Читать книгу Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy - Jenny Colgan - Страница 12

Next morning we staggered around pretending to be more hungover than we really were so that we wouldn’t have to talk to one another.

Fran had an audition, and I wished her good luck with it then set off for work. My boss was waiting in my office. That could not possibly be a good sign. I couldn’t remember him ever being in there before. I hoped he hadn’t been pawing through my desk: it was full of ‘I love Alex’ doodles.

‘Ah, yes, good morning, Melanie.’ He smiled at me, even more politely than usual. He was about five foot tall, but perfectly in proportion: you always had to resist the urge to pat him on his bald head.

‘Erm, mm, there’s been the most terrible fuss with marketing about the new brochure. Apparently the word “Fabricon” has been misspelled throughout.’

I sighed. ‘It’s a made-up marketing word though, isn’t it?’ I pointed out. ‘It doesn’t matter how you spell it, it still means sod all. I can hardly check it in the Oxford English, can I?’

‘Nonetheless –’ oh no, he was sounding pompous – ‘nonetheless, it was the brand name of our latest product and was already on £45,000 worth of marketing literature. Which should be £48,000 worth, if we hadn’t missed the window in the production schedule due to your – and I’m sorry to have to say it – frankly substandard work.’

Suddenly I felt incredibly small. Substandard work? Yup, I was back in the lower fourth. But this time it wasn’t my lack of comprehension of wave motion that was the problem, it was my own sheer laziness. I ran through all the possible options in my head, and chose the worst, nastiest, most pathetic one of all.

‘God, I’m sorry. It’s just … well, my flatmate has bulimia, and it’s been a really difficult time.’

I looked like I might, possibly, burst into tears. I was scum. I was lower than scummy scum scum. Truly, that should be a sackable offence.

‘Oh, gosh, that must be really difficult for you.’ My boss looked so heartfelt and sensitive and upset I nearly started crying for real. ‘My sister had that.’

Shit! That was it: hell, handbag, me, en route.

He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I think it’s just as hard for those around the person, sometimes. It’s so frustrating, isn’t it?’

I nodded plaintively, and embellished it a little. We revelled in our mutual caring personae for another ten minutes, and I reckoned I’d just about got off scot-free when he said:

‘I’m really sorry, Mel, and I know this isn’t going to help, but marketing have asked if you could move downstairs into their office – so you can all work a bit closer together, as it were. You’re going to be in their department from now on.’

He looked genuinely regretful. It was all I could do to speak, so I just nodded woefully.

‘We’ll get your stuff moved down as soon as possible. My dear, it’s been a pleasure working with you.’

It couldn’t have been, but I accepted the outstretched hand numbly, a billion growing threads of horror spawning through my head. The marketing department! Oh God, they had orange walls down there! And they used the term ‘conceptual’! And now I would have to get drunk at the Christmas party and make a fool of myself! Oh no – I did that already. Anyway, it was going to be work, work, work all day from now on, just like real people had to! I groaned heartily to myself. The phone rang.

‘Well, I can see you’re busy, so I’ll leave you to get sorted out.’ My boss got up gracefully and floated off on his little handmade shoes.

It was Fran, of course.

‘Well? Have you spoken to him?’

‘Fran! I’m being shifted! They’re putting me in marketing!’

‘Oh my God, is that good or bad?’

Fran had no concept of what goes on in the world of work. To her, corporate affairs meant copping off with City blokes.

‘Well, I’m going to have to work all day and never talk to you again surrounded by a big bunch of people who think it’s really cool to be in marketing, and sit in a cubicle, not in an office, and suffer the smell of other people’s baked potatoes at lunch time and hear their constant boring chatter about focus groups, and have people watching what I’m doing all the time and making bitchy comments about how I never wear anything orange … But apart from that it should be fine.’

‘Oh, OK. Anyway, have you spoken to Alex yet?’

‘Fran! This is IMPORTANT!’

‘More important than your boyfriend moving in with a rapist?’

‘Yes, actually!’

There was a bit of a pause. Fran couldn’t see anything in life more important than the vagaries of our personal lives, and normally I agreed with her. So finally she must have sensed this was pretty bad.

‘I’m sorry. Have you been sacked?’

‘No, I haven’t been bloody sacked. Oh, forget it!’

‘Are you going to make less money?’

‘Fran, I’ll speak to Alex now, OK?’

Damn. Still, at least she didn’t get the audition, or she’d have told me. I lived in constant fear that she would get unbelievably famous and never hang around with me ever again, and I’d be the old sop in the bar telling strangers boring stories they didn’t believe about how she used to be my best friend.

I was pretty upset and frustrated and tired and pissed off, and the last thing I wanted to do was phone Alex and ask difficult questions. I wished he’d phone to tell me how he’d seen the light about that creep Charlie last night and beg to come and live with me instead, as he loved me SO MUCH. Then I caught a glimpse of my unhealthy pallor and dribbling mascara in the window and realized that: (1) I was actually crying a bit, and (2) if I were Alex and saw me, I’d run ten miles.

Fortunately I’m not, because the phone rang, and it was him.

‘Hey, sweet chops.’

‘Hey, nasty friend-chops.’

‘God, yes, Charlie was a bit pished, wasn’t he?’

‘He really upset Fran, you know.’

‘Fran? That girl eats Charlies for breakfast. If ginger boy hadn’t leapt in, she’d have gnawed his nads off.’

This was undeniable.

‘Are you still going to live with that wanker?’

‘Well, it’s either that or trail through Loot for the next two months and end up in some Turkish bedsit in SE13.’

‘But Fulham … it’s Tosserama over there.’

‘Oh, they’re not too bad once you get to know them.’

‘But I can’t get to know them! They’re all ice weasels!’

He sighed. ‘Is this about the public school thing again? Are you getting all chippy?’

‘Yeah, right, like I want a private income, a cushy job in publishing and long flicky blonde hair.’

‘Oh, come on, Mel, stop being daft. Anyway, I need to live somewhere. I mean, it’s not … it’s not like we could live together or anything.’

I paused, that one instant too long.

‘No, of course not.’ Oh God, that didn’t even sound like my voice.

There was a bit of a silence. Then he said, ‘You know, I’m sorry I hurt you when I left. But it was because of things like this. You always want to push too fast, pumpkin. I mean, I’ve only been back a fortnight. Can’t you, like, chill out?’

‘Right. Right then. Ehrm, I’ll phone you later.’

‘No, Mel, don’t be like this. You’ll upset yourself. All I’m saying is that there’s no rush …’

I hung up. Oh, bloody bloody hell! Maybe I should just get a T-shirt printed: ‘Incredibly needy woman; gets very upset without constant attention and immediate commitment. Histrionic tendencies. Unable to live independent life without man. Disloyal to friends. Bursts into tears over nothing.’

I burst into tears.

I knew it had only been two weeks, but it hadn’t really, if you counted the year before he disappeared which now appeared to be my fault, but anyway …

My boss floated past again.

‘Oh, my dear girl, I’m so sorry. Marketing will be absolutely fine, you know – they’ll love you. Don’t think of this as a setback, think of it as an opportunity. There there.’

He actually had a spotless handkerchief.

‘And don’t worry too much about your flatmate either.’

I struggled to remember why I might worry about her, and fortunately did.

‘You can’t take all the responsibilities of the world on your shoulders, you know. I tell you what …’ He looked mischievous. ‘Go on, take the day off. I won’t tell a soul.’

I faked shock, but with a wounded little half-smile to show my complicity.

‘I know, normally something I’d never do. But go on. I reckon you need it.’

Truly, the sweetest man in the world. He even walked me to the door, talking loudly about some imaginary new project. I felt an odd sense of déjà vu, then escaped to the fresh air – hooray!

A free day in London when I was feeling totally depressed and my boyfriend was moving to Fulham. What to do? Well, I could go shopping, I supposed. Or perhaps I could go shopping. I decided I was absolutely depressed and therefore deserved shopping and should go at it with a clean conscience. Linda hadn’t put the rent up for two years, so actually I was fairly solvent. Even though I hadn’t shaved my armpits and didn’t have my shopping underwear on, I headed for Regent Street.

They’d put the Christmas decorations up, which made me realize it was only November. Months and months and months of winter to go. Oh, and Alex was going to leave me because I was a needy cow. And my best friend hated him. And my rival was getting married and going to have a perfect life. And she had size three feet! I nearly started blubbing again in the middle of the street, but pulled myself together in the usual way (imagining our school bully walking past, having become really successful, seeing me, and laughing), and headed for Dickins and Jones. The smell of perfume was instantly reassuring.

I wandered around Hobbs, thinking that it really was time to change my image and become a classy girl. But it was no use wearing brown with my brown frizzy hair and brown mousy eyes and brown freckles: I’d just look like one long walking poo.

Over in the sale section I started picking up bits and pieces, including a ridiculous pair of pink mid calf-length trousers a size too small for me because they were £79.99 reduced to £14.99 and, who knew, they might just make me look instantly fantastic. I don’t know quite why I thought I suddenly resembled Fran, who had wonderful elongated limbs that were angular and gawky when we were small but were now wildly desirable. Anyway, it was hot in the changing room, and I kept falling out of the curtain trying to wriggle those things up my leg. By the time I had wangled myself into them and examined my overstuffed posterior in the mirror, I was feeling about as thoroughly foul as a person can without actual physical illness.

‘Look at you!’ I was saying to myself. ‘You’re miserable, so you come here and dress your legs up like two big fat pink sausages! What is the matter with you?’

I stomped out to see if the full-length mirror was going to help – chuh huh – and gazed helplessly at my dishevelled hair, sweaty red face, lumpy hips and the way my eyes appeared to have disappeared, as if in protest at all the crying, leaving behind only black smudges of mascara.

‘Oh well, at least Alex isn’t likely to walk past,’ I thought, to console myself.

Angus walked past.

Slouching in what could only be described as an anorak, at first I thought he was going to miss me. Then he looked up and saw me in the mirror. For a second he seemed almost jolly, but he soon remembered himself – and my status as friend-of-Amanda-lover-of-Alex – and walked over stiffly.

‘Hullo again.’

‘What the hell are you doing in women’s pants?’ I hollered, using the well-known ‘aggressive’ technique to try and cover my embarrassment.

‘Trying to buy my mother a birthday present. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing. I’m FINE.’

‘I like those trousers.’

‘Bog off. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ I was suddenly tired of being mean. ‘I didn’t really mean that. I’ve had a shitty day, then I got the day off and I thought that would be cool, but it’s pissy and I’m FED UP.’

‘Oh.’

We stood there, me in ridiculous pink trousers so tight that I couldn’t get the zip done up, him in his anorak.

‘Would you like a cup of tea and a bun?’ he offered politely.

I snuffled a little. ‘Yes, please.’

We sat together in the café rather awkwardly, surrounded by rich shouty women. I wondered if people were looking at us and speculating on what kind of relationship we had: I always did. Or maybe it was obvious he was my non-friend’s fiancé’s bitter little brother.

I looked a bit more presentable after I managed to get rid of the worst of the mascara with a wrinkle-creating rub, brushed my hair upside down, and shrugged back into my navy blue trouser suit – the one that almost made me look like my arse didn’t stick out, although it did make me look flat-chested, and if I buttoned it up it was a bit Pee-wee Herman.

‘Do you usually buy your mother lingerie?’

‘No, I was just pissing about. I never know what to get her, so I drift about hoping something fantastic will leap out at me – then end up getting her a bath mat or something.’

I knew that feeling. I didn’t know how many Delia Smith books my mother could take, but she was bearing up manfully.

‘Why don’t you and Fraser club together; send her on a cruise, maybe?’

‘I don’t know … How much money do you spend on your mother?’

‘Hmm, well, about thirty pounds, I suppose.’

‘Oh.’

There was a long pause, during which I started to worry in case I’d insulted his mother: I knew what the Scots were like. And just what I needed, too: to upset someone else in the world. I was losing a popularity contest with the ebola virus.

He frowned. ‘That would get her about halfway into the Camden canal then?’

‘Well, she is a bit of an old boot.’

He laughed at my utterly shit joke, which made me realize that he was feeling as uncomfortable as I was.

‘Yes, I don’t spend thirty pounds lightly,’ I went on.

‘I know. I could tell by those pink trousers.’

I smiled for the first time all day.

‘Oh, thanks for the fashion tip, Anorak Man.’

He half smiled.

‘What?’ I demanded.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘What? Is it, like, a magic anorak?’

‘No.’ But he was grinning now.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? It’s a magic anorak that gives you – oh, I don’t know, a supernatural ability to notate trains.’

‘Hff. Actually, my lovely anorak is North Sea standard issue. I had to go see the BP people today and they take you more seriously if they think you just got out of the helicopter.’

‘Wow, you’ve been in a helicopter?’ D’oh. Who was I – Amanda?

‘Yes,’ he said seriously, ‘just like Noel Edmonds.’

‘Well, I didn’t know you got to go in helicopters. I thought you went down pipes and stuff.’

‘I do. But I need a helicopter to get me to the pipes. And the pipes are underwater.’

I was impressed, but wouldn’t show it.

‘So what are you saying, that this is, like, your James Bond anorak?’

He stared me straight in the eye.

‘Yesh, schweetheart, thish ish my James Bond anorak.’

And, weirdly, that was the moment I fell in like with Angus McConnald.

An hour and a half later we’d bought his mother some hideous golfing memorabilia from the Disney shop. (She golfed. I’d wondered if maybe this was an obligatory Scottish thing to do, but apparently it was a real hobby.) And I’d bought some comfortable size fourteen navy blue trousers from Racing Green, which proved I was getting old, but I had to buy something.

A boy who liked shopping? I’d cheered up considerably, as I must have appeared to the world like the kind of girl that boys liked enough to go shopping with, even if they were a bit ginga. And we chatted easily about everything under the sun – except when we passed an enormous crystal display in one of the glassware departments. A young, smartly dressed couple were looking at it and checking things off on an enormous list.

‘Marcus, you must hurry up and choose the place settings,’ the girl was saying bossily. Marcus, who looked exactly as he must have done at the age of six, only larger, pouted and turned red.

Angus leaned over to me.

‘Does everyone in London look up new minor peers five minutes after their fathers have died and move in on them like piranha fish?’

I turned to him in surprise. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know the type,’ he said darkly, looking at the girl. That pissed me off.

‘Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize it was international sexist day. And for your information, the answer is yes. I personally am killing time with you on my way to seduce Prince William.’

‘Huh!’ he said. Then, less grumpily: ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Then he clammed up like a, umm, clam.

Still, it was time to go home anyway, and I really felt quite relaxed.

‘It was good to bump into you,’ I said lamely at the tube station.

‘Serendipity.’ He grinned through his anorak.

‘Oh, a word with lots of syllables in it! Was that meant to turn me on?’

God, WHY did I say that? Angus turned red and neither of us knew what to say.

‘Erm, no, no, it wasn’t. I’ll … see you later.’ And he scuttled off into the crowd.

‘Angus!’ I yelled after him.

I caught a glimpse of his neon orange trim bobbing up and down towards the tube, then just in time he turned round.

‘Thanks,’ I shouted. ‘Thanks for last night. Fran was really appreciative.’

He grinned again, infectiously. ‘At your lady’s service, ma’am,’ he said, bowing low in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

Alex had left a message saying he’d gone to the football, so I looked almost as mournful as Linda when we came face to face in the hall. Then I remembered my niceness campaign.

‘Hey, Linda, how’s it going? Off out?’

God, could I say nothing right?

‘No, eh …’ she hesitated, ‘I was going to watch The English Patient.’

This girl was so weird. But, what the hey, there was more to life than drinking, uncommitted men and falling out with all your mates, so I joined her and slumped down with a large glass of white wine (it doesn’t count as drinking if you’re in watching TV).

I spent most of the film trying to figure out why Kristin Scott Thomas got to be Kristin Scott Thomas and I had to be me, until I happened to glance at Linda. Her whole face was overflowing – tears, snot, the works.

‘Are you OK?’

‘It’s so saaad!’ she snortled.

‘But you’ve seen it like two hundred times. What, are you thinking, “Hey, maybe he’s going to make it to the cave this time”?’

‘Shut up. It’s my film and you don’t care. Nobody does.’ She stared down at her toes, her face looking like it was melting. I had noticed a Kit Kat wrapper in the bin earlier, which didn’t seem excessive, but who knew?

Oh God, situation. If Fran were here she’d say something smart and buck-upish, but it was only me. Someone once said that only the young can afford to be selfish, which gave me about two and a half more years. I didn’t want to cope with this now.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked again. ‘Do you do this every time you watch this film?’

She sniffed loudly. ‘Maybe. Where’s Alex?’

That put me off a bit. ‘Ehm, he’s at the football with the boys. He’s moving in with Charlie, in Fulham.’ That ought to cheer her up.

‘Oh.’ She looked at me through her thick spectacles, all steamed up from crying. ‘Oh … you’ll miss him.’

‘Yes, yes, I will.’

Good Lord, we were bonding.

‘We’re still seeing each other … It’s just till we find somewhere for both of us, know what I mean?’

She nodded her head vaguely. Oh no, I hoped she didn’t find anyone else to move in, that would be rubbish. But when I looked at her I realized she wasn’t listening at all; she had re-immersed herself in the drama. Which part was she playing in there, I wondered, behind the thick specs and the psoriasis. How much didn’t I know about this totally rotund person whom I live with? Then I thought, sod it, and – having (correctly) ascertained that there was no possibility of further Ralph Fiennes butt shots – lost interest in direct proportion, made myself some tea and had an early night for once. Well, it had been a big day.