Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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Angus or Nicholas?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘That’s exactly the point. Anyway, it’s hardly serious.’
‘You don’t even fancy him. You think he looks like a dog.’
‘It was you that thought that.’
‘Was it?’ I couldn’t remember thinking that now. Except in the sense of dogs being strong but kind, I suppose. Hang on, dogs didn’t have those qualities. What on earth was I thinking about …?
‘How’s Alex?’ asked Fran, sipping her coffee.
‘Who? Oh, I think he’s OK.’ I told her about the shower.
‘I hope he’s not concussed or anything,’ I said suddenly. ‘Oh my God! What if he’s in a coma for years, all because I didn’t take him to the hospital!’
‘Then I could perform my special little happy dance,’ said Fran. ‘Now, drink your coffee and I’ll tell you what Angus is like in bed.’
And she did.
I left Fran an hour or so later so she could get some much needed sleep, and walked home, my head spinning.
After buying bacon and eggs, I let myself into the flat quietly. I couldn’t hear anything. I was about to tiptoe into the kitchen when there came a sorrowful groan.
‘Mel … is that you?’
I peeped into my bedroom, which reeked of whisky.
‘Alex?’
‘Yes …’ he said weakly.
I sat down next to him on the bed. His eye had gone red and purple and green, but wasn’t swollen shut any more.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked tenderly.
‘Like I’ve been run over by the Death Star.’
‘Oh, sweetheart. Can I get you anything?’
‘No milk, please,’ he said. Then he half smiled. ‘Were we awful?’
‘You were naughty, and your friend was evil.’
He laughed, and then winced.
‘We didn’t mean anything. We just went to the rugby and had a few pints …’
‘And then chaos happened. Amazing that, isn’t it?’
He forced a slow grin. ‘How awful?’
‘You didn’t do anything you didn’t pay for.’
‘I could have had him, you know.’
‘Course you could, sweetheart.’
‘If I met him again, I’d take him …’ He reached out for me sleepily, and I let myself be grabbed.
‘I’m the most tolerant girlfriend in the world, you know.’
‘I know,’ he said, asleep. ‘I know.’
I was absolutely desperate for somebody to talk to at work, but the prospects weren’t good. Only Cockney Boy, whose name was, inevitably, Steve, bothered to ask me how the stag went.
‘It was great,’ I said. ‘Turned out the stripper was gay and I copped off with her.’
‘Yeah?’ he grunted, his eyes wide as saucers.
‘No.’
‘Lezzie cow! Probably couldn’t cop off with anyone,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Not true, actually. Normally I let the boys watch. But only the ones I like … so, tough luck!’
He grimaced at me and went back to his work, which as far as I could tell was mostly colouring in.
‘How are you doing, Janie?’ I asked her, using the soft, invalid voice I reserved for the troubled of heart.
‘Well,’ she said bravely, ‘he had a ticket for the rugby on Saturday, but came to Ikea instead.’
‘See? He loves you. Anyway, I was at this party on Saturday night, right …’
‘But then he didn’t want to go to the Homes and Houses Exhibition at Earls Court …’ She started to sniffle a bit. ‘And he didn’t come round until the end of Football Focus! When it was too late to go!’
I stared at her. ‘Are you bonkers? You can’t take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition after two months. You can’t ever take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition. Jesus! You’re going to have to stop reading the bloody Daily Mail. Anyway, there was this bloke at the party who I thought quite liked me, right, but he went off with my best mate. And I can’t fancy him anyway, because my boyfriend is terrific and I’m completely in love with him. But he’s – the first boy, not my boyfriend – trying to sabotage his brother’s wedding and he wants me to help him. Apart from which, he’s really nice. But, obviously, I’m in love with my boyfriend. But I’m really pissed off that the first bloke slept with my mate. Almost like I was jealous – if I got jealous, which, really, I don’t. So, what do you think I should do?’
She stared at me, mouth open.
‘Apart from take them both to the Homes and Houses Exhibition and see which one can find the hardest-wearing carpet?’
Unbelievably, she had tears welling up again.
‘I only wanted to look at cushions. Cushions aren’t too committed, are they?’
Arrgh! This was it. I was going to have to phone the Samaritans and ask them. Although, knowing my luck, they’d only give me lip or be completely distracted. I put on my martyred expression and turned towards Janie in a saintly fashion.
‘Ookaay. So, first of all, why wouldn’t you let him go to the rugby? He’s a boy. Boys need rugby. Believe me, I know.’
She blinked at me. ‘Do you let your boyfriend go?’
‘Sure!’
‘And it’s OK?’
I reflected on this for a bit. I didn’t want to say: Well, apart from the beating and being insulting to strippers and throwing up on yourself and sleeping rough …
‘Sure!’ I said. God, if he would only hurry up and leave her, so I could talk about my problems for a change.
‘You know what you should do, dolls,’ said Cockney Boy, who had somehow been managing to colour in and listen to our conversation at the same time. ‘You should both learn to play rugby, yeah? Then you birds can run around the pitch yourself, getting all covered in mud and stuff. That way everyone will be happy – the blokes can watch the rugby, and you’d be, roight, playin’ …’
We both turned and stared at him.
‘You spent an awful long time alone in your bedroom as a teenager, didn’t you?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he pouted. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Day after day, just staring at the wall, picking your spots and listening to your Phil Collins albums.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Dreaming of the day Linda Lusardi comes past and accidentally breaks down in front of your little Cockney house.’
He held up his arms and walked off. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘Oh, Steve, Steve, thank you for fixing my car … what can I, Linda Lusardi, possibly do for you in return?’
He turned at the door and flicked me