Pride and Premiership (20 page)

I slipped into the leopard-print Vivienne Westwood dress I’d bought from Stylissimo the other day. Leah, the shop assistant, said it was the sexiest dress of the season. And she must have been right because Robbie’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I strutted up to him as he was about to leave and said, “What do you think?”

“Fuck me. Who are you trying to impress?”

“You don’t want me walking around like a tramp now, do you?” I said cheekily, stealing Paris’s line.

“No, course not,” he mumbled.

And methinks I detected a twinge of insecurity.

This is about to be one epic entry, because last night was PURE DRAMA. Such a shame – it started perfectly. Paris had booked a limo. Not just any limo, but a big fat Hummer! I screamed when it turned into the drive.

“Paris, you’re the best!” I said when I got in. She was sitting with her back to the driver, a champagne flute in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Anna Hargreaves was beside her, and the rest of the girls all sat facing each other. The plush, pink seats had a purple trim, and the luminous tube lights that ran along the roof and floor of the limo flashed both colours.

Wicked.

I took a seat next to Charlotte Murray, and then Paris leant over, handed me a glass and filled it with champagne.

“Now, girls,” she said, raising her glass to the roof, “we’re going to show them arseholes that we can have a bloody good time too.”

“Yay!” we all cried like a bunch of St Trinian’s schoolgirls. Then we lifted our glasses. “Cheers!”

In the car were Anna Hargreaves (the goalkeeper’s wife – who seems to have forgiven me for Will calling her husband a muppet), Becky Robinson, Charlotte Murray, Claire Cunningham and, of course, Paris. I was the youngest there, followed by Becky (20), Claire (22), Charlotte (24) and Paris and Anna, who are both 25.

I’ve lived in London all my life, but in the past few months I’ve realized there are two Londons – one for people with money and another for those with diddly squat. Sketch, the restaurant we ate in, is for people with cash – tons and tons of it. The bill was £80 a head! Glad Kellie wasn’t there – she’d have gone ballistic. The thing is, when she did join us it was clear she was determined to spoil the night. Yes, OK, the wives and girlfriends did talk about the carats of their diamond rings and name-check their designer clothes, shoes and handbags. And, no, we shouldn’t have gone along with Paris’s idea to go to every flash club in the West End until we “accidentally” bumped into the boys. But as I explained to Kellie, it wasn’t the boys we didn’t trust, it was those bloody WAG wannabes. And if she hadn’t been so set on wrecking the night, maybe she would’ve understood that.

“This is pa-the-tic!” she said when we’d done a quick five-minute search of our third nightclub – and left once we’d realized the boys weren’t there.

“Shush, Kel!” I said. The limo had just drawn up to ferry us to another club and the rest of the girls were up ahead, congregated on the pavement and about to step in.

“No, I won’t shut up. If they don’t trust their husbands and boyfriends, they shouldn’t bloody be with them! And I’m NOT getting in that ridiculous limo, either,” she said, folding her arms like a spoilt three-year-old.

“Come on, Kel, you’re making a scene. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with ME? What’s wrong with YOU, more like? I remember when you wanted to do something with your life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“No, I haven’t,” I protested.

“You have. When’s the last time you even thought about owning your own salon?”

“It’s different now. There’s no time for all that.”

“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t look like you – or any of your new friends – do jackshit to me,” she replied. “Oh sorry, I take that back. Except for … SHOP!”

“That’s out of order, Kel.”

“I’m calling it like I see it,” she said. “And they’ve talked about nothing but clothes all night.”

“It’s no different from what we used to do,” I pointed out.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” she argued. “We used to talk about clothes that we wished we could afford – that’s dreaming. They talk about the clothes they’ve already bought – that’s just showing off.”

“You know what?” I said. “Maybe Malibu’s right and you
are
just jealous of me.”

“Malibu? Don’t get me started on that liar! One minute she’s talking about holding out for eight weeks, the next she’s three months pregnant by someone she’s only known for three months.”

“So?” I said, getting angry.

“So do the maths, Remy – she probably slept with Gary on the first night.”

Before I could answer, Paris shouted for us to get into the limo.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

“What, so we can try to find your blokes? No, thanks. I’ve had enough of your crap – and your sister’s.” And she walked off.

In the limo I kept thinking about what she’d said, but then suddenly James called, screaming and crying. I couldn’t make out much, except that he was on Greek Street in Soho and he’d been beaten up. That was really close to where we were.

“Stop the car!” I shrieked at the driver.

“Remy, what’re you doing?” Paris asked.

“I’ve got to go.”

“But you can’t – it’s raining!”

“I don’t care,” I said, then jumped out of the limo and ran through the streets in my leopard-print Vivien Westwood dress and killer heels until I found James sitting on the pavement, sobbing.

He looked a sight. Apart from the fact that he was soaked, his left eye was a mini red balloon and his face was covered in blood. I threw myself down beside him on the wet pavement and put my arms around him.

“What happened, babe?”

James tried to hold in his sobs as he explained that a group of boys had been shouting insults at him – poofter, fag, homo and the like. In the end he’d got so fed up that he’d turned round and sworn at them – and that’s when they’d laid into him.

“Then, when I was crumpled on the floor,” he went on, “they spat on me and walked off. And d’you know the worst bit?”

I shook my head.

“The worst bit is that no one bothered to help me. No one. They were all too concerned about getting out of the rain.”

“Well, I’m here now,” I assured him, and gave him a peck on the cheek that made him break into a smile.

We wondered what to tell his parents (they have no idea he’s gay) and decided to say he’d been mugged. Then I hailed a cab and we both stumbled into it, soaked to the skin. When we got to his house, his dad was in bed but his mum heard us and came to the door. She was v. shocked and emotional at the sight of her “darling James” and took charge straight away. They live in the nice part of Hammersmith that Dad says longs to be Chiswick, and his mum is majorly posh – which surprised me – and has straight, bobbed grey hair. We cleaned James up and put him to bed, and his mum insisted I stayed the night. (Claimed I looked wet enough to catch pneumonia.) So I texted Robbie to explain that I’d be home in the morning and ended up sitting on the end of James’s bed all night, chatting about everything from Brangelina to the fact that Barack Obama, from certain angles, is actually quite hot. It was nice to have our old friendship back.

I got home at about 9 a.m. Robbie offered to pay for a cab – which would’ve cost £85 – but I took the Tube instead because I wanted to feel like normal, “before WAG” Remy again.
See
, I thought to myself,
this isn’t too bad. I haven’t changed
. (Although I must have looked a freak in my ruined posh frock and heels.)

Robbie picked me up from the station. He looked majorly hung over and claimed that the boys’ night out wasn’t all that. I’d taken pictures of James’s injuries with my BlackBerry, but when I showed them to him he just glanced at them without a drop of sympathy. “Well, if he wants to be gay,” he sneered, as if getting beaten up was James’s fault.

“Sometimes you’re an ignorant git,” I snapped.

And I can honestly say that right now, at this very minute, I HATE Robbie Wilkins.

“It’s done it again,” I said to Robbie just now.

“What?” he asked.

“Your phone – ringing once and then stopping.” It was the third time it had happened since I’d got home.

“It’s probably Will messing about.”

“OR it’s whoever it was in the middle of the night on Friday and the day before that,” I growled.

“Which was WILL,” he replied. He didn’t look nervous, I admit, and he was just as calm as he’d been when I’d commented on it earlier, but I still said, “D’you think I’m stupid?”

“Check my phone if you don’t believe me,” he said. Then, as I considered it, he walked up to me, kissed me on the lips and whispered, “But you have nothing to worry about, princess.”

So I let it go.

Now I feel like he conned me. I don’t know why – maybe because of all the stories of cheating incidents I heard from the girls last night in the limo. They were:

(1) Goalkeeper Darren Hargreaves: 3
Anna Hargreaves: 0

Cheated on her with: a lap dancer, a lap dancer, and … another lap dancer!

Final result: To get her to stay, Darren bought Anna a new Porsche the first time, a Cartier watch the second time and a brand new diamond wedding ring the third time. She calls it her compensation.

(2) Defender Tommy Roberts: 1,
Becky Robinson: 0

Cheated on her with: her own bloody hairdresser!

Final result: One hairdresser is now minus a massive clump of hair extensions, Becky has a new, “even better” hair stylist, and Tommy whisked her away for a weekend break in Dubai. “It’s been win-win, really,” she told us.

(3) Midfielder Jason Murray: Infinity
Charlotte Murray: 0

Cheated on her with: there isn’t enough paper or ink in the world to write down all the names.

Final result: Charlotte has given Jason the name of the divorce lawyer she’ll use if he does it again. The lawyer happens to be well known for getting WAGs a huge chunk of their ex-husband’s future earnings. And now, Charlotte says, Jason’s so under the thumb that even if a girl walked by him naked, he wouldn’t turn his head.

(4) Winger Martin Cunningham: 1
Claire Cunnigham: 0

Cheated on her with: a Page 3 model – and it made the
Daily Star
.

Final result: Claire has had a boob job (which he paid for) and claims that they’re even closer. But she looked downright miserable to me.

(5) Midfielder Terry Dawson: 4
(that Paris knows about), Paris Adams: 0

Cheated on her with: in Paris’s words, “a bunch of no-good tarts”.

Final result: Paris has forgiven him each time because “they bloody throw themselves at him. Besides,” she added, “I’m not leaving this relationship until I have at least an engagement ring to show for it.”

I let them know I’d finish with any boy who cheated on me, footballer or no footballer, but Anna scoffed and said she used to say the same thing.

Got to go now – Robbie’s shouting for me.

Yet another Sunday afternoon spent listening to Robbie’s mum go on and on about the way he played football yesterday, last week, last month, last year and the bloody decade before that. It’s good to be proud of your child, but she really takes the biscuit – and if it annoys me, I can’t imagine how his poor sisters must feel. They never complain about it, but I suppose they have to play their cards right, seeing as Robbie has bought one of them a Volkswagen Golf and the other a Mini. And today he announced that he’s going to pay for me to take driving lessons! I have a very generous boyfriend.