Читать книгу It's Not You, It's Them - Portia MacIntosh, Portia MacIntosh - Страница 13

Chapter Four

‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.

I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.

‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’

‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’

‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’

‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’

‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.

‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.

My grin dissolves into a sigh.

‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.

I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.

‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.

‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’

I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.

‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’

‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.

‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’

I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.

As I stuff the last few things into my overnight bag, I struggle with the zip.

‘Help me out here, buddy,’ I demand, pouting my lip a little. ‘I’ll hold it tightly, you pull it.’

‘That’s what she said,’ my cheeky fiancé jokes. ‘OK, here we go.’

Mark’s bulging biceps come in handy all the time. If I need a jar opening, he pops the lid off like it’s nothing. When it comes to bedroom antics, he can throw me around the room with ease. And it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one will dare harass us in the street because he looks like he could crush someone’s brain with one effortless headlock. I know that he’s a sweetheart, who probably wouldn’t really know what to do in a fight, but the hours he spends in the gym deceive everyone and he looks as tough as he is strong. Yep, usually Mark’s strength is useful, but not today. Today my hubby-to-be pulls the zip with such strength it rips clean off my bag.

‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It just came off in my hand.’

‘That’s what she said,’ I reply, echoing his cheeky joke. He was only trying to help; I can’t be mad at him. I do have a problem now, though. ‘Erm, OK, so I’ll…’

‘No, you stay there – I’ll go grab you another one. You finish getting ready,’ Mark insists, grabbing his keys before kissing me on the forehead and dashing out of the door.

‘Thank you,’ I call after him.

Living in the city centre has its perks, like being able to go out and buy whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’ve lived in London my entire life so it’s all I know, but Mark still finds it amazing when he can get a pizza delivered to his flat at three o’clock in the morning.

I can’t wait to see where he grew up. As much as Mark prefers city centre life, he talks fondly about growing up in Rippledale – a village in the Yorkshire Dales I’ve never even heard of. Apparently it’s tiny, remote and in the middle of a valley, so the mobile phone signal is sparse.

I’ve never actually been to Yorkshire before so, in my head, I’m only going on what I’ve seen in Emmerdale – not sure how accurate that is. I’m happy to admit that, being born and raised in London, I’m one of those people who thinks it is the greatest place, and that nowhere else in England compares. It’s just that everything happens here; it is the capital, after all. If I need a break, I go abroad; I don’t drive over two hundred miles to sit in a field. I’ve just never had any reason to head up north, that is until now. I’m excited to meet Mark’s family, I just can’t begin to imagine them. All I know are the stereotypes; that northerners are tight and pour gravy on everything – I’m also smart enough to know that stereotypes are not a realistic representation of a county. Anyway, Mark isn’t tight at all, and I’ve never noticed his gravy consumption to be anything other than average…

So maybe signal-free, gravy-rich Yorkshire wouldn’t be my first choice of places to get away to, but I’ve been under so much pressure at work lately, it will just be nice to take a break – even if it’s only for a couple of days. I know what you’re thinking: but Roxie, don’t you just write about how to get a boyfriend and crack dick jokes all day? And, yes, you’re right – the work I produce may not be particularly important in the grand scheme of things; but I do work hard on it, and I do have an editor breathing down my neck, and deadlines to hit, and – do you know what? – my dick jokes are fire, and I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise.

Unable to pack until Mark arrives with my bag, I lie back on my bed, stretching out, ready for a relaxing few days. I think a bit of solitude will do me good. I feel my muscles slowly begin to relax, one at a time, my body slowly slipping into holiday mode until my phone rings, and all at once every inch of me tenses up again. Shit, it’s Kath, my editor. I know I’m supposed to be on holiday, but I can’t exactly swerve her call, can I?

‘Hey, boss, how’s it going?’ I ask cheerily, hoping she hasn’t called to bollock me for something or, worse, revoke my holiday for some reason that I haven’t had chance to start panicking about yet.

‘Oh, you know,’ she says in reply. I’m not sure I do, but we’ll leave it at that. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Just about to hit the road,’ I reply. ‘I’m going away with Mark for a few days.’

Just in case Kath was thinking of asking me to head into work for something, I pretend to shout to Mark in the next room.

‘What’s that, babe?’ I call – and, no, I don’t ever call him babe. ‘Sure, I’m ready to go.’ I turn my attention back to Kath. ‘Sorry, Kath, Mark is nagging me to hit the road; apparently we’re going to be late to meet his parents.’

‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ Kath tells me.

‘Oh?’

‘Oh, indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your fiancé’s parents for the first time?’ she asks.

I think for a moment. Why would I tell her?

‘I…’ I start, but no more words come out. Luckily for me, Kath makes her point clear.

‘I want you to write an article about it,’ she tells me.

‘About meeting Mark’s family?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ she replies casually. ‘This is a golden opportunity. You need to make the most of it.’

Writing about my personal life is something I do all the time, and I’m happy to do it, but when it comes to writing about my love life, I’m very careful. I would never mention Mark by name, or just straight up write about him. I will often mention ‘my boyfriend’ in relation to things that I am saying and doing, but that’s it. He’s just a nameless, faceless character in my life that people don’t really think too much about when they read the articles, because they’re not reading to find out about my life, they’re reading to work out how to learn from my mistakes to make their life better. Writing about meeting Mark’s family, though – that’s a completely different thing. He might be able to forgive me for writing about our bedroom antics, but dragging his family into my work isn’t something he is going to be OK with – well, who would?

‘Well, I just finished a piece on things to consider before you meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time – I don’t want my readers to think I’m rehashing old material, or bragging about how engaged I am, you know?’

‘Who is your editor?’ she asks me pointlessly.

‘You are,’ I reply. ‘But…’

‘But you’ll do it?’ she asks. Well, it sounds like a question, but we both know it isn’t. ‘I’m thinking we can cover the whole engagement, wedding – beyond that, even. “How to choose your bridesmaids” to “Thoughts you’ll have while walking down the aisle” – there’s just so much material here.’

I think for a second. Appealing to Kath’s better nature might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?

‘Mark has been pretty cool when it comes to what I write about, but I think writing about his family will be a step too far, Kath,’ I tell her frankly.

‘It’s too good an opportunity to waste, Roxie. Readers will love this. You’re a smart girl; find a way and turn it in next week – no excuses, OK?’

‘But Kath…’

‘I said no excuses,’ she snaps. ‘Have a wonderful few days.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘See you soon.’

I hang up and lie back on my bed, completely unable to relax now. There’s just no way I can write about something like this. Endless silly things, yes. But I can’t review his family and then tell people how to ‘cope’ with such an ordeal. That’s so disrespectful.

When I started working at Viralist, I knew how lucky I was to land a job there, and when I finally bagged my own virtual column, I really couldn’t believe my luck. But my success has come at a cost, like Kath thinking my private life is public property. Sometimes it feels a little like I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I couldn’t imagine being happy in any other job. In situations like this, I usually find that I can compromise my way out of having to reveal too much about my real life. My only real option is to write a completely different article – but an even better one; that way, when Kath reads it and thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, she won’t even care about the fact I went off topic and completely ignored her orders.

I know I’m only going to be away for a day/night, but I’ll be travelling back on Christmas Eve, and with this being mine and Mark’s first proper Christmas together, I promised him I wouldn’t work. I’m going to have to take my laptop with me and write either in the car, or through the night, when I’ll most likely not be able to sleep for worrying about this.

‘I’m back,’ Mark calls to me from the living room.

‘Hey,’ I call back to him.

‘Here we are, one new overnight bag, and in the lady’s favourite colour, too: black.’

‘Like my heart,’ I tease.

‘So, we’re good to go? Nothing else to stress about?’

‘Nothing,’ I lie.

‘OK, then,’ Mark says excitedly with a clap of his hands. ‘Let’s hit the road.’