Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (11 page)

I had a drink after work with Marge and Disgruntled Dave. It was an avoidance tactic. I didn’t want to go home and defend myself against Mother’s new-found delusion that she’s Oprah and that feelings have to be talked about and trauma revisited. Going for a drink was a win–win. Not only has it delayed any potential discussion of feelings but it’s also provided me with a tingle of tiddliness, which could come in handy should the situation arise.

Neither Dave nor I really got a word in, but when Marge went to the loo I found out that he’s single and a bit out of sorts at the moment because he’s been working abroad, he says it feels strange to be back. He was very direct, articulate and honest when he answered my rapid-fire interview questions. And there’s definitely a bit of a young Robert Redford about him. So who can I set him up with? Philippa? Hmmm. Now Philippa is very discerning, but the pro is that he has a creative job. Admittedly I’m using the term rather loosely in the case of
I Like ’Em Big
– and, I think, there might lie the cause of at least part of his disgruntlement. The con with Philippa is that he could well fall in love with her and she will probably snog him and leave him, and then he could feel even worse. Although perhaps a little snog as a pick-me-up is all he needs. And talking about pick-me-up snoggers, what about Mother? Hmmmm. On the whole I am really working on the liberal thing, but the thought of my mother with someone twenty years younger is still really icky for me. And, yes, I know Demi Moore did it. But that was Hollywood, where they have plastic surgery and Botox, and this is Tiddlesbury, where we have a doctor’s surgery and Posh Nosh. And even if he is into older women, he would probably prefer a stable one. Still, I’ll force Mum and Philippa to come to Marge’s house-warming next week and he can choose for himself. I’d call that a good deed.

Later, as I stand wrestling with the lock to get me into the flat, I have a vision of me as a bridesmaid at Mum and Disgruntled Dave’s wedding. But it’s not Matt who’s at the wedding with me. It’s Joe King. He looks beautiful in a suit. I press my hands to my face to dissolve his image from my mind. I don’t care that I’m smudging my make-up. I so need this to stop. I want him exorcised from my brain.

I enter the flat and walk into the living room. The curtains are pulled shut even though there’s a bright blue sky outside. Mum and Al are sitting next to each other on the sofa huddled around my laptop. Fleetwood Mac is playing on the stereo. Fleetwood Mac is always playing on the stereo at the moment.

‘Is someone ill?’ I ask, flopping in an armchair.

Neither of them look at me but they both shake their heads.

‘What you watching?’

‘I love him,’ Mum says without taking her eyes off the screen.

‘You what?’

‘Mick Jagger,’ Al says to the computer.

‘You what?’

‘Your mum loves Mick Jagger,’ Al repeats. ‘We’re watching the Rolling Stones on YouTube.’

‘But you’ve got Fleetwood Mac on the stereo.’

‘Yeah,’ Al agrees.

The video obviously finishes because Al leans back and starts smiling and moving his head along to Fleetwood Mac. While Mum, on the other hand, sits up a touch and begins to open and close her mouth like a child who wants a bottle.

‘Mum, are you all right?’

She nods. She’s still suckling.

‘Mum?’

Mum ignores me and instead turns to Al. The strange thing she’s doing with her mouth continues only now there’s a slight look of alarm in her eyes.

‘Have you got any saliva?’ she asks, leaning very close to him.

Al looks at her seriously and then joins her with the baby mouth. Finally, he shakes his head.

‘None at all.’

‘It’s very strange.’

‘Hmmm.’

I stare at the pair of them. They’re still at it. Together they look like fish.

‘Perhaps we should have a cup of tea,’ Mum whispers.

‘I would love a cup of tea,’ Al says earnestly.

‘I can’t move though,’ Mum confides.

‘Hmmmmphf,’ Al agrees.

They both turn to me. I cross my arms and pretend to be Supernanny.

‘What’s been going on here?’

Neither of them responds.

‘Tell me. Mum? Al?’

Mother’s started to giggle. Al’s just joined her.

‘Mum? Al?’

Mum’s rotating her torso as she giggles and giggles. Al’s head is bouncing up and down. I spring up from my seat.

‘You’re stoned, aren’t you?’

They think that’s hysterical.

‘Al, I can’t believe you got my mother stoned.’

‘She had the stuff.’

‘Mum!’

‘Damien the Dealer was very kind.’

‘
Mum!
’

I flop back into the chair, shaking my head.

‘Please make the tea, Fan,’ Al pleads.

‘Is cocaine like this?’ my mother squawks.

‘I can’t believe you brought me here,’ Philippa humphs.

‘It’s my good deed.’

‘Since when does a good deed involve pimping your best friend?’

‘Times are tough.’

Mum wasn’t feeling well this evening so decided not to come to Marge’s house-warming party. I suggested a little detox might be in order but she just turned her nose up. Al’s not at all happy because it’s pub quiz night and he’s down three men. Well, women. I couldn’t interest him in coming here either, which I can well understand, because it’s basically lots of people who don’t know each other, and are far too sober to chat to each other, standing in a new-smelling home trying not to get marks on anything. Still, at least I’ve got Philippa, hopefully she’ll cheer Disgruntled Dave up. She has been known to cheer many a man up in the past.

‘So what do we think of this Dave bloke anyway,’ she says, absent-mindedly punching one of Marge’s new sofa cushions, a bored expression on her face.

‘He’s disgruntled,’ I say, removing the cushion from her clutches.

‘Sounds perfect,’ she says, sarcastically.

‘But I like him. I think he’s a nice bloke.’

‘Lovely, Fan.’

‘There he is.’

I point to Disgruntled Dave, who’s hovering to the side of Marge, filming her, Marge is resplendent in a green trouser suit, holding court and a plate of chicken satay.

‘He looks miserable,’ Philippa comments.

‘How can you tell? His face is obliterated by a video camera.’

‘I can just tell. Nice body though.’

‘There you go.’

‘FANNY!’ Marge bellows from across the room. ‘Presents in the bedroom.’

‘Right you are,’ I holler back.

‘Did you get her a present?’ Philippa whispers.

‘No,’ I whisper. Then I start shouting back to Marge. ‘Where is Tim? Do I get to meet him? This man I’ve heard so much about.’ I fail to add the words ‘day in day out for six months’ whilst banging my head repeatedly against her brand new door arch, which must mean I have excellent self-control.

‘Oh, you haven’t met my Timmy.’

‘No, although I feel I know him.’

‘Well, let me go and find him. Dave, you can turn that off for the moment.’

‘Right.’

Marge bustles off.

‘She didn’t offer us a drink!’ Philippa squawks. ‘Where’s that bottle we bought?’

I fish it out of my bag and hand it to her.

‘Screw top. Lovely.’ She sighs, gratefully. ‘What did we do before screw tops?’ She opens it aggressively, swigs from it and passes it to me.

I beckon Disgruntled Dave over to us.

‘Hello, Dave. Meet my friend Philippa.’

‘Hello, Philippa,’ he says, taking the hand she’s offering and, ooh, we have a slight turn up of one corner of his mouth.

‘Are you having a good night?’ Philippa asks, very seriously, her head cocked to one side.

‘It’s quite… astonishing,’ he says, completely deadpan.

Philippa grins. ‘Would you like to swig some of our warm wine out of the bottle?’

‘I couldn’t think of anything nicer.’

Ooh, both corners of his mouth are up a little bit. Philippa is very, very good.

‘Do you think they’d mind if we turned on the telly? There’s a good
Panorama
on,’ Philippa says.

‘I love
Panorama
,’ Dave says seriously.

They’re holding each other’s gaze. I am a matchmaking genius.

‘Fanny,’ Marge chimes from across the room. I take the wine from Dave, have another quick swig from the bottle lest it’s all gone before I return, hand it back and then leave the others to join Marge.

‘Tim, this is Fanny from the surgery.’

The dark-haired man next to her obediently turns round.

‘Oh, I have met you,’ I say immediately.

He looks blank. But I’ve definitely seen this fella before. He’s a handsome Mediterranean-looking chap. I can see why Marge overlooked the diabolical chat-up line.

‘I’m sure I know you. I can’t think from where though. It’ll come to me, I’m sure. Anyway, Tim, it’s nice to meet you properly at last.’

‘I don’t think I remember meeting you, but pleased to meet you too.’

‘Congratulations on your move. Great place.’

‘Thanks.’

I gasp. ‘I’ve got it,’ I say, but then I stop myself. I know where I know Tim from. Philippa and I match-made him with the girl in Nunstone. The pub quiz girl. He was heavy petting her in his Ford Mondeo last week. I can feel my smile dropping from my face. Poor Marge.

‘What?’ he says, carefully. I can’t work out if he’s recognised me. But he must have done. Everyone recognises me. I’ve got raspberry-red hair.

‘Nothing,’ I backtrack, trying to force myself to look a bit more cheerful. ‘Nothing. I’ve worked it out. You, I… er… you just look the image of someone I haven’t seen for ages.’

‘I’ve got one of those faces.’

‘Oh, well, they say that imitation is the highest form of flattery… or something.’ Oh, dear, I’ve got a forced smile and for some reason have now started doing a fake laugh. ‘Anyway, great to meet you. I should go and rejoin my best friend. Make sure she’s not pocketing your cutlery.’ Oh, God, I’m doing the fake laugh again.

Cock and balls, Cilla and Cupid massively messed up. We match-made Marge’s man to another girl. I shake my head. I look at Marge still clutching the chicken satay, beaming at her Timmy, This is awful.

‘Crisis,’ I whisper in Philippa’s ear, pulling her away from Disgruntled Dave. ‘We need to go. I’m calling a Musketeer Mission.’

‘Why?’

‘We accidentally match-made Marge’s live-in boyfriend to another girl, he’s the one I saw smooching in the Mondeo. We need to find her and tell her, so she leaves Tim alone.’

‘But I quite like old Disgruntled here.’

‘Well, you can stay.’

‘Not if it’s a Musketeer Mission. I’m a musketeer,’ she says indignantly.

‘Well, come on then.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘First stop will have to be the pub quiz in Nunstone, that’s where we found her, there’s a good chance she’ll be there.’

‘Are you calling Al or shall I?’

‘You do it. I’ll make some excuse to Marge.’

‘Al will be so excited. He bloody loves a Musketeer Mission.’

Have I mentioned that Philippa, Al and I live in Tiddlesbury, a small town in the middle of England and need all the excitement we can get? So occasionally we go on what we call Musketeer Missions. Basically, if ever I, or Philippa or Funny Al, have a problem that we can’t solve alone we summon a Musketeer Meeting, where we three musketeers develop a plan of problem-solving action. I’m not entirely sure how the Musketeer Missions started but I’m fairly certain there was wine involved.

‘Ladies, I’ve got the headwear,’ Al says as soon as we are seated in his Fiat Punto. I know, if I were six foot five I don’t think I’d drive a Fiat Punto either. He tosses us both balaclavas.

‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ I mutter.

‘Just put them on to discuss the plan,’ Al says keenly.

‘Al, the balaclavas were a joke. That’s all. A joke. Not to be worn and definitely not to be worn when driving around in a car.’

It’s all my fault. I bought us all balaclavas for a bit of a lark. I love mine – it’s a hand knitted one with Spiderman’s face on the front. A brilliant piece of craft. I couldn’t believe someone had given it to the charity shop. I wanted to buy it, but I needed a reason. You can’t really buy yourself a balaclava without a reason, can you? So I thought, I know, I’ll buy one for Al and Philippa as well, and say they’re for our Musketeer Missions. But I was joking. Of course I was joking, we can’t go around Tiddlesbury and Nunstone wearing balaclavas because we will scare people and get arrested. Al, however, must have missed that key day at school because he’s always trying to put his on.

‘Put them back in the glove compartment, please, Philippa,’ I say firmly.

‘Where’s your sense of adventure, Fan?’ Al humphs, but he concurs and hands his balaclava to Philippa.

‘Right, Al, you’ll be pleased to know that we need to head for the Nunstone pub quiz.’

As Al starts the car and heads off, I fill him in on the Cupid and Cilla cock-up.

‘Musketeer, ready for action,’ Al says, when he’s got the gist.

‘Stop the car!’ Philippa screams suddenly.

Al checks his rear-view mirror and starts to brake. Philippa winds her window down and sticks her head out of the car.

‘Oi,’ Philippa calls. ‘Oi! Oi!’

I look out and oh, my goodness. It’s him. It’s Joe King walking along eating a packet of Frazzles. He hurries away from the car.

‘Al, catch that bloke up,’ Philippa barks.

Al rolls the car along. Joe breaks into a run. Really rather a good run. We could run together, I think, before I can stop myself.

‘Joe, it’s us,’ she hollers. ‘It’s Philippa and Jenny!’

He stops suddenly and turns around, then takes a few tentative steps towards the car.

‘Get in,’ Philippa orders. ‘We’re on a mission.’

‘Oh, hello, there.’ He chuckles. ‘What sort of mission?’

I’m smiling. I’m smiling just to hear him speak.

‘A mission of good, we’re like the relief effort. Get in!’

He pauses, then shrugs and opens the back door and climbs in next to me.

‘Evening.’ He nods, as he gets in next to me. Then he leads forwards so he’s close to my face and says, ‘Very nice to see you.’

‘Joe, this is Al,’ I say, because I don’t know what else to say. ‘Al is a top man, flatmate, raconteur, bon viveur, but he does work for the council so, I have to warn you, he is prone to moan.’

‘Bloody place. Pleased to meet you, mate.’

‘Al, Joe is new to Tidds, works in the chemist and writes beautiful songs.’

I wish I’d said yes to the balaclava, my cheeks are starting to feel hot from just sitting next to him.

‘Good to meet you too.’

‘Now, Joe, if you perform well on this mission, we might make you a part-time musketeer.’ Philippa tells him. ‘What’s the probationary period for that, Fan?’

‘Six years,’ I inform him.

‘Well, something to aspire to,’ Philippa interjects.

‘So dare I ask what the mission is?’

‘Philippa and I accidentally match-made a couple,’ I tell him.

‘How do you accidentally match-make a couple?’

‘We were in a bar and we left an anonymous note with a girl saying that a guy had been eyeing her up and that he looked handsome and not too mental.’

‘Or so we thought,’ Philippa adds.

‘But you just never can tell,’ I explain.

‘And that’s not all,’ Philippa says.

‘They’ve been hooking up in his Ford Mondeo. I saw them on my run.’

‘Good work.’ Joe looks impressed.

‘Ah.’ Philippa raises her hand to ward off his praise. ‘We thought it was good work. But then tonight we met Mr Mondeo and discovered he has a long-term girlfriend. We realised this at the party they were having to celebrate buying a house together.’

‘I work with the long-term girlfriend. Marge is her name.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Joe King asks, managing to squeeze a word in between Philippa and me.

‘Another anonymous note,’ I tell him.

‘Shouldn’t we leave them well alone?’ Joe asks.

‘We have discussed this,’ Philippa sighs.

‘They have, mate, at length.’

‘Ultimately, if we left everything alone the world would be… what would the world be?’ Philippa conjectures.

‘Balls,’ I offer. I do love the word balls.

‘Balls, well said. When we reach out to make people’s life better, when we take those steps, those risks…’ Philippa must have had more wine than I thought at Marge’s.

‘Like matchmaking a girl to a two-timing bastard?’ Joe is starting to look confused.

‘We’re the first to say that this world view is fraught with problems,’ Philippa reasons.

‘However, we have to tell her. It’s one of the Rules of the Sisterhood,’ I explain.

‘What’s the sis…?’ Joe starts.

‘Word of advice, mate. Never get them started on the Rules of the Sisterhood.’

‘Thanks for that, mate.’

‘So we’re going to Nunstone to find the girl,’ Philippa continues.

‘And you’ll tell her?’

‘No, an anonymous note.’ He’s quite slow getting it, is our Joe. ‘Stop here!’ I screech. ‘Here we are.’

I get a card from my holdall. I zone out the others’ chatter and think about what to say. The best way is to remain impartial and place the information in her hands.

‘Right, you guys stay here. I’ll check inside and see if she’s there. If I can’t drop the note straight off, then I’ll return for back up.’

I stride into the pub. I spot her instantly. She’s sitting at the same table with the same friend and they are sharing a bottle of wine just as she was when we gave her the note. I had a feeling she would be. She has the rosy glow of someone who’s getting a lot of sex after a drought. There’s no way I can go over and drop the note without being totally conspicuous. I return to the car. When I sit back down, Joe King is wearing a balaclava. He still looks fit. Colander hats, balaclavas. His is a fitness that keeps on giving.

‘Please take that off,’ I whisper. ‘Or we will get arrested.’

‘They said you’d say that,’ he whispers back, and starts to take it off.

Al and Philippa laugh. I just watch Joe King’s smiling face re-emerge. He catches my eye, and I look away and swallow.

‘We have lift off,’ I say.

‘Right. What’s the plan?’ Philippa asks.

‘I think Al should distract them. They might twig it was you last time,’ I tell her. ‘Al, so you’ll approach them and try to chat them up,’ I command.

‘Why do you use the word try?’

‘The boys should both go and chat them up,’ Philippa suggests.

‘It’s not some jolly,’ I say firmly, not much liking the thought of Joe King off chatting girls up.

‘No,’ agrees Philippa. ‘So just very mild flirting.’

‘What exactly is mild flirting?’ Joe asks.

‘Bloody good question, mate,’ says Al.

‘Have we got time for this?’ Philippa asks keenly.

‘Briefly,’ I concur.

‘OK,’ Philippa starts.

‘Mild flirting…’ I announce.

‘As opposed to, “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a shithole like this” heavy flirting,’ Philippa continues.

‘To which the answer is…’ I add.

‘Always is…’ she stresses.

‘Considering becoming a lezzer,’ we say in unison.

‘These girls are hard,’ Joe laughs.

‘Tell me about it, mate.’

‘Mild flirting is…’ I continue.

‘Lovely.’ Philippa smiles.

‘It’s just a little smile, and a nod, and a, “How are you doing?” No need to make some lewd sexual overture, no need to drink ten pints and a sambuca beforehand to work up the courage,’ I state.

‘Wow.’ Joe is rightly impressed.

‘They make it sound so easy,’ Al says mournfully.

‘You girls should write a book,’ Joe suggests.

‘On what?’ I ask.

‘Everything,’ he says, huskily.

We hold each other’s gaze for a second before I tear myself away.

‘Jump to it. Right, Philippa and I will lead. You boys bring up the rear. But don’t take your eyes off me because I will be pointing out the women you need to do light flirting with. So stay alert. I will subtly show you where they are. Philippa will head to the bar and purchase the Jägerbombs. The bomb without the Jäger for the driver though. We gather at the bar. Neck the drinks. The boys go and engage in mild flirting, I will slip in and deposit the note and head back to the car with Philippa. As soon as you boys see me go, you can leave too. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ says Joe, seriously.

‘Welcome, part-time musketeer,’ I smile.

‘Positions please,’ Philippa sings.

We exit the car. We nod to each other. We’re off. Philippa and I do our musketeer strut into the pub. She hums the theme tune from
Cagney and Lacey
.

‘The pent-up sexual chemistry between you guys is s, s, s, s, s, s, sizzling,’ she hisses.

‘Hang about, don’t distract me,’ I say, to direct her attention from the big grin that just spread over my face.

We pass the girls. I do a genius little dance move to signal them out for the boys.

‘I’m on fire,’ I whisper to Philippa.

‘You’re on something,’ she snorts.

The boys join us at the bar. We raise our glasses and drink a quiet toast to the musketeers.

‘I’m feeling a lot of adrenalin,’ Joe remarks.

‘Oh, mate, the Musketeer Missions make you feel alive.’

‘Ready for your mild flirting?’ Philippa questions.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Al says, belching Red Bull.

Philippa and I shake our heads.

‘Those lucky ladies.’

‘You ready, Fan?’

‘Yep. Got the note. I’ll drop it down on the slide past. See you back in the car in a few minutes, boys.’