Читать книгу Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017 - C.J. Skuse, C. J. Skuse, C.J. Skuse - Страница 22

So I didn’t win. Malala beat me into a cocked hat. Oh, and there was a second and third place and I didn’t get either of them. One of the cancer women came second. The foster mum got bronze. Taliban trumps cancer. Cancer trumps hammer-wielding maniac. So, as it turns out, I’m not the big kahuna when it comes to heroism. And though my photo will appear in Take a Break magazine alongside all the other nominees, it turns out being the only kid at the crèche not to die from a hammer blow to the skull isn’t that big a big deal.

The ceremony was at this massive opulent hotel in Soho. I’m terrible at schmoozing at the best of times so for the most part I stayed in a corner staring at my phone, filling my mouth with green olives so I wouldn’t have to make conversation.

When I got into work this morning, it was a different story. I lied my little ass off. How I’d got a selfie with Gary Barlow and some tart from Loose Women (it was on her phone, which was why I couldn’t show them). How I’d heard one of the footballers finger-banging one of the TOWIE lot in the lavs. How two celeb hairdressers snorted coke at the bar. How the presenters of the wildlife programme had a tiff over peanuts. How this actor tripped over some woman’s Gucci dress, how that actress stumbled into a taxi and everyone saw her stench trench.

Oh, yah, I was all OVER the gossip, dah-ling.

The unvarnished truth was that I made a sharp exit the moment they read out the results to catch the rape o’clock train home. No man made a move though, much to my chagrin. Always the same when you’re all knifed up and ready to go.

By 9:14 a.m., they’d all moved on anyway. And the empty space on the shelf above my desk, which I’d dusted clear to make room for my award, was filled with complaints about litter, press releases and some local farmer’s self-published memoirs for me to do a feature on. I really needed that fucking award. The only praise I ever get is when Hotmail tells me I’ve got a very clean inbox.

It sucks major BALLS.

AJ was asking me about it on and off all day, bless him. I’m starting to like him again. He holds the door open for me, makes me peanut butter and banana on toast and hates Linus almost as much as I do. Linus gives him nicknames as well – Apache Junction, Angelina Jolie, Aussie Jim. Unfortunately, though, he has Claudia’s boring gene and I had to hear all about his life back in ‘Straya’ with his teacher mum and mechanic stepdad. How his dad left him when he was five and how long it took him to learn to surf, how he doesn’t like Vegemite despite the stereotype, how his high school had a terrorist attack once and how wondrous the sunsets are where he lives. He also calls charity shops ‘op shops’. His breath smells good too – no aftertang. Minty. I watch his neck pulse sometimes when he’s talking to me.

As of 8.31 p.m. this evening, #UpAttheCock is still trending on Twitter. So is #WomanOfTheCentury. I’m not mentioned in any of those tweets though. It’s mostly about Ant and Dec’s radical new facial hair. Typical.