‘Think that’s what got you into this mess in the first place,’ Kate quips. I ignore her. This is no time for accuracy and perceptive insight.
Back to Jess. ‘Con number three. You could end up with nothing, Carly,’ she says softly, her eyes beseeching me to change my mind.
I smile ruefully. ‘I haven’t got anything now. At least not anything that matters.’
They collectively howl in indignation.
‘Except you guys,’ I add quickly, before they reach for sharp objects. ‘And my family. But I’ll always have you lot, no matter what happens. Everything else is just “things” and they mean nothing to me. Does my obscenely expensive lava lamp keep me warm in bed at night?’
‘Not without the risk of electrocution,’ Kate smiles.
I sit back. What would I do without my friends? We’ve been together since flares were in fashion the first time. And we’ll still be doing monthly dinners with a crisis before every course when we’re fifty. God knows what our dramas will be then. Judging by the way this is going, I’ll still be single and wailing about my tragic romantic life.
The desserts come, the waiters concentrating furiously to avoid being so distracted by Carol’s gorgeousness that our selection of sundaes bite the dust.
Kate looks at the others for psychic consensus and obviously gets it. ‘Okay, babe, we’re behind you.’
The others nod reluctantly.
‘Just think, Cooper, this is worse than the time you decided to convert to Buddhism and sent a letter to the Dalai Lama requesting a personal audience,’ Carol laughs.
‘I only did that so that I could meet Richard Gere,’ I retort huffily, still narked by the fact that I didn’t actually get a Pretty Woman moment.
‘Or the time that you found out where Liam Neeson was filming and stalked the set hoping he’d notice you,’ Jess adds.
What are they suggesting? That, in the past, my schemes and plans have been somewhat misguided?
‘No, no, no,’ Carol protests. ‘The best one was when you sent that poem to Madonna. You waited months for her to release it as her next single. You even spent the expected royalties.’ Another cacophony of shrieks and giggles.
‘How did it go again?’ Carol splutters. ‘I’ll stick with you in the sun and the rain…’ she croons. ‘If you bring the whip and I’ll bring the chains…’
People are staring at the hysterical women now and Kate is crossing her legs to avert any potential accidents.
‘I still can’t believe she didn’t release that,’ I murmur, feigning outrage.
I get the point though. In the past I’ve been somewhat over-optimistic in my hopes and dreams. But that doesn’t mean I should give up trying.
Somewhere there’s another life just waiting for me. And before we get to the year 2000, I’m going to find it.
8 Let’s Talk About Sex – Salt-N-Pepa
I threw myself into work after the Doug fiasco, feeling second only to Third World dictators in the villain stakes.
The consequences of my actions measured eight on the Richter scale of devastation. Every time my mother cast eyes on me, she clasped a damp cloth to her brow and muttered that I had obviously inherited my lack of scruples from my dad’s side of the family. She even took to praying for me at mass. I tried to console her with the thought that Mary Magdalene had been a bit of a tart and God forgave her, but it fell on deaf ears.
A few weeks after Doug called off the wedding, Callum broke his vow of silence to me only to tell me that his friend had transferred to the Manchester branch of his national car sales chain. I decided the universe was twisting the knife. Not only had I desperately hurt and humiliated Doug, but now I’d caused my brother to lose his mate.
Callum was not happy. I racked my brain to think of a time when he’d been more pissed off with me than this. The only thing that came close was when we were kids and I glued two peanut breasts on to his Ken Doll so that he’d look stunning in a silver lamé frock that I’d made from Bacofoil. It resulted in me being battered over the head with a busty Ken. Somehow that paled into insignificance compared to this.
As for Mark, well, I didn’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of him so I ignored his calls until they stopped coming. He fell into the ‘men’ bracket and I resolved that I’d rather don an anorak and take up trainspotting than go near another member of the male species. I just hoped that ‘Sally from Edinburgh’ was far enough away that the jungle drums wouldn’t reach her. One devastated relationship was bad enough.
I worked day and night for ten months, enduring the stares, finger pointing and gossip of the club-goers. My exploits had become legendary. I was mortified and I knew I deserved every bit of the toe-curling embarrassment.
The only good aspect of having the social life of a hermit was that I saved enough money to move into my own flat, allowing Kate to reclaim her lounge.
April came and I started thinking about my impending twenty-third birthday. A joyous event, was it not? An excuse for rapturous celebration and copious amounts of good wishes from my fellow human beings? At this rate, I’d be having the party in the phone box at the end of the road.
I decided that I had to get away to somewhere nobody knew me. Somewhere they didn’t ring bells and cry ‘Plague’ when they saw me coming.
I approached Ray and begged for a month off. He was going to be the only other poor sod in the telephone box with me, as, unlike the rest of the planet, Ray was actually quite pleased with me. Takings in the club were up by 20 per cent, fights were down to a manageable level (average of two black eyes and a concussion per night)
