When I Met You

‘Ah thanks, I was just about to say the same. Love the hair.’

I grinned, pleased she liked it.

‘So anyway, what about you?’ she asked. ‘I know you were away for a while but what are you up to now? Doing anything with your music yet?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Still hairdressing. Still at Roberto’s, which is great though because it means I get to go travelling loads. I just got back from Asia recently, which was amazing actually.’

To my chagrin Teresa looked neither impressed or interested, just surprised. ‘Oh really? That’s a shame. I would have sworn you’d be in some orchestra or something by now.’

‘Not going to happen,’ I said bluntly. ‘I still play for pleasure, always will, but anything else just isn’t realistic.’

She’d touched a nerve. I knew she only looked so disappointed because she cared, but it was frustrating. If it was that easy to become a professional violinist I would have done it.

Teresa looked mildly put out.

‘It would be a lovely dream but it’s never going to happen. Too expensive, too tricky, too competitive, too late. Anyway, what else is up with you? Have you got a boyfriend?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

By way of reply she stuck out her left hand. On her ring finger sparkled a tiny diamond.

‘Oh my god. I don’t believe it. Who are you engaged to? Not Darren?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Been engaged six months now. We’re going to get married next year, if we can afford it. I’ve been meaning to ring and tell you for ages actually but …’

‘Oh honestly don’t worry,’ I said, helping her out. We were equally guilty of not keeping in touch. ‘And congratulations. I’m really happy for you. God, so many people from our year are getting hitched now or having babies. I can’t believe I didn’t even know. I’m sorry I’ve been so … you know.’

‘I know. We’ve both been busy haven’t we?’ she said, taking her turn to help me out now. ‘So come on then, have you got a fella?’

‘Kind of,’ I say. ‘I met someone travelling recently. But no one serious.’

For the second time Teresa looked distinctly sorry for me. ‘Don’t worry babe, it’ll happen,’ she said. ‘You remember my cousin, Sharon? I’m actually here for her hen night tonight and at one point, no one thought she’d ever meet Mr Right.’

I just smiled. It was easier and probably more polite than trying to explain that her sympathy was wasted on me. I wasn’t hankering after settling down like so many people my age seemed to be. Personally I prefer to dip my toe into relationship waters without taking the plunge. Keeps things simple, prevents getting hurt. That might sound cynical, but in my experience most men are only after one thing or end up letting you down. The ‘Martins’ of this world are few and far between so, until I meet that rare thing, a man I can truly rely on, I’m happy as I am thank you very much. Only, whenever I say that, people tend not to believe me.

‘How’s Hayley?’ asked Teresa suddenly, a cheeky grin on her face.

‘Same as usual,’ I said, rolling my eyes. In the past Teresa and I had spent many an hour discussing Hayley and what a cow she could be. ‘And Mum’s mad as ever. She’s decided Hayley’s destined to win Sing For Britain.’

Teresa’s stunned face said it all.

‘Oh yeah,’ I nodded. ‘Hayley’s actually considering going to the auditions this summer.’

‘Shit,’ said Teresa, her face creasing into an incredulous grin. ‘Still, I reckon Julian Hayes would well fancy her.’

‘True,’ I agreed. Julian Hayes is the head judge and a multi-millionaire Svengali whose production company make the show. ‘Trouble is he’s not deaf though.’

Teresa laughed. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’m going to sneak off soon and meet Darren, but I’d love to meet up some time.’

‘Definitely.’ I really meant it. Teresa was one of the best things about my life for a long time and it was sad that we’d let our friendship drift. For my part I think I’ve been waiting for something to change, something to happen, so that I had something to say. But there’s no point putting life on hold. I needed to make more effort. As I watched her walk away I vowed to do something about it.

A while later, after a particularly vigorous dancing session with the, by now very rowdy, gang from the salon, I suddenly noticed a really good-looking guy. I’m talking stand out from the crowd attractive, with green eyes and a lazy grin, which inhabited a face that all fell into place beautifully. What was even more unusual than spotting somebody so nice looking and seemingly age appropriate in this particular ‘nitespot’ was the fact that he appeared to be looking at me. Though I was only sure of this once I’d taken the precaution of looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to find a supermodel standing behind me, waving daintily at the man of my dreams.

The next thing I knew he seemed to be heading in my direction. Of course there was still a chance this handsome stranger was only on his way over to ask whether I had a pen he could borrow, or to tell me that my hair was on fire, so I stared at the barman, trying to get his attention, so it didn’t look like I was just hovering, waiting to be chatted up, which obviously I was.

‘Let me buy you a drink.’

Pretending to be terribly surprised, I turned around only to be met by the wonderful sight of him in close up. He was absolutely gorgeous. I felt like clapping my hands.

Forty minutes later and I was letting myself be seduced by a real pro. His name was Simon and, as I may have already mentioned, he was very good looking. It crossed my mind that Simon must never, ever meet my sister, for if he did he would realise that she was the sort of girl who was in the same league as him, that is to say the premiership, whereas I’ll do but am probably more second division.

Simon’s eyes searched my face as I spoke, which was very distracting and made it hard to concentrate on anything I was saying. He was charming, funny and complimentary to the point where I was beginning to feel like a bit of a sexpot. The only thing that was weird was that he hadn’t been snapped up already. There was no ring on his finger. I checked. He clearly wasn’t gay, so what was wrong with him?

I decided not to stress about it and instead enjoyed hearing him tell amusing stories, which he peppered with questions and compliments. At one point he commented on my hair. He said that only someone with great cheekbones could get away with such a strong look. I knew they were only words, but hearing them made me swell with pleasure.

Anyway, things with Simon – how grown up is that name? I can’t imagine anyone calling a baby or a toddler Simon – were going swimmingly, when out of the blue he suddenly said, ‘So listen, do you fancy leaving here? I’d like to go somewhere where I don’t have to shout at you over the music. Your place?’ As he said this he looked me up and down in a way that made my belly flip and my nerve endings tingle, for it conveyed perfectly what he had in mind.

Mind racing I tried to work out what to do. Not having built up to the question or bothered with any cheesy coffee euphemisms, he’d rather ambushed me, but the intention was implicit. Did I want him to come back to mine so that we could have sex? The short answer was, yes please. The long answer was more complicated.

The first thing preventing me from diving in with both legs open was the fact that I could predict that if something happened tonight, Simon would probably write it off as a one night stand and I’d never see him again. Whereas I would undoubtedly be left feeling bereft and desolate, having managed to fall in love with him somewhere between now and him leaving. He really was that gorgeous. I’ve probably already alluded to the rather complex issues I have when it comes to men. Growing up, knowing that my dad chose to leave has been hard, and my subsequent, fairly predictable trust issues have resulted in me acquiring a reputation as one of Essex’s most chaste girls, although Hayley’s thoughtfully made up for the two of us on that front. Pre-Gary there weren’t many people round here she didn’t sleep with – another subject I suspect might be taboo in front of Gary and his parents.

The second and most significant reason I wasn’t entirely sure what to do about Simon, is called Andy. I met Andy in Thailand. He’s Australian, loves travelling like me and when we got chatting one day, as we lay lazily alongside each other on hammocks, we instantly hit it off. We ended up sharing two unforgettable, beautiful months together, which only came to an end because I’d run out of money and had to head home. Meanwhile Andy, who’s a registered scuba-diving instructor, was heading to Koh Tao where he knew he’d pick up some work. So our blissful existence came to a natural end, though Andy did promise that once he’d had his fill of Thailand he’d head for Europe.

Now we email all the time and Andy has indeed made it to Europe. He promises England is on his list of places to come but three months on I’m starting to wonder whether he really means it. Being completely honest, I’m a little frustrated with the whole situation. I mean, if he really wanted to see me that badly, Andy could have come here weeks ago. As it is, he seems to be ambling round Europe, determined to see every single continental inch of it before coming here, which won’t give us a great deal of time together before his ticket runs out and it’s time for him to head back to the other side of the world.

And now I found myself faced with the temptation of Simon, and I was starting to think that maybe for once I should put everything out of my head and just sate my desire to have drunk, wonderful sex with this handsome Jude Law lookalike when yet another problem popped into my head. And this one was the real passion killer because for a second I’d forgotten that, age thirty-one, I live with my parents and have a single bed. Fuck. My. Life.

‘We could go to yours?’

‘Not tonight. I’ve got people staying so it would be a bit awkward,’ said Simon.

‘Hmm, well, I’d love you to come back,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But I’ve got work in the morning, so I should probably get home and get some sleep.’

‘What job can be so important on a Sunday morning that you can’t be tired for it?’ he said, looking so intensely into my eyes I had to look away for a second as I was hit with a wave of leg-buckling desire. Distracted by lust, I nearly made the mistake of telling him exactly what I was going to be doing in less than twelve hours, but in the nick of time it hit me that I definitely shouldn’t. Not at this stage anyway because, apart from being a chiropodist – or having a single bed – the truth was about the least sexy thing in the entire world. So I lied.

‘I’ve got an acting job,’ I said, wanting to cling on to the feeling that I was someone sexy and dazzling for a short while longer. Someone like my sister – yes, I know I’m obsessed, but you try being related to a Claudia Schiffer lookalike and see how undamaged you remain.

Simon raised his eyebrows at this, clearly impressed. ‘I should have guessed someone quirky like you would do something interesting.’

‘Well, you know,’ I simpered, shrugging, not one hundred percent liking his use of the word quirky.

‘What are you acting in?’

‘Oh … um … an advert,’ I improvised desperately.

‘Great, I’ll look out for it.’

At that point I realised I hadn’t thought this lie through properly at all. ‘Oh it’s only going out in America,’ I added hastily. ‘It’s for … an airline.’

‘A sexy air hostess eh? I love it,’ said Simon, his eyes darkening as all sorts of inappropriate visions popped into his head, which made me giggle a bit because frankly, whenever I see air hostesses doling out synthetic meals and asking you to do up your seatbelt they never look that sexy to me. Just tired, smothered in foundation, mildly bored, resentful of passengers who are getting on their nerves, and like they’re desperate to take their court shoes off.

‘I can already see you in your uniform, like in those Virgin ads. Gorgeous.’

Not long after this I said my goodbyes. I’d drunk far too many vodkas by now to be coping with all the lies I was having to think of, and I’d also reminded myself that of course I did have work in the morning – that bit was real – so suddenly I was anxious to get some sleep. I wrote my number on a paper napkin and thrust it into his hand. ‘Call me,’ I said, trying not to sound like I was giving him an order.

‘Oh I will,’ he promised before giving me a long, lingering kiss on the lips.

CHAPTER THREE

This morning I woke up with bison breath and the dim recollection that I’d had a good night.

My head felt too heavy for my body, I was in pain and would have swapped my worldly goods for an aspirin. My bones ached and I had no idea how on earth I was going to get through the day. In short, I had a hangover. Still, if I heard from the wondrous Simon, it would have been worth it. So, I clambered out of bed and lurched towards the bathroom, comforting myself with the thought that this morning I’d be earning two hundred pounds for three hours’ work. Enough to buy me an entire week of travelling in South America, an incentive that propelled me into my clown costume.

Yes, clown costume. For when I’m not working at Roberto’s, despite the fact most of my peers are having children, I, Marianne Baker can be found on many a weekend dressed as Custard the Clown, entertaining them, complete with oversize shoes, red nose and curly blue wig. I also wear a stripy shirt, huge brown trousers held up with comedy braces and a green tailcoat, which has a big plastic gerbera in the buttonhole that can squirt water. Once I’m in full costume and have made up my face I’d love to tell you I start to embrace my role but, in all honesty, I never feel smaller or more stupid than I do when I’m in that ridiculous bloody outfit. I literally have to think of the money the entire time I’m in it.

Of course, when I made the decision to peddle myself as a children’s entertainer I could have taken the more attractive option of investing in a fairy or princess costume, but after a lot of research I realised this would limit my earning potential. Fairies are two a penny and no self-respecting boy would ever want a fairy anywhere near his party. So, investing in a unisex clown costume had seemed like the best option. Not taking into consideration my own ego.

Fully clowned up I sneaked through the house as quietly as I could in my silly shoes. They’re so big it’s like trying to walk in flippers. Mum and Martin had already warned me that they needed a lie in this morning as they were going out for Sheena and Dave’s wedding anniversary that night, so I knew they’d be annoyed if I woke them up.

Four-year-old Jack’s party was being held at his parents’ house – funnily enough he didn’t have his own pad yet – in posh Buckhurst Hill. It was due to start at eleven, so I was aiming to arrive at ten-fifteen for setting-up purposes. Thankfully, parents of small children always stipulate the time these parties have to end, which in today’s case was one o’clock. No one, it seems, is capable of dealing with armies of small children for more than a few hours at a time …

This last thought caused me to suffer a huge relapse during which I had to steady myself on the banister. ‘Armies of small children’ isn’t a prospect anyone should have to consider when suffering from a hangover. In that moment I decided the only way to cope with the day was to take each minute as it came. Bedtime was simply too far away.

As I tiptoed along the landing my brother, Pete, emerged stealthily from his bedroom.

My nerves were frayed from lack of sleep – and vodka – so I gasped loudly with a dramatic inhalation of breath, in the same heart-stopping way Mum does when I’m driving and she thinks I’m too close to another car. Only I never am.

‘You gave me a shock,’ I accused, when in fact the hysterical noise I’d made was far more shocking than anything.

Pete didn’t bat an eyelid. I don’t think his pulse works in the same way as other peoples. Neither did he react to the way I was dressed, which to be fair he’s seen many times before. Instead he merely skulked through to the bathroom, still in his pyjamas.

I haven’t really told you about Pete yet, have I? He’s my brother, well, my half-brother. My mum’s ‘precious prince’. I don’t mind Pete. He’s pretty easy company, made even more so by the fact that he hardly ever comes out of his room. He’s obsessed in a pretty unhealthy way with Elvis and spends the majority of his time listening to The King’s albums on full volume while playing Xbox. Pete’s a funny boy really. He lives in a world of his own. He’s nineteen and if I’m honest I don’t really know him very well at all.

After a life-saving cup of tea, piece of toast, couple of headache pills, pint of water and a Berocca I left the house. Fresh air was good and as I started piling bags of clowning equipment into mum’s Rover – or ‘Tina’ as she likes to call it, Mum has a habit of naming inanimate objects – I decided I might be OK today after all.

As I slammed the boot shut my phone beeped telling me I had a text. I had butterflies as I went to check it. Ridiculously I was hoping it might be from Simon, despite the fact it was far too early to expect to hear from him. Dating etiquette dictated that it would be at least a couple of days before I did. However, it was from him wishing me good luck with the shoot … He’d signed off with hope to see you soon sexy.

As I pulled away I grinned at myself in the mirror. A white face, black eyes and red nose beamed back at me. Thank Christ he couldn’t see me now.

The party was the usual version of hell on earth once it got going. I get paid a lot for being a clown, but I earn every penny of that money, let me tell you. Little Jack, who was actually exceedingly cute, was trembling with the excitement of it all when I arrived. He was four today and he and his merry band of twenty friends wanted to celebrate hard. It was down to me to show them how. Understandably, when a parent’s forked out so much money for an entertainer, they want their money’s worth. They want to be able to stand back, mainline white wine and let the person they’re paying deal with the hysteria.

Before the party began, while I was setting up in their conservatory style kitchen, Jack’s mum was busy cutting crusts off sandwiches so Jack’s dad took the opportunity to take lots of photographs of the birthday boy. At a certain point Jack grew bored of posing and his dad suddenly swung his excited son around in the air before giving him a giant bear hug. It was a touching scene and I experienced, not for the first time, a pang for the childhood I didn’t have. It wasn’t the party and fuss I yearned for when I felt like this. My mum certainly couldn’t have afforded to do big parties like this. Our treat was always to take a friend to McDonald’s for tea, which we loved. It was witnessing such a close family unit that made me sad, because for a few short years I know it’s what I had. I wish I could remember what it felt like to feel so complete. Growing up I missed my dad so much on special occasions, particularly on birthdays. I longed for him to be there. Always. And every year when I blew out my candles I wished he’d come back. I’d close my eyes and imagine him turning up, full of joy to see us and with an explanation that would make me understand why he’d left.

Still, it wasn’t to be, and gradually over the years I’d started to accept that I’d never know and that he obviously didn’t care.

Jack was a lucky boy.

Once the celebrations got going the noise was incredible. It always is. It’s like an inverse equation. The smaller the person, the more noise they create. My hangover was only made bearable by the fact that as I went through my clowning motions I kept remembering how gorgeous Simon was, and how into me he’d seemed. I couldn’t believe he’d already been in touch too. It was the boost I needed, so summoning up the energy from the bottom of my size fourteen clown shoes I supervised games, performed tricks and made lots of jokes about bottoms. This does the trick every time. Jack wet himself laughing. I mean actually wet himself laughing. Still, after a change of trousers, for Jack not me, just as I was beginning to run out of steam, the kids were sat down for twenty minutes on the floor, around a Spiderman plastic tablecloth where paper plates of sandwiches, sausages and carrot sticks were displayed. These were all largely ignored but, when the biscuits and cakes came out, it was like vultures descending as the children scrambled to consume their body weight in sugar. Once the white stuff had penetrated their veins, and they were one Haribo away from full-blown diabetes, the kids went crazy. With lunch over I knew I was on the home straight but that still didn’t stop me from praying hard for it all to be over soon. After they’ve eaten is always the point when the kids feel familiar enough with me to start climbing on me, kicking me and punching me in the face, all in the name of fun of course, while demanding complicated balloon puppets and more lavatorial humour. Today was no different.

Fortunately, the majority of kids at this particular party were pretty sweet and a couple even made me yearn to breed. A handful of others, however, had the opposite effect and made me want to perform an immediate hysterectomy on myself with no anaesthetic. The worst offender was a girl called Maisie. Maisie was, frankly, a little cow. This sounds strong I know, but I do not buy into the view that all children are delightful beings. They’re not. Some are, but others are most definitely hideous and will undoubtedly grow into mean-minded, horrid adults.

Anyway, the party was drawing to a close so I started to hand out treats and to squirt them with my plastic flower. Hilarious … But Maisie, the little charmer, kept wriggling round me so that she could delve into my bag herself and grab more sweets than she was really entitled to.

‘Can you put those back please, angel?’ I asked nicely between gritted teeth for about the twelfth time. By now I was really hanging in rags, my headache had returned and I was desperate to get into something more comfortable. This wouldn’t be hard. I was wearing a hot, heavy, itchy clown suit for goodness sake. I could have slipped into an eighteenth-century crinoline and it would have felt like leisure wear.

‘No,’ Maisie answered defiantly, looking deep into the bowels of my soul in the way that only the most brattish of children are capable of doing.

‘Please Maisie, otherwise there won’t be enough for all the other boys and girls.’

Unblinking, Maisie put her hand back into the bag and extracted yet another handful.

‘But I haven’t had any sweets yet,’ said another little girl, who’d been waiting patiently for ages and who was watching the scene in horror. This little girl was of the cherubic variety. She was small, cute and very polite.

‘I know. You’ve been waiting very nicely,’ I said. ‘So listen Maisie, you need to give some of those sweets to Georgia here, because she hasn’t had any and you’ve had loads.’

‘No,’ said Maisie.

‘Yes,’ I replied. My tone was icy. My patience was wearing thin and I was so weary that at this point I just needed her to do as I’d asked.

‘Please Maisie,’ begged Georgia rather pitifully, her blue eyes brimming with tears at the sheer injustice of the situation. At this rate I’d be crying with her soon. ‘Just let me have one.’

I looked at Maisie and nodded hard, indicating that she should do the right thing – though admittedly it’s hard to be taken seriously when dressed as a clown, unless someone suffers from a phobia of them, which a surprising amount of people do, then it’s easy – but Maisie ignored me and simply shoved nearly every single one of the stolen sweeties into her precocious gob. ‘Can’t have them now,’ she lisped meanly, syrupy dribble pouring out of the sides of her engorged cheeks.

At this point two things happened. Firstly Georgia burst into tears, and secondly I decided that I’d had enough. I was not going to let a four-year-old dictate to me, and I wasn’t going to let Georgia go home unhappy. So I tried to grapple the few sweets that were left in Maisie’s sticky mitts away from her, at which point she threw her head back and screamed so piercingly I honestly thought the conservatory-style kitchen we were standing in would shatter and that shards of glass would kill us all.