Crazygirl Falls in Love (14 page)

“Hey look, two giant M&Ms!” I hear a shout from
behind.

How could we have thought that dressing up
as giant chocolates to a
starving
children
fundraiser was a good
idea?

Months ago, when Emma and I were brainstorming ideas for the
benefit (a meeting I had promptly forgotten about) we had come up
with some ace ideas – Axl and Slash, Waldo and Wenda, the
princesses from Frozen, Sulley and Mike from Monster’s Inc. But
Emma had declared all those ideas trite and boring. Then stupid me
had joked,

“Maybe we can go as giant M&Ms?”

Unbeknownst to me, a week later Emma had found the only shop
in London that stocks M&M costumes and put two on hold for
tonight. Walking into her apartment after work earlier today, I saw
the giant monstrosities draped on her couch.

“No way baby. There is no way I’m wearing that.” I had
declared, fully intending on sticking to my guns.

Then a minute later,

“Can’t someone else be your partner? What about
Arianna?”

Another minute later,

“Fine! I’ll put it on, stop crying already!”

As we dressed, Emma could barely contain her excitement while
I kept begging her to reconsider. But nothing would deter her. She
was to be the red M&M, I the yellow peanut, end of.

Most annoyingly of all, my little sister has managed to pull
it off. Her pixie-like face is surrounded by the scarlet fur of the
costume but framed by her brown hair. Her super slim Alexa Chung
legs look gorgeous in the black tights and knee-high white boots
we’re both wearing. Her giant round outfit ends just below her bum,
then her perfect pins begin. She looks like a sweet candy doll
straight out of the Good Ship Lollipop.

I, on the other hand, look like a grumpy
lawyer stuck in a urine-yellow Easter egg costume. The only size
they had was a large, so instead of the costume finishing at my bum
like Emmas, it ends below my knees. It sags around my waist and
thighs. I am a big, fat, ugly, yellow blob.
And award for the worst costume of the evening goes to
Penelope Jones, for even attempting to make a peanut M&M into
anything more than a delicious chocolatey snack.

My humiliation is momentarily relieved when I catch sight of
some dude in a massive KFC-bucket-of-chicken costume. Phew. He’ll
take the heat off.

“Em, remind me why we had to do this?”

“To win the prize of course, five hundred pounds is nothing to
sneeze at. Did you want a drink?”

She wanders off to chat with some of her work mates at the
bar. I consider following but think better of it. I should really
try to keep my presence here on the down low. Maybe if I’m real
lucky no one will see me. Obviously, I’m most worried about the
Stranger. Maybe he won’t even come though, those Spaniards are so
inconsistent. The say they’ll come out and they don’t, or they say
they won’t come out and they do.

I spot Arianna walking towards me. She’s dressed as Wonder
Woman. When she spots me her eyes widen in shock, then she starts
laughing and gives me a hug,

“You look great Penny. Very cool.”

“Ha! Thanks. What fun is it being cool if you can’t wear an
M&M costume every once in a while? Where were you today, I was
over at your pad before?”

“I came straight from work. Do you like my
costume?”

She does a pretty twirl and starts laughing again. We start
talking about the party her and Emma are throwing Friday night. It
should be a good one, I’ve been looking forward to it for a while.
A few years ago the two of them held what can only be described as
a ridiculously epic housewarming (and I’m well aware that the word
‘epic’ is overused these days, but in this case it’s very much
appropriate). The following year Em and Arianna celebrated Epic
Housewarming anniversary with a housewarming reunion. This Friday
will be the third year in a row, titled the Re-Reunion. As much as
I hate my sister at the moment, there’s one thing I can’t take away
from her – she throws a mean bash.

As Arianna and I talk I begin to relax a little. I momentarily
stop worrying about seeing the Stranger. And of course, the moment
I stop thinking about him there he appears. All the women stare
(they may as well be drooling) as he walks towards us. I consider
turning and running in the opposite direction, as fast as my floppy
yellow sponge legs can carry me, but he’s already seen me. Plus, if
he really wanted he could catch up with me in under five seconds,
I’m not exactly in my most mobile of states. Notwithstanding the
impracticalities, I continue to fantasise about a great escape,
right up to the moment he’s standing in front of me, in all his
Oscar de la Renta glory.

Oh Mother Earth swallow me now.

“Hello.” He says.

“Hey, how are you!” I chirp, faking as much confidence as I
can muster.

Pretending to be super poised and nonchalant might help this
dire situation. Yeah, I’m in an M&M costume, what of it? It’s
called bringing sexy back.

“Where’s your costume?” I ask him.

“I no bring one. Is not my thing. You look… nice. Like
Grimace, from the McDonalds.”

I’m going to KILL Emma. Then again, was it an insult or a
compliment? It could have been a compliment, he did use the word
‘nice’. Nice is good, right?

Arianna replies while I ponder,

“No she doesn’t! She looks more like a… yellow something.” She
defends.

“I’m actually supposed to be a peanut M&M. I don’t know
about you two, but I think I look rather spiff.”

I try to mimic the twirl Arianna did, but my spongey bum ends
up bumping a guy standing behind me and spilling his
drink.

“Hey, watch it!” he turns to bark.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

I try to mop up the beer on his jacket with
my giant white gloved hand, but he shrugs me off and his wife gives
me death stares. He grunts and turns back to his group.
Oh get over yourself, ya knob.
Arianna takes the moment to excuse herself, saying
she needs to find Emma. The Stranger and I stand in awkward silence
for a moment,

“You know, I was only joking. I don’t think I look spiff. This
is the most atrocious costume I’ve worn since I tried to pull an
Olivia Newton John, the Xanadu years.”

“What is this?” he asks.

“It’s a movie from the 80s. Flashy costumes, neon lights, lots
of roller skating?”

He’s looking at me blankly.

“Never mind.”

Silence again.

“I get drinks?” He finally offers.

I nod and watch him walk to the bar. I’m not sure whether I
like his lack of conversational abilities or not. I mean, He Who
Shall Not Be Named was a dazzling orator. Sometimes I liken him to
Russell Brand. Both have that je ne sais quoi, that elusive ability
to keep a roomful of people in stitches whilst simultaneously
holding them captive with stimulating intellectual discussion. But
that doesn’t make my ex (or Russell Brand for that matter) good
people, does it? No siree Bob. Then again I’ve never met Russell,
for all I know he’s a wonderful person.

And besides, if there was one thing I took
away from that whole He Who Shall Not Be Named mess, it’s this:
someone can have brilliant people skills, perfect manners
and
seem
nice, but
be completely devoid of values and morality. I would much rather a
boyfriend with solid principles who is a tad dry, than a great
entertainer who ends up ripping my still-beating heart out of my
chest. Then waving it in my face over a plate of steak and
chips.

As I ponder away I start to feel a little conspicuous with no
one to speak to, no drink to sip and no phone to check (the only
thing worse than a giant peanut M&M is a giant peanut M&M
slinging a handbag over its shoulder). I wait five minutes. Then
another five.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m still waiting. Where is he? It
doesn’t take this long to get a couple of glasses of wine. My worry
is interrupted by a tap on my padded shoulder,

“Hi Penny.”

I turn to see the guy dressed as a bucket of
chicken.
Well now, maybe this night isn’t
turning out so bad after all
.

“Do I know you?”

I mimic confusion but can’t help but smile. It’s Blue, and he
looks ridiculous.

“It’s me. Remember? The Loft, Hyde Park?”

“Oh yes of course! How silly of me,” I feign recognition,
“Well, I was just leaving so… ”

“Off to find that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy over at the bar?” He gestures in the direction of the
Stranger.

I don’t answer for a long moment. I feel like I’ve been hit
with a stun gun. There he is, my crush, chatting up another woman!
She’s wearing a black, sleek, strapless, floor length number. Her
hair is dark and long. Her lips and nails are bright
red.

What a fucking cliché.

He’s leaning down towards her, smiling and laughing and gazing
into her perfect eyes with their perfectly long lashes with their
perfectly applied mascara. She’s pushing strands of those wavy dark
locks behind her ears, and I notice her ever so slowly edging her
way towards him.

Vile seductress!

“You right, partner?” Blue punches my shoulder
lightly.

“Yes.”
No
. “I should probably go now, I’m
sorry.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I don’t know why but his question really
irks me.
Why are you even asking, can’t
you see he obviously isn’t?
Do boyfriends
leave their girlfriends in public places to go chat up anything and
everything with a skirt?

How could the Stranger do this? I mean, I’m standing right
here! What about Friday night? It was only a few days ago for
crying out loud. What about salsa night, when he said he respected
me? Is this something you do to a girl you respect?

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, he’s
not.”

“Not that it’s any of my business, but maybe it’s because
you’ve put on about two hundred kilos since Friday,” Blue
grins.

“You can talk. Besides, everybody likes chocolate,” I
say.

“Not everyone.”

“It’s a helluva lot better than a bucket of bowel liquefying
chicken.”

“One day you’ll learn, Young Peanut. The ladies love the fried
chicken.”

“Personally, KFC makes me feel fat and bloated.”

“You? Fat? How can you possibly feel fat wearing such a sexy,
svelte costume?”

He has that smarmy smile again, and at that moment I am a
hair’s breath away from punching it right off his face. But I just
stand there, feeling more like an ugly Easter egg than ever before.
With literally no comeback coming to mind I resort to my other get
out of jail free card. I summon my last shred of dignity to conjure
the trusty bathroom trick,

“Excuse me, but I need to go to the ladies,” I turn to leave,
bump his waist with my protruding butt for good measure, and under
my breathe whisper, “twat.”

He starts laughing (he must have somehow overheard my
not-so-subtle stage whisper) and shouts loudly,

“The force is strong with you, Young Peanut!”

People around us pause to see what the commotion is about. The
spilt beer guy and his wife are looking amused. I swivel around to
face Blue again, face blushing a deep crimson,

“Stop calling me that!”

“Chill out babe, it’s just a joke.”

And he turns to walk away.

“I’m not your babe!” I yell at his back, but I doubt he’s
heard me over the din.

With as much self respect as my costume allows I march up
towards the bar. There they are, the Stranger and the Bimbo. I’m
not sure what to do, but I can’t just leave and go home. I’m no
doormat. I mean, I know I ain’t got the looks of Kerr or the funny
of Silverman, but by golly I deserve to be treated better than
this. This is bullshit!

I walk behind bimbo girl and try to catch the Stranger’s eye.
He sees me and smiles. Even better, he moves around Bimbo and puts
his arms around my yellow, padded shoulders.

“Hello florecita.”

“Hey, what’s up?” I narrow my eyes at my competition, trying
to give her the hint to get lost.

“I speak to Giselle. And you? You speak to your boyfriend
again?” He says it jokingly, nodding in the direction of the KFC
bucket.

I see Blue looking at us from the other side of the
room.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap.

This joke is getting kinda old.

“You two make a great couple!” Bimbo starts
giggling.

Her laugh is like a pencil sharpener. The Stranger takes his
arm off my shoulder and to my horror puts it around her
waist.

I suddenly take in the situation. Here I
stand, a naïve idiot dressed as a peanut M&M, next to a guy who
is way out of my league who I still for some reason think might be
interested in me.
How can you be so
stupid
? This bird is way more his league.
As much as I hate to admit it, she is truly beautiful. The facts
are plain, simple and staring me straight in the face. I am a 7. He
is a 9, she is a 9. He is obviously going to go for her, and I’m
just his lay from last Friday.