Diary of a Crush: French Kiss (13 page)

‘I can see your razor-like wit’s back, you must be feeling better,’ Nat commented. ‘Do you want the spare bed then?’

And the funny thing was that although I was sure that I wasn’t going to sleep I dropped off before my head even crash-landed on the pillow.

You know that split second when you wake up and you feel all right, and then you suddenly remember all the bad stuff that happened the night before? That’s what happened to me the next morning. No wonder I was in a foul mood. I went back to our room to get washed and dressed just as Mia was leaving and the fact that she’d left the top off my toothpaste almost sent me through the roof. Muttering about her deep and frequent idiocy, I pulled on black cropped trousers and a black jumper. What was that line from that boring Russian play we’d been doing in English Lit? ‘I’m wearing black because I’m in mourning for my life.’ You said it, dead Russian guy.

I was just blow-drying my hair when there was a knock at the door. My heart leapt. God knows why, it wasn’t as if Dylan was going to be standing there begging for my forgiveness. Anyway, it wasn’t, it was Shona. She looked tired and pissed off.

‘Hey,’ she said cautiously. ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah,’ I muttered. ‘I’m not in a great mood or anything, but I’m OK. What happened after I left?’

Shona pulled a face. ‘Dylan stormed out about two seconds after you did and didn’t come back for ages and when he did he was drunk. Simon and Paul and me spent most of the night talking about how we should knock your heads together. So, I didn’t get much sleep and I’m feeling very fragile,’ she added warningly.

‘None of this is my fault,’ I snapped. ‘Anyway, I’ve decided that I want nothing to do with Dylan from now on. He’s just too much trouble and I don’t need it.’

I expected Shona to be pleased. I mean, she was the one who told me that I had to stop mooning over Dylan but she just went, ‘Hmmmm,’ like she didn’t really believe me and collapsed on the bed.

As I went down to breakfast I checked my phone and found I had three missed calls from Josh, even though I’d told him that receiving phone calls in France was expensive enough to bankrupt me. It put me in an even worse mood. I’d meant it when I’d told Shona that I’d have to break up with him but it didn’t feel like a weight had gone from around my shoulders or anything. Instead it felt like once we got home I was going to have to go into hospital for major surgery. Just ’cause it’s you that’s doing the dumping doesn’t mean that you get off scot-free in the heartache stakes.

OK, so I didn’t want Josh as a boyfriend – but I still really liked him – and I didn’t want to hurt him any more than I already had. I started to think of all the times that I’d been mean to him (and believe me there were loads) and how ungrateful I’d been when he’d given me the necklace for my birthday, not to mention snogging Dylan behind his back. I was, like, the worst girlfriend in the world.

Then something
really
horrible happened. As I walked into the breakfast room, all the conversation seemed to stop. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it seemed like everyone was whispering about me. Oh God, if they were, it was either about the clinch I’d got into with Dylan at the club or about me slapping him around the face or, even worse, both. Trouble, thy name is Dylan.

I concentrated on eating my toast and reading my book but I was aware of people casting furtive glances at me. I looked up, hoping to see Nat or Trent or Shona but they weren’t around and then Dylan stumbled (that is the only word for it) through the doorway. Like me, he was dressed all in black and he looked about as bad as I felt. I mean, he never looks exactly flushed with good health but his face was ashen and he had huge dark circles under his eyes. I guess he had a killer hangover but, Dylan being Dylan, he managed to carry it off. He was really working that tortured artist thing.

I bent my head back over my book so he wouldn’t realise that I’d been eating him up with my eyes. ‘He’s nothing to me, he’s nothing to me,’ I told myself over and over again. If I said it enough times I figured I’d start believing it.

The next time I looked up, to my horror Dylan was walking towards me with a cup and a pot of coffee. He couldn’t be planning to sit with me, not after what had happened last night? He just couldn’t…

… But he was and he did. After grunting a greeting, he collapsed into the chair opposite and sloshed some coffee into his cup.

‘Want some?’ he asked me.

I gave him my most frigid look. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said icily.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ Dylan bit the words out.

‘No, thank you.’ It would have choked me.

We sat there in silence for quite some time. Dylan was clutching at his head as if he was in a great deal of pain, which pleased me immensely and I tried to read but I must have re-read the page in front of me at least five times. The words seemed to have stopped making sense. Even without looking at him, I knew that Dylan was watching me. I had to keep a tight rein on my body so it didn’t do anything stupid like leap across the table and throw itself into his arms.
You’re nothing to me, you’re nothing to me
.

All of a sudden, Dylan planted one of his long-fingered hands across my page.

‘Good book?’

‘Do you mind? I’m trying to read,’ I hissed at him.

‘What’s it about?’ Dylan wanted to know. ‘You don’t seem to be getting very far with it, you’ve been reading the same page ever since I walked in.’

‘I take it you don’t have anything better to do with your time than watch me read,’ I said.

‘Not right now, no,’ Dylan admitted.

‘Look Dylan, please leave me alone,’ I managed to say. ‘We have nothing to talk about.’

Dylan removed his hand from the book and for a moment it seemed like he was about to reach out and touch my fingers, but he didn’t.

‘Well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. About last night,’ he added.

‘Which particular bit of last night?’ I couldn’t believe that I was being so hard. So in control. This was Dylan I was talking to. The boy who usually managed to reduce me to a pile of jelly.

Dylan leant back in his chair and gave me a searching look. ‘I’m not apologising for kissing you. You wanted that as much as I did, but I’m sorry for the way I acted later.’

I glared at him. ‘For what exactly? For being really offensive about Nat and Trent or that little comment, what was it? Something about me not being ready to play with the big boys, I think you said?’

He had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I was completely out of order. I’ve said I’m sorry, Edie, what more do you want?’

I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go. He was unbelievable. ‘How about an explanation? You kiss me, you make me believe that you actually care about me and then an hour later you’re acting like a complete arsehole. You hurt my feelings.’ It would have been better if I hadn’t ended on a tiny sob.

I thought Dylan was going to ignore what I’d just said. For a little while he didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t know, baby,’ he said. ‘I guess part of me did want to hurt you, or, like, wind you up. You just went off with Shona, you didn’t even say goodbye.’

‘What did you expect, Dylan?’ I asked. ‘Shona dragged me off. And anyway the only time you’re ever nice to me is when you want to kiss me.’

‘That’s hardly fair,’ he protested. ‘I’m nice to you nearly all the time.’

‘Yeah, but you always go weird on me, sooner or later. And I’m not going to forgive you for what you said about Nat and Trent. Not ever.’

Dylan was starting to look very haunted. I almost felt sorry for him. But, what the hell, he deserved it. This was all the stuff that I’d always wanted to tell him, but never had the guts. It was about bloody time he heard it.

‘I’ve said I’m sorry, I can’t do any more than that, Edie,’ Dylan said, letting out an exasperated breath. ‘I’ll admit that I get jealous of the way you always run to Nat and Trent whenever you’re down. We’re meant to be friends, but you never tell me half of what’s going on with you.’

‘Yes I do!’

‘You didn’t tell me you were going out with Josh, did you?’ Dylan said sourly. ‘Not for ages.’

‘Well, that’s because you don’t act like a friend. You spend most of your time being in a mood.’

‘You can talk!’ snorted Dylan. ‘The only person I know who’s more moody than me is you!’

‘Yeah, well you make me moody,’ I huffed. We were going round in circles. It was really hard to hate Dylan. I’d just decided that I was going to scrub him out of my life and then he decides to open up to me.

Dylan had his head in his hands by now. Maybe it was the hangover that was making him so, well, vulnerable.

‘Are we cool then?’ he was asking. ‘We’re friends again, right?’

I closed my heart and hung a big ‘No Entry’ sign on it for good measure. ‘No, we’re not cool,’ I snapped, standing up and pushing my chair back. ‘I don’t want to be friends with you, I don’t need friends that make me feel this shitty about myself.’

He groaned, like the whole situation was causing him great pain. ‘What are you talking about now?’

I leant over, so our faces were inches apart. ‘I’ve had enough of you,’ I said, my voice going all wobbly. ‘I can’t take you snogging me and then treating me like dirt a few hours later. I just can’t take your little mind games any more. You’ve already ruined the beginning of this trip for me, so just leave me to get on with the rest of it.’

Dylan looked completely shocked. What colour he’d had in his face slowly drained away.

‘OK, I won’t come near you, if you think that will make you happy,’ he mumbled.

‘I don’t
think
it will make me happy,’ I spat at him. ‘I
know
it will make me happy.’ And with that, I flounced out of the room.

But that was a lie. None of it made me happy. Half an hour later, as I dawdled down the street with the rest of the group, I was furious with myself. I couldn’t believe half of the things I’d said to Dylan. I was so stupid. In fact, I was beyond stupid. Someone needed to invent a new word that meant stupid to the power of one million because that’s what I was.

I could have taken advantage of hungover, understanding, apologetic Dylan to sort out our relationship, so we could be proper friends. The kind of friends who look out for each other and have a laugh and don’t kiss. But, oh no, I had to jump in, firing away on all fronts, and basically tell Dylan never to speak to me again. That I didn’t even want to share the same air space as him.

We were on our way to the Pompidou Centre, this modern art gallery complex. From the outside, it looked like a gigantic car battery, big and grey and covered in brightly-coloured tubes.

Shona and Paul weren’t exactly all over each other, but they made it pretty clear that they just wanted to hang
à deux
. So Nat and Trent and me mooched round together. But even they were being majorly annoying; giving each other funny looks and muttering stuff that I couldn’t quite hear.

When I’d given them a brief, censored account of what had happened with Dylan at breakfast, they weren’t exactly supportive either.

‘Christ, Edie, you were a bit brutal weren’t you?’ Nat had remarked. ‘Is the word “kind” not in your dictionary?’

God, everyone seemed to think I was a stone-bitch but I wasn’t. I was just, like, going through stuff. Anyway, I shuffled off on my own to buy some arty postcards, then went to find the others. At the back of the Pompidou Centre was a huge open-air piazza where every art boy in Western Europe seemed to have congregated. I’ve never seen so many pairs of skinny jeans, plaid flannel shirts and beanie hats gathered in one place. I was just starting to wonder if it was a government plot to get every art boy in existence herded together so they could mass-hypnotise them into being worthwhile members of society, when I felt someone watching me. All the little hairs on the back of my neck were tingling. I turned round slowly, expecting to find Dylan behind me but it was some guy I’d never seen before.

He was standing a little distance away from me and even though I was down with the whole world and boykind in particular, I couldn’t help thinking that he was seriously cute. He had messy blond hair and a cool, second-hand suit on and when he saw me glance at him, he winked. I was seriously thinking about moving to Paris permanently. I mean, I had no luck with British boys but if Stéphane and Monsieur Le Cool Art Student over there were anything to go by, skinny pale girls with no breasts were obviously considered to be complete babes in France. Monsieur Le Cool Art Student was now mouthing something at me, when suddenly the others turned up.

‘Bloody hell, Edie, we can’t leave you on your own for more than a minute without you managing to pull,’ teased Trent, looking at Monsieur Le Cool Art Student who was now making the international sign language for ‘Would you like a drink?’ at me.

‘Him?’ butted in Mia, knocking into me slightly. ‘He’s looking at me. It’s obvious.’

I so wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

‘Nah, he’s definitely into our Edie,’ Nat decided.

‘Oh yeah? Well watch this,’ ordered Mia and off she sauntered in the direction of Monsieur Le Cool Art Student, swaying her hips like she had cockroaches in her pants.

‘The Unstoppable Sex Machine strikes again,’ laughed Trent. ‘Oh Edie, looks like Mia’s muscled in on your man.’

Mia was talking to Monsieur Le Cool Art Student in a really flirtatious way. She kept laughing, touching his arm and flicking her hair back as if she was auditioning for a part in a shampoo commercial. Within, like, the space of thirty seconds, her and Monsieur Le Cool Art Student were heading off arm-in-arm in the direction of a little café.

‘Like I could really have a meaningful relationship with a bloke who wears studded wristbands in a completely non-ironic way.’ I shrugged. ‘She’s welcome to him.’

Some of the art students decided to stay and eye up the talent, I mean sketch the interesting modern architecture of the Pompidou Centre, but I decided to go back to the hotel. The two-headed Shona and Paul smooching machine and Simon decided to come with me.