Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (8 page)

Al takes the pub quiz far too seriously. He even has a stack of general knowledge books by his bed. After we had sex, I would pick one of them up and quick fire very difficult questions at him. Yes, that’s right, I, Jenny Taylor, know how to please a man.

Philippa and I join him every week at the pub quiz, although we’re more fans of the pub than the quiz. We have no general knowledge and are usually out of our minds with boredom by the fourth question. Al’s been threatening to get a men-only team together for months now, although he’s thrilled tonight to have found a new teammate in Mother. He insisted she came. I tried to dissuade him, on the grounds that she’s liable to, either, get drunk and pull, or worse, try to have a little chat to me about the worst period of my life. But like an Olympian, Al wouldn’t be put off his goal. ‘Think of the quiz! A whole new age bracket, Fanny! This is very, very good news,’ he proclaimed, as he swotted up on World Cup finals.

Poor Al, his good feeling was entirely unwarranted because Philippa, Mum and I have so far spent most of the evening discussing whether Mum should go out with Simon the Plasterer. Actually it’s predominantly Philippa and Mum doing the taking and me groaning into my hands. I am trying to be an open-minded, liberal person. But the idea of Mum with a plasterer twenty years younger than her is a bit weird for me.

‘He said you were hot,’ I tell her a little flatly.

‘Hot!’ She giggles. ‘Well, perhaps I should meet him.’

‘But what about Philippa’s dad? He’s much more suitable. You have to go out with him to the candlelit concert thing.’

Mum scrunches up her face, which doesn’t seem a very sensitive thing to do in the presence of his daughter.

‘Mrs T. What does Simon the Plasterer have that my father hasn’t?’

‘Oh, Philippa, love. Your dad’s a wonderful man. But I think he might be looking for someone to have a future with and, well, that’s not what I’m looking for at the moment. And this Simon, I, well…’

‘Oh, I get it, Mrs T. You want a nice bit of rebound sex.’

‘Philippa,’ I splutter.

‘Yes, Philippa, that’s exactly what I’m looking for.’

Oh, too weird.

‘
Girls!
’ Al’s not happy. ‘
Ladies
, who is this?’

He pushes a piece of paper towards us, it’s full of photocopied bits of famous people’s heads. He prods a blurry picture of some dark wavy hair.

‘Penelope Cruz,’ we all say as though he’s stupid.

‘
Ladies!
If I could have your attention then we might do quite well.’

Mum and Philippa concur. I lean back in my chair and scan the room. I’m not looking for Joe King. I’ve already done that. I’ve already scoured the room wondering if he might be here. I could see him being a pub quiz man. There’s something comforting about a pub quiz man. Not that Matt does pub quizzes, but then he’s so busy, he rarely finishes work before 9 p.m. I’m sure if he did do pub quizzes he’d be successful. He does like winning. Anyway, Joe King isn’t here. But that’s not the only reason that I’m looking around me. I haven’t done a good deed today and I’m hoping I might be able to slip someone an anonymous note here tonight. The pub quiz is a good time for anonymous note giving because most people are distracted by the quiz. I think I might well have hit the jackpot tonight. I’ve just seen a brilliant opportunity to match make.

‘Oh, oh, Philippa,’ I say, subtly leaning in towards her and whispering in her ear.

‘Aye, aye, captain.’

‘If you look over your right shoulder, there’s a girl in a pale blue jumper – nice jumper, actually. Sitting sharing a bottle of rosé with her mate.’

I wait a few moments until Philippa casually glances over her right shoulder to find out who I’m talking about.

‘Yep. Do you know her?’

‘No. Never seen her before in my life.’

‘Then why are we…?’

‘Now look over your left shoulder. There’s a table of five lads. One of them is wearing a denim shirt. He’s all right, dishy, in a sort of Italian way. Turn now.’

She does so.

‘Yeah, got him.’

‘He hasn’t taken his eyes off the girl in the blue jumper.’

‘Interesting.’

‘OK. Look at him again. Do we think he looks nice? Shall we slip her an anonymous note?’

Philippa fixes her eyes on him and pretends to be thinking hard about a pub quiz question. It’s a stellar piece of acting.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure he looks all right? You don’t think he looks like an arse?’ I am quizzing her, but I have to, it’s important neither of us has even the slightest inkling that he might be a psychopath. There’s a lot of responsibility in anonymous note-giving matchmaking.

‘I don’t think he looks like an arse,’ she says seriously.

‘Mum?’

Mum turns away from the page of photocopied facial features, not to look at me though, to shut her eyes and clutch her head.

‘You all right, Mum.’

She nods. ‘It’s just very loud in here. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’ Oh dear, Mum doesn’t look very perky and she’s hardly touched her wine.

‘I’ve got paracetamol in my bag.’

‘No, I’ll be all right, love. What were you going to ask me?’

‘Can I ask your opinion about something?’

She cocks her head as though she’s both surprised and pleased I’ve asked this.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Literally in front of you, can you see a bloke in a denim shirt?’

She cranes her neck and squints at the man in question.

‘I can. He could take my mind off your father, Jenny.’

‘M-u-u-m!’

She’s on heat.

‘Sorry, Jenny,’ she says, checking herself. ‘Why else am I looking at him?’

‘In your opinion, does he look like an arse?’

‘What does an arse look like?’

‘A very good question.’ Philippa nods. ‘God, if only we knew, Mrs T.’

‘Well, would you say he looks like a nice guy?’

‘I think so. And his friends look like nice men too.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Why are you asking me this?’

‘We want to set him up with a pretty girl over there,’ I explain in a discreet whisper. ‘But if there’s any suspicion at all that he might be an arse, then we won’t. Rules of the Sisterhood.’

‘How will you set them up?’

‘Watch and learn, Mrs T. Watch and learn.’

‘Welcome to our underground dating club, Mum.’

I put my bag on my lap and pull out a notelet and my special anonymous note-writing fountain pen.

I begin to write.

I hold it up to show Philippa and Mum. Philippa gives a thumbs up.

Mum claps her hands. ‘This is so exciting!’ she squeals. She hasn’t quite mastered the subtleties of this art yet.

‘Shall we do it now?’ Philippa says, pushing her chair back.

I nod. We both survey the scene.

‘I think it’s an earring scenario,’ Philippa tells me.

I nod again. We don’t always do the ‘where’s the toilet?’ distraction. The ‘I’ve lost an earring somewhere around here, you haven’t seen it’ is quite a favourite at the moment too.

We share a little smile.

‘One good deed coming up!’

‘OK, got the whiteboard, coloured marker pens. Got wine,’ I say.

It’s wedding planning night. I did start reading a book about a woman who was getting married but she got a wedding planner to help her. Now, my funds don’t stretch to a wedding planner because my funds don’t actually exist. So a whiteboard, Philippa, Mum, me and a bit of ingenuity will have to do instead. But I need to be firm and keep the girls focused on the task at hand. I can’t let the night descend into drunkenness and random gossip. I have a wedding to plan. Kate and Wills, who?

‘Oh, sod it. Let’s open the wine.’

I pour myself one and sit down at the kitchen table. Mum is looking at me quizzically. It’s a little unsettling. I have a feeling I know what she’s about to say. I start to get up to go into the other room. But she starts speaking before I’m even out of my chair.

‘We need to talk about the day you left home,’ she says seriously. I knew it.

‘I really don’t want to talk about that day, thank you,’ I tell her. I take a bigger than usual gulp of wine. ‘Philippa will be here in a minute.’

‘It would be good if we could find some time just the two of us to talk about it. I really need to, Jenny.’

‘I really couldn’t think of anything worse,’ I say, unfortunately sounding like a stroppy teenager.

She nods as though she’d like to say more but thinks better of it.

‘So, tell me, Jenny. Why do you work at the doctor’s surgery?’

‘Because I need the money.’

‘But why the surgery?’

‘I like it.’

She turns her nose up.

‘Why did you turn your nose up?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Mum, you so did, I like it at the surgery, OK? God.’ I blow the breath through my lips.

‘If you didn’t work there where would you like to work?’

‘Mum! Where’s Philippa? She’s never late.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘I’m lucky to be working there. I don’t know what else I would do.’

‘Jenny, I’m not saying you haven’t done well. I’m just wondering what you’d really like to do if you had the chance.’

‘Mum! I’m fine where I am.’

‘What do you enjoy doing?’

‘Mum!’

‘Come on, Jenny, you enjoy doing lots of things.’

‘What more do you want from me?’

‘I think you could be a presenter.’

I bang my head three times on the table.

‘Mum!’

‘I think you could.’

‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘No, it isn’t. You used to want to be a presenter.’

‘Yes, when I was little.’

‘You had a place at college to do performing arts.’

‘Mum, that was a lifetime ago.’

‘I think you’d make a great presenter.’

‘Mum, that’s stupid.’

‘Why?’

‘It just is.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m too old for a start.’

‘You’re twenty-seven.’

‘And I’m too minging.’

‘Jenny, you’re beautiful.’

‘You have to say that as my mother.’

‘But you are.’

‘Mum, why can’t I be happy at the doctor’s surgery? We can’t all be superstars. If we were all superstars it would be very hard to get an appointment at the doctor’s surgery.’

Finally, the sublime sound of the door buzzer.

‘Sorry if I’m a disappointment to you,’ I say and I get up to let Philippa in.

‘What’s up with you?’ Philippa asks as soon as I open the door.

‘Mum’s freaking me out,’ I whisper.

‘Why? Did she get some dope?’ Philippa asks. A bit too keenly if you ask me.

‘No, worse.’

‘Oh, what’s she doing, then?’

‘She’s questioning me about my life.’

Philippa looks appalled.

‘I know.’

Philippa nods seriously and we walk into the kitchen.

‘Mrs T. How you doing?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, Philippa. So tell me…’

I freeze. I hope Mum’s not going to start asking Philippa about her life. Or my life. Anyone’s life. Talking about life is definitely out.

‘Tell me, do you think that couple from last night will end up falling in love?’ she trills.

‘We can but hope, Mrs T. Ooh, wine!’ Philippa says, sitting down at the table.

‘You girls are shaping people’s destinies, giving fate a little helping hand.’

‘Blimey, Mrs T, you can do our PR when we set up in our matchmaking business.’

‘Is that what you girls intend to do?’ Mum asks eagerly.

‘No, Mrs T. Couldn’t think of anything worse. I have a career. I am a hard-hitting journalist! Well, reporter for the
Tidds Times
. Some novelist has just moved into town.’

‘Oh, he’s the chap who bought Rose Cottage!’ I exclaim.

‘Oh, yeah, probably. I’ll be interviewing him soon, and there’s an ongoing planning problem I’m about to cover too, Mrs T. Now if that doesn’t get your pulse racing I don’t know what will.’

‘I think you girls could be presenters like Ant and Dec,’ Mum says.

Philippa turns to look at me. Our eyes meet and before I can stop it we share a smile. I would never ever tell Mum this, but Philippa and I have long held a secret desire to be the female equivalent of Ant and Dec. When we play fantasy other lives, which, sad to admit, we do quite frequently, the female Ant and Dec is our favourite one. I quickly force myself to stop smiling, I don’t want to give Mother ammunition. It’s not something that could ever actually happen.

‘Ladies, if I could just bring your attention to the task in hand,’ I instruct them, tapping the whiteboard, on which I’ve written
WEDDING OF THE CENTURY
.

‘Sorry, sorry, Jenny.’

‘OK. Hit us with it,’ Philippa says, arms folded, as they quite often are when my wedding is mentioned.

‘OK. We’ll start with the all-important dress code.’

‘Dress code?’ Mum blurts.

‘Gotta have a dress code, Mrs T.’

‘At a wedding?’

‘At any gathering, really,’ Philippa conjectures.

‘So, the dress code is…’ I can’t suppress a smile. I’m so pleased with this. ‘The Beatles and the Stones.’

Philippa jumps out of her seat and starts punching the air with her fists.

‘I LOVE IT!’ she yells. ‘When did you come up with that?’

‘Last night, it took me a while to get to sleep.’

‘Fan! Genius! Genius!’

‘I thank you, I thank you. So, my dress will be short.’

‘Short?’ Mum sounds surprised.

‘Definitely. I love wearing short skirts.’

‘She does, Mrs T. She says she feels playful in a short skirt.’ Philippa raises her eyebrows at my mother.

‘Yes, and I want to feel playful at my wedding, because essentially it’s one big monster of a party. So short, cream, lace.’

Philippa nods. She knows the exact dress I am talking about. Two years ago now, we went into the bridal boutique in Nunstone and tried on dresses. I hope all women pretend they’re getting married and go into shops to try on dresses. I’d hate us to be the only ones.

‘Beatles and Stones is so great for the guys too.’ Philippa is nodding her head in admiration.

‘Yep, I know.’

Last night I went through all the men I know, imagining them in a sixties- or seventies-style suit and practically everyone looked great. Especially Joe King. I put him in an early Beatles-style single-breasted suit, with a thin tie and the one button on the jacket done up, tight-ish trousers. Not that Joe King would be coming to my wedding. I just happened to imagine him in the get-up, that’s all.

‘The only thing…’ Philippa stops suddenly and frowns.

‘What?’

‘Matt’s not going to go for it, is he? I think he’d want a more conventional wedding.’

‘Oh, would he?’ Mum looks concerned.

‘No. It’s hardly that unconventional to have a Beatles and Stones dress code. And people don’t have to do it if they don’t want, it’s just there if people fancy,’ I say.

Philippa is still shaking her head. I ignore her, I know Matt a lot better than she does.

‘Anyway, I quite like the idea of the short dress with biker-style black boots, very comfortable for dancing. But I think I might have to opt for ballet-type pumps, at least for the first bit.’

‘What about the venue?’ Mum asks.

‘Well, Marge’s dad has a marquee, which I’d like to put in someone’s garden. There are a couple of old dears at the surgery who have massive ramshackle gardens, one of them might let me use their garden to put the marquee in. I want everyone to feel relaxed and it’ll be in summer, so providing it doesn’t rain I’d like people to stumble out of the marquee and make out under the stars.’

‘I love it,’ Philippa sighs. ‘Bagsy me making out under the stars. Although it’s more likely to be you, Mrs T.’

Moving on!

‘It’ll be a beg, borrow and steal affair. I don’t want to ask Dad for money. So I have a plan. I know. I’m on fire. Basically I have made three lists. Food. Decoration. Entertainment, as you can see.’ I point to my whiteboard. ‘So under food we have coronation chicken, potato salad, trifle, etc. Under decoration there is jam jar of wild flowers, eight times, and twenty blown-up balloons, etc. Then under Entertainment we have sing a song, play crazy disco on your iPod and on and on. The list is based on eighty coming. Basically everyone has to pick something from one of the lists and do it or bring it. Cheap and ever so cheerful. And we could say bring a bottle as well and then we’d just pay for like Jägerbombs and specialty party booze.’

I stand proudly back reading my carefully written lists on the whiteboard.

‘Ooh, I love cheesecake,’ Philippa mutters as she squints at the list.

‘I just think if everyone mucks in a bit, it will be a right laugh. Don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, I do. I have to say, Fan, I think it looks wicked.’ Philippa nods, but she seems troubled. ‘I’m just not sure how Matt will feel about this.’

‘What’s not to like?’ I say, surprised. ‘It will save him a fortune.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Mum? What do you think?’

‘Oh.’ she smiles. ‘I love the Stones. I saw them years ago at Reading Festival, before you were born.’

‘Wow, did you, Mrs T?’

‘I think this looks great, Jenny, well done. I can’t wait.’ There’s a faraway look in my mother’s eye that I can’t place. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a wedding planner, Jenny?’

I’ll ignore that comment.

‘So when shall we go dress shopping, ladies?’

‘Tomorrow?’ Mum suggests.

I chuckle. ‘That’s serious.’

‘No point in waiting,’ Mum says. Now, she seems a little emotional.

‘Mum, are you OK?’ I ask.

‘I’m just so proud of you,’ she says tearfully.

‘We both know that’s not true,’ I say, quickly, and to be honest I’m shocked by how unkind I sound. But it’s such a ridiculous thing to say to me now. I’ve no idea why she’s suddenly started behaving as though she’s in an American sitcom. Proud of me? She doesn’t know me, so how can she be proud of me? I look back at my wedding list. Mind you, it is a particularly blinding piece of low-budget wedding planning.

‘So tomorrow then for dress shopping,’ I say, but the lightness has gone from my voice. ‘We’ve got early closing at the surgery. Philippa, can you get out?’

‘You know me, I’d get out of anything for dress shopping.’

At least Philippa’s on board. Finally. Now, how can I avoid talking to Mum for the remainder of the evening? A bath with a book it will have to be.