Chapter Five #2
‘Well, we just checked into this really amazing hotel . . .’ spying the view from the window I let out a gasp ‘. . . and it’s in the middle of all this gorgeous countryside,’ I continue, looking out at the wide, flat fields dotted with nothing but sheep and crossed with stone walls. It’s like a giant chessboard.
‘Mmmm, really?’ murmurs Stella on the end of the line.
‘And they’ve got all this amazing old antique furniture.’ Flopping down onto the flowery bedspread, I prop myself up by my elbows.
‘Mmmm, really?’
I can tell Stella’s not listening. Antique furniture probably isn’t high on her list of interests right now. If ever. ‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime here so we’re going to grab something to eat and then it’s sightseeing this afternoon,’ I say, changing the subject quickly.
‘So did you meet your Mr Darcy yet?’ she teases.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I reply. Leaning over the side of the bed, I dig out my toiletries bag and slick on some deodorant. ‘No, I met an asshole instead.’
‘Is he cute?’
‘He’s a pain in the ass.’
‘But cute?’ she persists.
I think about him for a moment, with his old corduroy jacket, shirt that’s buttoned up the wrong way, and his messy hair that needs a good cut.
‘No, you definitely wouldn’t describe him as cute,’ I answer firmly.
‘Huh? Assholes are usually cute,’ tuts Stella, sounding surprised. ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. A holiday romance might have been fun.’
‘Fun?’ I shudder at the thought of having any kind of romance with Mr Asshole. ‘No thanks. And anyway, I’m off men. I want to spend this vacation catching up on all my reading.’
‘I think you should keep an open mind. Just because you had a few bad dates . . .’
‘A few?’
‘Oh, come on, Emily. Live for the moment. Haven’t you read The Power of Now?’
Hang on a minute. Did she just say what I thought she just said? In all the time I’ve known Stella I’ve only ever seen her read her horoscope and the laundry instructions on her clothes. ‘No, I haven’t. Is it good?’ I ask, impressed.
‘Well, I haven’t actually read it myself,’ she confesses. ‘But I’ve met this guy who’s been telling me all about it. About how we have to stop projecting into the future all the time and not worry about what’s going to happen.’
‘What guy?’ I ask suspiciously. Not projecting into the future and living for the moment translated into man-speak sounds like a ruse to get Stella into bed.
‘His name’s Scott,’ she announces happily. ‘Do you want to say hi?’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I say quickly. One of my pet hates is when a girlfriend puts some random man they’ve just met on the phone.
OK, so they’re usually in a bar, intoxicated by alcohol and male attention, and I can see how it might seem a fun thing to do – sort of – but fun for who exactly?
Never you. Nine times out of ten you’re usually at home, in your baggy old sweat pants, doing your handwashing.
Literally scrubbing your gussets with a nailbrush.
The last thing you want to do is have a stilted, awkward conversation with a stranger whom you’ve never met and with whom you have absolutely nothing in common.
Apart from your friend, who he wants to sleep with.
‘Aww, go on, he’s right here . . .’
‘No, honestly—’
It’s too late. I can hear the phone being passed over. My heart plummets. Oh, no. Please no.
‘Yo,’ demands a male voice on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, hi.’ I wince. ‘I’m Emily.’
‘Scott,’ grunts the reply.
There’s an awkward pause. I grope around for something to say.
‘Um, so what do you do, Scott?’ I ask stiffly. God, I sound like Stella’s mother.
‘I party,’ he laughs raucously.
I wince and persevere.
‘So, are you having a good time?’
Honestly, why don’t I just add ‘dear’ and go the whole hog?
‘Yeah, it’s totally wicked, and your friend Stella is rockin’.’
OK, I’m not going to judge. ‘Wicked’ and ‘rocking’ are perfectly good adjectives.
‘Boy, does she lurve to par-taayyyy,’ he whoops.
I take it all back. I’m judging. And Scott is guilty of being a total jerk.
‘Um . . . will you pass me back to Stella?’ I say, only I have to shout loudly as he’s now pretending to howl like a dog.
Thankfully I hear the rustle of the phone and then, ‘Em?’
It’s Stella, back on the phone. Part of me is relieved, but the other part knows what’s coming next: the appraisal.
‘So what did you think?’ she whispers.
‘It’s difficult to tell, on the phone,’ I say, trying to be tactful.
‘He’s really successful. He owns an advertising agency,’ she confides. ‘And he’s really handsome.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I agree. Who isn’t after several margaritas? I once kissed my own reflection in the mirror of the ladies’.
‘He’s such great fun, Emily. He’s really crazy and he makes me laugh. I’ve only known him a couple of hours. I feel like we’re really connecting.’
Oh, shit. This sounds dangerous. I try jolting her back to reality. ‘So, have you heard from Freddy?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yeah, he’s already sent me about ten text messages asking if I arrived safely, how’s the hotel, if I was OK . . .’
‘Aw, he’s so sweet,’ I say fondly. ‘You’re lucky. Freddy really cares about you.’
‘Well, I wish he didn’t, he drives me crazy,’ grumbles Stella. ‘I wish he’d leave me alone to enjoy my vacation.’
‘You say that, but I bet you’d really miss him if he did.’
‘I bet I wouldn’t.’
‘OK, have it your way,’ I surrender. ‘But you want to be careful what you wish for . . .’
My warning is drowned out by drunken giggling. I feel a wave of irritation. Has she heard a word I just said? I listen for a few moments. Oh, no. That’s not the sound of her and Scott kissing, is it?
‘Erm, Stella . . .?’ I say tentatively.
‘Umm, yeah?’ she says distractedly.
Oh, hell. That is the sound of them kissing.
‘You know, perhaps I should talk to you later.’
‘Sure,’ she replies, not protesting. ‘Have fun at your museum.’
God, that makes me sound like a total dork, doesn’t it?
‘It’s not actually a museum, it’s where Jane Austen . . .’ I begin, but my voice trails off as I hear what sounds like Stella groaning on the end of the line. ‘OK, well . . . um . . . take care.’
‘Mmmm, yeah . . . bye.’
Hanging up with relief, I glance at my watch.
I’m running late as usual and, rubbing on some lip gloss, I grab my coat and sling my old tote bag over my shoulder.
Bobbing my head so as not to bang it on the low doorframe, I twist the little brass key in the lock and head down the darkened hallway.
Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror at the top of the stairs, I pause.
My hair’s gone all limp and the front bits are all static-electric from my mohair scarf.
I blow them off my face, only for them to cling straight back on again.
I grimace. Sometimes I hate having long hair.
All that hassle of combing out tangles in the shower and blocking up the plughole and having to scoop it out with your fingers.
Not to mention the expense of all the leave-in conditioners, serums and hot-oil treatments.
I swear I have a cupboard full of them and my hair still looks exactly the same: shoulder-length, darkish brown and with enough split-ends to start a stylist tutting like a metronome.
To be quite honest, I don’t know why I don’t just cut it all off. Actually, now I think about it, I do.
Four words: My mother and kitchen scissors.
I’m still traumatised by the short haircut she gave me at five years old.
Not that it matters what my hair looks like, of course. Nobody knows me here so it’s not as if I need to make an effort or anything. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to tip my head upside down and do a bit of volumising with my fingers like this, and then throw my hair back and—
‘Erm, excuse me.’
I hear a voice behind me at exactly the same moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Which is when I see three things:
1. My hair has smeared my lip gloss across my face, making me look like a Jackson Pollock painting.
2. The blood has rushed to my head, making the veins around my eyes bulge and my face turn scarlet.
3. Mr Asshole is right behind my left shoulder.
How long has he been standing there?
Embarrassed at being caught doing my hair-commercial head-toss, I feel two spots of colour burning on my cheeks. I turn round and, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, rub the lip gloss off my cheeks while saying casually, ‘Yes? Can I help you with something?’
He has one eye squeezed shut and is rubbing the corner of it with his forefinger. ‘You could start by not flicking your hair in my face,’ he complains.
‘Oh, sorry—’ I begin, but he interrupts.
‘Yeah, well, you need to look what you’re bloody well doing. You nearly took my eye out,’ he snaps.
I feel a flash of annoyance.
‘Only nearly? Damn. I’m usually a good aim,’ I reply before I can stop myself. Well, honestly, he’s so patronising – he needs a taste of his own medicine.
‘In that case, I’m glad you’re only in possession of your hair and not a firearm,’ he retorts dryly and strides off down the stairs, shoelaces flapping.
Right. OK. Well, that told him, didn’t it?
For a moment I watch his retreating figure, trying to think of a suitable comeback, then give up. And feeling disgruntled, I follow him downstairs.