Pride and Premiership (16 page)

Grr.

It’s depressing, but I’m going to have to knuckle down and keep on working at Kara’s until I win the lottery or something. (Yeah, right.)

OMG. I’ve got great big bags under my eyes. I’m going to look awful for DD (double date). Will have to paint on the concealer, because I bet any money that Terry’s girlfriend, Paris, is going to be some glamour model that puts me to shame. Methinks this mission is going to call for some chicken fillets! And on second thoughts, concrete instead of concealer.

Brainwave! I once read in
Grazia
that on the day of a photoshoot some models brew two teabags, lie down and then stick them under their eyes to get rid of dark circles. Will try it.

Grrr… My “de-bagging” session was interrupted by the Feminazi. She called and asked if I could pop into the salon if I wasn’t too busy. I wanted to say, “Of course I’m too bloody busy, I’ve got eyes to de-bag, a DD outfit to sort out and a Facebook page to update.”

But I need Kara just now so I said OK.

Today is the best day ever for three reasons:

1. I passed my NVQ!

2. When Kara presented me with my certificate she said, “And I’ve decided to continue with your colour-coded booking system.” She even said I could take her colour – green – as she doesn’t need to do treatments now that I’m qualified.

How could something that simple make me feel like I’d got through the first round of
X Factor
? Because it did. And all I could do on the way home was daydream about what my own salon would look like (if I lived in a parallel universe and had forty grand in the bank instead of £223.07).

3. I’m only hours away from my double date with Robbie, Terry and Paris, and I just know it’s going to be fantastico!!

Right, I’ve laid out my DD outfit and am now about to jump into the shower. After much toing and froing I’ve decided to go with the maxi dress because if Paris is a skinny-model type, my bum will look even more massive in a tight-fitting dress or jeans – but if she’s got big bazookas, I can at least pretend that I have a decent pair with my chest-enhancing fillets. I just hope I don’t fall asleep at the table … I still feel bloody knackered.

I’m home! Thank God. The restaurant was beautiful. Hakkasan, it was called. It’s so–oo lush. By far the poshest Chinese restaurant I’ve ever been to. And it would have been a perfect night if it hadn’t been for Paris. She’s an absolute mentalist! Her lips have been moulded into a pout, her fake tan makes her look like she’s bathed in three cans of Tango, her legs reach up to her armpits, the dress she was wearing looked more like a top than a dress, and there is no way she ever thinks before she opens her mouth.

When we were introduced, I shook her hand and said, “What a lovely dress.”

“Versace,” she replied. “Twelve hundred quid.”

When I told the three of them how happy I was about passing my NVQ, Paris turned to Robbie and said, “You ain’t gonna let your bird wax people’s backsides, are ya?” Robbie went bright red.

She even followed me to the Ladies, saying that she wanted to powder her nose (if she’d put on any more, she’d have looked like a clown – a burnt-orange one). Then she turned to me as soon as we got inside and said, “Remy, a little word of advice. You’re pretty. You’ve got a good pair of boobs. So never, ever go out with a footballer and then dress yourself in a tent.”

A tent?!

“Your dress is great,” Robbie said when I asked him what he thought about it on the way home. “Could have been a bit…” He stopped.

“A bit what?”

“A bit more sexy then. All right? But it’s nice.”

“Sexy?” I repeated. “Sexy how? Sexy like Paris?” I spat out her bloody name.

“God, no. Nothing like Paris. She’s not a proper girl.”

“No?” I said, slightly relieved. “What is she then?”

“You’re too innocent for this stuff, princess,” he replied.

“Is she a prostitute?” I exclaimed, thinking I’d just had my first encounter with a real-life prostitute and she was nothing like the ones on
The Bill
.

“Nah.” He laughed. “At least a prostitute gets paid.”

I frowned. “What? I don’t get it.”

“OK,” he said, as if he was Dad giving in to my pleas to be told the facts of life. “Girls like Paris target guys like us – so they end up getting used and abused.”

“Yeah, right, by having loads of money thrown at them for Versace dresses?” I scoffed.

“That’s nothing to Terry, princess. He makes that kind of money sitting on the toilet. But when he wants to get serious, she’ll get binned and he’ll find himself a proper girl.”

“Oh. Right.” It hadn’t occurred to me that footballers actually knew they were being targeted by WAG wannabes. I suppose that’s why Malibu invented the Charter – a way to make it look like she couldn’t care less about pulling one. (When it’s actually all she’s been thinking about for the past five years.)

“So … what am I to you then?” I asked.

We’d just pulled up outside my house. Robbie turned to me, gently touched my face and said, “You’re the real thing, princess. Wife material.”

And then he kissed me and kissed me and kiss–ssssssssed me!

Had a crappy night’s sleep. Can’t help thinking that Robbie will go elsewhere if I hold out for another five and a half weeks, like Malibu says I should. It’s not like he’ll be short of offers. Nearly SIX WEEKS? That’s a blooming lifetime!! Besides, I’m not sure I need to keep it up. If he thinks I’m wife material, that means the WAG Charter has already worked. Job done.

What2do? What2do?

Wow! Just finished making Mum up, and it was HER who asked ME to do it. Almost had a heart attack.

“What’s brought this on?” I asked.

“Nothing special,” she said, but her eyes twinkled, so I figured she wanted to please Dad.

First, I applied a grey eye shadow to make her blue eyes stand out, then a bit of silver in the arch of her eyebrow, black mascara, bronzing to the cheekbones and a touch of melon-pink lip gloss, and I can honestly say that once I’d finished she looked a million bucks. Just like the old days.

“Thank you, Remy,” she said, gazing into the mirror.

“Pleasure,” I replied.

And it truly was a pleasure to transform someone’s appearance, seeing as I spent most of my time on reception today (even though I’m now a proper beauty therapist). Grr. It’s gutting because I get commission for doing treatments, and I could really do with the extra money. It’ll help pay for all the clothes I have to buy for my dates with Robbie.

In our lunch break I managed to have a word with Malibu about the WAG Charter.

“Do I really, really need to hold out for eight weeks?” I asked after telling her what Robbie had said when he dropped me home.

“I dunno why you want my advice after the mess I’ve made of things, but in my opinion…” She thought about it for a second and then said, “Don’t play games. Just do what you feel.”

Yay!

Then I checked that she was all right, because today all the gossip in the salon seemed to be about Lance and Amy getting married. No one could believe it. And when Malibu’s client – Lorraine the Pain – asked her how she felt about it, Malibu said, “I don’t give a flying fuck.” But I, of course, knew she did.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “I’m going to Gary’s tomorrow night.”

“Really?”

“Yep. The new Posh and Becks mission is back on! Only bigger and better this time. Which is probably why I said you can forget about holding out, because I certainly don’t intend to.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down, then broke into a cheeky grin.

“You minx,” I said. But it was good to see her actually having a laugh.

Malibu watched a DVD in her room while I watched
The Entrepreneur
with Mum and Dad. Very surprising episode tonight – the favourite went out. He’s v. posh and called Tristan. “I went to Oxford, you know” was his favourite line. Dad always said, “So bloody what,” but everyone else on the program seemed to worship the ground he walked on. This was the first time he’d been hauled in front of Deborah Gordon, and when she pointed at him and said, “You’re outta here,” Dad clapped and said, “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. Obnoxious pillock.”

When it was over, Mum went to make a cup of tea and Dad asked me how the business plan was coming along. I felt bad telling him I’d given up, but I couldn’t see a way round it.

“Not great. The start-up cost comes to about forty grand!”

“Forty grand?” he repeated. “That’s toppy for a bit of nail varnish.”

“It’s not just nail varnish, you know! There’s the cost of nail bars, fake tan, wax, facial creams, a laser skin-rejuvenation machine – and they’re dead expensive.”

“What do you need a laser thingamajig for then?”

“Because…” I was going to say “because Kara has one”, but then I realized this wasn’t Kara’s we were talking about. This was MY salon. And I could do anything I wanted.

“It sounds to me like you’re starting too big,” Dad said. “Think of just doing the basics for now, and then you’ve got room to expand.”

I realized he was right.

“And then of course you’ll need less of a loan,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“A loan?”

“Well, that’s what the business plan is for, isn’t it? Or have you come into some money that I don’t know about?” He laughed at his own joke.

“Um… No, of course not,” I said, laughing back. (Thinking:
A loan!
)

“Right. Less money borrowed means you can pay back earlier. Just make sure you forecast your profits clearly – and realistically, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed, nodding seriously as if I knew what he was talking about.

“Show that you’ll be able to pay off the loan in about three to five years and Bob’s your auntie’s husband.”

He made it sound so–oo simple, but I know it’s going to be hard work. The difference is that now I know I can get a loan, I’m not going to give up.