Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (5 page)

I have never seen a hangover like it. This is the stuff of legends. I’m almost tempted to borrow Al’s new video camera and capture it on film. My mother could be a one-woman government campaign for sensible drinking. This morning, she got up to go to the bathroom. The bathroom that is next door to my room and it took her seven minutes to get there. All in all it was a half hour round trip and she made little whimpering sounds for the duration.

‘Mum,’ I whispered.

‘Er, huh, huh,’ she mewled.

‘Are you upset?’ I asked. I was worried she was crying. She left her husband of twenty-seven years yesterday and I can’t imagine snogging someone at Bomber last night made the single life seem hugely attractive.

‘Nooooo,’ she whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m concentrating.’

I had to strain my ears to hear her. ‘On what?’

There was quite a pause. ‘On everything,’ she croaked.

I ransacked the flat for all the hangover sustenance I could find. I came up with two paracetamol, two ibuprofen, a Lucozade energy drink, a chocolate Mini Roll, a bag of Mini Cheddars and a bell. I left all these by her bed and told her to ring the bell if she wanted Al to make her a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, Al would hear the bell and make the sandwich, no words needed to be spoken. Ringing the bell will be a traumatic experience for her, but it was the best I could do. She really should think about getting her own mobile for this purpose.

I am on an urgent mission. I’m on my way to see Philippa. I tried to call her this morning but she wasn’t picking up. Now she might well be in the same state as Mother or, and this is a horrible thought I can’t shake, she doesn’t want to talk to me because I am going to marry Matt. We really need to speak about this. I need her to be happy for me. I can’t fall out with her. I’d be lost without her. She has to be my bridesmaid and we need to start thinking dresses. I’m going to quickly pop into the chemist and buy us both a lipgloss of appeasement. I’m also going to get some man-tache cream. It’s got to go. After the chemist I’m going straight to Philippa’s and I’m not going to leave until we two are completely in shiny-lipped harmony.

In Tiddlesbury we have a Boots pharmacy, which everyone goes to, and one independent chemist, which only I ever go to. I go to it mainly because I feel sorry for the Robinsons, who own it, because I predict they will be out of business very soon, but also because a friend of mine, Leah, works on the till at the back, and she always, always has gossip, even if it turns out to be outlandishly false, which it does most of the time.

I stride along Tiddlesbury High Street in my biker boots. I’m wearing my favourite denim miniskirt and my blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt that I cut into a vest one particularly hot day. I walk into the chemist. It’s empty as ever. It used to be lovely in here, with a long rickety wooden counter and old-fashioned display cabinets, but they updated it a few years back and now it’s glaring lights and plastic like everywhere else. I apply some purple ‘disco elf’ lipstick, pick out two plumping lipglosses and spend ages deciding on an upper lip hair removal cream. As with all lady products, I don’t go for the cheapest, or the most expensive. (How much? For that minuscule tube?) I opt for something in the middle. When I get to Leah’s counter at the back, there’s no sign of her and the radio out back starts playing Kings of Leon, ‘Sex On Fire’.

‘Leah, it’s only me. Come for the local tales of lust and depravity and something to sort out the guinea pig on my upper lip. Ooh, turn this up, will you, gossip monger, I love this track.’

She does so.

‘Thank you,’ I shout above the intro.

I raise my hands in the air and start my rock march when the beat comes in. I haven’t had a good dance for ages. Philippa and I always go a bit bonkers to this one when they play it at Bomber. We know all the words and do very good pained rock voices. I’ll air mime for Leah, now. I’m not a great singer or dancer but what I lack in ability I make up for in volume and comedic overacting. I think she’ll enjoy the performance. After all, she works in the chemist in Tiddlesbury so could do with all the fun she can get. By the time it gets to the chorus I’m on my knees, eyes closed, screeching the lyrics.

‘I love this track. When they play it at Bomber Philippa and I get very creative, you should come one night,’ I pant.

‘Maybe I will,’ says a voice that’s definitely not Leah’s. It’s a bloke’s voice.

‘Wha —?’

I look towards the counter and there stands a man. And he is… he is… wow, he is so amazing I seem to have lost the power of thought. Where do I begin? He looks like a rock star, like, seriously, the bloke standing by the counter in the chemist of Tiddlesbury looks as though he could be
in
Kings of Leon. He’s wearing tight jeans, but wearing them well, he’s not fallen into that pit of twat that most men tend to when they attempt skinny jeans, biker-type boots and, you will not believe this. You won’t. You can’t. I must be hallucinating. He’s wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and he’s cut off the sleeves. His skin is a colour… I don’t know what colour exactly, but the right colour. Not mottled white, not too tan. It’s creamy. Creamy, that’s it. He’s got creamy skin and it looks smooth to the touch. And he has muscles, but not in a steroidy way. His hair is a mess, as only men can ever pull off. It’s brown, mousy brown, I’d say. And his face. His lovely face! His eyes are smiling eyes, and he has full lips, which is worth pointing out because many men don’t, and freckles. I love freckles on men. I think I might be blushing.

‘Where’s Leah?’ I croak.

‘Her mum’s been taken ill in Sh…’ he stops. ‘Somewhere beginning with Sh.’

‘Oh, yeah. Sh-sh…’ I start. ‘Sh-sh,’ I carry on, but then realise that I have no idea what I’m on about and stop.

‘She left suddenly last night apparently. And I’ve just moved into town and I was stopping by the shops in the High Street to see if there were any vacancies and they hauled me straight in.’

He’s very chatty. For a man. It’s lovely.

‘I’m Joe, by the way. Joe King’s the name. School was fun.’

My mouth falls open. I close it quickly.

‘I’m Jenny. Jenny Taylor. School was a riot.’

We stare at each other for a moment.

‘Everyone calls me Fanny.’

‘I used to get called twat a fair bit.’

We stare at each other again. We seem to be doing more than the usual amount of staring at each other.

‘Wow,’ he says.

That’s just what I was thinking.

‘Hmm.’

‘Traumatised teenage years locked in your bedroom writing maudlin poetry?’

‘No, traumatised teenage years locked in my bedroom crying…’

‘Ah.’

‘And watching comedians to cheer me up.’

‘Good. I don’t like to think of you locked in a room crying, not when you are so clearly a rock legend.’

‘Ah, ha. Yes. That has been said before.’

‘I’m sure it has. You know the Kings of Leon song I love?’

‘“Use Somebody”,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yeah.’

‘I really like that one too.’

‘Wow.’ He nods. ‘Nice T-shirt by the way.’

‘Yes, I have very good taste.’

I smile. And then he smiles. And… his smile is… what’s his smile like? It’s like sunshine. It’s not toothpaste ad but more the slightly lopsided, unbridled smile of a child. I think it might be the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

We stare at each other
again
. I’m still kneeling on the floor, which is just as well, because that is a smile to make knees weaken and women collapse. I try to get up without showing him my pants. I manage it. But then once I’m up I remember that I am holding upper lip hair removal cream and have been since we started chatting. I can’t lose the cream now, unless I just drop everything and flee. This isn’t fair. There should be an EU rule about attractive young men being allowed to work in chemists.

‘Um, just these, please,’ I say, holding out the cream and lipglosses. He takes them from me. His slightly calloused fingers touch my hand and I feel a churning in my tummy. Actually the sensation isn’t just in my tummy, it’s in an area lower than my tummy too. Oh. My. God. Joe King is making my bits twitch.

I pay and flee. When I’m halfway down the street I stop and look at my hand. It’s trembling. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to start going to the Boots pharmacy.

I met Philippa at school. Meeting Philippa is probably the best thing that has ever happened in my life. She started there two weeks into the fourth year. She stood next to me in assembly on that first day. I didn’t say hello to her. I disliked school and school really disliked me. I particularly disliked assembly because it was when I’d get my nickname for the day. Michelle Cullet (who is now Michelle Wilmot, because she married a bloke called Steve Wilmot, who was also in our year and broke my heart) would be at the other end of the row and would start it off. It would get whispered along the row of students until it reached me.

Philippa turned to me that morning in assembly. Her pretty face was scrunched up and her top lip was raised.

‘I think I have to say “minge” to you,’ she whispered.

I nodded resignedly and we turned our attention back to the headmaster who was standing on the stage in front of us. Only, after a few moments, she turned back to me again, still wearing a baffled expression.

‘Why?’

‘It’s my nickname for the day.’

Again she nodded and again we turned back to face the headmaster.

‘Why?’ she asked again.

‘My name is Jenny Taylor,’ I told her wearily. ‘It sounds like genitalia. Every day I get a new nickname.’

We turned back round and I could tell that Philippa was thinking about what I’d said.

‘But that’s not even funny,’ she said.

‘It’s about as funny as…’ and I really wanted to quote something that Blackadder said to Baldrick about something being as funny as being poked in the eye with a pointy thing but I couldn’t remember what it was exactly so I just said, ‘It’s about as funny as walking across hot coals to get to a Robbie Williams concert only to find it’s been cancelled.’

And she said, and this is when I fell in love with Philippa, ‘Why was it cancelled?’

‘Because Robbie had been to a barbecue and eaten a partially cooked chicken drumstick.’

For some reason at that moment we looked straight into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. The headmaster gave us both an after-school detention. But, quite literally, since that exchange we’ve been inseparable.

Philippa works for the twice-weekly local paper the
Tiddlesbury Times
, writing news stories. She wants to be a writer. Or should I say Philippa will be a writer. She has already written one novel which, and I am not being biased, is brilliant. It’s a story for teenagers about a girl who is horribly bullied at school, but she meets this friend, and together, apparently, or so she tells me, they outwit the bullies and become the cool people at their school. It’s based entirely on my and Philippa’s experiences at school except for the bit where they outwit the bullies and become really cool.

She still lives with her dad. I don’t blame her for still living with her dad at twenty-seven. Not only is theirs a beautiful house, tall, Victorian, with fireplaces in each room, but Philippa has the whole top floor to herself. And, best of all, Philippa’s dad’s house has a garden, which, as soon as there’s any sign of sun, Philippa and I lie in, partially clothed, clutching a Pimm’s. Philippa’s dad is a legend. He’s the main GP at my surgery – Dr Flemming. He helped me get my job there years ago. I love him to bits.

He answers the door to me now.

‘Jenny! Small cheer and great welcome!’ He smiles. He’s charmingly eccentric is Dr Flemming. He is very clever, he does cryptic crosswords and reads Shakespeare for fun. I don’t know what he’s going on about most of the time. He’s very jolly in a bobbing way. His smiling face always seems to be bouncing in different directions. He’s taller than you’d expect Philippa’s dad to be, but he does have lots of raven hair; you can definitely tell they’re related.

‘Hello!’ I give him a hug. I’ve hugged him for years. Strange, as I can’t think when I last hugged my own father.

‘Now, then, Jenny, do you think your mother might be able to bear coming to a concert with me?’

‘Oh, how nice, I’m sure she would.’

‘Well, perhaps you’d ask her for me. Friday night, Mozart by candlelight.’

‘How lovely, that sounds right up her street,’ I say. He doesn’t need to know that last night she trundled up the snogging and Jägerbomb footpath.

No, Mozart by candlelight with nice Dr Flemming sounds like a much more suitable evening for Mother.

‘Philippa’s up top,’ Dr Flemming says, walking back to his study.

I climb to the top of the house.

‘Hey,’ I call, knocking on her door. The TV’s on, I hear her turn it down. I poke my head in. She’s still in her pyjamas. Philippa sees absolutely no point in getting dressed unless she has to leave the house.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ she says flatly. Her arms are crossed tightly against her chest.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing,’ she says with a humph.

‘Philippa, why have you got the hump?’

‘I can’t believe you said yes.’

‘You what?’

‘I can’t believe you said yes!’

Philippa is shouting at me. We never shout at each other.

‘Is that congratulations?’

‘No, it sodding isn’t!’

‘Philippa, Jesus, calm down.’

‘I can’t calm down! My best friend is making the biggest mistake of her life.’

‘But I want to get married.’

‘Not to Matt! God, not to Matt. I thought you two were going to split up soon. Not marry each other.’

‘What’s wrong with Matt?’

‘Everything!’

‘Matt’s a good man. He may not be perfect. But I think I’ve done quite well.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Why do you love him?’

‘Well.’ I shrug.

‘Come on, what do you love about Matt?’

‘Well, he’s tall.’

‘Oh, well then, forgive me. Now it all makes sense. Now that you’ve explained that life-long commitment is based on height.’

‘Wait, you’re not letting me think. He’s handsome.’

‘Well, I’ll give you that. I don’t agree, but I’ll give you that. What else?’

‘Look, I love him. Course I love him. I’m going to marry him.’

Woah. Joe King’s face suddenly popped into my head.

‘Philippa, course I love him.’

She sighs and sits on the bed.

‘I just…’ She sighs again. ‘Marrying Matt. It never occurred to me.’ She shakes her head and sighs yet again.

‘Stop sighing.’

She sighs, really dramatically this time.

I make a moaning sound.

‘Ah, do I hear the excited squeals of a best friend marrying the man of her dreams?’

‘Will you be bridesmaid?’

‘I suppose.’ She shrugs, but I think I see a flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

‘You just smiled.’

‘It slipped out. I was thinking about dresses. I don’t want to get carried away thinking about dresses. A dress does not a happy marriage make.’

‘Oh, please, get carried away thinking about dresses with me. Please.’

‘This is really hard for me, Fan.’

‘It’s harder for me. This is supposed to be a happy time and you’re shouting at me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘We are cool, aren’t we?’

‘We’ll always be cool.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes.’

We hug. But it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t
feel
cool. It’s as though something has shifted between the two of us and the pain of it is making my eyes sting.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ I muster.

‘There’s a gig on in Nunstone, if you fancy it.’

‘I’ve got Mum staying, I don’t think I can leave her for a second night.’

‘Shall we do the Tiddlesbury Tour for her tomorrow?’

‘But she knows Tiddlesbury already!’

‘She hasn’t been here for years, though.’

Mum and Dad moved away from the area about a year after I left school.

‘Okay,’ I nod, more because I want to spend time with Philippa than show the tour to my mum.

‘What’s the dress code?’

‘I think air hostesses works best.’

‘Your mum likes
Countryfile
, she was telling me last night, maybe we could do wellies and wool.’

‘Ooh, I like it.’

‘Anyway, we’ll decide tomorrow.’

‘My mum’s staying with me. I can’t believe it,’ I say as I walk to the door.

‘I can. Your mum married the wrong man and eventually left him twenty-seven years later.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ I say quickly. I have to go or she’ll make me cry.