Come Again Page 5

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ nods Dex. He flips open his seventies disco turntable, whips a record out of a sleeve and plops it on the centre, before winking at me as he pulls the needle arm across. ‘You being Welsh . . .’

  A terrible recording of Shirley Bassey singing ‘Big Spender’ crackles into action. Dexter is smiling cheekily at me, raising his eyebrows for a reaction.

  ‘That’s marvellous, boyo,’ I nod, turning away to stab hatpins into my cushion.

  This Welsh obsession is getting out of hand. Last week Dexter wouldn’t stop singing ‘Land of my fathers’, after having seen the rugby, and I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘And they can keep it,’ as Dylan Thomas said. I mean, if Swansea is so wonderful, why am I in London? Answer me that.

  I can’t say this to Dexter, though. I can’t be mean to him, because I like him. And anyway, he’s a mate. Which is why, when a surprise turns up at lunch-time, he’s fine about watching the stall for me.

  The surprise is Amy.

  ‘Susie the Floozie!’ she says, wrapping me in a huge embrace.

  Since I’m wearing my big trainers to match my puffa, I’m taller than her, so I lift her up as I hug her back, before giving her a big kiss.

  I’m delighted to see her.

  ‘Hiya, darling! What are you doing here?’

  She pulls a face and points both hands at her head. ‘Wedding experiment.’

  Amy’s gorgeous brown hair is back-combed, plaited and tousled into an impressive bird’s nest. I touch it, tentatively.

  ‘Where did you go for that, then?’

  ‘That place you recommended up in Westbourne Park, you cow. I’ve never felt such an idiot in all my life.’

  ‘They’re usually quite good.’ I look around the back of her head. ‘Bit unusual, isn’t it?’

  Amy laughs. ‘Unusual? It’s dreadful! I can’t wait to brush it all out. I’m going to scare Jack first, though.’

  ‘Where’s lover-boy, then?’ I ask, looking round for him.

  ‘Working to keep me in the manner to which I wish to become accustomed,’ says Amy, pretending to be smug.

  ‘Shame,’ I say, meaning it. Jack’s a stunner.

  ‘Hands off,’ teases Amy. ‘Are you busy? I thought we could go for lunch.’

  ‘Rushed off my feet, as you can see,’ I laugh. ‘Let’s go for sausages and mash.’

  I love Amy. She’s been my best mate since we were at art college together. She used to be a fellow slacker, never having a permanent job, but she’s sorted herself and gone all careerist on me with a fashion house called Friers, so I’m a bit in awe of her these days. Still, the prospect of a good girlie chat in the warm, in my favourite café, is about as good as it can get for a Saturday.

  A mate of mine, Sarah, set this place up last year and it’s doing really well. When I introduce her to Amy, she finds us a table at the back and takes our order. I’m feeling a bit wobbly, not having slept much last night, but a big plate of mash should sort me out.

  ‘Three weeks today! How are you feeling?’ I ask Amy, leaning over towards her and taking her hand in mine. I still can’t get used to seeing her engagement ring on her finger. It’s so grown-up. I gaze closely at the diamond in the middle and twist her hand so that it catches in the light.

  ‘Fine,’ she shrugs.

  ‘Only fine? If I were you, I’d have spontaneously human combusted with excitement by now.’

  I look up and smile at her and when she smiles back, I laugh, because I know she’s excited. I can see it in her eyes. She looks healthier than I’ve ever seen her, her eyes sparkling and her skin clear. Lovely.

  Whenever I see Amy these days, I go all gaga in a Walt Disney princess sort of a way. It’s just that what’s happening in her life at the moment is so romantic. She’s found Jack and he’s wonderful and her wedding is going to be like a fairy-tale. I’m going to be her bridesmaid and I can’t wait for it all – the dressing up, the posh cars, the beautiful flowers, the belting hymns, the speeches, the dancing. All of it.

  Amy twists her ring on her finger and looks at it proudly, before taking a sip of Diet Coke. ‘I can’t believe it’s come round so soon,’ she murmurs, dreamily.’

  ‘Now listen, you,’ I say, ‘you will throw your bouquet to me, won’t you? I won’t forgive you if you don’t.’

  ‘You’re so soppy, Sooze,’ she chuckles.

  I crinkle my nose at her and rest my chin in my palm. ‘I know.’

  We chat for a while before Sarah comes back with two huge plates of food.

  ‘’Scuse,’ she says, undoing the top button of her trousers.

  ‘All those sausages catching up with you, eh?’ I laugh, noticing that she’s put on weight.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispers.

  ‘Never?’ I gasp, genuinely shocked. I come in here nearly every week and I haven’t sussed. Usually, I can pick up baby vibes a mile off.

  ‘Three months today.’ She smiles radiantly.

  ‘Wow! That’s amazing.’ I give her a kiss before patting her tummy affectionately. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ she says. ‘The only problem is giving up the fags.’

  We chat to Sarah for a bit and Amy asks lots of questions.

  ‘Spot the broody one,’ I say, when Sarah’s gone. I raise my eyebrows at Amy and start tucking in.

  Amy laughs. ‘Stop it, you stirrer.’

  I sigh, staring after Sarah. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I’d love a baby.’

  ‘You? With a baby?’ Amy scoffs.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You’d be hopeless.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Come off it, Sooze! What would you do with a baby? You’re the original gypsy. You’re always on the move and you’re far too scatty to be responsible for another human being. One sniff of a party and you’d forget all about it and leave it somewhere.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t,’ I say. I’m not that bad, am I?

  Amy widens her eyes at me. ‘Anyway, aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ I pick up the ketchup bottle and shake it.

  ‘A man,’ she says pointedly. ‘It takes two, apparently.’

  ‘Oh that,’ I say, dolloping ketchup on to my plate. ‘I thought I’d nip down the sperm bank.’

  Amy laughs. ‘So you’ve definitely stopped seeing him, then?’

  The ‘him’ she’s referring to is Simon. Simon the Spineless. He was the permanent lover of my life up until about a month ago. Had been for years.

  Not that he was ever mine. That pleasure belonged to Ilka, his Swedish wife. Beautiful, thin, pure, naturally white-blonde Ilka, who bred perfect mini Simons and Ilka-ettes and apparently devoted her existence to making Simon’s life hell. Only when it came to the crunch, it turned out that he couldn’t live without her, this witch he’d slagged off for years. Funny that. He swore blind he couldn’t live without me and guess what? He isn’t dead yet.

  ‘Yes. I’ve finally had to let him go,’ I sniff. ‘He struggled, mind, but I put my foot down. “Simon,” I said. “What part of the phrase ‘I never want to see, hear or touch you again’ are you having particular trouble with?”’

  ‘Good.’ Amy laughs. She always said that Simon was never going to leave his wife, but even though I’m joking about it now, Amy’s a good enough mate not to say ‘I told you so’.

  ‘He did call again, mind,’ I tell her. ‘He suggested that I move in with him and Ilka, “as a nanny”, can you believe it, to make things easy,’ I shrug.

  Amy gasps, before pointing her fork at me. ‘I can’t see that working, somehow.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ I say. It still makes me shudder to think of what a mug I’ve been. I deliberately set myself up as Simon’s mistress, so why did I expect him to think of me as anything else? It was fine at the beginning whilst I was shagging other people too. I used to think seeing Simon was a bit of a laugh and I liked all the attention, especially since I was so s
kint. He used to make me feel so special, whisking me off to posh hotels for afternoon sex and buying me expensive underwear. It was all so illicit and exciting and, sucker that I am, I fell for him. My charming older man, who thought I was the bee’s knees. But now, looking back on it, he was just grateful.

  ‘So? How are you finding life now you’re officially single?’ Amy asks.

  I suck in my cheeks and stab my sausage. I gaze at it for a moment. ‘I can’t complain.’

  Amy grins at me and rolls her eyes. ‘What have you been up to?’

  For a moment, I’m tempted not to tell her about last night. Not to share the intimate details or elaborate on the finer points of Ed’s bedroom prowess, as I have done with every other lover.

  It’s funny these days. Because since Amy moved in with Jack, things have been different. She’s not the smutty gossip she used to be. Either it’s because things between her and Jack are too boring to mention, or just simply too private. I suspect it’s the latter, but whatever it is, she doesn’t compare notes with me like she used to.

  ‘Come on! This is me,’ she says interpreting my pause.

  I clear my throat, pretending to be coy, but eventually she coaxes the whole story out of me and I liberally sprinkle my description of the night’s events with lots of salacious details, the finale of which is a reconstruction of Ed’s anatomy using the sausages on my plate. I feel a bit bad about exposing Ed, but I doubt if I’ll ever see him again and, to be fair, I am being quite generous.

  ‘You can get Jack to recalculate my promiscuity rating, if you like,’ I say, scooping up the last of my mash on my fork.

  ‘At this rate, you’ll be off the scale,’ she laughs.

  Jack’s got this mad equation for calculating how much of a tart you are when you’re not in a long-term relationship. We had a tremendous laugh working it out in the pub the other night. According to Jack, I’ve got the highest rating he’s ever heard of. I’m not sure whether he’s impressed or jealous.

  Amy pushes her knife and fork together. ‘You don’t change, do you?’ she says, shaking her head and putting her hand on her stomach.

  I love making Amy laugh, but I can’t help feeling that these days it’s at my expense. Not that Amy has done anything wrong, or is taking the mickey in any way. It’s just that she’s not complicit any more. And whilst I feed Amy instalments, like a soap opera, we’re actually talking about my life. This is happening to me. It isn’t happening to her. She’s safe and she’s in love. And I feel I’ve exposed too much.

  ‘So? Tell me all about the hen do?’ I ask, changing the subject and putting my hat back on.

  ‘Hasn’t H called you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That’s strange. She said she was going to. Anyway, it’s Leisure Heaven for the weekend.’

  ‘You’re kidding? That’s brilliant!’

  ‘Are you sure? H didn’t sound too keen.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you’ll love it.’ I stab a hat pin through the back of my hat, so that it secures my rebellious ponytail of thick curls.

  Trust H to put such a downer on things. I don’t know her that well, but each time I’ve seen her, she’s always been a bit off. She needs to lighten up, if you ask me. She’s got this swanky job and is all mobile phones and sharp suits, but she’s one of those people who’s really stressy. When I heard she was organizing the hen do, I imagined we’d go out for a really posh meal or something. I knew whatever she chose for Amy, it’d cost an arm and a leg for the rest of us. She’s like that, see: showy. I said to Amy that we didn’t need to spend loads of money to have a good time and offered to have a do at my flat, but Amy said H was taking care of it. I didn’t make a fuss. It’s best not to.

  Still, I’ll hand it to H. She must have put in a lot of thought to the whole thing, because Leisure Heaven is a marvellous idea.

  ‘Is H OK?’ I ask, as we walk back to my stall. I’m only being polite. I don’t really care how she is. To be honest, I can’t understand why Amy is such good friends with her.

  ‘She’s fine. You’ll see her next week, I expect. We’re having a lunch on Wednesday, to test out all the food for the reception. Jack’s organized it with Stringer. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘A free lunch?’ I ponder, before glancing at Amy and linking arms with her.’Course I will be, stupid. Who’s this Stringer fella then?

  ‘He works at the catering company we’re using and he’s a really old mate of Jack’s. I’m telling you, Sooze, he’s absolutely divine.’ Amy raises her eyebrows at me, suggestively.

  I laugh at her.

  ‘You won’t be able to help yourself,’ she warns.

  ‘Well, we’ll see, shall we?’

  When I get back to the stall, Dexter’s being smug. He’s sold two of my hats, but since neither of them had price labels, he shifted them for fifty pounds.

  ‘You never did!’ I gasp. He must be having me on, because they usually go for fifteen each.

  ‘You shouldn’t under-sell yourself, girl,’ he advises, taking out a wodge of notes and peeling off a fifty. ‘You’ve got quality. Don’t forget it.’

  I pocket the money, ignoring the fact that he’s looking at my tits.

  ‘So? Fancy a drink later, then?’ he asks, rubbing his hands together.

  Aye-aye? Fifty quid for two hats? My fat arse! He’s after a date.

  ‘Dex!’ I laugh, turning to face him. ‘You’re a shocker.’ I pull the money out of my pocket and offer it back. ‘You don’t have to pay me to ask me out.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks crestfallen, but still refuses the money back. ‘Does that mean . . . er . . . you will or you won’t?’

  ‘It means I’ll think about it,’ I smile, turning to serve a customer.

  The thing is, I could go out with Dexter but, to be honest, I can’t after last night. If I hadn’t slept with Ed, then I might go out with Dexter tonight, but it’s like being offered bread and butter pudding when you’ve already had ice cream. Tempting, but too much. I like Dexter, mind, but I’m not sure he’s going to turn out to be my ideal man any more than Ed. And there’s no point in pretending that Dexter honestly wants to have a drink with me because he’s thirsty or wants a good chat. No. We’ve been flirting for weeks and he wants to shag me. It’s very simple to fathom out. To be fair, mind, he might want to sit and talk to me first and play the game, but at the end of the day, our relationship boils down to sex, or the prospect of it. And I can’t honestly imagine it developing into anything more. I can’t imagine Dexter making me a hot-water bottle, for example, going to the supermarket with me, or coming to my Mum’s for Christmas. And I certainly can’t imagine washing his dirty pants or sitting out a car-boot sale with him.

  So anything between us would just be for fun. And I can do fun. I am queen of fun. Except that I’m fed up with all this flotsam and jetsam that floats about my life. I want something real, something solid. Amy’s right. I am a gypsy. I do flit from one flat to another, from one job to another, from one man to another, and it’s never bothered me before, but come to think of it, what I really need is something permanent. Anything. Not necessarily a man. A bank account in credit would do.

  ‘So, then?’ says Dexter, shuffling from one foot to another as we pack up.

  ‘Not tonight, Dex,’ I say, stuffing my unsold hats back into my laundry bag.

  ‘Come on,’ he pleads.

  ‘Can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Out with your boyfriend?’ He sniffs and smiles sheepishly at me.

  I look Dexter in the eye and I can tell he’s embarrassed by the fact I’m being so direct.

  ‘No. I haven’t got a boyfriend, just other arrangements. Perhaps we could make it another time?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure,’ he gushes. His cheeks are pink and he sort of clicks his fingers and punches one hand with the other.

  ‘See yah,’ I smile over my shoulder.

  Dexter winks at me and smiles. ‘Next week, then?’ he pants, with a bright glint in his eye like
a dog that’s just discovered a chair leg to hump.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Well, there’s no point in throwing him off the reserve list just yet, is there?

  In the car, I sing along to the compilation tape Zip made for me last week.

  Lovely Zip. She’s so smart.

  I remember feeling a bit weird when Maude told me she was gay a few months ago and introduced me to Zephone, or Zip, as everyone calls her. It seemed to be such a grown-up thing for her to have decided. I spent a while wondering where it had come from, or whether Maude has always fancied women. Or even, whether she’d fancied me all the time we’d been living together, but there’s no point in trying to reason it out. These things just happen and as long as she’s happy and fulfilling herself, then I’m happy too.

  ‘Where were you at lunch-time?’ asks Maude when I get back. ‘We came by.’

  I slap my hand on my forehead. ‘Sorry. Amy turned up and . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she laughs. ‘I knew you’d forget.’

  ‘Look,’ says Zip, modelling one of my hats. ‘I bought it, anyway.’

  ‘How much did Dexter charge you?’ I ask, ominously.

  ‘A tenner each,’ says Maude.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ I laugh.

  ‘What?’ asks Zip, taking her hat off.

  ‘Nothing, love. Just Dexter trying it on. Why are you two looking so chirpy?’

  ‘The visas have come through,’ announces Maude. ‘We’re going to LA on Monday.’

  ‘Monday? You can’t go on Monday! That gives us no time at all,’ I protest.

  ‘But we’ve been waiting for ages,’ she says, pinching my cheek. ‘And think of all the space when we’ve gone.’

  Zip’s full of America and she spends the evening getting more and more excited with each new travel web site she finds on her portable computer. Maude and I open the last reserve bottle of wine that has been languishing in the wine rack since Christmas, and ooh and ahh when Zip downloads pictures for us, but I can’t share their sense of adventure. I just feel sad.