Pride and Premiership (9 page)

“Nothing,” I answered.

“Nothing?” she barked.

“OK. Something then,” I said, annoyed.

“Something like what?” she snapped.

“Something like whatever I feel like eating, Mum, because I’m practically an adult!” I snapped back.

She glared at me and said, “This is MY house and you’d better watch how you speak to me. Otherwise, if you’re such an adult, you can get up and go.”

Whatever,
I thought.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Mum. GOT IT.”

Usually she’d run off to Dad and complain about my attitude, and then Dad – the voice of reason – would come in, give me a bit of a talking-to (without ever raising his voice), then convince me to apologize. But she’s burnt that bridge now – she can’t look for support from someone she’s relegated to the sofa.

Half an hour away from the deadline. I’m so–oo nervous. I even knocked on Malibu’s door to have a little chat, but she was having one of her marathon calls again. She’ll give herself a brain tumour if she’s not careful. I suppose that’s what it’s like when you’ve got two blokes.

Come on, Robbie. You’ve now got twenty-eight minutes and fifty seconds!

It’s no use. Staring at your mobile, willing someone to ring it, almost guarantees that everyone under the sun will phone apart from the person you’re hoping for. First, the Feminazi called to tell me to come in early (there’s something she wants to discuss). Usually I’d ask a few questions – “Oh, really? Something to do with work or my NVQ?” – so I can be prepared. Tonight I couldn’t get her off the phone quick enough. “Yeah, sure, quarter to nine. OK, bye.”

The next person was James. “How ya doin’?”

I said, “Um … can I call you back later, babe? Please?” And I ended the call before he could answer.

Then it was Nicole Walker looking for drama as usual. “Hey, what happened? I heard it kicked off with you and Tara Reid the other night.”

“I’m in the middle of something, Nic, I’ll bell you back, OK?” I said.

But for all my rushing everyone off the line, still nothing from Robbie. No missed call, voicemail message or text. And I can feel myself getting angry with him, even though I know there’s no logic to it because he didn’t even know he had a deadline.

Eek! Phone’s ringing!

It was Kellie. “Has he phoned yet?”

“Nope.” I sighed.

“Come on, Rem, at least you’ve got a plan B. And as things go, Spencer’s quite a good plan B to have.”

I explained to her that I like Spence but only as a friend. And if I’m honest, I knew that before he went off to Loughborough, so I sort of used it as an excuse to break up.

“He was gutted enough then. Why make things worse?” I said.

“Remy, just phone the guy and see where it goes from there – and stop being so dramatic about it,” she told me.

So I’ve just sent Spencer this text:
Hey you. Long time. Did you miss me (ha ha)? Maybe we can hook up before you go back to uni? Luv Remy x

Spencer called straight away and said he’d just been talking about me, which made me feel really good (see, this is what happens when somebody’s into you) but also a bit guilty (I so don’t want to break his heart). He asked whether I’d be around tomorrow night and said maybe we could meet up at the Milkshake Bar (our old hang-out).

“Sure,” I said. “What time?” We agreed to meet at seven-thirty. But I’m still feeling a bit guilty about it.

I don’t get it. If I’m Robbie’s “perfect” girl, why hasn’t he called by now?

Doh! I know why he hasn’t phoned – he’s met some hot girl in Ayia Napa who doesn’t have a bum that spreads from here to Timbuktu!

Right. Tomorrow I’m skipping breakfast, having an apple for lunch and then I’ll see what I feel like eating when I get to the Milkshake Bar. I need bum shrinkage. And I need it right now.

Yikes! Text message!

Only Spencer:
Really looking forward to seeing you Rem. Need to ask you something. No pressure. x

Oh no–ooooo. Dear God, please don’t let Spencer ask me to get back with him.

My stomach’s rumbling so loud, it woke me up before my bloody alarm did. WTF?

OMG. I didn’t have dinner last night, that’s why! Oh well, I’m still sticking to my plan: no breakfast.

Bum shrinkage takes sacrifice.

Nothing from Robbie.

Beginning to feel glad about trying Malibu’s fail-safe theory, because at least when I’m with Spencer tonight I won’t be checking my phone every five seconds. It’s doing my head in.

Right, I’m outta here. Need to be at work fifteen minutes early for my “talk” with the Feminazi.

I feel awful. Weak. Knackered. Moody. Make that double moody, because only having an apple for the day is one thing but having to deal with Robbie not phoning PLUS the Feminazi is beyond punishment. Especially as our little “talk” wasn’t a talk at all – she wanted me to give her a manicure. I’ve done treatments on all the beauticians at Kara’s but NEVER the Feminazi herself. I knew she’d be judging me for my NVQ.

Don’t think I would have minded any other time, but why did it have to be today, when my stomach was growling like a grizzly and my brain was 200% on Robbie?

Anyway, I knew I couldn’t back out, so I did my best. And it was going well until she asked me to cut back her cuticles. I frowned. At college I’ve been taught that you’re not supposed to cut back cuticles. You’re supposed to push them back instead. The Feminazi even says it herself. But she didn’t have any dead skin, so I told her that. And it probably came across a bit aggressive because I was STARVING. (I get the right hump when I’m hungry.)

“So?” she said.

“So I don’t think I should,” I replied, and then realized that might not have sounded too clever either. I quickly tried to redeem myself. “Because… It won’t help you in the long run – they’ll only end up sticking to your nail. I’ll push them … back … though.” I started to trail off when I clicked that I was digging a bigger hole for myself. The Feminazi already knew all this – she owns a bloody salon. And from the look on her face it was obvious that there was one rule for her and another for the rest of us.

“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll get Natasha to finish up.”

I now expect her to mark my NVQ with a big fat zero.

Even though I’m not really in the mood, I’m going to make an effort tonight (so Spencer thinks “hot” when he sees me). It calls for my dark-blue skinny jeans, my sparkly top from New Look and my Primarni mules – Blow-dry gave me a pedicure in the lunch break and I want to show off my Lush Pink toenails. If Spencer does ask me to get back with him, I’m not going to give him a yes or no answer. I’ll say something open-ended, like “Let’s see how things go.”

My head’s spinning. I wish it was spinning with excitement about meeting Spencer, but the truth is, I think it’s because I’m so bloody hungry. And I’ve hardly any energy.

OMG. I need about twenty Red Bulls to feel human again.

Right, I’m going to stuff my face at the Milkshake Bar – and not with bloody salad, either.

My life is a disaster movie. Right up there with
The Day After Tomorrow
,
2012
,
Armageddon
and that one about the meteor. Here’s why.

I get to the Milkshake Bar and Spencer’s there – so far so good.

“You look amazing,” he tells me. And he doesn’t look too bad himself – black jeans, blue Fred Perry polo shirt, fresh new haircut. So far so better.

The waiter shows us to a booth, we sit down, and before we’ve even ordered, my mobile starts to ring. I scramble around in my bag like a crackhead looking for a pipe, because I just know it’s going to be Robbie. It’s Murphy’s Law (which Miss Stevens taught us about once in a creative writing lesson) – i.e. if things can go wrong, they will. And they bloody well did!

Anyway, I finally grab my phone, having had to take my front-door keys and make-up bag out of the bag first, and (surprise, surprise) Robbie’s name is flashing up on the screen.

“Er… Um… Um… I’ve got to take this call,” I stutter, panicking. And before Spencer can answer, I jump up and start running to the door so I can speak to Robbie outside. (I couldn’t lurve-chat with him in front of Spencer.)

But I don’t even get to hear Robbie’s voice. Just as I reach the door, I only go and bloody faint!

I don’t know how long I was out for, but I opened my eyes to find about six people gawping down at me. I smiled when I realized one of them was Spencer.

“You all right, babe?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I groaned. “My phone. Where’s my phone?”

“Don’t worry about that for now, love,” said a balding man I’d never seen before. He was about forty, with a northern accent, and he was wearing a Milkshake Bar uniform with a badge on his shirt that said “Manager Harry Lewis”. “You’ve … faint-ed,” he said loud and slow, as if I was deaf.

Yeah, I kind of gathered that
.

“Now, we’ll help you to sit up slowly and see how you feel. Then we’ll help you to your feet and see how you feel, and then you can decide whether you want your man here to take you to the hospital.”

My man? The hospital? Why was this happening to me?! And can someone please tell me who this bloody Murphy is? Because I hate his law!

Anyway, the audience began to walk away back to their tables as Manager Harry Lewis and Spencer helped me to sit up.

“I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine,” I told them.

“Do you remember what happened?” asked Spencer.

“Yeah, well, sort of,” I said. “I was running to answer my phone and then… Ugh.” I suddenly remembered missing Robbie’s call.

“Do you suffer from low blood pressure, love?” asked Manager Harry Lewis.

“Not that I know of,” I told him.

“Hmm…” he said. “Well, do you think you might have eaten something that didn’t agree with you?”