Chick-Lit Saved My Life
By Maureen Reil
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Maureen Reil
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Maureen Reil asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Also by the author Maureen Reil
Chick-Lit By Any Other Name
Lily Loves to Love
Sleepyhead Shares a Secret
I Hate Me, Who Do You Hate?
Dedicated to
Declan, Nathan & Kieran
Week One
(Friday)
Have you ever slowly raised your head up from reading a book and looked down the barrel of a gun? I don’t mean on the telly, but in real life. It is ‘the’ most, scariest thing that you will ever probably see. Well, I know it was for me and I suspect that the people around me are feeling pretty much the same thing. It’s terrifying to know that a single twitch could end my life right here, right now and I haven’t even finished this chapter. Oh please don’t make the cold, hard weapon the last sight I have before I depart this earthly being for the hereafter. So I force myself to glance away (which isn’t easy let me tell you as you sort of fixate on the deadly piece of metal whether you want to or not).
Anyway, somehow I managed to convince myself to peek out of the train window instead and hoping for trees, flowers, butterflies or even a dreamy, cloud ridden sky. In fact, anything ‘nice’ would be welcomed at this stage – especially a rainbow seeing as it’s a personal favourite of mine – so this would be a huge help in order to lift my spirits in the event of my premature death. I’m too young to die, I’m not mature enough to listen to classical music yet and I had hoped to live to at least retirement age (mind you, some people retire at 50 nowadays and to be honest, I was banking on a fair few years more than that). I’ve never been to Hollywood and I always said that I’d go before I died, therefore, I just can’t leave this mortal coil unfinished so there it is in a nutshell.
God, listen up, I’m talking to you inside my head. Can you hear my thoughts? And more importantly, are you going to answer them by granting me a wonderful sight with which to feast my eyes upon. Perhaps, the almighty has taken into account my goodness of late (as in, no chocolate bars whatsoever have passed my lips for a whole week, well, five days to be exact and that’s a ‘week’ in working terms). And this building that I see before me is going to be my reward for such sacrificing actions – because it’s not me that’s on a diet but my flatmate Cara and if she witnesses me gobbling down the dark stuff then she just can’t resist a nibble – or two and I mean to be super supportive just like I promised. So that digests as in, no more sweet stuff being brought into the home and it’s a case of eating healthy this and healthy that from now on. But what would’ve been the point of being totally fit and energetic if I’m about to be shot?
I’m not one of those people that worry about looking good on the morgue table as I know for a fact that my other flatmate Mel does. Why she practically obsesses over her skin and would probably be happier if she were suddenly made into a wax mannequin, seeing as then she wouldn’t age at all and it would always be the perfection that she’s craves which she’d wear forever more. Me, on the other hand well I’d rather enjoy life and limit my intake to small portions whilst doing the fun things like sports for exercise and if I risk the odd injury or scar, then that’s part of the process of getting on with stuff, isn’t it? At least it shows that you’ve lived a little and are not just out of the ‘shiny wrapper’, which Mel cocoons herself in when she lavishly applies her expensive moisturising creams that claim the ‘impossible’.
Back to this predicament which could be my last if I’m not careful, well, did I get a special dwelling that has you literally gaping in awe at the magnificent architecture from a bygone era to be my final picture on earth, should the unthinkable happen? No I bloody well didn’t, when I notice that familiar red brick colour of the terraced house that I grew up in. I soon realised that I didn’t have such luck – for all I saw – was the inside structure of an old, Victorian tunnel and even though it was expertly built and would no doubt deserve a round of applause just for withstanding the test of time. Sorry, but it didn’t do it for me. Therein, I was not prepared to exit this world. I’m not ready to go; I’ve never fallen in love and you can’t die before you get the chance to experience that as it’d be morally wrong for a start.
But I’ll tell you one thing for sure, I vow to come back and haunt, no terrorise this gunman and become the worst (best in terms of haunting) poltergeist ever if he shoots me dead or even fatally wounds me. Hold on, aren’t they the same thing? What I meant was, if I survive with say a bullet lodged in my spine and I can’t walk ever again, I’ll still hunt him down in my wheelchair and stalk him silly (if that’s at all possible with the limited wheelchair access that we have in this city). I’ll make the rest of his life a total misery. (This suspiciously sounds like the exact words that my last boyfriend used about me when I asked him to give ‘us’ another go and take me back. Oh well, you get the idea as the less said about the ‘ex’ the better or I might get all emotional if I continue down this pot-holed path.)
And before I go on any further, please allow me to introduce myself whilst I’ve got the chance and being that I’m still alive and kicking. I’m Kelly Stanford and I’m 25 (soon to be 26, next month in fact) 5ft 8 tall today because I’m wearing heels but tomorrow I’ll be shorter when I wear my flat boots. Eye colour this morning is slightly bloodshot from a wicked hangover but they’re usually hazel (I think, as I’ve also been told that they’re green so to be truthful I’m never really sure what to put on forms as my eyes tend to change colour depending on my mood, which is beyond weird I know). My hair is currently blonde but I might go back to being a brunette soon since it attracts nicer guys that don’t mind if you have an opinion or ones that don’t just want to bed you.
I like romantic comedies when in female company because we can have a good old-fashioned ‘ah’ moment together but secretly, I also watch SCI/FI shows when alone. I often fall asleep with my make-up on and almost never brush my teeth for a full two minutes like you’re supposed to. I feel no guilt when I share other people’s food instead of buying my own as it’d only go to waste otherwise. I fart in the lifts in work and then – hurriedly step out to wait for the next person to smell it as I watch the monitors which are next to my desk on reception for a reaction when someone else steps inside them – because it does make me laugh. Did I mention that I’m also a bit childish in my sense of humour, or have you already guessed this by my sorry admissions so far?
By the way, the train had stopped because a cow had wandered onto the line; well this is what we were being told over the tannoy. Last week, it was leaves on the line and before that in spring (freakishly) we’d had snow which was responsible for stoppages – or there’s often the old adage of a fallen tree being that this track does run right next to a forest – of sorts as it’s getting smaller by the year and soon it’ll be classed simply as ‘woods’ (not that I really know the difference between them). So anyhow, I didn’t think nothing of it until the man sitting next to me had taken advantage of us being stranded here when he’d suddenly stood up and pointed the weapon at my head before demanding ‘right listen up . . . everyone stay calm, don’t scream and do as your told and we’ll all survive this together.’
‘Please don’t point that thing at me, it might go off accidently,’ I moan and trying to get through to him the seriousness of the situation.
‘Shut up lady, I’m in control,’ he replied in a put-on menacing tone that clearly wasn’t his own as he was obviously trying to disguise it so that we wouldn’t recognise him. But it didn’t matter as far as I was concerned, because I don’t know any armed robbers anyway so he could have used his own voice.
The guy standing before me looks scruffy enough to be homeless in his torn, dark blue hoodie which is covering his head only to reveal that his eyes were shaded by sunglasses and wearing a paisley bandana across his lower face along with a faded, kaki jacket and dirty jeans and frayed, pale trainers and leather gloves. If he’s wearing those then he is definitely about to commit a major crime since I’ve seen far too many cop shows not to know this. And he doesn’t want to leave any evidence or even give the witnesses anything to identify him by, out of the ordinary example of what a criminal should be wearing (talk about stereotypes). I’d had my nose buried in my book when he’d gotten on at the last stop, so I wasn’t particularly paying him any attention as this kind of thing doesn’t usually happen around here.
I mean sure, we’ve had stabbings on the trains before (who hasn’t read about some in the national newspapers). Our last, local one was reported as being some schizophrenic that hadn’t taken his meds that day. It turned out to be some poor, lost soul that’d been having a run of bad luck. First off, he lost his job and then the house before his wife left him and took the kids. But it was only when his dog died that he was sent over the edge and he attacked those innocent people in the first carriage with superficial wounds, before badly stabbing himself in a bid to end it all. He failed in this too and is currently in jail.
Why – it’s practically considered ‘the norm’ nowadays if you live in a city to be aware of the growing knife culture but people running amuck with guns – well, that’s not very ‘British’ of this guy since firearms are still illegal here as far as I know and we haven’t suddenly brought in a law with the right to bear arms like the states, have we? Because I wouldn’t put anything past this new government and if I missed that specific news bulletin then sign me up now as I’d feel a damn sight safer being a single woman that travels alone let me tell you and take this gunman for instance, do you think he’d be quite so keen if he knew that I was armed and ready to protect myself? No, I think not. Mind you, don’t ask me to actually kill anyone as I’d probably just wave it around a lot and pretend that I would if threatened but of course I wouldn’t, couldn’t take a life even if it meant losing my own. I’m not a coward; I’m just pro-life no matter what.
The gunman in this particular case doesn’t smell like he looks, as in – I don’t think he lives on the streets because that’s definitely a designer fragrance if ever I sniffed one and believe me – I’ve smelt a fair few working on the ‘luxury goods and gifts’ counter at the huge, Darlington department store in the city centre in my younger days. I did my work experience there which enabled me to get a job on the same floor and with the same people, once I’d finished school. Whereas, I’d developed quite a nose and taste for the kind of rich lifestyle that I saw on a daily basis with my customers but unfortunately, I’ll never be able to achieve this level of success on my own given my serious lack of education and experience when it comes to job prospects and acquiring such a thing as an actual career.
Sadly I didn’t see the point when I was at school, having gotten in with a bad crowd by promising to do their homework for them whilst they just wanted to mess around and not literally learn anything. I know, regret is not the word for it but I’d figured that if they were bullying someone else that wasn’t in our gang, then they weren’t bullying me so it kind of made sense at the time but I swear, I never bullied anyone. I just didn’t try to stop it, which I know is just as bad but I was scared. So maybe some would say that I deserved to be shot.
Anyhow, I was stupidly going to marry someone rich and famous but I’d settle for him just being rich if it meant that he wasn’t downright ugly. Talk about a dreamer, I had no chance back then with me being the definition of the term, ‘plain Jane’. But this duck had played sports and turned herself into something of a swan, having worked really hard to master the type of fit body that most women would give an actual body part for (note that this then will not usually add to the ideal of perfection in a man’s eye unless of course we’re talking about my flatmate Cara’s brother, who’d married a woman who’d been in a motorcycle accident and lost a leg).
I did of course at one point, consider shagging a decidedly below-average-on-the-looks-scale footballer since that’s what my gorgeous friend from work did. Tonya had set me up with her guy’s teammate on a blind date. And she’s constantly trying her best to get pregnant by the boyfriend – so that she can be set up for life even if he doesn’t marry her and God bless DNA I say as without it – where would all the paternity suits be?
Only in the end, I wouldn’t want to put-up with another cheat (as in the one before the last one). So I declined his offer to spend the night – or even just warm my hands down his pants and cup his balls as I recall that it was absolutely freezing at the time and I don’t care if it is the warmest part of a man’s body – I’d have to be in Antarctica with severe frostbite to do that with him. I mean, if a man is going to be my man, then I want him all to myself no matter how rich he is or how good in the sack he thinks he is. But more about the lame saga that is my dating history later on as I have a bit of a dilemma here people to deal with first, so I must stop thinking and concentrate on my current reality.
Now back to this precarious predicament where my life is literally hanging in the balance. As in, what if the strong smell of his aftershave suddenly gets up his own nose and he sneezes and squeezes the trigger by accident? Not that I can name the particular brand that the gun totting bloke is wearing per se, but if it was any of the women’s fragrances then we’d be talking. I fervently remain something of an expert there and probably always will, seeing as I still get sent lots of tiny sample bottles because my address must be on some computer somewhere and I’m not complaining or letting them know that I no longer work in the industry. This way I always smell nice and have all the latest fragrances to choose from, so it wouldn’t be in my best interest to fess up. Now would it?
For the official record, I won’t be able to give the police anymore help on that score if they question me after the fact and that’s only if I do live to tell the tale. Oh well, at least I can let them know that he’s left-handed and he holds the gun straight up, not cocked to one side but is that kind of thing even important. I mean it’s not like they’re going to give him a gun in a police line-up and tell him to point it at my head in order for me to be able to identify him, is it? Speaking of seeing things, my eyes have started to water all of a sudden as I must be feeling weepy. I get like this when I’m ‘due on’, or it could be all the pent-up emotion of fearing for my life that has something to do with it. Who knows? But judging by my inner calendar, it could be a mixture of both.
‘Oh God, don’t move . . . my contact lens just popped out . . . stay still while I find it,’ I ordered everyone, gunman included.
‘You think, I care about that lady,’ he replies as I rush to lean forward in order to look for it with such aplomb that I bang my forehead against his handgun.
‘Ow! . . . That hurt,’ I retort and squinting up at him.
‘Did you just “pistol-whip” her?’ a young man’s voice asks from behind the gunman since he couldn’t understand what just happened.
‘No, I didn’t. Now mind your own business if you know what’s good for you,’ stresses the gunman and sounding a bit hacked off at being accused of such a crime.
‘But you don’t understand. I can’t see properly without it and I need it today of all days so I must find it.’
‘And where are you heading off to, that’s that important?’ asks the gunman in his dubious, cockney accent. Think Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins and I feel a song coming on seeing as it was my all time favourite movie as a kid and back then, I didn’t even notice the dodgy London dialect. Well you don’t normally since you’re naturally more accepting as a youngster and perhaps, they were counting on that because it worked a treat and didn’t hamper the continuing success for generations to come. In fact if I survive this – then I can definitely see myself sitting down to watch it with hopefully not only my own kids in the future but my grandkids too – so they must have done something right to begin with and don’t knock it I say.
I totally ignored his question at first, but it must have made him suspicious of my stares for he suddenly lifted his camouflaged bandana up a bit so that I couldn’t see his nose properly since it was slipping down slightly. I couldn’t see his features clearly at this stage if I tried, without my other contact lens in so he needn’t have bothered. He had his own eyes covered over with wraparound shades. They were the expensive kind; I could tell that they did not seriously tie-in with the rest of his downtrodden style. Whereas, I’m certainly not telling him that I’ve taken a day off work (on the sick) as I’m on my way to an interview at Plato Ltd (the fashion empire) since he might stalk me or something.
The television and media company where I work now as a receptionist has just been taken over by new owners and there are rumours going around that they’ll be sacking people left, right and centre and they always start with the last in, first out rule. And as I’m the first face you see when you enter the building then it’ll be mine that gets it for sure, so I’m not waiting to be pushed as I intend to jump ship beforehand. Therein – I take my time to answer the gunman as I try to come up with an alternative – which is nowhere in particular that could be of any interest to him in the slightest.
‘Don’t point that in her face, unless you intend to use it?’ pipes up the brave teenager (stupid more like) who’s sat opposite me.
‘This isn’t a game, this is serious so I’d appreciate it if you would shut up and let me answer for myself thank you very much.’ The gunman ignores me and turns his attention on the teenager and points the gun at him instead, being that the youngster might be trouble in the making.
‘You seem to have a lot to say for yourself, you little runt. Will you be so mouthy without your teeth?’ The gunman raises his hand up and makes out that he’s going to smack the lad in the face with the back of his leather gloved hand.
‘I’m going to the park. Yes, it’s a lovely day for a walk. Don’t you think? Only I won’t be able to see where it is that I’m going if I can’t find my contact lens. Will you help me find it?’ I loudly stress in a bid to take the conversation back to something trivial (not to me obviously because I really do need to find my lens but at least it might just detract from the other intention of this horrible git).
‘You’re going for a walk, eh . . . in those heels?’ he questioned and I knew I should have worn my flat boots today instead of tomorrow.
‘Yes, I “power walk” and these help me to build up my calf muscle.’ He shook his head to show that he didn’t believe me, seeing as the only thing that’ll be building up if I do seriously strut about in these shoes will be my bunions. Thankfully, he seems to have finished with me as he lowers the gun and turns towards the rest of the passengers on the train carriage.
‘Anything to declare . . . might I suggest that it would be in your best interest to hand it over,’ shouts the man and totally ignoring my attempt at making more small talk as he raised the gun again when I intended to carry on sprouting forth about the benefits of walking in an effort to pass the time and with the added attraction of nobody getting hurt in the process.
‘Everybody, stay calm and let’s just give him our stuff so that he can be on his way and we will all be safe . . . OK!’ says a balding man as he lifts up his laptop in a peace offering to the potentially violent man that is playing God at the moment with our lives.
The expensive machine gets shoved into a large, grey, empty backpack and I notice as the main man bends down, his top rides up and loses contact with his dark, dirty jeans and he has a faded birthmark on his lower, left-hand side. It is something that I must remember, so I stare hard and try to take in the outline and slightly raised texture of the pale skin. It’s in the shape of Africa, or is it South Africa because isn’t one a continent and one a country? I know that these little details are important to the police, but I don’t want to look like a dumbass if I don’t know the difference. Jeez, I hope I survive this in order to give them the low down either way and I really shouldn’t worry about my lack of general knowledge when giving evidence to the cops. Should I?
‘You can’t have that. It was an anniversary present from my late husband,’ said an older woman as the man with the gun takes no notice of her plea and rips the gold necklace away from around her neck with his free hand. The heartless bastard seems to be getting off on the distress that he’s causing us.
I don’t want to witness anybody getting hurt so I’m busy willing the people on board this carriage, just to play ball and hopefully it will all be over before we know it (I mean, nothing is worth holding on to if you don’t have your live left afterwards). Meanwhile, the teenager pees his pants as I notice the wet patch through his jeans. I wasn’t the only one, for the gunman mentions it out loud to humiliate him ‘oh dear, you seem to have had an accident. If you needed the loo, why didn’t you just put your hand up and ask?’ The gunman succeeds in making the lad’s face go red as he sinks lower in his seat.
‘I need to go to the toilet, please,’ I raised my hand and I wasn’t even faking it just to get out of the carriage.
‘I would like to go as well,’ pipes up the elderly lady.
‘Me too,’ says the middle-aged businessman.
‘I was only kidding. Do it in your pants if you have to, but you lot are going nowhere until I say so,’ replies the gunman with malice in his voice.
‘Do you have to be so callous?’ retorts the old woman.
‘I can be anything I want to be. I’m the one holding the gun, remember. Empty out your pockets. What’s that bulge in your jacket?’ asked the armed robber to one of the male passengers in a cheap suit.
‘Please don’t take that, it’s an engagement ring . . . I’m on my way to propose to my girlfriend. Man, it taken me all year to save up for it,’ the poor bloke replied with a pleading look.
‘Oh, boo-hoo . . . I just love a good sob story. It makes this whole thing much more interesting, now hand it over or die. It’s your choice.’ This was the cold-hearted response from the man with the firearm.
I really don’t want to be here any longer so by way of withdrawing from the reality – I lift my reading material up to read a couple of lines from the novel that I’m holding onto in a sense that it helps me to block out the scene from view – just in case he does actually shoot someone who doesn’t give him what he wants. I’m busy squinting away at the words and trying to make out what they are when I hear the gunman make his way over towards me and the teenager. Oh God, please don’t let him hurt me because I don’t have anything of value on me. ‘Hand over the phone,’ he demanded of the teenager.
‘I don’t have one.’ The lad was obviously lying through his teeth.
‘Of course you do, every teenager has a phone. I won’t ask again.’
‘If you want it that bad . . . you’ll have to get it yourself,’ stressed the lad as he yanked it out of his jacket pocket and shoved it down his pants which were wet through with wee. This one is trouble, trouble for me as the gunman turns in my direction.
‘You get it for me,’ the gunman said like he meant business if I didn’t.
‘Listen here, this isn’t a movie . . . it’s real and that’s a real gun that can do some damage. Give him the phone right now,’ I order the little sod, that won’t do as he’s told for once in his life.
‘If you want it that bad, lady . . . then get it. I’ll even enjoy it,’ replies the cocky teenager and I feel nauseas all of a sudden.
‘I’m telling you this for nothing; I will not put my hand down his pants even if you shoot me, so there,’ I reply and refuse point blank to take part in his games any further, as I cross my arms in defiance and sit back in my seat with my head held high and deliberately turned the other way with my nose stuck in the air (I even threw a pout in there too for good measure). Remember, I’ve never been in a situation like this before so I don’t really know how to handle it. And to be honest – nobody does until they’re faced with it – so don’t judge me all right. As I’m not being brave or stupid, I’m just being me and trying my best to stay sane in a mighty awkward moment to put it bluntly.
He looks me up and down – taking into account the cleavage that was purposely put on show for the sake of the male interviewer – the one who rang me back with a time for my appointment. I also have on, an above the knee, tight, stretchy skirt with high heels to best show off my hard earned pins that nearly killed me in the exercising process of getting them into the kind of shape that make men sit up and take notice. At the moment – I wish I were old, fat and ugly – then the gunman probably wouldn’t be noticing me at all. ‘What’s that?’ he asks and lifting the lapel of my jacket so that he can catch a better glimpse of my broach, which belonged to the only person who’d ever treated me as being truly one of her own (my adoptive grandmother) seeing as the other members of my adopted family kept reminding me of this fact and she’d left it to me when she passed.
‘It was my grandmother’s, but it’s not worth anything . . . it’s just costume jewellery and I always wear it when I need a bit of luck,’ I express this without wanting to appear desperate to hold on to it. (I’d already seen how sentiment does not affect this guy; in fact, it does the opposite for some reason.)
‘Why do you need luck . . . to walk around a park?’
‘Err, I . . . don’t. I suppose,’ I reply and realise that he definitely knows I’m lying.
So I unpin the brooch and he reaches out with the open backpack in order for me to drop it in, but what if it hits the laptop and one of the stones falls out. I’ve already lost two before, so I’d replaced them with clear ones from another bit of jewellery which wasn’t easy and I don’t want to have to do it again. Only – I have a moment of madness and I too shove it down the front of my pants and copy the teenager – who’d managed successfully to hold on to his phone. Well when I say copied, I tried, I really did but the wee just wouldn’t present itself. How come, when you can’t get near a toilet for love nor money and you really need to go like yesterday but when you’re trying to pee on command, you find that you can’t even produce a teardrop amount of fluid? Is it nerves, or what? I don’t know but what I do know is that this guy is putting his backpack down on the floor so that his hand is now free to do something else.
‘Do I get the pleasure or you, perhaps, even him?’ the gunman says and points to the teenager.
‘I’ll do it, I’ll get the brooch out of her dirty knickers,’ said the businessman, who stands up to show that he’s keen, willing and able.
‘What do you mean, dirty? I’ll have you know that they were clean on this morning,’ I retort and hope that they don’t ask me to prove it as I reach down my frontage and produce the item that I look at, probably for the last time as I place it gently into the backpack.
‘Sit down, pervert. And while you’re at it, pop that watch of yours in there along with your wallet,’ said the gunman to the businessman as he pushes the bag across the floor with his foot towards him.
I certainly don’t want any more attention, so I once again bury my head in my book and hope that I get left alone from now on. Reading, even pretending to read is what I used to do at home when my adoptive parents were arguing. If I could just get lost in a story then the bad atmosphere surrounding me would go away and I would be able to blot it out of my mind and therefore, not get involved in anything too stressful. My adoptive parents only took me on because they’d thought that not having children was the main problem in their marriage, but it wasn’t; they didn’t really care about me or even bother in trying to create a happy place for me to grow up in. They kept telling me that it was better than a care home and I should be grateful that they do their duty by me (as in, making sure that I was washed and fed and went to school and they didn’t abuse me in any way as long as I was a good girl). I was always a good girl, if only for the fear of finding out what happened to bad girls. I still am in a way, since I guess that it truly is hard to break the habit of a lifetime.
I’d bought this ‘Chick-Lit’ book in the charity shop outside of the station in a bid to pass the time the other day. (You can’t go far wrong purchasing a bestseller for 50p, now can you?) And it was meant to while away the boring journey to and from work, because I hate sitting there and staring into space or looking at the other passengers as you don’t want to catch their eye since this can lead to embarrassing moments. I mean – if it’s a working woman then she grips her designer bag tighter in case you’re about to nick it and if it’s a mother with a child – well enough said.
Like I was trying to express – I intend to always keep my head down and not catch anyone’s eye whilst successfully avoiding any involvement in such things as ‘people watching’ – which can lead to men mistakenly thinking that you’re giving them the come-on (it has happened on more than several occasions so I speak from experience here). Never mind, the dreaded conversation of small talk because I really don’t care about the weather, or what programme you missed last night because you went out to dinner with so and so who’s having an affair with such and such. Or that your baby is a genius (doesn’t every parent think that). I don’t need any more friends, Christ I can’t even keep up with the ones I have already without people trying to muscle in on my existence at every turn.
I must have that kind of face that invites others to think of me as the friendly type. When all I want to do, is just be left alone to grieve the end of my relationship in peace and for as long as it takes to get over the fact that I was dumped by ‘Facebook’. (I mean my boyfriend here obviously and not the website because as far as I know, I still have plenty of takers on that scale who want to befriend the persona I have created for myself online.) Not that it truly matters much to me anymore as I didn’t love him. I guess I just wanted a boyfriend and hoped that it would develop into something resembling, long-term affection but you can’t force yourself to love someone just because you want to find out what being ‘in love’ feels like. So it was never going to work out, if I’m being truly honest with myself.
And yes, I can tell the difference between ‘real’ friends and ones that are ‘fake’. But can my ex-boyfriend? As far as I know, he’s already hooked up with a bloke pretending to be a woman and it did make me laugh when I found out about him taking ‘her’ to a banking function that was being held to celebrate something or other (as they’re always having celebrations and it was probably for growing profits and huge bonuses this time). What recession? I imagine hearing them cheer as they clink together they’re champagne glasses.
To be fair, when you got a spare 50p to spend on a book and are faced with a plethora of great titles, well I was certainly spoiled for choice. And I’d only bought this title because there was a re-run of the movie on telly last night and even though, I’d seen it before many years ago; I watched it again (and enjoyed it again) and wondered how it differed from the printed version. They do say that you should always read the book first then see the film and not the other way around, or it might spoil your enjoyment of both in the end. I must be the only person out of my friends who hadn’t read the book; hence I felt that I had to get it over with when I saw it on the bookstand in that charity shop. And I have to say – it helps to calm my nerves if I read before I’m about to do something major and hopefully – getting a job counts as such.
I don’t know whether you’ve noticed this but I do tend to go on a bit so I hope you’ll forgive me now if I get back to the main story. I mean the one about the gunman obviously and not the Chick-Lit. He doesn’t seem to like to be ignored as I look up and peer over the top of my book only to witness him storming across the carriage and using his weapon to lower my reading material altogether as I sat there, looking like Popeye with one eye closed and squinting (not my best look, I’ll grant you that).
‘What are you doing? Can’t you see that I have the power to blow your head off if I feel like it and that girlie book is hardly going to save you? Do you think it’s a shield? The blast would go right through it,’ he says a little shocked that I seemed oblivious as to what was going on around me.
‘I’m not using it as a shield, well I am a bit but not in the sense that you think,’ I replied and continuing to grip tightly onto my safety blanket of a book.
‘Give it here and the bag.’
‘What? I have nothing else of value to give you.’
‘Hand over the novel,’ he demanded, only I was determined not to show him any fear and give him the pleasure of seeing it (inside, it was a different matter entirely as I was a bag of wobbling jelly and it’s a good job I’m not standing for I’ll struggle to stay upright).
‘Why would you want this, when she has a Kindle over there? This only cost me 50p from a charity shop.’ It came out of my mouth before I could stop it as I mouthed an apology to the woman across the way; she’d successfully hidden her compact eBook reader out of sight until then. And I blame this outburst on me being thoroughly racked with nerves, for I would never normally grass someone up like that. (May I also note here for the record, that I’m not blatantly advertising a Kindle as it could have easily been a Kobo/Nook/iPad/Sony eBook reader or whatever else is available on the market at this time, therefore, no particular product placement was used intentionally in this story?)
‘Because you want it . . . no, you seem to need it.’ He ripped the book out of my hands and popped it in the large, flat pocket of his faded, kaki jacket. I realised that he was nothing more than a sadistic bastard, who enjoyed making others squirm and a man like that is capable of anything so I’d better watch out.
Without my book to hold on to, I had nothing else to focus on and I didn’t want to panic and freak out or anything because that might set the gunman off on a rampage with bullets flying everywhere and I couldn’t live with that if it was my entire fault. So I sat on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting and playing nervously with my fingers which I’ve been told in the past, can be utterly annoying. And I started thinking about my interview again and then, panicking anyway about not finding my contact lens. Do you know how the sense of foreboding hits you right in the pit of your stomach? This of course, immediately overwhelms you with the need for the loo all of a sudden because your bowls are about to take on a mind of their own through sheer terror. All of a sudden – your fate rests on the anxious finger of a probable drug addict that wants not only your money and possessions – but also your novel because he’s nothing more than a bully who likes to wield his power over people.
I had a sudden urge to take back control of the situation as I firmly decided that if I needed to find my contact lens to feel better then that is what I must do regardless of the risk. I couldn’t just sit there any longer while the gunman played pretend target practice with us just to get a reaction out of everyone for his own pleasure. He had his back to me and was picking on someone else, notably the woman who tried to hide her Kindle from him. Hurrah, found it at last but I can’t just pop it back in as it’ll need cleaning first.
It was just as I’d been silently feeling my way around the ground in front of me when the ‘have-a-go-hero’ of a businessman must have decided that it was now or never. The man in the suit bravely stood up and pushed the gunman backwards, the calf’s of his legs bumped into me and the rest of him toppled over as we both collapsed onto the ground into a heap and I’d lost the damn contact lens once again. The hand that held the gun bounced on the floor and suddenly let go of the weapon as the firearm landed next to the teenager, who’d immediately bent down and picked it up. Meanwhile, the gunman scrambled to get up and noting that he was now having a gun pointed at him, well, he didn’t hang about for he grabbed his backpack and fled the scene by running out of the emergency exit door.
‘I guess, we should ring the police,’ said the businessman and glowing with pride at his own quick thinking, which I hasten to add that if it had gone wrong then we could all be dead now.
‘How will we do that when he’s run off with our phones in his backpack?’ asks the elderly lady.
‘He didn’t get my phone,’ says the teenager, holding up the gun.
‘Put that thing down before you shoot someone by accident,’ expresses the woman without her Kindle as she gives me daggers from across the carriage.
‘It’s all right . . . I’ve found it,’ I pipe up and happy to be holding up the missing contact lens as I finally get the chance to use both eyes once again, that is, if that sod hadn’t ran off with my handbag which contained the solution that I need to clean it with.
‘I have some stuff in here you can use,’ pipes up the old woman and opening up her bag as beggars can’t be choosers so I daren’t look at the date on the plastic bottle before I use it.
‘Well now that you can see properly. How about “you” get the phone out of my pants and call the cops with it?’ suggests the horny teenager as he thrusts his pelvis forward in my direction and still holding the gun as I do hope that that’s not a demand but said in jest, or do we have another problem on our hands.
‘I’d need more than a contact lens to find anything of interest in your pants. In fact, I’d need a magnifying glass,’ I retort and sit back down in my seat.
‘Ok! I was only joking with you to lighten the mood. I’ll do it myself.’ He hands over the gun to me while he does so.
Now all we have to do is wait around for the police to turn up and take our statements or whatever it is that they want you to partake in. But surely this means that by the time I’m free to go, I’ll have surely missed my appointment. So I borrow the phone from the teenager in order to ring Plato Ltd in a bid to let them know what’s happened (but it smells a bit funny if you ask me, therefore, I put it to speaker as I don’t want the thing anywhere near my face). Would you? Thankfully, they were very understanding and have graciously re-arranged my interview for me for next Tuesday. Whereas, I closed my eyes in a feeling of total relief for barely a minute when the gun went off and it was truly terrifying to think that it was loaded and lethal and ready to fire at any given moment all along. And I warned you that I had fidgety fingers.
Week Two
(Tuesday)
On this bright morning, I’m to be found racing around my bedroom and applying a fresh coat of make-up on the go. I don’t even really need a mirror these days, as I’ve got it all nailed down when it comes to eating toast and putting on mascara whilst doing up the buttons on my cream blouse and shoving the charity copy of the second book about the famous ‘Chick-Lit’ heroine into my bag for the journey. I’d started reading it over the weekend and I must say that I am enjoying it – but I didn’t realise that it wasn’t exactly like the movie or rather – I should put that sentence the other way around because the novel was out first I suppose. I curse that gunman because now I’m in the process of having to read the books in the wrong order until that is I can get my hands on a second, second-hand copy of the first one, again.
Another day off (on the sick) I’m afraid and my acting skills are definitely on the up, because I was even beginning to convince myself there for a short while that I was too ill to get out of bed and in fact, at one point I nearly cancelled my interview altogether as a result. And now, I’m running so late as usual and it’ll mean a frantic dash down those platform steps (and I may as well be wearing platform shoes as well judging by the unsteadiness of my usual gallop) in order to catch my train and one of these days I’m going to fall and break my neck. That’s if I don’t mind my nifty footwork and take my time about it. I have my ‘life changing’ interview this morning (with a woman this time so out goes the sexy attire and in comes the professional businessperson look instead) for it had to be rescheduled due to the ‘incident’ as I refer to it. Perhaps, I should tell her about my multi-tasking skills that I’ve perfected over the years but then again, I’ll be giving away my tardiness and disorganised failing into the mix so I’m probably best to stick to the written words and don’t let my mouth run away with me.
And just for the record, I didn’t shoot anyone the other day when the gun accidently went off but I’m afraid to report that the padded seat next to me didn’t fair too well through it. By the way, the armed police were very nice to me afterwards, after they’d mistaken me for the gunman and threatened to literally blow my head off in the process, as I saw it anyway but they’d later claimed that they wouldn’t just shoot me for no reason. It’s a good job I wasn’t wearing a backpack, is all I have to say to that.
Only, I was too scared to let go of the weapon like they’d instructed whilst my hand froze in fear and wouldn’t release the tight grip, even though I really wanted it to. I strangely felt more frightened of the cops who were there to help, than I did of the gunman who was there to cause us great upset and there’s no telling how far he would have gone with that line given the chance. Once everyone agreed that I wasn’t ‘the’ armed robber, simply because the other witnesses expressly told them so and explained that I had shot the seat by mistake (which to me sounds a bit like I meant to shoot someone else instead, when they should have said that it was purely accidental). Well, the weight of those guys in full gear as they practically sat on my arm just in case I raised it up again with nerves before they got the chance to prise the gun away from my fingers, one by one. I never realised before how strong those little buggers when as they weirdly went into ‘finger lock’ or something.
Anyhow – back to normal and back to reality as they say but I’m sad to note that today – I’m without my (adoptive) grandmother’s brooch which was my lucky charm so I’ll have to wing it on the luck side. I will never forgive that gunman for taking it and I’m glad that he can’t take anyone else’s stuff, since the police now have his weapon. Anyway, that jerk has taken up enough of my thoughts and I must concentrate on my interview techniques which I have down pat since I’ve been practicing with my flatmate Cara. ‘Where’s your brooch?’ she asks with a unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth as it bobs up and down when she speaks, whilst also holding up her mug of coffee with both hands but not to drink. I suspect her to be feeling the cold and she’s just starting to warm up on this breezy Tuesday as thankfully, it’s finally stopped raining and having gone up a couple of notches on the old thermometer to be fair.
‘That gunman took it, I told you last week,’ I reply and brushing down my jacket in a bid to remove her hairs, honestly, Cara’s worse than a moulting dog as those strands of her cheap extensions get everywhere.
‘Nah, I thought he just took your bag and your book but not your lucky charm too,’ she says and popping her cup down in order to light up the cigarette with a plastic lighter out of her pocket. The colour of which matches her dark hair.
Cara is slightly overweight but far from obese, only she thinks it’s a huge deal and has just started to obsess over it because she fancies a certain someone, who’d moved in and lives above us in one of the other flats with his ‘builder’ mates. It’s handy I suppose to have them hanging around but it’s the getting rid of them that’s the problem once they get a foot in the door, as you don’t want to be rude but they do tend to make themselves at home. And just because they helped to fix the place up does not automatically get one an invite to our girls-night-in little soirees. I’m not surprised about Cara’s ‘big weight’ issues though – seeing as I’d thought that it would happen sooner than this since we’re constantly bombarded with our other flatmate’s thoughts on the subject and her ever increasing body image insecurities – but more on Mel (the glamour model) later as I seriously have to get on with getting ready.
And where is my other shoe? I leave the room in order to find it and I swear we must have a one footed thief around here somewhere, because I can weirdly never find the right one to match up with the other right shoe and that’s a left which is usually left under something else that’s lying around. And I’ll be damned, if I’m changing my high heels for shorts just because they’re staring me in the face. God I need some strong coffee in order to stop me talking gibberish, since I can’t act like this in the interview as the only thing they’ll be offering me instead of a job, is a taxi ride to the nearest mental hospital when I’ll have my breakdown right in front of them if I don’t pull myself together and be cool, calm and collective. Perhaps, if I keep saying those words over and over again then they might just work to steady the growing wobbles in my stomach as I suddenly feel a bit sick.
I’m more nervous this week than I was last week and this is all – the damn gunman’s fault as I would’ve gotten it over and done with by now – having already psyched myself up for the interview once but I don’t know if I can do it as well this time. In fact, it will be totally his fault if I do balls this up big style and if the police ever catch him then I would love to get a message to him stating precisely that. Seeing as then he might find it in his cold heart to think twice about messing up other people’s lives with a knock-on effect from his actions. Therein, he might not and savagely hunt me down when he gets out so I’m probably wise to keep quiet as it’ll be in my best interest to just let it go and seriously get on with my life. But it’s really hard when you go through something like that, well, it’s bound to change you in some way and affect everything from now on as nothing will ever be the same again.
‘Yeah, the bugger managed to get away with everyone’s stuff in the end and it’s been all over the news but they still haven’t caught him,’ I pick up the conversation and finally answer Cara when I re-enter my bedroom seeing as she’d made herself a comfy nest by rolling my duvet around herself and settling down onto my bed and having found my missing shoe into the bargain. How on earth can I sleep in a single bed and not notice a pointed heel sticking into the small of my back is beyond me? Then again – it only serves to remind me of the ex-boyfriend seeing as the spike on my shoe is bigger than him – if you know what I mean.
I’m talking about, ‘he-who-won’t-be-named’ for fear of him slating me on the internet since one of my boobs is slightly bigger than the other one. And I am very self-conscious of it ever since it was publicly pointed out in front of everyone at the pool party last summer in the local lido (public outdoor swimming pool to you and me). Why did it have to be me that went in goal whilst playing water polo and then have to be humiliated by not only my bikini top riding up to completely expose my bare breasts to everyone or risk losing the whole game but also, did my boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend who was commentating over the loud speaker system) have to mention my obvious body flaw to all and sundry.
Why couldn’t it be something that no one would ever strictly notice about my body – say like an arm and having one longer than the other since I could easily hide that by never putting my two arms down by my side at the same time – or with a rolled up sleeve? But don’t worry; I got my own back on him when I lashed the ball away from goal only to squarely direct it right into his flushed face. The ball bounced off the microphone in his hand and that in turn then hit his nose with some force behind it. It wasn’t broken (the nose I mean, not the microphone) as it was just a trickle of blood no matter how much he moaned about having to go to the hospital afterwards and getting reconstructive surgery. Honestly, he’s such a whim and I don’t know what I saw in him in the first place.
‘Perhaps, they never will catch him. Would you like to borrow my lucky rabbit’s foot . . . it’s on my keychain?’ Cara suddenly said and here’s me thinking that she wasn’t even really listening to me as she rose to go and get it off the wooden worktop in the kitchen where she’d left it.
‘Well it wasn’t so lucky for the rabbit was it, because he’s missing a foot?’ I say and follow her through whilst grabbing my silk scarf off the back of the bedroom door on the way.
‘I swear, it does work you know. I rubbed it and wished to meet a handsome stranger and I met, Graham when he dropped his hammer off the scaffolding and granted, if I’d have been three paces forward then it would’ve brained me for sure but it didn’t. And I put it all down to the lucky rabbit’s foot,’ she stressed and a big grin spread wide across her face since the girl’s obviously in love and by the way, Graham is one of the builders that lives upstairs in the flat above us.
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