Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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eyes.
‘God. That really takes the piss. No wonder you got the big flowers. What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything: he left a message asking me out. Well, I think he did. You know what posh boys are like. He said, “Maybe a drink sometime, right, yars, OK, right, yars, sorry, right, bye then, yars.” So, statistically, it could have meant anything.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I could tell him to take the phone, stick it up his arse and dial 999 with his prostrate now, or I could do it loudly in front of a lot of other people somewhere public.’
Now I came to think of it, this could be good. This could be very good indeed.
‘Ooh, do the second one. Where’s the most public place you could actually dump him?’
‘Well …’ She exhaled in an actory way and leaned forward. ‘First I thought, what’s the highest-rated TV show? Then I realized that what we’d have to do is qualify for Stars in Their Eyes.’
‘Don’t tell me … Sonny and Cher?’
‘Keith Harris and Orville.’
‘Yuk. Who’d be Orville?’
‘Who d’you think?’
I winced. ‘Well, I suppose he’d be used to it.’
‘Quite.’
‘So, you’d dump him on Stars in Their Eyes?’
‘Oh no. We’d win that, bring out a cover record, get asked on to pull the National Lottery lever, and then I’d dump him.’
‘Wow! An almost flawless plan.’
‘What do you mean, “almost flawless”?’
I put my arm around her.
‘I’m sorry, dear. But I don’t think even the real Keith Harris could win that show.’
She sighed melodramatically. ‘I know. Unless we were up against the fake Joe Dolce.’
‘What’s Plan B?’
She giggled maliciously. ‘Plan B is the table next to Amanda’s bunch of slavering Sloane witches at her hen night. I thought I’d do lots of shouting and maybe set things on fire.’
I loved that plan.
‘Oh yes, please, please do that, please.’
‘Unfortunately it’s on a Friday night, and they’re full up.’
‘You checked?’ I asked, full of admiration.
‘Well, I’m not called …’ she paused. ‘What am I called?’
The man-chomping gonzo of South London, I didn’t say.
‘Ehm … no one calls you anything. Except Fran.’
‘Huh. Well, anyway, so, plan C.’
‘?’
‘Keep reading the papers.’
‘What?’
Fran lifted up her profile dramatically.
‘I am going to shag him to death.’
Oh no. Fran had done this shag-to-death routine before. It was never pretty. It involved a man having a night he would probably never forget, with a woman he would never normally have a hope of scoring with – i.e. Fran – then having to follow her around in humiliation for weeks begging for a second chance. It had never failed so far, and was a punishment kept for the most flagrant transgressors.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked her. ‘That’s pretty serious.’
‘It’s poetic justice,’ she announced sternly, reaching for the phone.
‘Charlie! Hello there! How lovely to hear from you!’
I danced up and down furiously in front of her doing more and more elaborate vomit-miming. She reciprocated by making wanker motions in time with her talking.
‘Yes, that would be super.’
I couldn’t not laugh.
‘Eight thirty? I’ll see you there … OK, bye now.’
She put the phone down and I let out a suppressed snort of laughter.
‘He’s dead!’ I said. ‘You just killed a man stone dead!’
‘I doubt he’ll be able to even get it out of his pants,’ said Fran. ‘It’s almost too easy.’
Next day I got in the lift by mistake before remembering my rightful place back in the lime green basement.
Cockney Boy was on fine form. ‘Hey, snoots!’ he yelled at me. I gave him my best contemptuous look. I was a bit worried that I was taking all my career angst out on him. Then I looked at the rash of unbroken pus spots under his shaving line and thought, well, if needs must …
‘Snoots,’ he said again, ‘I got off with this girl last night, right. She was all over me.’
‘I know,’ I said, smiling sweetly. ‘She’s left some dog make-up on you.’
‘Ha,’ he said, without humour. ‘Bet you just stayed in watching EastEnders, then?’
‘Yes, I did, actually. I didn’t know you had a part-time acting job as Robbie Jackson.’
He sneered at me and left me alone. On my right, Janie was red-eyed again. We hadn’t got past the everyday stage of my asking her if she was all right when she clearly wasn’t, to which she would vehemently nod while being on the brink of tears. I got her a coffee, and didn’t get Cockney Boy one, and her eyes brimmed over at such basic human kindness.
At lunch time I took a book and a ciabatta roll – the cool effect rather spoiled by a packet of beef Hula Hoops – into an alcove I’d discovered behind reception. I was rather cross to find it already occupied. Janie was there, snivelling away into a disgusting piece of green tissue. I sighed and mentally abandoned my peaceful lunch.
‘OK, tell me: what’s the matter?’ As long as it wasn’t a lifelong infatuation with The English Patient, surely I ought to be able to do something. Oh God, I hoped it wasn’t cancer or anything really tough. Or her parents dying – oh no! That would be awful. I cringed in anticipation. I’d always thought of myself as a kind person, but now I realized that was in fact a complete fallacy. I was really a path-of-least-resistance person. Damn!
Gradually, the sobbing started to slow down. I patted her tentatively on the shoulder, and said ‘Don’t worry!’ encouragingly. This brought on a fresh wave. My sandwich began to fade away into some dried-out afterlife in my mind.
Finally she stumbled: ‘It’s James … my boyfriend … It’s – boohoohoo …’
Oh well, at least it was something I could deal with. Not-quite-up-to-scratch boyfriends were my speciality.
‘Right, tell me all about it,’ I said. ‘Has he moved to Fulham to live with someone you absolutely hate?’
‘No,’ she looked up, momentarily surprised.
‘Whoops, no, that’s me,’ I remembered. ‘Well, what’s he done?’
‘He wasn’t at home last night … and he didn’t even phone me.’ The last part of the sentence was drawn out in melodramatic sobs.
‘Ehm, so what?’ I said gaily. ‘Who are you, Ally McBeal? It’s not that much of a problem! He was probably just out for a pint or something.’
She sniffed loudly. ‘Why didn’t he ring me, then?’
‘Why? Are you two married?’