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