Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (6 page)

Mum’s still in bed. It’s 2.15 p.m. If I let her sleep all day, she’ll never sleep tonight, and it’s horrible lying awake at night, but then it’s not nice being woken up in the day. What to do? I creep in the room and hover over her. The Victoria Beckham bob sticks, sweaty and matted, to one cheek along with most of last night’s black eye make-up, the rest of it is on my white pillow. The faint aroma of booze hangs over her. But I suddenly feel a surge of warmth towards my mum. She’s finally doing her own thing, away from my dad.

The main rule in our family household was that my dad made the rules. Growing up this didn’t strike me as odd because it was all I knew. But some of the things I remember from my childhood make me shiver now that I think about them as an adult. One particularly freaky situation can turn itself over and over in my head if I’m not careful. My mum used to have her own car. I remember how thrilled she was to have a car of her own. It was a little second-hand Vauxhall and every night when my father came home from work he would stand next to the Vauxhall and look through the window of the driver’s side. Then he would take a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and with a tiny pencil that was always sharp, he would note down her mileage. She literally had to justify every mile she travelled in that car. When the little Vauxhall died and went to motoring heaven years later, Mum said she didn’t want another car. I’m not surprised. We both lived in fear of my dad. I know that now. But when I was little I used to wish she’d stand up for me against him. God, it used to hurt me that she didn’t. For a long time I was angry with her. But I don’t have so much anger now, I feel more sad. She was just scared like me. Yet look at her now. Sleeping off a hangover in the afternoon. I almost feel a little proud. As if in response to thoughts of my father, my mum lets out a good, long, loud fart.

‘Oh, you dirty dog!’ I laugh.

She jolts awake, then slowly clutches her head. She emits a whispered squeak which sounds like, ‘H-e-e-e-l-l-p.’

‘You need painkillers and fluids.’ I pop the painkillers out of their silver wrappers and hand them to her with the Lucozade. ‘Come on, get these down you.’

‘What are they?’

‘Paracetamol or ibuprofen or something, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

She picks up the packet that lies on the bed, squints at it and then relents and takes the pills.

‘Now, you should brush your teeth, never underestimate the power of brushing your teeth when hungover.’

‘You should be a nurse,’ she says, shielding her eyes with her hand and wincing at the light my weak little 40-watt bulb is producing. I yank open one of my bedside table drawers and survey my sunglasses. I pick out my Dame Edna shades with the tiny green and purple feathers sticking out at the sides and slide them onto her face.

‘That better?’

She nods. Very slowly.

‘There we go, now you’re hanging in style. You know, I could be a nurse, a hangover nurse. I could hire myself out to hungover people. That’s actually not a bad idea. I’d make a fortune on New Year’s Day.’

‘How are we, ladies?’ Al says, leaning on the doorframe and regarding us both. ‘Mrs T, you look charming.’

Mum nods slowly once again.

‘I made some frittata.’

‘Ooh, yes, please.’ I smile.

Could there be a better flatmate than Al? There is nothing he cannot do with an egg.

‘He made frittata?’ Mother seems baffled.

‘Yes, he’s amazing at cooking.’

‘He’s a man and he made frittata?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why does that make me so very happy?’

‘And you haven’t even tried it yet. Wait until you try it and then see how happy it makes you.’

‘I couldn’t eat.’

‘Mum, you have to eat.’

‘I had a Mini Roll,’ she says, a little indignantly.

‘Well, I’ll leave it in the kitchen for you, Fan-Tastic.’

‘Thanks, Al.’

I love the way Al calls me Fan-Tastic or Fanny Fan-Tastic, and I have tried to make a superlative out of his name but I’ve always failed. Al-Azing? Sensation-Al? See. Rubbish.

Mum’s leaning back against the pillows with her shades on. It’s not so much a Victoria Beckham bob now, more like some bloke called Bob who fared pretty badly in a pub brawl.

‘Oh, Mum, you’ve been asked out,’ I say.

Mum’s eyebrows rise above her sunglasses.

‘Dr Flemming was wondering if you’d go to a Mozart by candlelight concert with him on Friday.’

‘Oh.’

It wasn’t an excited ‘oh’.

‘His number’s on the fridge, will you call him and say yes or no? When you can speak.’

Another very slow nod.

‘Mum, Matt proposed last night.’

She lifts her shades and sees my smile.

‘I said yes.’

‘You’re getting married.’

She sounds a little surprised. I can’t blame her. My dad used to say no one would ever marry me.

‘Yes. Soon. Matt wants to get on with it quickly.’

A little tear trickles down her smiling face and I feel myself relax for the first time since returning from Philippa’s. A tear and a smile. Now this is a much more healthy reaction to my wedding news.

‘Oh, you big softie, stop that crying.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs. ‘I just never thought I’d see you married.’

And on that flattering note I get up and leave the room to acquaint myself with Al’s frittata and finish my book.

‘What we drinking?’ Philippa says as we walk into the dingy gig venue. ‘Sod it, shall we Jägerbomb?’

‘Blimey,’ I say, because Philippa was on the bomb last night too.

‘Yes! See! See, what your impending nuptials are doing to me!’

We’re in Nunstone for the gig. Mum did get up, at 5.15 but was back in bed by 6.03. She said she needed to lie in a darkened room, and that I should go out and celebrate my proposal with my best friend. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not something that Philippa would ever contemplate celebrating. Anyway, I’m glad to be out and I’m glad it’s just the two of us.

‘My shout,’ I tell her and lean forward over the bar.

When Mum was lying in bed whimpering goodbye to me, she held out her arms as though she wanted to hug me. I didn’t know what to do. It would have felt very odd if I’d have gone to her. We haven’t been tactile as a family for years and years. I’m touchy-feely with everyone else in my life, except my mum and dad. Anyway, I pretended not to notice Mum’s wide arms and just said cheerio.

I lean further forward to try to get the bar girl to notice me. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Buttocks! There’s that bloke again. The bloke from the chemist. It’s him. Joe King. I don’t want to see him again. He is perched on a stool at the end of the bar in a deep discussion with a portly older man. He hasn’t spotted me. He looks serious and passionate about whatever he’s saying. The older man is nodding intently back. Ooh, now he’s made some joke. The older chap is slapping him on the back. They’re laughing. Proper laughing. None of the fake stuff. Real throw your head back, don’t care how it looks laughter. It makes me smile. He’s seen me. Damn. He’s caught me grinning like a loon in his direction. He’s stopped smiling. Well, you can’t blame him, I must look like a stalker. He’s still staring at me though. Oh, now, my breathing’s gone all funny, shallow and quick. Do I look away? Oh, I hate this, I don’t know what to do.

‘Fan, what you playing at? You just missed the bar girl, she was right by you,’ Philippa says, smacking me on the bottom.

‘Oh, bum cheeks, sorry.’

I look back at Joe but his seat is empty now. Thank goodness for that. Back to normality. Now concentrate, Jen. I focus on the bar girl, trailing her with my eyes so she comes to me next time.

‘Two Jägerbombs, please.’

‘Hi.’ It’s him. I recognise the voice. It’s quite a sensational voice. I feel his breath on my neck. I turn. Woah, our faces are close. Gosh, he’s just… beautiful. I am so glad I got rid of the golden guinea pig this afternoon.

‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’

‘Ur, huh, humm, humm,’ I say. Brilliant. Meet man. Lose power of speech.

He smiles. I smile too. It’s not my fault. His was infectious.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

Better, Jenny. Better.

‘Nah, best leave it till after. I’ve had a few beers already.’

‘Oh, yeah, course.’ I don’t know why I said course. I don’t know what he’s on about. But we’re looking into each other’s eyes. Wow, his are greeny blue with brown flecks in them.

‘Sorry, this is Philippa, the bestest friend a girl could wish for,’ I say, leaving his gaze and passing her a drink.

‘Hi. I’m Joe. Joe King. Brilliant feat of naming by my parents.’

I love how he immediately comments upon his name before others have the chance to. I suppose it’s like me calling myself Fanny. I could have insisted that everyone call me Jenny. But actually Jenny Taylor was bullied and she became Fanny. My name is so much a part of my experience that I may as well acknowledge it. Sometimes I feel a little proud that I’m called Fanny. It’s like putting a belated middle finger up to the bullies. Perhaps that’s why Joe King makes light of his name too.

Philippa holds her drink in front of her open mouth.

‘Right, I better get up on stage. Enjoy the show,’ Joe says.

Now my mouth is hanging open. He’s only in the band.

‘Well, shit a brick.’ Philippa exclaims after he’s gone. ‘Did you not feel that sexual chemistry?’

‘Oh, wow, yeah, he seems really nice. You should go for it.’

‘Not with me!’ She throws her head back and shakes it. ‘With you! You tool! The bloody sexual chemistry between you two! Even I need a lie down. You must be on fire. Bloody hell, Fan! Oh, my God!’ She starts laughing.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I met him earlier in the chemist, that’s all.’

‘Shut up, you. Let’s just see what this very interesting night has in store.’

We knock back our drinks and then move into the crowd.

I’d go out to a gig or a club with Philippa every night if I could. I love experiencing the dark hours in rooms with loud music and no windows, my best friend leaping sweatily about at my side. This hasn’t always been the case. When we first started to go out to clubs and gigs, Philippa and I would shuffle about on the edges of the dance floor desperately trying to fit in and not make prats of ourselves. But after about six months of regularly doing this we realised that we weren’t really having a good time. We loved putting music on at home and going bananas to it, we could do that for hours. So we thought that nightclubs would be fun like that, but with more people and without us having to do the music and pour our own drinks. But when we did eventually get let inside we became too self-conscious to have a good time. Anyway, rather than give up on them altogether we decided to pretend we were in Philippa’s bedroom and vowed not to give a stuff what people thought of us. It took us a while, but eventually we mastered it. We found that alcohol helped. Although, the correct dose took us time to establish. The key is to drink enough to feel uninhibited, but not too much so you lurch into people. Lurching into people when wearing high heels isn’t a good idea. It causes injuries, as Philippa discovered on her twenty-fourth birthday, when she sprained someone’s ankle.

Nowadays, our gig etiquette is nothing short of perfection. We let rip and dance, although when we say dance we don’t mean it in the MTV sense of the word. We don’t do restrained conventional dance moves. We do throwing our bodies about in whichever way feels good at the time. Our first mission is always to create some space for ourselves on the floor, because when things get going we like room to move. We do this now, both falling into the classic rock march and nod of the head, trying to claim a bit of sacred dance floor space for ourselves. When the track finishes, Philippa leans toward me and whispers in my ear.

‘To fervent sexual chemistry and wherever it may lead.’

‘Philippa!’ I protest, just as the lights black out and a spotlight falls on Joe King’s face up on the stage. He’s got his eyes closed in a perfect pained rock expression. He starts singing on his own. No music. ‘I want you,’ he starts. It’s an Elvis Costello song. I love this song. Philippa and I do a good version of this too, no tune or rhythm but plenty of passion. Philippa screams when she realises what the song is and puts her arm around me.

Joe King starts playing the guitar which hangs around his neck and the lights go up on the drummer and the bass player as they join him. We separate, Philippa starts playing her air guitar. I do my rock stomp with head bob, arms in the air, mouthing the words.

‘Do your whistle! Do your whistle!’ Philippa nudges me when everyone’s screaming at the end of the song.

‘It’s a wolf whistle.’

‘Just do it.’

I do some wolf whistles as instructed.

‘Hello, Tiddlesbury!’ Joe roars. Everyone laughs. We’re in Nunstone. Bless him. I do another wolf whistle. Joe spots me and puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles back at me. The sound screeches through the speakers and causes the whole audience to groan.

‘Sorry, what could I do? She’s beautiful.’ He shrugs in apology. I worry Philippa might combust with delight.

The band crashes into another song and in seconds we’re all jumping around again. At the end of the song Joe waits for the screaming to subside.

‘This one’s for my new friend,’ he says, and then gives me the shyest of smiles.

‘It’s Kings of Leon. Oh, my God! It’s “Use Somebody”!’ Philippa, now exploded, screams. ‘He could use someone like you. He’s wooing you!’

I freeze there on the dance floor. I don’t think I should see this man again. Well, truthfully, I’d very much like to see this beautiful man again. But I really don’t think it would be a good idea.

‘I like this love story,’ Philippa whispers and she hugs me. But I shake my head. I’m happy with the love story I’m writing with Matt.

Although the second time I met Matt couldn’t have been more different than this. The second time I met Matt was more weirdy weird than the first. Again it probably wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for the Smiling Fanny Manifesto. Point number seven is ‘do ten minutes of exercise every day’ and because of this, I now regularly go running. I say running, but slowly shuffling about in trainers might be a better term to describe it. I started just doing ten minutes like Philippa instructed, but somewhere along the line I found myself doing it for longer and longer and really starting to enjoy it. I loved that I could just drift away with my thoughts and suddenly find that I was nearly in Nunstone. I say nearly in Nunstone, what I mean is two miles out on the road to Nunstone. I should make that clear. Nunstone is after all seven miles away and then I’d have to get back again. Anyway, I normally go after work if I’m not doing anything else. It clears away the day and always makes me hungry for dinner, and I feel I’ve earned a glass of wine. So one evening I was slowly shuffling in my trainers along the Nunstone Road, which gets quite pretty once you’ve passed Homebase. I had just turned off the main road because I normally cut down a rural track and then do a circuit of a field and come back on myself. A car was parked against the gate to the field and I was quite excited that it might be some people dogging. So I slowed my pace. I’d never come across anybody dogging before and I’d been looking out for them. I’d hoped that might be another one of the endless benefits to taking regular exercise outside. So I slowed down and I realised that no one was dogging, more’s the pity, it was just a chap who’d pulled over to have a pee right by the gate that I needed to get through. Closer inspection told me that the man was on the phone. Not nice is it, to wee while you’re on the phone to someone? I don’t care how important the call is. Anyway, I had to come close to him to get to the gate so I ducked by him and went through the gate. But as I did so I looked at his willy. Because why not? And then I tutted. But it was very quiet. Tuts in the open air get easily lost, so I tutted louder.

‘It’s not nice to wee while you’re on the phone to someone,’ I said, but I didn’t look back.

‘I was on hold,’ he responded, a bit huffily. But then he added, ‘Nice legs, by the way.’

I turned around then and looked, because I was single after all.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said.

He looked disappointed with me too. But then, presumably because I was on that freaky high you get after exercise, I started chanting ‘You like my legs! You like my legs!’ in that sing-songy way that children do, and jumping about. And then he said, very seriously and stupendously sexily, ‘You have the most incredible legs I’ve ever seen.’ Then I ran off. But I was chuffed, because say what you want to about Matt, you cannot deny that he has leading-man good looks. I was so chuffed I ran much further than I normally do.

But the second time I meet Joe King he calls me beautiful and sings a song to me. I’ll never admit it to Philippa but this is the sort of thing that happens at the start of a love story. It would be an easier one to tell your kids than ‘daddy was weeing by the gate and I ran past’. Not that I’m comparing Matt with Joe King.

No, course not.

You’ve met the bloke twice. He sings in a band. He’s probably got syphilis. You’re getting married. And, anyway, those sort of love stories are always beset by disaster. Pull self together, JT, NOW!