Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (22 page)

‘You’re the one that I want,’ Joe sings, as he Blu-Tacks a Doris picture to the wall.

I had to ring round all the patients I knew who had been friends with Doris to find the pictures, then Mum took them to Snappy Snaps in Nunstone and had them blown up. I think we did well. One lady knew Doris from the sixties and gave us a lovely photo of her in a minidress eating an ice cream in Brighton. Mum got some extras of that one. She said, ‘I made the executive decision that she’d want to be remembered like this, young and smiling, so had a few more done and then I saw the offer they were doing on the personalised badges!’ Mum couldn’t believe the offer on the badges so now we’ve two hundred Doris badges with this picture on as well.

‘You better shape up!’ I sing, well, sing-ish. I walk around the food table, checking we’ve got everything. ‘Right, what’s the time? Could you look at your waterproof watch?’

‘Shall I just kiss you first? It’s the blonde wig. It’s getting me going.’

Well, it’s impossible to do Sandy with raspberry hair, you can only do Frenchie, and no one chooses to go to a
Grease
party as Frenchie, so I’m wearing my blonde wig. I love a wig and I’m very excited that Joe King does too.

‘Yes, I thought you’d never ask, it’s been about four minutes since you last kissed me.’

‘It’s quite hard to control myself for four minutes with you in that catsuit.’

He walks across the empty community centre dance floor, kicking some balloons out of the way as he goes. He reaches me and we stand smiling at each other.

‘I think I’ve spent my whole life waiting for your smile,’ he whispers and then he puts his lips on mine. ‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘Was that a bit cheesy? You’re making me very cheesy, Jenny Taylor.’

We kiss some more.

‘I think you’re a little bit more handsome than you were four minutes ago,’ I whisper, because I have completely turned into a tool. I speak a load of tosh and most of the time I speak it as though I am five. ‘Ooh, what time did you say it was?’

‘Um, um, half past one.’

‘I think we’ve done everything we can for now. The Rod Stewart impersonator should be here at two.’

‘You’ve got a Rod Stewart impersonator coming?’

‘Yep, every good funeral should have one. And Doris loved him. Well, she loved the real thing but we couldn’t get him. We did try.’

‘That I am looking forward to seeing.’

‘Ah, well, we won’t see him. We have to go now.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Dunno. Wherever you want?’

‘But you’ve organised this, aren’t you going to stay?’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why? I think Doris would want you to be here.’

‘Ah well, yes, she would. But… Hmm… It’s complicated.’

‘Try me.’

‘I’ve been asked to steer clear of the family. They’re hoping to sue the surgery.’

‘But you were so close to her…’

‘Wait, it gets even more complicated. Doris’ grandson broke my heart when I was seventeen and as if that wasn’t enough, he married the girl in my year who used to bully me.’

‘Oh, baby, come here.’

He holds me.

‘If you want to face them, I’d hold your hand.’

I love that he said that. But…

‘Ah, well, it’s not so much a question of me getting the courage to face them now, as me not wanting to get thumped. You see, the thing is, they’ve booked a tea at the golf club. They think the reception is going to be at the golf club. But Doris couldn’t stand the golf club and she wanted a full-on boozy bash, and I did tell them but there was a non-refundable deposit on the sodding golf club and they wouldn’t change it. So Philippa had to chat up a guy who works on the bar there and pretend she was a relative, and, anyway, when everyone gets there they’re going to play a video of Doris talking about the big bash she planned. Then Philippa will tell them all to come here. Hence the ambush.’

‘Wow. Yeah, that was complicated.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wow,’ he says again, I can tell he’s trying to get it all straight in his head.

‘Hmmmm.’

‘It’s pretty massive what you’re doing,’ Joe whispers.

‘I know. Let’s just think positive.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ he says stroking my back. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah, hopefully.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No, I was wowing you that time.’

‘How do you mean?”

‘I didn’t think anyone as awesome as you existed, Jenny Taylor.’

He kisses my nose. I can’t speak because I’m smiling.

I’ve had only two texts from Philippa today. The first one said:

The second one said:

I got that fouteen minutes ago, and the first few cars are pulling up now. Joe’s inside, the Rod Stewart impersonator is late so he’s putting on a Rod Stewart CD to tide us over. I’m standing by Joe’s van in the far corner of the car park, watching in the wings. I lean my head against the cool bodywork and close my eyes for a moment.

‘Hey, Doris,’ I whisper. ‘I hope I did the right thing. I hope you enjoy your party.’

When I open my eyes again Joe’s standing in the doorway of the community centre doing a drinking sign. I put my thumb up in response and shout the word champagne. He darts back inside. A man with long blonde hair, a lot of fake tan and a white suit gets out of an old Escort. Here’s Rod! He walks to his car boot and takes out some black equipment boxes. I look down the road and I can’t see a Range Rover so I dash quickly across the car park to help Rod with his equipment. Oo-er.

‘Hello, I think you spoke to my mum on the phone. I’m Fanny.’

‘Mick, pleased to meet you.’

I try to take one of his bags.

‘No, you’re all right, love. Just lead the way.’

He stands waiting for me to show him where to go. But I freeze. I’ve just spied a Range Rover driving too fast in this direction.

‘Oh, just go through those doors and you’ll see the stage. People should start arriving in a minute,’ I say, already jogging away from him.

‘Ah, hello there, mate,’ I hear Joe call out. ‘Come in here. Let’s take a bag off you.’

I stand back against the van, catching my breath. I don’t know what to do. If I get in the van I might draw attention to myself. But then again if they look over here, I’ve nowhere to hide.

The Range Rover parks very near the hall. Michelle Cullet flies out of the driver’s seat, slamming the door. She’s inside in seconds. Steve walks slowly round the back of the car and stops. He’s looking in this direction. I’m wearing a blonde wig and I’m dressed as Sandy from
Grease
, he might not know it’s me. God, he looks sad. He looks as though he can barely lift his limbs. I know that feeling. I could almost sympathise. He takes a step towards me, and then another. I used to love his face. During the entire time I was at secondary school, Steve Wilmot had his picture in the school magazine twice, once when he was fourteen and once when he was sixteen. I cut out both pictures and kept them under my bed. I knew his face so well. I wonder whether Michelle loves him as I would have loved him.

He quickens his step towards me. Quite a lot of cars are arriving now.

‘Is it you?’ he says. He’s only a few feet away.

I don’t answer.

‘Jenny?’

I used to love the way he said my name. I used to think that he said my name as though he liked me.

‘Jenny.’

I close my eyes.

‘Jenny.’

He’s really close now.

‘Wow,’ he whispers. ‘You look like a model.’

I don’t respond but a part of me knows I’ll revisit that comment at a later date and it will have me dancing around the flat.

‘You really do, Jenny.’

‘Steve!’ It’s Michelle calling from the entrance. ‘There’s a bloody Rod Stewart lookalike in here! Steve!’ She’s walking quickly towards us when suddenly she stops.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she shouts. ‘Blonde now, are you?’

I don’t reply.

‘So was this all you?’

I don’t feel like a scared girl any more. I feel like Jenny Taylor being shouted at by a bully. But this time she can’t hurt me.

‘Do you know how stupid we looked in there?’

Oh no, a tiny smile escaped my lips.

‘Go on,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Say whatever you want to say, Michelle.’

It seems to throw her for a moment.

‘You’ve got a bloody cheek.’

Funny, I spent my time at school not being able to say boo to a fish. Hearing that I’ve got a ‘bloody cheek’ is rather flattering.

‘Thank you. And you should probably thank me for organising the funeral Steve’s gran wanted.’

‘Thank you?’

‘Yes.’ I turn to Steve now. ‘What were you thinking trying to do it at the golf club after we told you what she wanted?’ I ask the question gently.

‘We’d booked the golf club. It’s a non-refundable deposit,’ Michelle blusters.

‘I’m not having a go. But I’m not going to apologise for what I did.’

I start to smile because Joe is jogging towards me.

‘Hello, hello.’ He nods to both Steve and Michelle. ‘I’m Joe.’ He slides his arm around my waist.

‘Are you all right,’ he whispers to me, obviously feeling the tension.

‘Yeah, I’m good, thank you. This is Steve and Michelle.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear about your gran, mate,’ Joe says.

Steve nods.

‘I hear she was quite a girl.’

Steve smiles and nods again.

‘I mentioned to Rod Stewart that I played guitar, he was wanting me to play a few numbers with him. But I told him we had to make a move,’ Joe tells me. I nod in reply.

‘You should go in and thank people for coming,’ I say to Steve.

‘Don’t tell him what to do!’ screeches Michelle.

‘Come in with us,’ Steve says to me.

‘I don’t want her coming in!’

‘Shhhh. Come in,’ Steve repeats, and then he looks at Joe. ‘And you, you have to play with old Rod in there.’

Joe looks at me. I look at Steve.

‘Thank you,’ I tell him. ‘I’d really love that.’

The four of us stand rooted to the spot for a few moments. Joe breaks the silence.

‘Shall I lead you in, gorgeous?’ he says, cocking an arm for me.

‘You certainly can, handsome.’

We walk towards the entrance of the hall.

‘You’re the one that I want,’ Joe sings in my ear.

‘Ooo, ooo, ooo.’

‘That Steve bloke can’t take his eyes off you.’

We’re smoochy dancing to ‘We Are Sailing’ along with most of the town. I only booked Rod until 6 p.m. He did stop at 6 p.m. and I paid him, but then he said he’d carry on for free as we were such an appreciative audience. It’s 7.30 now and he’s still going. Although he’s assured us that this is definitely his last number. Doris would have been so proud. It’s the sort of night where children are made.

‘That Steve bloke’s missus, the bulldog, is going to give him a right rollicking unless he stops looking at your bottom,’ Joe whispers in my ear.

‘Is he looking at my arse?’

‘Yeah, but he’s not the only one. Your bottom in that catsuit is the stuff of schoolboy fantasies. I have been trying very hard all day not to grab it.’

‘You can have a little grab.’

‘No, I’m a gentleman. Besides I’d want to unwrap the bottom. Best leave it till later.’

‘I can’t wait until we… you know…’

‘Until we have our first row in a DIY home store?’

‘Yes, how did you guess?’

We stop and applaud the Rod Stewart impersonator. I do my wolf whistle. The ovation goes on for quite some time. Steve Wilmot, of all people, has made his way to the sound system, presumably to put a CD on. A few people drift off to the toilets or the bar but most of the crowd on the dance floor stay where they are, waiting for more music.

‘Well, let me tell you what I can’t wait for,’ Joe says huskily in my ear. ‘I can’t wait until we have a whole night together. I want to explore every bit of you until you squeak that you can’t take it any more.’

‘I’m not really a squeaker. I’d probably scream.’

‘When you’ve screamed “I can’t take it any more!”’

‘Why have I got an American accent?’

‘I’m such a good lover it happens. Anyway, once you’re screaming I want to slide my massive and humungous penis gently inside you and hold you close so I can hear your uneven breath and then I’m going to tell you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and then I’m going to give you fifteen orgasms.’

‘That’s quite a lot to live up to.’

‘I know. You might have to bear with me. It could be over in the first twenty seconds.’

‘We’d just have to do it again.’

‘Oh yes, I think I’d make the forty-five-second mark the next time.’

‘Well, then we’d just have to do it again.’

I kiss him on the mouth.

‘And again,’ he says.

‘Oooh, how appropriate, someone’s put on Tom Jones, “Sex Bomb”,’ I snigger.

‘Fanny, he’s back staring at your arse. At what point should I tell him to stop staring at your bottom?’

‘Oh, that I don’t know. I don’t think The Child Of Destiny mention it in any of their work.’

‘The Child of Destiny?’

‘Destiny’s Child.’

‘Oh.’

‘The
Survivor
album in particular is practically a bible for the modern woman.’

‘But they don’t mention how long a fella’s allowed to stare at a girl’s bottom before he gets a talking to?’

‘Not unless it’s very subtly put and I missed it.’

‘I have to go and say something. I mean how would he feel if I stared at bulldog’s arse for half the night?’

Joe releases me.

‘I’ll be friendly,’ he says in my ear. ‘Just a little… Oh, will you look at that. Bulldog must have read my mind. Ouch.’

I turn around in time to see Steve clutching the side of his face and Michelle storming out of the community centre.

‘Ah, that’s harsh, hitting a man at his gran’s funeral,’ Joe says. ‘She could have just had a gentle word.’

‘Michelle Cullet,’ I tell Joe wisely, ‘wouldn’t know a gentle word if it shoved itself up her —’

Joe kisses me on the lips, cutting me off.

‘Such a pretty girl,’ he says. ‘Such a filthy mouth.’

‘I have to tell you, this is one of the best nights I’ve ever done,’ the Rod Stewart impersonator says, striding towards us. ‘Argggggghhhhhh.’

Woah. He’s just been whisked away and spun around by one of Doris’ friends from bridge club, a well-built pensioner in a cheerleader’s outfit. Our Rod Stewart impersonator looks very concerned as to whether he’ll get out alive. I can’t blame him. There are over fifty women on the dance floor, the majority being over seventy and all of them full of cheap, fizzy wine; any man who steps on the dance floor is devoured by bingo wings, handbags and sod-the-hip-replacement dance moves. Most men are choosing to congregate around the bar, cheerfully moaning about the lack of beer.

‘He won’t be getting out of here in a hurry,’ Joe King muses, surveying the scene, and Joe should know. He spent the best part of the last hour being passed around the bowling ladies. Dr Flemming has been dancing since he arrived after the surgery closed. Marge is line dancing with some of the old girls from the surgery. She’s gone for the sexy Sandy catsuit as well. Her massive bazooms and rolls of Lycra-ed flesh have been flying about the dance floor for hours.

Now that Michelle has left, Steve Wilmot has started working his way around the sides of the room, shaking guests’ hands and thanking them for coming. I watch him, Joe King next to me squeezing my hand. It’s ten years ago this summer since he broke my heart. For years afterwards I’d lie in bed at night and close my eyes and revisit the pain and humiliation. But now there are ten whole years between me and that event; days upon days and days. What was once a raw, red wound has now healed to just a thin little white scar that you can barely notice. I look at Steve tonight and all is see is an overweight, tired, sad-looking man.

‘Poor bugger,’ Joe says.

‘Indeed.’

‘What’s going on in the corner there?’ Joe asks, pointing at a huddle of elderly pink ladies busying themselves around a table.

‘Jägerbombs in plastic cups for all.’

‘Well, of course.’ He chuckles. ‘Er, Fan…’

‘What? Why are you looking all guilty?’

‘I’m not. I just need to establish whether or not you’ll still want to go out with me if I go up on the stage and take the mike for a minute. I don’t want to embarrass you.’

‘You couldn’t embarrass me, Handsome Pants.’

‘I love a challenge, Sweet Cheeks.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Surprise!’ he calls. He’s already jogging towards the stage.

He mounts the stairs two at time, lunges at the amp, fiddles with some knobs so that Tom Jones stops sex bombing and then picks up the microphone and spins round to face us. He smiles cheekily at the crowd beneath him on the dance floor. There are a fair few female murmurs of approval. I do one of my wolf whistles. He winks. One of the ladies on the floor shouts, ‘Hello, sailor.’ People laugh. Joe holds the mike to his mouth for a few moments while everyone settles. Then he starts singing.

‘Summer loving, had me a blast…’

Everyone, it really does sound like everyone, cheers. Even Dr Flemming and he’s normally such a quiet man. But it’s Marge’s screams that can be heard above them all. She’s quickly waddling up the stairs to the stage. Joe stands open-mouthed as Marge, flushed and a little sweaty, snatches the microphone out of his hand and delivers the next line of the song into it herself. The over-seventies are screaming in delight. The pair go on to perform the whole song, the rest of us joining in for the ‘awella wella ahs!’ Marge wraps one of her legs around both of Joe’s at the end and plonks a huge kiss on his cheek.

One of the pink ladies, who was busy pouring the drinks in the corner, taps me on the arm. ‘They’re ready, over there, they are, we thought you might like to propose a toast, since you did all this work,’ she tells me.

‘Oh, I don’t know whether it should be me…’ I say, but she pats me on the elbow towards the stage. I walk up to Joe on the stage and take the microphone out of his hand.

‘Um, hello, hello, could everyone just go and pick up a plastic cup from that table. We’re going to have a toast,’ I say quickly into the microphone, and then I run back down onto the dance floor, careful to dodge the stumbling exodus of people moving from the dance floor to the drinks table and back again.

I spot Steve. He was already looking at me. I walk towards him. I hold the microphone out. Surely he should be doing this toast.

‘Will you do the toast?’ I say.

But he shakes his head and nods towards me as if to say go ahead. I stay where I am.

‘She’d like you to do it,’ I whisper.

I see the muscles in his neck tighten briefly and then after a few moments he nods.

‘Will you come up there with me?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, if you want.’

We take two full cups from the drinks table and climb up the stairs to the stage. I hand the microphone to Steve and step back. I look at all the flushed, excited faces and a little smile escapes my lips.

‘To Doris,’ Steve says raising his glass. A hundred voices echo his words.

‘I hope you’re enjoying this, Doris,’ I whisper, so that no one can hear me. ‘The only thing that’s missing is you.’