Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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car and come and pick me up.’
Angus lent me his phone.
‘Does this work in underwater pipes?’ I asked, picking up the big thing with a huge fluorescent stripe down it.
‘Maybe,’ he grinned.
Charlie answered.
‘Is Alex there?’
‘Erhm – what?’
‘Charlie, it’s Mel.’ Brain of dough. ‘Is Alex there?’
‘Ehrr, um, I’ve just got in … Ehm, I’ll go and check.’
I shot Angus a look. ‘That boy gets more moronic every day.’
‘It’s the inbreeding.’
I nodded. There was a lot of scuffling in the background, and some whispering going on.
‘Hello?’ asked Alex doubtfully.
‘Alex? Hi, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hello, pumpkin. I, ehm, thought you were out tonight.’
‘I am. Was. Look, I’ve twisted my ankle, pretty badly. Do you think you could come and pick me up?’
‘Ehm … where are you?’
‘Camden.’
‘Camden. Jesus, that’s miles away! Can’t you get a cab?’
‘If I made twice the salary I do now, I would get a cab. Look, I’d rather not, I don’t feel well and I’ve really hurt myself.’ I started to get upset again. ‘Can’t you come and get me?’
‘Look, Mel, sweetheart, I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.’
‘What? What the hell is it? Why do I have to plead with you to come and pick me up?’
‘Ehm, some of the lads are round and I’ve really had too much to drink to drive.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think you just don’t want to come and get me.’
‘Pumpkin, I would if I could, honest. Trust me, it’s just impossible. Why don’t you just take a cab home and I’ll see you tomorrow?’
There was a pause. I didn’t know what to say, so I hung up the phone.
Angus looked away, embarrassed. I waited till the urge to cry had passed and swallowed hard.
‘Bastard,’ I said.
‘Sounds like one,’ said Angus. ‘I’d carry you home.’
I looked at him. ‘You would too.’
‘Damsel in distress. My speciality.’
I laughed. ‘I’m tempted.’
‘Be tempted.’ His voice suddenly turned serious. He looked at me face on, with that direct gaze of his, and my heart started beating extremely fast. We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. Our faces began to come a little closer. Then I moved slightly, and jarred my ankle really, really hard against the chair.
‘AAAYICK!’ I yelled, bending over. The whole sleepy bar looked over to see who was being murdered. I put my hands on my ankle, trying to make it better, but it was agony. Shockwaves of pain careered up my legs.
‘Ow! Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow.’
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Angus got up with me, as I started hopping about on one leg.
‘Ow ow ow. God, my fucking ankle! It really fucking hurts.’
‘Do you want to lean on me? Go to Casualty?’
‘No, no no. Jesus! This has happened before. Ehm, the best thing I could do really is just go home and take some aspirin. Arsing hell.’
A look passed between us. The moment when whatever might have happened was going to happen had gone.
Angus went to the bar and called a cab. I was escorted out by him and the barman, and an hour later I was safely tucked up in bed with four Nurofen and the comfort of a guaranteed sickie in the morning.
Unfortunately, my ankle felt practically fine in the morning. Well, stiff, and it hurt if I really put my weight on it, but not quite enough to justify sickie status. And as I felt, overall, that my morality rating wasn’t at its highest, I got ready to go in.
My mind felt like scrambled eggs, so I decided to make some for breakfast.
‘Linda, do you want some scrambled eggs?’
She emerged, fully dressed but looking sleepy, from her bedroom. The look on her face plainly told me how amazed she was at this whole me-cooking thing. However, surprisingly, she took me up on it. Well, there was food involved, I supposed.
There would be no point, I surmised, in asking for her advice. So I asked her about the bank instead.
‘What bank?’
‘Ehm, don’t you work in a bank?’
‘No.’
Actually, I could pull my own teeth out just fine, thank you.
‘So, where do you work, again?’
‘Brimley’s.’
‘Brimley’s …?’
‘Insurance.’
‘Right! Right … So, how’s it going?’
‘Fine.’
I sipped my tea. It was going to be a long day.
‘I need the weekend,’ she said suddenly.
I thought she might be asking me to give back something I’d borrowed off her, and I racked my brains to remember, but couldn’t.
‘The what?’
‘The weekend,’ she said, enunciating very slowly as I was clearly such an idiot.
‘Right … the weekend,’ I said. This was turning into some sort of perpetual conversational nightmare.
‘Before Christmas. I need the flat for the weekend.’
‘Oh, right. You want me to get out?’
She nodded. There didn’t seem to be much room for argument.
‘Fine, OK,’ I said without thinking. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. Which one?’
‘All of it.’
‘Which weekend?’
‘The one before Christmas,’ she explained patiently.
Oh. Speak in sentences, you dozy cow.
‘OK. OK, fine.’
That was the weekend of the wedding, so I supposed we’d be away anyway, somehow or other. But what on earth was Linda up to? Her actually doing something threatened the stability of my already fragile view of the universe.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked her.
She stared at me, stood up abruptly from the table and walked out. Great.
I couldn’t face washing up the scrambled egg pan, so I left it and limped into work.
‘Ey up, snoots.’ I bumped into Steve coming in. ‘You been in the wars, then?’
I groaned. ‘You should see the other guy. And he was a Cockney.’
‘Yeah, right. You’d be dead.’
‘Actually, now I think about it, that’s