Crazygirl Falls in Love (17 page)

Mr Harold shoos us away.

“Run along and get yourselves into some dry clothes, tally-ho
now.”

“We’ll wait.” Blue replies.

“It’s alright old bean, jolly good show carrying Captain all
that way. He’ll be right as rain once the vet comes, I’m sure of
it.”

I glance at the soggy, half frozen creature panting on the
porch. I’m not so sure.

“
Hey Mr H, if you give me the keys to your apartment I can
bring you back some dry clothes?” I suggest.

“Well I say! I’m getting the royal treatment today aren’t I?
You’re a fine filly, a fine filly indeed. You treat her well now,
won’t you my good man.”

He nudges Blue while handing me his keys (they don’t see me
rolling my eyes). The General walks inside to help Little Old Lady
look up a number for a vet, leaving me and Blue in the
rain.

I look at him. He looks at me.

“Ummm… Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your
help.” I mumble begrudgingly.

“Anytime,” he grins.

“I guess I owe you one, as much as I hate the
thought.”

“You can make it up to me right now. I would like to request a
race.”

He lunges into a hamstring stretch. I start jogging on the
spot to warm up.

“Why?”

“Because I think I can beat you, and then you won’t act so
smug all the time.”

I stop jogging on the spot in shock. I can’t
believe I’m hearing this
. Me? Smug? I
should never have let him help me with that stupid
dog.

“But I… But you’re…
You’re
the smug one!” I
protest.

He laughs.

“What do you say Young Peanut, a race to settle
it?”

A brilliant thought strikes me (or at least, I think it’s
brilliant),

“I say let’s make it interesting.”

“How so?”

“If I win, you will never call me babe, honey, sweetie, Young
Peanut, chick or any other of the over-used, saccharine laced terms
of endearment you’ve come up with since last Friday.”

“And if I win, I can call you anything I like and you have to
make me a sandwich.”

I squint suspiciously,

“What kind of sandwich?”

“Bacon, ham, meatballs, cheddar, lettuce and tomato. Extra
tomato. And I prefer avocado spread to butter.”

“Okay, you’re on.”

We shake hands and I notice that he’s wearing one of those
crazy running outfits again. The fluffy orange headband has been
replaced with a back to front Giants baseball cap, the baggy yellow
shorts are back but underneath are a pair of fuchsia
thermals.

We walk to the pavement.

“Where are we running to?” He asks.

“My place. Mr H. lives in the apartment below mine and I need
to get him some clothes. It’s a half hour jog from here, so a
fifteen minute sprint. Do you know the Starbucks on
Queensway?”

He nods.

“I live round the corner. First one to touch its front door
wins. Ready?”

“I’m always ready babe.”

I give him a look.

“What? Might be the last time I get to call you
that.”

I wipe rain drops out of my eyes and motion for him to line up
against the crack in the pavement.

“On your marks,” I say as we crouch to sprint position, “get
set... Go!”

We take off down the trail and Blue quickly gains a two stride
lead. The path is slippery which is stopping me going full
throttle. Blue doesn’t seem like he’s giving one hundred percent
either. We’re striding as opposed to sprinting. Five minutes in and
I start to consider an overtake. The hill is coming up soon. That’s
when I’ll strike.

I start to monitor my body to see how I’m doing. My legs are
starting to burn and I’m out of breath, but the main thing is that
I don’t need to throw up and my lungs aren’t hurting. If my throat
and chest were stinging like my legs I’d be in a world of trouble.
Everyone has different pain thresholds and I’ve learnt that I can
push through any pain except that suffocating, agonising lung burn
(and throwing up, because, well, how are you meant to keep running
when you’re dealing with projectile vom spew?).

We round the corner and Blue is still two steps ahead. As we
begin the incline I turn the intensity up a notch, and suddenly I’m
in front. He isn’t a good hill climber and I maintain my lead, but
on the down we’re even again. Fuck. As we round the corner of
Queensway I’ve started to succumb to Death by Lung Burn. I picture
Blue’s arrogant smile which gives me the strength to ignore the
misery, the sting, the pain. I’m not sprinting so much anymore as
lunging. The Starbucks is a block away. I’m so focused that I don’t
notice Blue disappear from my side.

I touch the door and can’t quite believe
it.
Yes, yes, fucking yes!
I start celebration jumping, Rocky Balboa-styles.
It takes me a moment to register I’m the only one here. Retracing
my steps I find my running buddy sitting on the curb, massaging his
knee.

“What’s wrong?”

“My knee, I tore my ACL a few years ago playing rugby. Some
idiot stood on my foot as I landed from a jump.”

Oh my.

“Here, let me help you up.” I lift him by the arm, “do you
want to come up to my apartment? It’s a few metres away. You can
grab an ice pack.”

We start to walk. The skies are so dark it’s actually a little
scary. Blue’s arm is slung around my shoulders as we limp
along.

“So who won?” He asks.

“We’ll call it a draw.”

“Can I still have a sandwich?”

“No.”

“Can I still call you babe?”

“No.”

“The force is strong with you Young Peanut, but you are not a
Jedi yet.”

“You need to stop.”

I usher him upstairs,

“Is that the old man’s flat?” He asks.

“Yeah, he’s in flat one, I’m in two. Don’t worry about his
clothes by the way, I’ll get them and jog over. You need to ice
that knee, I saw it once on an episode of House.”

“House?”

“Sure, all my medical knowledge comes from the
telly.”

We walk into my hallway and the floor is immediately soaked
with the waterfall running off our skin and clothes. I sit him down
on the sofa, lifting his leg onto the coffee table. I walk quickly
to the kitchen and grab my icepack out of the freezer. Back in the
sitting room I place it as gently as I can on his knee.

“Thanks,” Blue says.

“No worries. Rest up here for a bit, I’ll be back
soon.”

I’m not too chuffed about the idea of going back out there,
but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Before I leave for
the General’s apartment I take my soaked iPod from out of my pocket
and throw it onto the coffee table.

It takes me a bit longer than I had anticipated to get back to
Little Old Lady’s house. I’m knackered from the race. Bloody Blue.
When I arrive I’m very happy to see a kind looking vet crouched
over Captain. The General is still soaked but he’s at least got a
towel around his shoulders.

I tell them I can’t stay because I have a strange and
obnoxious man in my apartment. The General takes the bag of clothes
I hastily threw together,

“That’s dash decent of you lass. By jove it was the darndest
thing getting caught in that storm, but it looks like Captain’ll
make a full recovery. Now I best get back to Mrs
Harold.”

Guess he’s hallucinating again. He turns to Little Old Lady
(who is looking horrified) as I reply,

“Okay Mr H, keep it real,” and we pound fists.

I’m shattered by the time I get back to my apartment. I feel
really, really cold even though my body is sweating, I feel goosed
even though I’m sober and I have a craving for a warm strawberry
milkshake which has literally come out of nowhere. I drag myself up
the stairs (literally, I grab the banister with both hands and pull
myself up each step).

Blue is still on the sofa, resting his bung leg on the coffee
table. He looks happy as a lark, my iPod headphones in his ears.
He’s bopping his head.

“I like your music babe, lots of MTs.”

Too exhausted to fight the babe thing anymore, I
sigh,

“Thanks. What’s an MT?”

“Mega Tune. You’ll eventually learn all the DJ acronyms once
we start hanging out more.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“But we need a re-race. I’m keen to win sandwich
rights.”

“Oh geez,” I moan, but I’m smiling, “seriously, hit the
showers. Leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll put them in
the drier.”

A minute later I hear him yell from the bathroom,

“Babe! Time to dry my clothes!”

I crawl over to the closed bathroom door (my muscles are
cramping and I can’t seem to stand upright anymore). I pick up his
soggy kit,

“You’re incorrigible!” I yell through the door, but I doubt he
hears over the running water.

He’s singing
Why
Why Why Delilah
. You know, he actually has
a really nice voice. Reminds me of Tom Jones, but maybe that’s just
because of the song.

I walk into my teensy laundry and turn on the drier. I set it
to the shortest setting (quick dry, 29 minutes) in the vain hope
that I can get this guy out of my apartment quickly.

Eventually he walks out of the bathroom wearing just a
towel.

Wowza.

I turn my eyes away and blush.

“I got to… grab shower… too.” I mumble shyly as I hobble my
aching body into the bathroom.

It’s like clockwork. Whenever I find someone
attractive the dumbest, most unsexy statements seem to fly straight
outta my mouth.
Not that I find him
attractive. No way, he’s a dick. So full of himself. He’s not hot.
No no no, he most certainly is
not
.

I jump out of the shower and throw on some
clothes. Jeans, Ugg boots over jeans and a big, warm, Dad-jumper. I
stole it from my father last time I visited home. I quickly check
my reflection in the mirror. Should I put on some makeup? No, that
might make him think that I’m trying. And I’m not. I couldn’t care
less what he thinks. But I
do
look a little hobo at the moment… I replace the
Dad jumper with a tank top and cardigan, and walk back into the
lounge room.

He’s still listening to my iPod, still shirtless, flicking
through a copy of an old Marie Claire. I walk over to sit beside
him and casually pick up my phone, not expecting anything too
exciting.

My heart skips a beat. It’s the Stranger.

Hola chica, how are you? Are you going to Arianna and Emma’s
party tomorrow?

I don’t hear Blue say,

“Can I just say, you are the nicest M&M I’ve had the
privilege of meeting.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that?” I ask, looking up from my
phone.

I have a huge smile plastered on my face. I can’t help it. I’m
absolutely thrilled as I look back down and start replying to the
Stranger.

“Ah, nothing.” Blue says good naturedly.

It’s Chloe calling. I rush into an empty meeting room and
answer.

“Hey Chlo!”

“Hi, are you okay? Your messages sounded a bit dysfunctional
yesterday.”

“Yeah, doing better thanks. I was so depressed after
Wednesday, but then I realised life can always get
worse.”

And I tell her about my adventure in the rain with Blue, the
General and Captain, and how horrifyingly stiff my body feels today
(I had to take five Diazepam chased with a shot of tequila just to
manage the walk to the Tube this morning).

“So when did he end up leaving?”

“We had to wait for his clothes to dry, so I
put on
Sex and the City
. I thought that might get him out of the apartment quicker,
but it didn’t. Turns out he likes it, so we ended up ordering
Domino’s. He’s okay actually, a bit odd, but
okay.”

“You’re kidding, right? The same guy whose death you’ve been
plotting?”

“Well… He’s DJing at V Festival and said he can get us in, no
charge.”

“Nice.”

“So you excited about tonight?”

“Sure, Zuma has great sushi.”

“I mean about seeing Antonio, not the food!”

“I don’t know, I guess.”

“Just give him a chance.”

“Pen, you realise this is the most blatant agenda pushing I’ve
ever been subject to?”

“Chloe…”

“I know, I know, you’ve made your opinion very clear. I’ll try
to keep my mind open and reserve judgement. But why is it always a
choice between hot but conceited, or down to earth but
ugly?”