Pride and Premiership (15 page)

Robbie just called and I’m sure I detected jealousy when I said I was going out with James.

“Who’s this James fella then?”

“Oh, just a friend.”

“With benefits?” he asked.

I laughed and said, “No. A friend with absolutely no benefits. Not now. Not before. And not ever, ever, ever. You have nothing to worry about, believe me.”

But I didn’t explain why because I quite liked leaving him to stew a little bit. It’s only what I had to do when he was away.

OK. I’m dressed and ready to hit the pub. It took ages because James is really critical about clothes, hair, make-up and all that. With most boys you know you can throw on a short skirt or a tight top and they’ll be happy just perving, but that doesn’t work with James – fashion is his number-one priority.

I decided to wear my harem pants (so–oo now) with a black vest.

Nearly forgot my fake ID. Phew!

Well, I can honestly say that I made a proper idiot of myself tonight.

I was just getting into the celebrations when Boring Roger walked into the pub. With a girl on his arm. The red mist came tumbling down. I stormed up to him and threw my drink in his face.

“You tosser!” I said. “You absolute—” (I can’t remember the details but I know I called him every swear word I could think of.)

The girl he was with started to scream and cry, James tried to calm me down and Roger kept shouting things like “You’re mad!” and “What the hell are you on about?”

“You know exactly what I’m on about!” I shouted back, launching myself at him. And I might even have hit him if James hadn’t grabbed me around the waist and dragged me back.

“Look, mate,” Roger said to James. “You’d better keep that nutter away from me, because I might not be responsible for what happens next.”

“What? You gonna hit me? You that weak and pathetic?” I shrieked at him.

Then he looked me in the eye and said quietly through clenched teeth, “I’d never hit a woman. I think you know what kind of person I am.”

“What? Like I knew that you wouldn’t dump my sister? She’s at home crying her eyes out because of you!” I yelled.

“What you on about? No one has shed more tears about your sister than me,” he said. “And let me tell you, she hasn’t returned any of my calls in about two weeks. So if she’s crying, it has nothing to do with me – and everything to do with someone else.”

I wanted to call him a liar, but his eyes looked like he was telling the truth. I was so–oo confused. Still didn’t apologize when he asked me to, though (just in case). Then he walked off with his date.

I convinced myself I’d done the right thing when James put me into a cab, and even on the way home. Then I received a text from Kellie:
OMG. Have you heard?? Lance and Amy Fitzgerald are getting married!! WTF?!

Now suddenly everything makes sense. And I feel like a right twot.

Everything happens for a reason. If Boring Roger hadn’t walked into the pub tonight, Malibu would probably still be keeping all her pain about Lance Wilson to herself. She looked bloody relieved after I got her to confess.

“I love him, Rem,” she said. “I’ve always loved him. When he rang me up a couple of weeks ago and gave me a long speech about wanting me back, I said no way because I know what a player he is. Then you saw him kissing Amy and I got jealous, so I called him, ranting and raving. He told me
I
was the one he wanted to be with, so I fell for it and went over to his house.”

“But you said you were going to Roger’s that night!”

“I know. I was just embarrassed about telling you to be strong and then being weak myself. I was going to tell you, I swear. I would’ve had to, with the way things were going, but then … he changed his mind again and…”

She stopped.
Is she going to cry
? I thought. And just when I was convinced that Malibu had become a soft-hearted Disney princess, she said, “I mean – dissed for a dog like Amy Fitzgerald? What a fucking cheek!”

Malibu looked a bit down first thing, but as soon as she got to work she switched on her personality. Ding!

Goldenballs called her at about eleven, and after that it was Gary, Gary, Gary for the rest of the day (as if Lance and heartbreak had never existed). It must have been fake but it was bloody convincing.

I’m pretty fed up myself. Still haven’t heard about my NVQ. At lunchtime I asked the Feminazi if she knew what was going on and she said, “Ask the Royal Mail. I’m not a postman.”

Bloody Nosy Knickers Nicole Walker just phoned me.

“Is it true that Lance Wilson is marrying Amy Fitzgerald?”

“Yeah… Think so,” I replied.

“How’s Malibu taking it?” she asked, dying to be filled in. “She must be gutted.”

“Can we speak later, please, Nicole?” I said. “I’m looking for a job.”

“A job? Why, what’s happened at Kara’s?”

“Nothing. Speak soon, OK?” I answered, and put the phone down. Wish I hadn’t said anything – don’t need her spreading the news before I find somewhere else to work.

The only job I can find in the area is one where I’d have to rent a space from the salon owner, and then the money I make will be mine. But you need to have a good customer base before you do something like that. I haven’t even got started. So–oo annoying!

Mum called me for dinner for the thousandth time, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. Going to stay in my room and wallow in my work depression.

James always says that by the time he was ten, he was sure of two things: 1. He was never, ever going to fancy a girl, and 2. He wanted to be a hairdresser.

It wasn’t until I was thirteen, when Malibu would come back from work buzzing and then use me as her manicure/pedicure guinea pig (that’s all Mum would allow her to try on me), that I decided I wanted to be a beautician too. But at ten there’s one thing I was sure of: whatever I chose to do, I needed to be in charge.

I hated being bossed about by Malibu only to turn up at school and be bossed about by all the teachers as well (except Mrs Stevens – loved her English lessons). I hated all the petty rules about wearing the correct uniform and not running in the corridors (even if you were dying to go to the loo and the corridor was empty apart from you and the teacher who just happened to spot you – duh!). I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could do things MY way. And not just for the sake of it: I felt sure there was a better way to do most things – and that I could find that better way if I put my mind to it.

That colour-coded system I devised the other day was bloody genius and the only reason it wasn’t appreciated was because it’s not my salon. Well, you know what? Maybe I do need to be in charge and it’s time to get my own salon RIGHT NOW.

Yeah, right. I can’t even understand basic business terms, how the hell am I going to run my own salon?

Can’t see me having one until I’m old and miserable like the Feminazi.

Dad came into my room, worried about me not eating dinner. I told him I had no intention of fainting again any time soon.

“Good. Well, what’s the matter then?”

“Nothing,” I grumbled.

“Of course there bloody well is – look at the face on you! What is it?”

I sighed. “I think I’ve got a problem with authority.”

Dad laughed. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Is it Kara again?”

I nodded and told him I blooming well hate my job, giving him the prime opportunity to start on about how I should have stayed on at school. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Remy, I’ve seen the attention you put into doing your friends’ nails when they come over here. You love making people look good.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be doing it for the rest of my life,” I told him.

Dad looked confused. “Please don’t tell me you left school for nothing,” he said – just as I expected. Only he didn’t sound angry – I could have handled that. It was the disappointment in his voice that I couldn’t stand. “Please don’t tell me,” he continued, “that I listened as you stood right there, on that very spot, and told me you wanted to be a beautician – and that I was stupid enough to believe you.”

“You weren’t stupid,” I answered. “And it isn’t as simple as that.”

“Yes, it is. Now, do you want to be a beautician or don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes… No. Yes. No. Yes… Sort of.”

“Sort of? What the hell does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“It means … I want to have my OWN salon,” I said. And it felt good to actually say it out loud. Then it stopped just being a dream and became real.

“Really?” Dad suddenly sounded happier. “Remy, that’s great! And you could do it, too.”

“Not yet. Probably when I’m older.”

“Of course you can do it now! Deborah Gordon started her first business at sixteen. It’s just whether you’re willing to put the work in.”

His faith in me made me smile, so I told him I’d even started making a business plan. He offered to take a look at it, because running his own business with Uncle Pete means he knows a thing or two. I explained that it was still at an early stage (no point letting him know that I’d abandoned it to update my Facebook page) and that I’d show it to him when I was happier with it.

“OK,” he said. “Well, at least let me know the start-up cost.”

“Huh? Um… I’m still fine-tuning that, too,” I bluffed.

“Great. Well, I’m really proud of you, Remy.” And he looked it. In fact he looked so proud, I finally realized how gutted he must have felt about me ditching A levels.

I feel proud of myself too and I haven’t even done anything yet!

So I’m going to spend the rest of the night on my business plan. Will begin by typing “What is a start-up cost?” into Google.

I’ve just woken up. Good job it’s my day off. Stayed up God knows how late last night working out my salon start-up cost – which is basically how much I’ll have to spend up front to be able to open a staffed, furnished and fully equipped salon. Nightmare. It took three hours! (And I’m crap at maths, so three earth hours felt more like six to me.) All to finally work out that I’ll need about forty grand! Where on earth am I going to get forty grand from? Nowhere, that’s where. I have about £200 in the bank and if I keep saving at the rate I do, I won’t be able to open a salon until I’m five hundred and twenty-two! (And I don’t need to be Carol Vorderman to calculate that.)