Читать книгу The Number One Rule for Girls - Rachel McIntyre - Страница 11

Next morning I didn’t feel much more cheerful as I heaved my lazy carcass out of bed at far too early o’clock for brekkie, bathroom, bus. Matt’s absence was providing the usual downbeat backing track to my daily routine, but the email had turned the volume up. Texted Beth to check she was OK (no reply) and there it was: another crap day had begun.

Or so I thought.

Walking through reception, I felt a random tap on my shoulder. When I’d peeled myself off the ceiling tiles, I took my headphones out and turned round.

‘Sorry,’ the tapper said. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump. You OK?’

‘Er, yes thanks, Toby. You?’

He yawned. ‘Yeah, not bad. Got some IT homework to do, but I’m not in the zone. What time’s your first class?’

‘Ten, but my bus always gets in for nine.’

‘Come for a drink with me?’

And there it was: a coffee with Toby. An event registering an impressive eight on the what-the-heckograph. Not because I felt unworthy of his attention. To use a housing metaphor, I considered myself ‘prime real estate’, highly desirable to the right buyer. But while I was a quirky holiday cottage with honeysuckle round the door, he was Mr Loft in Manhattan. Slate and steel.

In other words, we weren’t exactly matchmadeinheaven.com.

But what harm could a brew do? ‘Sure,’ I replied, automatically turning canteenwards.

‘Not here,’ he said, steering me towards the exit. ‘I’ve got a car. Let’s go somewhere decent.’

Without even a fleeting flash of stranger danger I followed him to where, hidden among the teachers’ knackered heaps, was his freshly minted mini convertible. A gleaming black diamond in a scrapyard.

‘Nice car,’ I said imaginatively.

‘Present from my mum,’ he said. ‘You OK with The Mean Bean?’

I nodded, put my seat belt on and, roof down in the almost sunshine, we sped out of the college grounds. Just like that. One minute, I was Nelly No-mates on a bus that smelled of socks; the next, in a flash car with a man so perfect he probably sweated aftershave.

Oh, how the other half lives, I thought.

‘Skinny latte and an Americano. Black.’ Boy Gorgeous told the barista five minutes later, then turned to me. ‘Skinny OK?’

‘Er, yes, that’s fine,’ I answered, although truthfully I was craving hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a marshmallow mountain of Everest proportions.

‘Nothing to eat, no?’

‘Er, no thanks.’

He ordered himself a croissant and we sat down on a squashy corner sofa.

‘Do you fancy a nibble?’ he said with a cheeky eyebrow flex.

The born-again Icicle Knickerist in me smiled back. ‘Not hungry, thanks.’

It was strange. I could flirt with aplomb when I had a boyfriend. Suddenly single and bang, my aplomb was gone.

A couple of tables down, a group of girls a bit older than us were peering over the rims of their mugs. Obviously it wasn’t li’l ol’ me they were ogling, but Toby didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he leaned forward to spoon a pile of sugar into his mug. Wow. So fit, he’d developed an immunity to being leched at. He was perv-resistant.

‘So,’ I said, ‘how you finding college?’

‘OK, I guess. It’s my second time round though. Dropped out last year.’ He looked at me. ‘Long story.’

‘Where were you before?’

He stirred the coffee slowly. ‘Down south. How about you?’

‘College? Not what I was expecting.’ I shrugged.

‘What were you expecting?’

I took a sip of my latte and grew a sexy foam tache. Nice. ‘I dunno, different from school, I suppose. Maybe the people to be more . . .’

‘Studenty?’

‘Yeah, I guess. Less cliquey maybe. Or at least less like Brit–’ I stopped mid-name, remembering their chummy chatting in form yesterday.

‘Brittany? Dumb slut,’ he said, casually dunking a piece of croissant.

Whatever the opposite of a poker face is called, I must’ve pulled one. I hated that word, just hated it, no matter who it was applied to. OK, so I wouldn’t be waving my cheerleader’s pompoms for Brittany Bentley any time soon, but throwing an S-grenade at her?

Toby must’ve guessed exactly what I was thinking. He back-pedalled so fast, his tongue practically started spinning.

‘Oops, that came out harsher than I intended. But she was a bitch for laughing at you and that weird kid, whatshisname, Bodger?’

‘Badger.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Him. I mean, he can’t help being a geek, can he?’

I was losing the thread here. Was he being kind about Badger? Mean about Brittany? Did he slip in a compliment about me somewhere?

Meanwhile, the girls at the other table were now indulging in some blatant gawpage. Brazen. So very rude, in fact, that if I was his girlfriend, I’d’ve gone a whole bunch of bananas over it.

I was on extremely unfamiliar ground here; strangers never openly phwoooared at Matt when we were out together. Not that he needed a paper bag over his head in public or anything, but he was no lady dazzler. Unlike Toby.

‘So, you’re from down south?’ I asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Have you still got family there?’

‘What’s this? An interrogation?’ He sat back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

‘Erm, no, just asking.’

Like flicking a switch, he grinned again. ‘Only kidding. Yes, some. Near London. We moved up here at the beginning of last year.’

‘And where are you living now?’ I said it hesitantly.

‘Near college.’

‘With your mum and dad?’

‘Mum and her boyfriend.’

Flip. His smile vanished before the question was out of my mouth. I was sensing mucho history behind those not-elaborating vibes. Toby continued sipping his coffee in silence as an awkward pause hopped up on to my chair to join us.

‘But that’s enough about me,’ he said after what felt like a decade. ‘Tell me about you.’

That did it. Tongue untied, my mouth jumped at the invitation. Oh ye gods of soul-curling embarrassment, how I talked over the next twenty minutes. And talked. And talked. Something Borrowed and the weddings. Mum singing with Something Blue. Dad’s photography and cakes. River. Ayesha and Tom. Beth and Shaney. Even old Mr Fox got a mention.

Did Toby need to know I once got a dried chickpea stuck up my nose? That I was borderline phobic about Babybels (‘It’s the way they squeak!’)? That I was conceived on (or possibly under) a pile of coats?

NO!

What was I thinking? I’d managed to turn a perfectly innocent hot-beverage break into a confessional cringeathon. Even putting my pillow over my head and screaming aaaargh wouldn’t end the unbearable humiliation. (Trust me, I tried.)

One, two, three . . . take a deep breath.

Open eyes.

Unclench entire body.

Aaaand relax.

Matt was easier to read than a Mr Men book, but Toby . . . When I was nervous, I could talk the hind leg off a Gigantosaurus. A whole herd of them in fact. Sentences waffled out of my mouth while I listened, helplessly.

I learned Toby once lived near London. He got The Complete Works of Daisy Green, every detail minus pin number, bra size and . . .

‘Boyfriend?’

I shook my head. ‘We broke up in June.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s all right.’ I shrugged slightly. ‘You know, it wasn’t great at the time but . . .’

Then it was my turn to give off the I don’t wanna talk about it vibes. Toby just carried on watching me as I peeped back under lowered eyelids, his very obvious scrutiny making me a nervy jumble of thrilled and on edge. Then he shifted us on to neutral ground and, by the time I’d reached the dregs of my coffee, we’d traded comedy box set quotes and discovered a shared infatuation with nineties indie rock and horror flicks.

First impressions? There was a quality to him that I couldn’t put my finger on. Yes, his handsomeness flew off the scale. Yes, he’d be a dead cert for gold in the Charm Olympics. But there was something else, this Tobyness, as if he lived more intensely in the moment. Like the whole time I was wittering my nonsense, he never once took his eyes away; I don’t think he even blinked.

Then, because time certainly flies when you’re a burbling, bean-spilling fool, it was nearly ten and our cue to rush back to college. And as Toby strode to the café exit, the gawping girls turned their heads in a synchronised wave of phwoooar.

We made it back to the foyer with literally seconds for me to get up four flights of stairs. Quick bye-thanks-for-the-coffee, and I turned to go, but he caught my arm.

‘I’m not sorry,” he said.

My face must have replied, ‘confused’.

‘I mean I’m not sorry you split up with your boyfriend.’

Then he vanished into the throng.

I sprinted to Spanish where I swear I tried to focus on the pluperfect-whatevers, but my concentration was fried.

Not entirely sure how it happened, but it appeared I’d gained a head-squatter. Somehow, despite my Icicle Knicker intentions, Toby had wormed his way into my subconscious and was holding my brain hostage.

Luckily Ayesha came round after school for me to do her nails and I knew I could rely on her to give me some good advice of the Forget the guy. He sounds like a player. You need some single-girl recovery time variety.

Two coats of Freshly Bleeding Corpse later and she was up to speed with events at The Mean Bean. Finally, I’d have the words to evict Toby from my head.

Or not . . .

‘It might do you good, you know, having a flirt buddy. Stop you pining over Matt.’

What? ‘I am not pining over him! In fact, I –’

‘Daisy, you’re not fooling anyone, least of all me.’ Her words cut my denialogue off at the knees. ‘Say Tom was Matt, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to show my feelings because it’s normal to be upset when you break up with someone, especially after three years. Remember Beth with whatshisname?’

‘Stinky Pete?’ I said. She shook her head. ‘Mad Max?’ I went on, ‘Manhobbit?’ Shake. ‘Not-Very-Big Ben? Wonky –’

‘Will,’ she finished triumphantly, nodding. ‘Wonky Will, that’s it. She was in bits and that only lasted four weeks. I guess what I’m saying is, you don’t have to act as if it’s no big deal when it bloody is. There are no medals for being brave, you know.’

‘Yes there are.’

‘You know what I mean. Outside wartime.’

‘But Toby never asked me on a date or anything. You’re getting all “flirt buddy” over nothing.’

She blew on her newly crimsoned fingertips then waggled them in my face. ‘Daisy, listen to your Auntie Ayesha. If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, chances are it’s not a giraffe.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean, numbskull, that this morning was a date. He didn’t need to ask you out because you were already out.’

‘Going for coffee in college time is not a date,’ I insisted.

She tutted, exasperated. ‘If you say so. How’d you get talking to him anyway?’

‘Tutorial. Then he threw some Jelly Babies at me.’

She looked smug. ‘See? Lads don’t do stuff like that if they’re not interested. Honestly, I think you should go for it.’

The conversation was veering completely off-script here.

‘I don’t need a boyfriend, thanks,’ I told her.

‘No one needs a boyfriend,’ said Ayesha. ‘Like no one needs chocolate fudge cake or vintage handbags or . . .’ She looked round my room, ending on my pillow. ‘A Hello Kitty pyjama case.’

‘Matt bought me that,’ I protested, hugging it tightly to my chest. ‘It’s got sentimental value.’

‘Exactly. You don’t need it, but you like it and having it around sparklifies your life.’

‘Is that even a word?’

‘I’m not saying you have to marry this Toby guy,’ she continued, ‘but I don’t think one date would be a bad idea.’

I smoothed the pyjama case and placed it carefully back on my pillow. ‘You’re getting way ahead of yourself; he hasn’t even asked for my phone number.’

She smirked. ‘Yet. Bet you anything he asks you out properly before the weekend.’

‘Ayesha,’ I said, sarcastically, ‘you are wiser than the owl offspring of Yoda and the Dalai Lama. You are sager than –’

‘Shut up!’ she said and threw the pyjama case at me.

Now I knew she meant well, but no way was I ready for dating again.

Meaning that even though Toby Smith had the OMG-factor; even though he was Prince Fittie of Fitlandia and even though he had charmed the Icicle Knickers right off me that morning, it was irrelevant.

This little piggy was OFF the market.

After Ayesha left, I went with Dad and River to Something Blue’s rehearsal for the wedding gig on Saturday. Firmly pushing away the thought that I’d (possibly) been conceived on top of his coat, (eew) I greeted my godfather Harvey with a kiss on the cheek while Marvin, his husband, gave us a cheery wave from behind the drum kit.

Then one, two, three, he counted them in and wow.

Yes, of course I was biased, but when Mum sang she could put a new spin on love songs you’d heard a million times. And the sweetest thing was every word was sung for Dad.

Aww.

Forget dragons and castles and knights on white horses and all that fairy-tale balls. This was true love. OK, maybe most sixteen-year-olds wouldn’t want to follow in their parents’ romantic footsteps, but I did. Their once-in-a-lifetime love was what I thought I’d found with Matt.

Even after seventeen years together, Dad’s default expression was, I can’t believe my luck. Mum’s was, Me neither.

Thanks to Matt the Rat, mine went, How did I get it so wrong?

Anyway, me, Dad and River started clapping as the last note faded, but Harv was frowning. He unhooked his guitar strap and turned to face Mum and Marv, who was tapping the air absent-mindedly with his drumsticks.

‘You know guys, it’s dog eat dog out there and while the Something Blue sound is tight, we need to keep pushing the musical envelope. We need a USP.’

‘A what?’ asked Mum and Marv together.

‘Unique Selling Point,’ Harv said thoughtfully. ‘Ukulele, banjo, slide trombone. Brass, strings . . . whatever. An edge. The question is, do we know anyone who’s available?’

Badger’s ice-breaker. ‘I met a lad at college who plays the trumpet,’ I long-shotted into the ensuing silence. ‘And the French horn.’

‘Trumpet,’ echoed Harv. He and Marv chin-stroked in unison. ‘They’re versatile creatures, horn players. Good presence. A good horn owns the stage. Invite him for a jam, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ I said, regretting the words as soon as they were out because:

a) Badger’s playing may suck for all I knew.

b) ‘Presence?’ The guy got upstaged by a beanbag.

Rehearsal over, we’d hardly got in through the front door before Mrs Boyle rang again with an update. Beth had said she’d only come home if her parents would let her still see Shaney. In an epic victory for Beth, her dad agreed and she’d moved back. This sent me into a bit of a panic. Why hadn’t Beth told me this herself ? Things were worse than I thought.

Phonecall over, Mum hauled me into a hug that nearly crushed my ribcage. ‘Daisy, thank you thank you thank you for not being a nightmare teenager.’

‘Gerrrooofff !’ I mumbled into her shoulder.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘All the stuff you do with River and helping us out with Something Borrowed, you’re a star. You haven’t given us a minute’s trouble since the day you were born. I feel very lucky.’

‘I feel lucky too,’ my flattened lungs gasped.

It was true. She and Dad pretty much wrote the Laid-back Parenting Bible with their non-judgemental mission statement of Let’s Share Everything. My parents, New Age. Beth’s parents, Stone Age. No-brainer.

But possessing cool parents was not without its drawbacks, as Mum went on to demonstrate.

‘Mainly thank you for not being anything like me when I was sixteen. Bloody hell, when I think back to the mischief me and your dad got up to.’

Her eyes were going worryingly dreamy. ‘I remember this one time, we were thinning the lettuces at Grandad’s allotment when the heavens opened. So we nipped in the potting shed to dry off. Well, one thing led to another . . .’

She paused, lost in memory, and that was my cue to fabricate an urgent assignment and run up to my room where I didn’t do any homework, but I did check my college email.

All hail the Oracle of Ayesha. It was uncanny how often she got things dead right. If it had been the Dark Ages, superstitious peasants would have burned her at the stake. I did indeed have an email from Toby asking me if I fancied ‘doing something together’ this weekend.

Now, I realised that barring the newly born, ancient and lady-favouring, there wasn’t a woman on earth who wouldn’t be chewing her own arm off for the chance to go on a date with the God of Gorge that was Toby Smith.

Except me apparently. Obviously, I was some kind of freak. My eyes told me I fancied his frankly spectacular ass off, but my brain had a mind of its own and that was pressing the thanks, but no thanks button. Why? Guilt. Ridiculous, pointless guilt.

Daisy, you are single. Single. SINGLE. I told myself.

So why did this feel like cheating?

My hands kept reaching for the keyboard and pulling away before my fingertips could hit the yes please, Toby keys.

With Ayesha on an overnighter at the observatory with Tom, I tried Beth again. (Still nothing.) Perhaps she was too occupied with her one-woman attempt to break the internet to answer the phone. Seriously, wherever I logged on – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat – there they were, #blessed Beth being #soproud with her #bestboyfriendever #Shaney

Hmmm.

#cheesytags

#spew.

I gazed at the latest photo-splosion of Shaney quitting the pub because he’d passed his personal trainer qualification. Bulging muscles and fake tan don’t do it for me, but I’d never seen Beth smilier and I felt a stab of guilt for breaking Rule #2 with my unsupportive bitchy comments.

I tried her number again, but there was still no answer so I logged back on to Facebook to DM her.

And that’s when everything changed.