Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (7 page)

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11

SUNDAY 2.28 p.m.

A disastrous and disgusting episode

‘Just excuse me one moment!’ I said, leaping to my feet in what I hoped was an elegant soaring movement worthy of a life coach. ‘I think we may have some of those brochures upstairs, Africa!’ I walked swiftly from the room.

By some miracle of muscles, I managed to hold my bum shut till I got to Chloe’s bedroom. I shut the door behind me, grabbed a cushion (as a kind of silencer) and farted into it. The door flew open. Chloe rushed in.

‘What are you
doing
?’ she whispered in a hectic rush.

‘Shut the door!’ I hissed. ‘I’m farting! Those goddam beans!’ Chloe started giggling. I closed the door and groaned.

‘There’s another one coming!’ I let rip with gusto. ‘I’m sorry!’

‘Me too!’ gasped Chloe, and produced a sound like a fairy trumpet: high-pitched, cute and cheeky. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. ‘And this
Africa
stuff! And why are you talking like a freakin’ insect? Oh my God! Oh my God!’

She fell on her bed, shaking with hysterical laughter. At the end of every breath she gave a kind of tiny, almost silent scream, as if she was going to suffocate. No way would she be ready to go back down to the interview in a moment or two.

‘What . . . are we . . . going to do?’ gasped Chloe.

‘Never eat beans again!’ I whispered. ‘Listen . . . I think I’m OK for a minute, now. I’d better go downstairs. I’ll say we’ve both got food poisoning and we’ll get back to him later.’

‘We can’t do that!’ said Chloe. ‘He’ll think we’re weird!’

‘Who cares?’ I shrugged. ‘He’s a Grade A nerd anyway.’

‘I thought he was quite nice!’ said Chloe, frowning.

‘Listen,’ I walked up and down a bit, trying to settle my insides, ‘I think the worst of mine is over. I’ll go down and tell him we can’t find the brochures, but you’re still looking. You come down when you’re ready. I’ll make up some garbage about being a life coach, and then we’ll get rid of him. OK?’ Chloe nodded. She needed to fix her face. Her mascara had run.

I went downstairs. Halfway down the stairs I had a nasty fit of silent and helpless giggling again. Horrid. Finally, though, I managed to sober up by thinking of starving children in a desert landscape.

Matthew was leafing through a magazine. He looked up as I entered, but without smiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We can’t find any brochures. They’re reprinting. Chl—Africa’s just having an extra look round the office. It’s chaos up there! We’ve been so busy!’ I made what I thought was a graceful gesture indicating our fabulous success.

‘Maybe . . . you need a life coach yourself?’ suggested Matthew. He had made a joke, but without showing any signs whatever of amusement. I laughed generously, while realising that deep down in my tummy, more trouble was brewing.

‘You’re so right!’ I said. ‘Oh – I forgot – we usually interview people to music. It creates an ambulance, you know.’ I went over to Chloe’s CD player. ‘Ambience, I mean.’ I was so flustered, I’d
need
a goddam ambulance if this went on much longer.

I selected a Beethoven CD, inserted it, and pressed PLAY. Beethoven was classy – classic, even, and he was loud. He would cover any unfortunate sounds I might be forced to make. I could always have a coughing fit as well, just to be on the safe side.

But what was this? This was not Beethoven. Literally the worst song in history burst out: ‘
I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny!
’ Matthew looked startled. Chloe entered the room. She hadn’t done a very good job of repairing her eye make-up. She looked as if she’d been crying.

‘Zoe!’ she frowned. ‘What’s this?’

It just kept on blasting out. ‘
I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny!
’

‘It was in the Beethoven case!’ I snapped. ‘I wanted to play some Beethoven to create ambience!’ I was also really annoyed with her for calling me Zoe when she knew perfectly well I was Squeaky Jane.

‘Switch it off! Switch it off!’ yelled Chloe, running to the CD player. In her haste she knocked into a framed photo of their dog, Geraint. It flew through the air and smashed into the wall. The glass broke.

Chloe screamed. She turned off the
Horny
song. There was a sudden silence, in which I farted.

Then Matthew’s phone suddenly started to ring. It was the Crazy Frog – I felt his ringtone let him down really. So trashy, and
so
last season. However, I was hardly in a position to look down on Matthew style-wise. I had just farted in his face, and as he answered his phone, I ran out into the garden and farted three more times.

‘Good afternoon!’ came a man’s voice behind me. I turned round. Chloe’s neighbour was clipping his hedge and staring disapprovingly at me over his glasses.

‘Good afternoon!’ I cried. Then I ran indoors. Matthew was on the phone. He had walked over to the window and was staring out into the garden where I’d just been. I glanced hopelessly at Chloe, who was picking up pieces of glass.

I bent down to help her, and farted again. This was the end. I was either going to burst into tears or die laughing. I leapt up, ran upstairs and locked myself in Chloe’s bathroom. I turned on all the taps, to make as much noise as possible, wrapped a towel round my head, and howled.

A couple of minutes later, when my panic attack was finished and my body felt nice and quiet again, I turned off the taps. I heard the front door slam shut. He must have gone! I waited. I heard Chloe coming upstairs.

‘Zoe!’ she shouted. ‘It’s OK! He’s gone! Are you all right?’

I opened the bathroom door. ‘What a complete and utter nightmare,’ I said. Now he’d gone, the urge to laugh had somehow disappeared.

‘His mum rang,’ said Chloe. ‘There was some crisis at home, so he had to go. I said we’d be in touch.’

‘Poor Matthew,’ I said. ‘He really was trying to have a job interview, and all we could do was fart at him, play obscene music and throw the ornaments about.’

‘I thought he was quite nice, really. In a way,’ Chloe said. ‘I mean, in casual clothes, and you know, if you could get him to loosen up a little . . .’ She looked thoughtful.

‘Well, thank God he’s gone,’ I sighed. ‘Now we can chill out and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. Let’s watch that new Keanu Reeves DVD.’ Then suddenly a terrible thought struck me. ‘Oh noooo!’ I wailed.

Chloe looked alarmed.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What? What?’

‘The nightmare’s not over,’ I informed her. ‘Scott Nicholls is coming in a minute.’

Chloe looked blank.

‘Who’s Scott Nicholls?’

‘The other one.’

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12

SUNDAY 2.46 p.m.

Worse and worse. And worse.

I reminded Chloe that Scott was the dreamy, poetic one and that he’d probably be loads more romantic than Matthew. He’d probably have wonderful lyrical hazel eyes and long, fine, sensitive hands. His handshake would be warm, firm and lingering.

‘Just thinking about him is making my lips tingle,’ I assured her, ransacking my make-up bag. I was torn between two lipsticks: Porsche Red and Brandy Ice.

‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘You’ve convinced me. I just need to work on my mascara a bit.’

We both fixed our faces, then cleared up the broken glass and polished the coffee table again. Eventually we were ready. Scott was due at 3 p.m. and it was 2.57 p.m. precisely. We sat in our interviewing positions, trying to keep calm.

‘If it all goes pear-shaped,’ I said, ‘you say you’re just going to pop to the bathroom, then go upstairs and ring me on my mobile. I’ll take the call, and then I’ll tell him my dog’s been run over or something, so we have to end the interview.’

‘Zoe!’ cried Chloe, her eyes filling with tears, ‘Don’t say that! If anything ever happened to Geraint I couldn’t bear it!’

‘No, no, listen,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean Geraint. I don’t even have a freakin’ dog. I was just – oh never mind. Just say
anything
. He won’t be able to hear what you say, anyway, will he? I’ll just make something up. Don’t say anything funny though, or I’ll kill you. It’s got to be a sudden emergency.’

‘So I do this if the interview’s gone pear-shaped?’ asked Chloe. ‘How will I know?’

‘Oh, you’ll know,’ I said grimly.

‘OK, listen. If I think you want me to go upstairs and ring you, I’ll make a secret sign,’ said Chloe. ‘Then you have to make a secret sign back.’ Sometimes I think Chloe’s got a lot of growing up to do.

‘OK, OK,’ I said rather rattily. ‘What’s the secret sign?’

‘I’ll scratch my neck,’ said Chloe.

‘But you’re always scratching your neck.’

‘No, I promise I won’t unless I want to know if it’s gone pear-shaped. Then, if you agree it’s gone pear-shaped, you scratch your head.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ll scratch my head if I think it’s gone pear-shaped, whether you’ve scratched your neck or not.’

‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘So if I see you scratching your head, and I want to make sure it’s because it’s gone pear-shaped, I’ll scratch my neck, OK?’ I was beginning to feel dizzy with conspiracy.

‘Uh . . . yes,’ I said. BAZZZZZZZ! The doorbell! It was Scott! We both leapt up, panicking. Chloe backed off in the direction of the kitchen and waved me towards the front door.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘if either of us scratches by accident, we cough, OK? So the cough means: sorry, that was an accident – I scratched myself by mistake. OK?’

‘And what if we cough by accident?’ said Chloe. I was halfway to the door by now. My mind went blank. ‘What’s the, like, ultimate code for “
it’s gone pear-shaped
”?’ hissed Chloe.

‘We ask him if he’d like a cup of coffee,’ I whispered, and then ran to the door. I took a deep breath. This time it was going to be fine. Scott would be lovely. I was sure of it. I opened the door and realised in a sickening flash: it had gone pear-shaped already.

The weediest boy in the world stood there. He was skinny, and wearing drainpipe jeans and a gothic T-shirt with the word ‘VOMIT’ in silver sparkly letters on black. His neck was scrawny. His hair was so short, it was almost shaved. His lips were strangely puffed up and looked too big for his face. His eyes were pale blue and sort of fishy.

‘Uh, hi,’ he said. ‘Is this the right place?’ He didn’t even introduce himself. What a dingbat.

‘Scott?’ I enquired, feeling suave and mature – about thirty-five years old. I extended my hand. He kind of flinched, looked panicky, and attempted to shake hands with me – but somehow his hand missed mine and travelled on, up the inside of my arm, dislocating my thumb on the way.

‘S-sorry!’ said Scott. Good God, the poor guy was incapable of the most basic actions. I wondered whether he’d be able to walk in and sit down, or whether I ought to put him out of his misery and carry him in.

‘Come in!’ I beamed. I now felt ludicrously mature: about forty-five. Scott lurched forward and entered the house. He did trip on the doormat but I suppose it was a major triumph that he didn’t actually fall flat on his face.

I ushered him into the room, and there was a terrible moment when Chloe couldn’t hide her shock and disgust at his vile appearance. Her face kind of collapsed into horror, and then tried to climb back into a smile.

‘This is Scott Nicholls,’ I said. ‘Scott, this is Chloe Watson, my business partner. We’ve taken over the project from Jane and Africa,’ I gave Chloe a firm look. There was to be
no
laughing, and no mention of our not being lesbians. Scott would probably die of fright.

‘Do sit down,’ said Chloe in a strange, nervous headmistressy voice. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Then she realised that she’d inadvertently used the code word for ‘
it’s all gone pear-shaped
’
.
Even though, in some ultimate kind of way, it really
had
gone pear-shaped, it was still far too soon for my dog to be run over.

‘Oops!’ She gave a kind of convulsive start, and looked at me with frantic apology in her eyes. Scott didn’t notice. He was trying to work out how to sit down on the sofa without accidentally killing himself. ‘What I really meant was, would you like a cup of
tea or
coffee?!’ She said this with a crazy kind of emphasis, so I would know she hadn’t meant to use the code.

‘Yes, please,’ said Scott in a faint, distressed voice. ‘Coffee.’

‘Milk and sugar?’ asked Chloe.

‘Yes, please,’ said Scott.

‘How many sugars?’

Scott hesitated, picking invisible dust off the knees of his trousers. ‘Four,’ he said.

Chloe looked amazed and disgusted. She scratched her neck. Had she meant to? Had she even noticed she’d done it? ‘Would you like some coffee, Zoe?’ she asked me.

‘Yes, please,’ I said, scratching my head to ask if she’d meant to scratch her neck. A terrible light dawned in her eyes.

‘Did I scratch my neck just then?’ she asked – the
idiot
. She had now blown our entire strategy.

‘Yes,’ I said, enraged. ‘You must try and stop it, Chloe!’

‘Sorry,’ she said, trying to turn it into a joke. ‘It’s just a nervous habit.’

Scott wasn’t really listening. He looked if he was already desperate to escape. I picked up my notebook and cracked it open purposefully. Chloe went off to the kitchen to make the coffee. I reached for my pen.

‘So – Scott,’ I said. ‘First things first. What’s your name?’ Scott looked puzzled. ‘Oops! Sorry!’ I tried not to look like an idiot. ‘Of course, I know your name. Scott . . .’ I wrote
Scott
down in my book. Then something terrible happened.
I forgot his surname.
I was so obsessed with scratching or not-scratching, coughing or not-coughing, that everything else had been wiped from my memory banks.

I couldn’t help blushing and having a major panic attack kind of in secret. But I really
couldn’t
admit I had forgotten his surname. So I pretended to write his surname next to his first name. What I wrote, in fact, was ‘Saucepanhead.’ He would never see what I had written, of course. He couldn’t see my notebook from where he was sitting. He would just see that I’d written
something
and
assume it was his surname
.

‘I mean, of course, what’s your address?’ I went on, trying to appear relaxed and mature by smiling broadly. Even though the smile was twitching slightly. It was totally synthetic and bogus and longing to drop right off my face.

‘Mynydd Mawr,’ he said, only it sounded like
Munuth Mauwer.
I panicked slightly.

‘Sorry?’ I said, pen poised.

‘Mynydd Mawr,’ he repeated. ‘It’s – uh, Welsh. My mum’s from Wales.’

‘How lovely!’ I gushed. ‘We went camping in Wales once! It rained all the time but it was gorgeous all the same! . . . Er, how do you spell it . . . ? M, U . . .’

‘Not U,’ said Scott. ‘Why not you.’

‘
Why not me?
’ I repeated, rapidly losing it.

The faintest trace of a grin flashed briefly across Scott’s face.

‘Y not U,’ he said. ‘The letter Y. M Y N Y . . .’ My hand was starting to shake. I couldn’t concentrate. And my head was starting to itch. Any minute now I was going to have to scratch my head, whether Chloe was in the room or not.

‘I’ll write it down for you, if you like,’ said Scott, holding out his hand. He wanted my notebook! The notebook in which I’d written his name as ‘Scott Saucepanhead.’ He must
never
see that! He might think it was some kind of cruel reference to his appearance, not a random word. Although, to be honest, he was way, way more ugly than a saucepan. ‘Saucepanhead’ was, in his case, almost a kind of compliment.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said, making a charade out of getting it right, ‘I’m just being stupid. M Y N Y . . . ?’

‘M Y N Y D D,’ said Scott. I wrote it down. ‘M A W R.’

I finished it. I now felt slightly more in control.

‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘Big Mountain,’ said Scott.

‘Nice,’ I nodded approvingly. ‘Poetic. Do you ever write poetry, Scott?’

Scott looked frightened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Is it . . . like, necessary for the job?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I just wondered . . .’ Silence fell. My mind had gone blank. If Chloe had been in the room, I’d have scratched my head at her and said, ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Even if we were already actually drinking some.

Scott was avoiding my eyes. He was fiddling with his trouser knees again. Kind of scratching. Maybe he also had a code, which was:
if it’s all going pear-shaped, scratch your knees
. The truth was, it was all so totally pear-shaped, we’d all be scratching away like apes, the moment Chloe came back with the coffee.

The silence deepened. We needed some meaningless small talk. I pride myself on my ability to chat confidently with random strangers (sometimes described by my sister, Tam, as infantile babble) but my mind was so totally blank, I couldn’t remember a single word. In English or Welsh.

Scott looked up and raised his eyebrows slightly. His strange fishlike gaze passed nervously across my face and came to rest on my right ear.

‘Westlake Avenue,’ he said. I blinked, mystified at this random outburst.

‘Sorry?’ I enquired.

‘It’s the rest of my address,’ said Scott apologetically. He was still trying, in some dim and fumbling way, to have a job interview. I wondered if we’d manage to communicate before one of us died of old age.