Pride and Premiership (25 page)

Christmas lunch is at Malibu and Gary’s. Mum and Alan have only been there once before (when I was in Turkey) and I can tell they feel like a massive bridge has been crossed now they’ve been invited for Christmas Day. It’ll be weird spending Christmas with Alan instead of Dad. Wasn’t sure if I should go at first, but when I called to check what Dad’s plans were, he said not to worry about him because he was spending the day with a friend. Something about the way he said that made me ask, “A lady, by any chance?”

“Could be.”

“Wow, Dad! Is she hot?” I teased. “I don’t want an ugly stepmother.”

“Yes.” He chuckled. “She’s very hot.”

Legend.

Wasn’t sure how today would to turn out when I realized Grandma Robinson was coming too. Obviously couldn’t leave her by herself (she’s always spent Christmas Day with us since Grandad died), but still, it wasn’t ideal. Gary’s mum was doing the cooking (good thing – Malibu could burn a Pot Noodle!) and even though she’s actually closer in age to Grandma Robinson than to Mum, age seems to be the only thing they have in common. Mrs Johnson is very Christian and gentle – never curses or swears – whereas Grandma Robinson is, and always has been, badass.

The first sign that things might not go smoothly came in the car on the way there.

“What d’ya reckon she’s gonna cook then?” Grandma Robinson asked, as though Mrs Johnson was from another planet.

“FOOD?” I suggested.

“Remy, don’t be so rude to your grandmother.”

“Well, honestly, Mum,” I groaned, as if Grandma Robinson couldn’t hear me. “She’s from Jamaica, not Mars.”

“So WHAT?” Grandma Robinson said (she’s never needed anyone to stick up for her). “She’s not English, is she? She might cook something spicy that won’t agree with these blood pressure tablets I’m taking, and I thought I’d check. So get off your bleedin’ high horse.”

“All right, Gran, sorry,” I said to shut her up.

She’d never been to the house before, and when we pulled up at the gates she looked v. impressed. “Bleedin’ hell,” she gasped. “Malibu’s done well for herself.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

Then she gave me a look that said, “Poor Remy, this could have been your life too.”

“Can’t be easy for you,” she said, gently patting my knee.

“It is, actually,” I growled.

Grrrrr.

The golden couple greeted us at the door, Gary dressed in a stylish suit, Malibu in a floaty designer dress. She looks lovely pregnant, all glowing, with the neatest baby bump on earth.

“On best behaviour, please, Gran,” I heard her whisper.

“What the bloody hell do you take me for?” Grandma Robinson grumbled.

The table was already laid when we got there. Eight places – four for us and four for Malibu, Gary, Mrs Johnson and Gary’s older sister, Rochelle. Rochelle is thirty-five (way older than Gary) and was exactly as Malibu described her – a cinnamon colour, slim and quite pretty on the rare occasion she decides to smile. So different from Mrs Johnson, who has chocolate-brown skin and isn’t really attractive at all, except … well, except for the fact that she smiles almost all the time, which makes you warm to her and totally forget that she isn’t that pretty.

Lunch was kicked off with Mrs Johnson announcing that she would bless the table. We all had to put our hands together and close our eyes. She spoke ve–ry slo–wly, probably thinking we wouldn’t understand her otherwise, and it made me smile the way she said “heverybody”. The worst part was that it went on for way too long and she took loads of pauses, which made me think that she’d finally finished, only to (disappointingly) hear her start up again. But I hid my disappointment – unlike Grandma Robinson, who sighed every time. By the time Mrs Johnson finally said Amen, and Grandma Robinson opened her eyes, Malibu was staring daggers at her.

Christmas lunch was huge, tasty and traditional – turkey, chicken and lamb with tons of veg (including yucky sprouts), rice and potatoes – and the compliments flowed.

“Can’t tell you how good it feels to have a proper Christmas meal after years of barbies on the beach,” said Alan.

“You must tell me how you made your gravy,” said Mum.

“Yes, lovely,” agreed Grandma Robinson. “And not at all spicy.”

Like me, Mum and Alan held their breath, and I’m sure I saw a slight roll of Rochelle’s eyes, but Mrs Johnson just chuckled and told her, “Yes, well, I didn’t think your h’English stomachs could take my pepper.” And that was it – ice, well and truly smashed to bits.

Gran and Mrs Johnson bonded even more when they discovered, over mince pies, that their husbands had died in the same year. They swapped stories, including some that I’d never even heard about Grandad, and Gran was so happy and chatty that it made me think maybe she wasn’t such a battleaxe after all.

The evening ended up with a few games – Weakest Link, Deal or No Deal and Charades. Team Golden seemed to win all of them, and whenever Gary touched Malibu’s belly she didn’t show a scrap of guilt. In fact – and it might have been the winning, or because it was Christmas – sometimes Malibu actually looked in love with Gary.

With the games over and the Quality Streets and Roses decimated (I managed to nick most of the mini Dairy Milks, tee-hee!), it was time to leave. And to top things off, on the way home it started to snow.

A white Christmas. Can’t get much better than that!

Would normally hit the sales today, but of course every penny I have has been put into the salon.

Yay! Bill, the painter and decorator, is just like me. When I called him and moaned, “If I see one more James Bond movie…” he said, “Here, here!”

Anyway, he’s agreed to come down to the salon and continue work until New Year’s Day.

Tomorrow will be a new year and a brand-new start. In about four weeks’ time I’ll be opening my salon! And I’m so happy about Stephen coming to live in London too. He’ll be here tomorrow! I can’t wait to see him. To hold him. To snog him.

Finally my life is just how I want it to be.

Aa–aaaaaaaaaargh, my head! Had far too much to drink last night. Went out with Kellie/Jack (they’re practically joined at the hip) and James, who at midnight announced that he was going to come out to his parents. Hmm… Methinks they may find camels in the North Pole first.

Would love to stay in bed, but I have to spruce myself up for Stephen. Yay! Just the thought of seeing him makes my heart flutter.

My baby just phoned to say that he has an introduction to his workplace at about midday, then he’ll call me when it’s over so we can meet up for lunch. I can’t wait!!!

“I’ve missed you so much,” I told him.

“Aye. Well, I’ve missed you more,” he said.

Stephen hasn’t called yet. Maybe the introduction has lasted longer than he thought it would. I’ll give him a ring.

Just got his voicemail, so I left him a message: “Hello–oooo. Where are you, baby? Call me.” Then I blew him a kiss down the line.

Still no Stephen. This really isn’t like him. I hope he’s OK. I’ll try him again.

Voicemail.

This time I left: “Um, babe. Where are you?”

I’ve left message after message. And each time I check my phone to see if he’s actually bothered to contact me, I get angrier and angrier.

A thousand thoughts are going through my head – mainly,
Maybe I was wrong about him
. But it’s hard to accept that Stephen might not be for real, that believing that I’d met The One was a big mistake.

I’m calling him AGAIN.

“Stephen, what’s going on?” I demanded when he actually answered. “I’ve been waiting here for hours and—”

“Well, you can just get lost!” he replied in a voice I didn’t even recognize.

“What?!”

“GO. GET. LOST. And I don’t wanna hear from you again,” he said, sounding furious.

“I–I don’t understand.”

“And
I
don’t understand how I coulda fallen for your lies,” he snapped. “You deceitful little—”

“Lies?”
I cut in. “What you on about?” I was so confused by his words, by the hatred in his voice, that my head was spinning.

“What was it you said back in Bodrum?” he asked. Then he put on an English voice, MY voice, and said sarcastically, “Girls who like footballers? Poor fools.” Then he became himself again. “What a piece o’ crap that turned out to be.”

Then I realized where he was heading. I hadn’t told him about Robbie because I just couldn’t find the right moment – and OK, I admit, I thought it might sound a bit hypocritical after what I’d said when we first met.

“Look, I know I should have told you,” I said quickly, “but I knew you wouldn’t like it and I—”

“Thought you’d get away with it,” he finished.

“No. Well … in a way,” I admitted. “I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Yeah, ’cos it’s not IMPORTANT to know that I’ve been targeted,” he sneered.