Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (11 page)

I slam the half empty Smirnoff Ice on the bar and hurry out in search of the toilet.

I won’t detail what goes on in the course of the next few minutes.

Suffice to say I am granted some small relief from the discomfort in my undercarriage by the application of cool water and warm air.

Those multi-directional hand dryers are a Godsend, I can tell you.

There’s no way I intend to spend another minute dodging Angelo and speed dating another eight single men tonight, so I head out of the toilet (nearly crashing into Mr Artichoke as I do) and make a bee line for the exit, hoping and praying Angelo doesn’t spot me.

I let out an audible sigh of relief as I leave The Cheetah Lounge.

I don’t even mind that it’s started to rain like crazy.

When you’ve just been sat in a hard wooden chair with the itchiest bottom in the known universe, getting soaking wet in a downpour is almost a pleasant experience.

I spent altogether far too much money on suitable ointments and creams the next day in Boots.

Love you and miss you Mum,

Your relatively comfortable daughter, Laura.

xx

Jamie’s Blog

Thursday 19 May

Somebody once said that a woman only comes your way when you’re not looking for her.

After my experience today, I’d say a woman only comes your way when you’re minding your own business doing a bit of shopping and she runs you down on a clapped out moped.

Her name is Laura and despite her attempts to murder me with a Vespa I gave her my phone number.

Yes indeed, it has come to the point when I’m willing to give potential homicidal maniacs a chance if it means I might get laid.

In fear of you tutting with disgust and moving on to a blog written by somebody less pathetic, I will now attempt to justify my actions:

I woke up this morning with the overwhelming urge to spend money on new pants.

Sadly, I had an entire day of work to get through before being able to sally forth into the local Primark, so had to wait a full eight hours before getting my hands on ten new pairs of knock-off Calvin
Kleins
.

With a hop, skip and a jump I left the office at
five thirty
and drove into town to take full advantage of the Thursday late night shopping hours.

While the purchasing of pants was my main aim, I was also after something to liven up my living room, which has been looking depressingly empty for some time now.

I’m reliably informed that plants are always a welcome and attractive addition to anyone’s house, so I went in search of something suitable.

Whether or not the six foot rubber plant I wound up purchasing could be considered ‘suitable’ is something you’ll have to decide for yourself.

It was certainly a bugger to shift…

I always make terrible decisions like this when presented with too much choice.

I stood in front of more decorative flora than you can shake a stick at, wondering which one would look best in my front room window. At least ten minutes went by before I decided to go for the biggest bargain.

As the rubber plant was half price I dragged it over to the till and slapped down twenty quid.

I also made the schoolboy error of buying a large item before I’d done the rest of my shopping, so I had to negotiate Primark carrying my brand new green monstrosity, trying my hardest not to concuss the collection of reprobates that shop there with a huge, rubbery leaf.

It wasn’t easy I can tell you.

I had one near miss with a walrus of a woman covered in tattoos. I’m fairly sure she could have broken me in half over one knee, so it was just as well I managed to divert the flailing plant away from her head as she stood deciding which pair of combat trousers to buy for three quid.

Primark is a dichotomy of a high street store.

It sells everything at dirt cheap prices, yet you always manage to spend far too much money while you’re in there.

It’s just so hard to resist a bargain, isn’t it?

I picked up my ten pairs of fake Calvin Klein boxer shorts – along with four two quid t-shirts, two pairs of jeans for a
tenner
, a pair of cargo shorts for seven, some cheap looking gym trainers for nine, four short-sleeved work shirts for sixteen, and an absolutely disgusting Hawaiian shirt (perfect for a fancy dress party I’ve got coming up) for six.

So now I’m trying to negotiate a busy store carrying a gigantic rubber plant and enough clothes to fit out an entire African village.

I get to the cash desk without committing any acts of rubbery assault and plonk down my purchases.

The acne ridden depressive behind the counter spends a few moments deciding whether to charge me for the rubber plant, before deciding that Primark probably hasn’t expanded into the horticulture sector and starts scanning and bagging my other wares.

‘That’ll be seventy six pounds please sir,’ it utters in the tones of one sick of living.

Seventy six bloody quid!?

This is Primark isn’t it?

How the hell can I have spent that much in sodding
Primark
?

Not entirely sure I haven’t been conned, I hand over my debit card and start to regret my tendency to impulse buy.

I only came out for some pants.

I’ve now spent almost a hundred quid on a massive plant and a wardrobe of clothing produced by malnourished five year olds in a tin shack.

Out I stumble into the mild evening air, rubber plant in one hand slapping me in the face with every step I take, bulging recyclable bag of horrendous garments in the other.

I leave the pedestrian part of the shopping centre, my arms starting to ache under the weight as I amble along.

As the Green Cross Code man terrified me as a child, I stop like a good boy at the kerb and look both ways before walking across the road in the direction of the car.

This is the perfect time for the recyclable Primark bag to break.

Both handles give way under the weight of my new purchases and the bag drops to the tarmac, spilling its contents.

‘Bollocks!’ I tell the whole street.

This is when Laura McIntyre enters my life… and nearly ends it in short order.

Laura’s Diary

Thursday, May 19th

Dear Mum,

You may remember a conversation we had when I was thirteen, when I told you how I’d like to meet my future husband.

I don’t remember all the details, but I’m sure there was a desert island involved, along with a gleaming white stallion and a box of chocolates larger than my head.

Teenage girls are simple creatures, so I guess the rampant clichés were to be expected.

Fast forward fifteen years and cold, hard reality has set in.

I’m not really bothered if there’s a desert island anymore, horses tend to smell bad anyway, and the box of chocolates would mean another month in the gym.

Frankly I’d settle for meeting my future husband without suffering embarrassment, personal injury or high financial expense.

I
did
meet a guy today Mum, and while I didn’t spend much money, it was
bloody
embarrassing and I only just avoided serious personal injury by the skin of my teeth.

It started with panic.

I’m not usually a forgetful person, but it’s been a hard few weeks at the shop and my mind’s been full of stock returns, balance sheets and advertising space, so I hope I could be forgiven for forgetting my God daughter’s birthday, surely?

It was mortifying.

I walk in the door at
six o’clock
virtually dead on my feet, with plans to spend an exquisite evening doing absolutely bugger all, stretched out on the sofa watching soap operas. My flatmate Charlie is away for the week with her new boyfriend, so I have the luxury of an empty apartment.

Then, as I pass the fridge, I spot the picture of me, Melina and her beautiful little girl Hayley, taken at
Thorpe
Park
last year – and my heart stops.

It’s
Hayley’s
fourth birthday tomorrow! I haven’t bought her anything!

I’m invited to the party that starts straight after closing at
six o’clock
. With my current workload I’ll have no chance to get out tomorrow and buy something before it.

I can’t just pull something out of stock, as my chocolate is squarely aimed at the adult market. I can’t see Hayley being all that impressed with a luxury praline gift box or truffle selection – at least not until she hits her twenties.

There’s nothing for it, I’ll have to go back out now and get over to Toys R Us before it shuts.

This would be enough of a chore if my car was working, but it’s still knackered thanks to the ongoing saga of the head gasket, so I’ve got no transport.

I’ll have to get a taxi.

Then my eyes fall on the bowl of keys by the microwave.

One set belongs to Charlie. On it is the key to her 1982 Vespa moped.

Charlie has been nursing this monstrosity around for the best part of a decade. Not quite vegetarian enough to ride a push bike everywhere, Charlie has nevertheless decided that riding round on a clapped out scooter is better for the environment than owning an evil, polluting car.

I’m reminded of a conversation we had a few weeks ago:

‘You should have a go sometime, Laura. You’re more than welcome,’ Charlie says to me.

‘Yeah… maybe.’

I have no intention of ever taking her up on the offer.

Until today.

I could (and should) just order a taxi, but things are tight at the moment money-wise, so I could do without the extra expense – especially because I’ll probably end up spending a small fortune on
Hayley’s
present.