushed her way back through the crowds.

“You took your time,” Tom shouted over the roar.  “They
are coming back on.”

“Hmm,” Charlotte groaned as she stuffed some crisps into her
mouth.  She turned around in the direction of the reason for her sudden
bad mood, knowing that beyond doubt Mr Devine was the most irritating man whom
she had ever known.

As the final whistle blew Charlotte’s temper was not
improved; Niall had been exactly right. They had won it very easily, finishing
up 4-1.

“You see I was closer in my prediction than both of you
two,” Tom said as he grabbed Charlotte’s head in headlock.

“Well it’s only a matter a time before we start losing
again,” responded Ken pushing his children along.

“God Dad you are so pessimistic; times they are a changing
old man, times they are a changing.”  Tom laughed as he ruffled his
father’s hair.

“Come on Tom, get moving,” Charlotte sighed taking one last
peek at the box behind them.

“How good are we, how skilful are our players?” Tom asked,
for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Very and very!” Ken groaned sick of hearing Tom rattle on
about every kick of the game.

Charlotte, who was sat in the back of the car, was trying to
ignore the long, drawn-out autopsy of the game.  She was more interested
in Niall Devine.  Had she got it right, had he in his own inimitable way
called her sexy tonight?  She was obviously getting to him, particularly
earlier when she had accused him of being a Red.  What a plonker he was!

“Huh, and when that first goal went in, well you could see
their heads drop straight away,” exclaimed Tom.

“Oh shut up Tom, you’re boring me now.”  Charlotte was
slowly beginning to lose her temper.  She was losing her train of thought.

“Yeah but…”

“Tom,” Ken interjected.  He realised that his youngest
daughter was on the verge of strangling his only son.  “Drop it before
Charlotte does you some damage.”

“Huh, dead scared,” muttered a tiny little voice from the
front seat.

An hour later and Charlotte was letting herself into her
lovely warm house; she switched on the T.V. ready to relive the moments of joy
on the late night football show.  She had just settled down with a cup of
cocoa when the home telephone rang, she glanced at the clock; 11:30 p.m., who
would be calling now?  Charlotte didn’t want to answer, but realised that
it could be an emergency.

“Hello.”  Charlotte answered

“Charlotte, it’s me.”

“Oh God Kerry,” Charlotte gasped, her heart inexplicably
hammering hard in her chest; what was she feeling so nervous about, it was
Kerry, her oldest friend.  “What’s the matter?” she asked tentatively,
aware that the last time they had spoken it had not been pleasant.