Crazygirl Falls in Love (22 page)

Feeling emptier and more worthless than I
have in a long time, I slowly lock my door behind me and make my
way down the staircase. My step slows as I approach the General’s
door and hear voices wafting out.
That’s
odd, the General never gets visitors.
His
daughter lives in San Francisco with her family. Maybe it’s the
vet? I really should have checked in on him yesterday. The General
and Captain are worth a thousand times more than some cliché
Spanish wannabe fantasy wearing a red t-shirt.

The voices grow louder as I near the door. One of them I
recognise as the ever jovial voice of the General, and the second
one…

Blue walks out of Mr Harold’s door. Instinctively I shift my
head to the left to hide my black eye. I push down my fringe and
decide to leave my hand up to my face, blocking him seeing any
more. Although it’s kinda pointless because he’s already spotted
it, his smile morphing into a concerned frown,

“Hey Peanut!” he exclaims, “what the… What happened to your
face? You look like a giant eggplant.”

Shyness gone (
eggplant? I’ll show you eggplant!
) I
indignantly place both hands on my hips, baring the ugly bruise in
all its glory,

“Oh gee, thanks. Thanks so much for making me want to kill
myself less today.”

“Anytime.”

It can’t possibly look that bad, can
it?
I start to reconsider going to the
wedding. If my face looks like the world’s ugliest vegetable I’ll
end up frightening people. They’ll think I’m a freak and chase me
out of the church with pitchforks and holy water. Maybe I’ll just
keep my sunglasses on all day, regardless of how Kardashian-diva
it’ll look?

Blue notices I’m not going to reply to his remark so
continues,

“Where are you off to, all dressed up?”

“The ninth circle of hell. What’re you doing in my building
anyway?”

“Thought I’d pop in to see Mr Harold. Turns out Captain ate a
pack of nicotine laced transdermal patches that day at the park.
He’s recovering at the vets. But seriously babe, what happened to
your face?”

“None of your beeswax. I have to go, I’m running
late.”

I turn away but he steps forward and reaches his arm out. He
takes hold of my elbow and turns me back to face him. I look up to
meet his eyes and raise my eggplanted-eyebrow. I’m giving him my
most incensed look. Nobody touches me without being expressly
invited to do so,

“Can I
help
you?” I huff.

His eyes are bright with anxiety.

“If that pretty boy did this, I’ll kill him.”

Say what now?

“Admitting there’s a problem is the first step.”

I stand there like a mute bat, mouth slightly open, until I
register what he’s suggesting.

“Oh. Oh my gosh, no! This wasn’t the Spanish guy! Although it
was a very sweet offer to kill him, I might take you up that. That
cock doesn’t deserve air.”

“Or you. As in... deserve you. He doesn’t deserve
you…”

Blue suddenly looks flustered and takes his eyes off me. I’m
back to mute bat mode. Did he really just say what I think he said?
It’s as disconcerting as it is inconsistent. Now what am I meant to
say? I have no comeback to a stuttering nice guy.

We stand in uncomfortable silence. Then I notice he’s wearing
a shirt, trousers, nice black shoes…

“What are you up to today?” I ask, trying to sound
casual.

What the hell do you think you’re
doing?
Right brain
protests.

“No plans, I was going to DJ tonight but the gig’s been
cancelled. Why?”

Left Brain takes over. I take Blue’s hand,
leading him down the stairs and outside. Blue asks a stream of
questions on the way to the taxi but I stay quiet, pulling him
along. A whole dating history of never asking a guy on a date and
here I am, literally dragging one along. But screw it. I will not
go to this wedding alone. The battle of Angrypants vs. Jonesy lives
on! I know it seems petty and trivial to you guys but seriously,
I
cannot
rock up
to this thing alone today. Can’t,
won’t
, give Angrypants the
satisfaction.

Right Brain is now in full panic mode. It detests Blue and is
appalled at the indignity of willingly hanging out with him for the
day. To be fair, Left Brain hates him too, but I think Left brain
is still vulnerable from the Stand Up and is behaving irrationally.
As Right Brain starts to yell at me I realise I am going to have to
kill it with booze if I’m going to keep my sanity.

“Hi!” I say to the driver as I climb in, pulling a perplexed
Blue alongside me, “I’m sorry we’re so late. Would you mind if we
stop by a shop on the way? Immediately if not sooner.”

“Yessum,” the driver replies.

Blue is looking completely, utterly and totally
confused,

“Peanut, where are we going?”

“First we’re going to the shops. If there’s one thing
experience has taught me, no moment in life can’t be improved with
binge drinking and cheese. So we’re getting a case of scotch, a
block of cheddar the size of a bar battery, then kicking on to a
wedding. And by golly, we’re gonna have fun!”

He blinks.

“I’m flattered, but is it me you want to marry or would any
guy in your hallway have done?”

“Us? We’re not getting married! Are you insane?”

“You have a flower in your hair and you’re wearing white, what
am I supposed to think?”

Touche, Blue Eyes. Touche…

“Well, we’re not getting married. It’s my boss’ wedding, the
one person in the world who is more rude than yourself. It’s in
Brighton and if we leave now we might make it on time.”

The driver spots my local Sainsbury’s and parks out front. I
move to jump out but Blue offers to go instead. As he propels
himself out of the car door I start thinking it might have been a
ruse, and instead of buying me my scotch he’ll race down the
street, flailing his arms and yelling that he’s been abducted by a
desperate and dateless freak. But he doesn’t. He is back a few
minutes later with a six pack of Pepsi, a block of Country
Farmhouse, some Johnny Walker and to my absolute delight, a
Cornetto.

I think his shock has worn off because he looks happy now.
He’s smiling as he hands me the ice cream and says,

“My life experience? No moment in life can’t be improved with
ice cream.”

I’m touched as I gingerly accept the Cornetto. I manage a
quiet ‘thank you’ before feeling a tidal wave of humility wash over
me. I wasn’t expecting to being treated nicely by a guy today,
least of all this guy. What’s gotten into him?

“I gotta say Peanut, I like your style. Only the most extreme
drink hard liquor before noon.”

He holds out the Johnnie Walker to my free hand, the one that
isn’t holding the ice cream,

“So you want a drink?”

“What do you think?” I smile.

I take the bottle and place the ice cream on
the seat. Twisting the top open, I take my first sip. Wincing, I
balance the scotch between my knees and crack open a can of soda.
The fizz hisses and I take a gulp.
Ah.
That’s better
. The sugary sweetness has
killed the taste of boozehound invading my mouth. I hand Blue the
scotch and can of Pepsi, and again to my delight, he accepts and
takes a swig.

Rolling with the punches, I think I might like his style
too.

“You know babe,” he begins while gulping the Pepsi, “you
shouldn’t wear white to a wedding.”

Or not.

“Well you shouldn’t call someone babe unless
she’s your girlfriend, and you
definitely
shouldn’t tell a lady her
face looks like an eggplant.”

“You’re not a lady, and your face always looks like one
variety of vegetable or another. When you run it reminds me of a
tomato, when you get angry, a turnip. But most of the time you look
like a potato.”

I snatch the bottle back and take another swig.

An hour and a bit later, bottle of scotch a third empty, we’ve
almost reached Brighton. Empty Pepsi cans litter the back seat
along with a sticky Cornetto wrapper. I tried to make it less gluey
by licking the chocolatey remains off the paper, but that just made
it worse and left chocolate smears on my cheeks. The block of
cheddar has been hacked into by a set of hungry teeth (mine), but
it’s mainly been a car journey of scotch chased with pop. And it’s
been fucking fantastic.

As the city rolled into the country rolled
into the seaside, I found myself telling Blue about how my face got
eggplanted. He had congratulated me on standing up to a douche like
Rusty and said I had ‘spunk’. I assumed he meant a bold, brassy
attitude as opposed to a male bodily secretion. He told me about
the one and only time he got into a fight, which involved his
friend saying that
The Dark Knight
was trite and uninspired.

“So I punched him.
The Dark Knight
is the best superhero
movie of all time, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to
such slander.”

The near constant level of irritation that I
get around this guy has started to fade a little. But that might
just be the scotch talking. In fact, it is just the scotch talking.
I know it’s alcoholicy goodness is working its magic because (a)
I’ve stopped thinking about the Stranger (b) I seem to be able to
focus better with one eye closed and (c) I have a sudden urge to
confess that since I was four years old I’ve been in love with the
fox from Disney’s
Robin
Hood
. He still makes my pulse race despite
knowing full well that crushing on a cartoon animal is weird and
inappropriate. One day I’ll tell someone that embarrassing secret.
Even Chloe doesn’t know.

We roll up to Star of the Sea Church and unsteadily emerge
from the car. I hand the driver a wad of notes, apologise again for
being late and offer him the remainder of the scotch. He happily
accepts, which is odd because I’ve likely backwashed a decent
amount of cheese and ice cream. Driver tips his hat and wishes us a
good day.

The church is swimming a little as we walk in through the side
door. As we shuffle our way into an empty aisle the ceremony starts
with the organ’s standard introductory chords. The crowd stands to
attention. The groom (poor sod) and his groomsmen are at the front,
looking on nervously.

The three bridesmaids begin their parade and they’re
wearing...

Wow. I mean… I just… I don’t even... Wow.

I always knew Angrypants was a bit of a sadist, but this is an
evil more terrifying than even I could have imagined. Those three
pitiable girls are wearing the most disgusting dresses this side of
1989. Urine yellow, paisley, marshmallow shoulder padded fluff
balls, topped with teased hair and frosted make up. I ask myself
for the seventieth time today why I’m at a wedding of someone who
hates humans as much as the bride.

Oh that’s right, because she is my overlord and master and I
must obey.

As the second bridesmaid passes us I feel a
fluttering sensation in my chest. It turns into a cramp and
then…
hic!
A
hiccup shakes my ribcage, but I don’t make a sound. Damn. I forgot
brown spirits do this to me. Lest we forget the time I drank a few
whiskey ginger ales at an art opening and had to leave early, which
was a shame because I enjoy a bit of late Turner. I had hiccupped
so hard for so long that my body cramped like a cattle market and I
convinced myself I’d developed a brain clot.

Blue notices my body jerk, then jerk again. He turns his head
to look at me, a soft smile playing on his lips. I lean into him as
the third bridesmaid finishes her walk,

“Blue, I’ve got the ‘
hic
,’ hiccups!” I whisper worriedly,
covering my midsentence-hic with my hand.

He smiles and leans down to my ear,

“I didn’t think you got any cuter.”

My brain goes into analytical
overdrive.
He thinks I’m cute? When did he
start to think I was cute?
What, between
Sweet Dreams, booze sweats, the peanut costume and a black eye? How
can he think I’m cute if he doesn’t even like me? You don’t
constantly patronise and tease someone you like. Do
you?

For the first time since last Friday I look at him. As in I
really, really look at him. His hair isn’t curly nor straight, but
tousled. It’s rebelliously untidy but looks clean, and soft. His
jaw is roughened by blonde stubble. His blue eyes are on me, and
they’re sparkling liquid. They’re as deep and radiant as one of
those bottles of Sky vodka.

I turn away and distract myself by watching Angrypants making
her way down the aisle. She showed me plenty of pics of the dress
in the months leading up to today. It had taken her over a year to
pick the perfect design but the time and energy have clearly paid
off. It pains me to say this, but she looks mighty fine. The dress
hugs her slim waist then flows out. Diamonds sparkle at her
earlobes and around her neck. The veil is long and laced. She is a
vision, even with a couple of her trademark stress-wrinkles peeking
through under the layers of makeup. I try my hardest to be happy
for her, because being a hateful bitch is not a good look. I should
know, I’ve worked with one for five years.