I’ve been at Mum and Dad’s house for less than half an hour when my mobile rings. Luckily, it is not Darth Vader. Darth and I have only been on texting – and not speaking – terms since that horrible phone call. I’m hoping I’ve still got a job, but I’m not one hundred per cent positive. For all I know Coral could be packing Crystal into her mah-oosive Louis Vuitton fake trunk and shipping her back as we speak. I hope she has to pay a premium for oversize luggage.
‘Hey, I saw your posts on Insta! You went to Ibiza and New York? Jeez, you get around these days, girl.’ Rachel laughs, to show she’s kidding.
‘Fuck, the Ibiza pics aren’t still up, are they? I thought I’d deleted …’
‘Chill, they’ve gone. I was kidding. How was Brighton after we left? Any hot dates?’
That makes me pause. The image of Freddie and our shared sunset flickers into my head. Nope, better not go there. ‘You were my only hot date!’
‘Ha-ha, you’re funny. That’s why I rang, thought I better check we were still on for tomorrow and you hadn’t dashed off into the sunset with Freddie and dumped me.’
‘Never! I wouldn’t miss your engagement party for anything! Italian place on the High Street?’
‘Bugger, didn’t you get my email?’
‘Email?’ Hell, I’ve been so busy posting photos and having fun, I just haven’t bothered checking. Which is so not me, I’m a ‘refresh every 10 seconds’ kind of person. Normally. Except now isn’t normal.
‘Oh, don’t sweat it, it doesn’t matter. But the whole thing kind of spiralled out of control a bit, and we’ve invited everybody! Mikey said why not, you only get engaged once!’
Mikey, it seems, only does everything once, apart from the obvious thing that he’s done several times with several different women.
‘So, Mum offered to do something at home. Much better, free booze and I only have to walk up the stairs when I’m drunk!’
‘Fab!’ Bugger.
When Rachel said the words ‘engagement party’ in Brighton, even though I was bladdered, a part of my brain went, ‘Oh, Gawd, what do I wear?’ Then at breakfast the next day she’d said it was at a restaurant we went to quite a bit, and I went phew, smart jeans, sparkly top, heels, sorted. Which is what I packed before heading to my parents. And a blingy necklace, which I had thought might be over the top, but I’d take it anyway.
The situation has now changed though. The necklace is definitely not over the top, it is the only suitable part of my wardrobe, but obviously I can’t wear just that.
Rachel’s house is a whole different scenario. As is, ‘We invited everybody.’
I did not arrive at my parents’ house equipped for a flashy engagement party. I arrived with the type of small wheelie-case that makes it easy to make a quick getaway when you’ve heard one too many comments about eating toast in bed leaving crumbs, and the toothpaste needing to be squeezed from the bottom. I mean, I do love my mum, but loving somebody and living with them can be two different things altogether.
Now, Rachel might not be intending it to turn out that way, but it will definitely be très pawsh. This is because her folk are loaded. This isn’t loaded as in you don’t have to think twice about buying the book and the new lipstick. I’m talking seriously flush, though, surprisingly un-flash.
Their whole life went supersized the day her dad entered the Dragon’s Den and came out with bucket loads of dosh and a whole load of TV exposure. When we were thirteen they upsized in a way that made my jaw hang loose. At that age you’re not green eyed about stuff like big houses (just boyfriends, and new jeans and flash mobiles), you’re just awe-struck.
Up until then, tea round at her house had involved being squashed round the Formica kitchen table and being able to see the TV in the lounge if you leaned back just a tiny (unnoticeable) amount.
Now there was a TV the size of a car in the kitchen, reaching the lounge couldn’t be done in high heels, and you could hold a party in her bedroom.
I know. We did. And now, my whole flat would fit in the third bathroom.
So however nice, normal and totally unflashy her folks were, the other party guests will be dressed to impress. I have to make an effort.
And who knows what ‘everybody’ means. It could even mean Andy, as we had made quite a foursome a few years ago and I know he is still good friends with Michael.
Normally I would log onto my bank account and check the balance then say to hell with it and go shopping. Now is not normal though. Now is post non-US trip, and like I said I am stony broke.
I check my coat pockets, and that little secret pocket in my handbag where I occasionally squirrel away a £10 note. I even rattle the piggy bank in my bedroom that Mum has kindly kept. It yields several old £1 coins, some hair grips and a trolley token.
I have reached such a desperate low that I am actually building up courage to ask Mum if I can borrow something of hers to wear.
Then I do a mental reccy of her wardrobe and all hope is lost. Let’s just say, there are ways to do animal print that are on-trend and look wicked, and there are ways that say it is so over. I will be better dressed if I turn up in just my sparkly necklace.
I mean, I do love Mum, and she does have a certain style, but I’m not ready to turn into her yet. Or talk about hot flushes. Or keep my elbows off the table and my knees together.
There is only one way out of this, and it involves a man and next day delivery.
I need to talk to Freddie.
I glance down at my vibrating phone, and it’s him.
It’s like we have this weird connection. Like when you and your best friend suddenly realise your periods have totally tuned in. Like I say. Weird. He’s a man.
‘Freddie!’
‘Jane, I have …’
We both speak at the same time. Both stop. Then start again.
‘I am so screwed, I …’
‘I’ve made a spur of the mom—’
We both stop talking again. But I did hear what he said. Spur of the moment? Freddie doesn’t normally do spontaneous. Apart from the Brighton trip. And the day I told him how I’d been dumped by Andy, when he suggested we hold a wake for my (never to be used) wedding dress … Okay, he’s spontaneous when he knows I’m having a crisis, which seems to have happened more times than it should have done lately.
‘What do you mean?’ That is said in synchronicity, so we both start laughing.
‘You first.’
‘No, you first.’
‘Hang on a second.’
‘What are you doing, there’s an echo now.’
‘I’ve gone into the bathroom.’ I push the door shut and sit on the loo. ‘So Mum doesn’t listen in.’ I’d forgotten how nosy mothers can be. It’s no wonder the teenage years are so tough, that you end up paranoid that you can’t do anything right, and never get to do what you want. Big Mother is watching you (or reading your private stuff) and slyly making suggestions to try to get you back on the right track. I now realise Mum did not have any kind of ESP or worldly knowledge. She spied (or as she would say, kept a loving eye) on me.
‘I’ve got my feet up, hang on, hang on, let me make a coffee.’
‘Freddie! Are you suggesting this could take some time?’
‘Yep.’
‘Cheeky bugger.’ I stop twiddling my hair and grinning like a teenager in love. ‘Well, you’re wrong! I just need you to do me a favour, if you’ve got time?’
‘Always got time for you. Although …’ there’s a pause in his voice, which makes my heart hammer. This isn’t my ‘Dear John’ is it? When I discover he’s got a new girlfriend who he really is into this time, and I’m going to lose my flatmate and my home. Is this why he rang?
‘Although?’ Be brave, Jane. Be brave. I cross my fingers and close my eyes. Please don’t say you’ve fallen in love. Please, please.
‘I’m going away for a few days to see a mate. I was just ringing to see if you want me to shut the curtains and set the light timer on? I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.’
Phew. Or not phew.
‘Going away, like today?’ Shit, shit, shit. I’m going to have to borrow money off Mum. Or Dad. Dad is a better option, less explanation required, just more truth. A tricky one.
‘Like tomorrow.’ There’s a smile in his voice, I can hear it. I can picture the lift at the corners of his mouth. The twinkle in his eyes.
Phew.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘I need a favour. I wouldn’t normally ask, but I’m totally desperate. Say no if you want, I won’t be upset.’ Much.
Memo to self. When feeling in despair at being a singleton, or feeling overwhelming randy, or thinking similarly inappropriate thoughts when faced with a sexy man wandering half naked through your flat (or wandering barefoot on the Brighton sand). Remember, a friend is for life, not just for romance. Whereas a lover can be here one Christmas and gone the next.
So, value your wonderful friend, and do not allow yourself to lust after him in any way whatsoever. And definitely do not be tempted to paw him. Because that way will lead to disaster.
Freddie has saved the day. And my dignity. He has gone one better than Parcelforce and agreed to make a detour and bring me a dress. See, I’d be a fool to snog him and risk losing all this, wouldn’t I?