Crazygirl Falls in Love (13 page)

Would I really risk my sisterhood with
Mags
just
to avoid
seeing Lloyds Voldemort?

“Sure Sam, I’ll help.”

***

After agreeing to Stalker’s terms I race to my desk and call
Mags. I’m expecting resistance or at least apprehension, but Mags
jumps at the chance to see him again,

“He wants to see me that much? How precious. It’s funny
because I wasn’t sure if he liked me.”

I inquire as to her cryptic statement. Clearly this guy is
besotted, no man in his right mind would offer to do a transaction
solo unless he was getting something very valuable in
return.

“Why did you think that?” I ask.

“I may not have told you the full story of what happened
Saturday night.”

Mags goes on to describe a most unfortunate first date story.
Stalker had offered to drive, and had met her outside her place.
Walking out in a short dress and heels, Mags was a little surprised
to find he had parked his car and was loitering at her front gate.
He had asked where the nearest bar was. She said the Red Pearl,
which was “just up the road”. He had smiled happily and declared
that they were going to walk, because fresh air is good, cars
aren’t environmentally friendly, and petrol too expensive in this
day and age.

Surprised, Mags had paused for a moment before following. When
she had said “just up the road” she had meant it in car terms. A
five minute car trip was a twenty minute stiletto stagger, which in
a skimpy dress wasn’t particularly pleasant. She was tempted to
take off her Louboutins because the soles were getting damaged, but
she thought it would look silly walking barefoot. The outcome? Her
most beautiful prized heels, destroyed.

At the Red Pearl Sam had gone all deep and meaningful on her.
He had bombarded her with question such as, “If you had the choice
between being happy or knowing the truth, what would it be?” “What
would you stand for if you knew no one would judge you?” “Is it
better to strive for excellence or seek self acceptance?” After
each question Mags would answer with an uncertain, “What do you
mean by that, exactly?” She had started to feel insecure, thinking
she wasn’t smart enough or spiritual enough or whatever enough for
his tastes.

Mags continues her story for quite some time. At the end I’m
agog, and feeling extremely guilty for asking her to go through all
that again.

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way but that sounds like an
atrocious experience. Are you sure you don’t mind going out with
him again?”

“Not at all, if it’ll help you I’d be glad to. Besides, maybe
Sam was just really nervous the first time.”

Mags is
such
a good person. As we hang up Stalker races across
the office to ask me how it went. My expression of disgust says it
all,

“You didn’t
pay
?”

Maybe it’s the tone of revulsion in my voice, but all of a
sudden Stalker looks very uncomfortable. He starts to loosen his
tie,

“She offered, and then I wasn’t sure what to do, so I,
umm...”

Utterly at a loss, I place my head in my hands and start
shaking it in exasperation,

“You don’t take up a girl’s offer to pay,
Sam. The guy
always
pays if he’s the one who requested the first date, how can you
not know this?”

I lower my voice and motion for him to come in
closer,

“You should always pay on the first couple of dates, it shows
initiative and manners. Plus, courtship is so not egalitarian, and
I’m tired of all you men insisting that it should be. Us girls
spend thousands of pounds on clothes and shoes and make up, and
hundreds of hours making ourselves look nice for you. How would you
like it if we rocked up to a first date make-up free with greasy
hair, rockin’ our sweaty gym clothes? You’d feel a little
disrespected, yeah? So the theory goes that for all the waxings and
haircuts and straightenings and the threadings and pedis and
facials and the budget blowing outfits, the least you can do is
pick up the bloody cheque!”

He looks crestfallen and I quickly backtrack. He is doing me
huge favour, after all.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s been a rough day.
Would you mind if I give you a tip for your next date?”

I tell him that besides weird abstract philosophical
questions, on a first date one should be wary about raising
politics, religion, past relationships, sexual fantasies, animal
rights, immigration, euthanasia, abortion, unions, Scottish
independence, legalised prostitution, minimum wage, the war on
drugs… Then I realise the list of first date conversation killers
is as long as the length of a football pitch, so I cheat and give
him the golden rule: Any topic that has the potential to trigger a
conversational tripwire is a no-no.

He seems sincere in his multiple thank-yous
and returns to his desk. I unlock my laptop, sign in and open my
spreadsheet. I notice that I’m smiling. I gotta be honest here, I
am absolutely chuffed as to how this has all worked out. I don’t
have to see wanker-loser-ex-fiancé ever again, and Mags and Stalker
get a second chance at romance. I’m in such a good mood that I
start singing to myself.
Hey I just met
you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number so call me maybe… and
all other boys try to chase me, but here’s my number, so call me
maybe. La la la.

I don’t notice Stalker creeping back.

“So what should we talk about, if we’re not supposed to talk
about so much stuff?”

I offer him a couple of ideas. Favourite movies, books, foods,
TV shows, concerts she’d like to see, music she’s into, what she
does in her spare time, what he does in his spare time, how she
spends her weekends, travel.

An hour later and he’s followed me to the kitchen.

“Should I buy her flowers?”

“Sure, why not?” I reply, stirring sugar into my
tea.

“What kind?”

“Roses. Pink or red, those colours mean you fancy her. Yellow
roses mean friendship, white mean sympathy. Don’t get
those.”

“Got it, red or pink. What kind of cuisine does she
like?”

“Italian is always safe.”

“Awesome, mega. Do you know any good Italian
restaurants?”

“Bice.”

“And what should I wear?”

Oh geeeeeez
. He’s
so annoying! I make a particularly violent spoon-swirl in my
tea.

“I don’t know Sam, whatever you’d wear to see a client I
suppose. Suit pants and a shirt. No tie.”

I gently pick up my tea by the top rim. I’ve filled it to the
brim and the danger of overflow is very real.

“Awesome! Thanks dog.” Stalker says, whacking me on the back.
The tea spills over the rim and burns my fingers.

I yell “crap!” as the hot water singes my fingers but Stalker
doesn’t notice. In his excitement he’s bolted out of the kitchen,
probably wanting to add to his mental list of
inane-dating-questions-to-ask-Penny.

Dear God, please give me the strength not
to kill this guy. At least, not until the Lloyds deal is done.
Also, if it's not too much to ask, please remove all calories from
chocolate, red wine and cheeseburgers. Amen.

I’m running back to the office in sheer, blind
panic.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.

I cannot
believe
I spaced on the Schmermesco
teleconference!

I felt bad for not returning Chloe’s call on Monday so took
her out for a coffee first chance I got. I’d have taken her out to
lunch but, you know, we don’t do lunches at Gribbles. Over coffee
we started talking about this, then that, then this again… After
what felt like fifteen minutes I checked my phone and screamed.
We’d been chatting for over an hour! A millisecond later I was
outta there, running through the heavy glass doors and yelling to a
baffled Chloe (and the whole of Pret) that I’d call her
later.

I race into a waiting elevator and start pressing the close
button furiously. I check my Blackberry to see if anyone’s tried
reaching me. Nope. I check my Galaxy. Nope. I put both back in my
bag but the Samsung immediately buzzes.

Shit, I
knew
it, the Tesco guys are already waiting. Angrypants
is gonna kill me!

But when I check who it is my heart skips a beat.

Why did you not message me yesterday?

I can’t believe it. He messaged. The Stranger
messaged!

I burst out of the lift (it’s more of a
shambling jog now as opposed to panic run) and into the conference
room. Angrypants is already there, arms crossed, face sour as a
lemon with those creepy lips thin as strings. Her large, quick,
shining eyes are shooting shardy daggers my way, but they don’t
dampen my spirits. Because
he
messaged.

“You’re five minutes late. You be thanking your lucky stars
Tesco haven’t dialed in yet.”

“I’m wonderful thanks, how about yourself?” I reply, ignoring
her comment.

I smile broadly and collapse into a chair. She doesn’t answer
for a moment, then relaxes,

“This goddam Phoenix job is giving me grey hairs and cheek
twitches.”

“You excited about the wedding? Only a few days
now!”

I can’t believe how happy I’m sounding. All this over a
seven-word Whatsapp message? Geez I’m pathetic.

“The wedding has been an utter ball ache, and the lack of
competency at this firm hasn’t helped matters. I’ve been drowning
trying to fill in for the Italian Real Estate Partner, who wouldn’t
know a decent communiqué if one hit him in the face.”

She takes a deep breath before continuing,

“You’re bringing your friend Chloe on Saturday, aren’t you? I
think I may have misspelt her name on the place card, I’ll email
you later.”

We hear a soft dial and see the Tesco number flash. I forget
about the Stranger for exactly fifty minutes, the length of time it
takes for us to give our client the weekly update. After the
teleconference ends, I try to wait just a little longer before
responding to the Stranger.

I hold out for exactly seventeen more minutes.

Hey, no reason, just very busy with work. How are
you?

A few seconds later I see the green light flash.

Good. And you?

Boy, this guy really is a man of few words. My phone flashes
again and I see a message from Emma.

Hey sis, can’t wait for tonight. It’s gonna be
brill!

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I don’t have plans
tonight, do I? I dial her number.

“Hey Em, what’s this about tonight?”

I listen to my sister’s excited voice and a minute later
sheets of cold sweat start pouring down my back.

“You couldn’t have been serious?” I ask her.

“Of course I was. You know I always help organise the
Childreach benefit, and this year is our first costume
competition.”

I let out an anxious squeak,

“And the Beautiful People are going?”

“Yeah, I’ve invited everyone.”

“Em, I can’t!”

“What do you mean? You
have
to come, we’re supposed to be
matching. My costume doesn’t work without yours. You
promised!”

“The Stranger will be there, I can’t rock up dressed like
that. What’ll he think?”

“I can’t believe you’re refusing to wear the greatest costume
of all time just because of some guy. What happened to Miss
Independent?”

She’s got a point
.
Nonetheless I continue to fight until Emma sounds on the verge of
tears. Only then do I reluctantly agree,

“Okay already! Quit ya whinin’, I’ll come over after
work.”

I hang up.

Shit.

***

“Isn’t this fun!” Emma laughs, waving to people as we pass the
ticket checkers.

I try to distract myself from my
mortification by focusing on the venue. I gotta admit, Emma and her
team have done a fantastic job, the gardens look fabulous. The
trees and shrubs have fairy lights woven through their branches and
the marquee is lit up by soft pink and purple lights. Banners,
streamers and balloons dot the area. The place looks better than
fabulous. It’s magnificent.
Kudos Emma,
your creative wand has once again woven its
magic.

“You’ve done a great job sis. Why couldn’t you have made us
look good too?”

Emma laughs,

“It’s just a bit of fun Penny, and this way we’ll win the best
costume award for sure!”

We shuffle our way over to the drinks stand and I notice the
place is covered with posters of starving African children. This
year they’re raising money for the West African food crisis. I
refuse to meet anyone’s eyes. Not only is it the most horrendous
and embarrassing costume in history, but it’s extremely un-PC. I
stare down at the lovely manicured grass, eyes locked on the flood
lights.