Dating Down

  Dating Down

  By

  Alex Dunn

  Copyright © 2016 Alex Dunn

  The right of Alex Dunn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Contact the author at [email protected]

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  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Love Your Covers

  Edited by Red Adept Editing

  Saturday 11:00 a.m.

  Tammy

  It’s the morning of the school dance. Giggling whilst they choose nail varnish to match their size-zero dresses, Rachael, Sue, Jane and Carrie haven’t stopped talking about their dates since they arrived an hour ago.

  Now, I can buy Valentino off the shelf, I thought they might ask me to join them, but the only one who acknowledges my existence is Carrie. She’s not my friend, not anymore. All the smiles and texts are fake, because ever since she and Rachael became BFF, she can’t be seen hanging around with the fat girl.

  Picking up the latest Trudy Kensington novel, I begin to read. If it wasn’t for Trudy, I don’t know how I would have survived the last five years. It’s as if the author based every story on my life; the only difference is there’s no Ralph Forrester (drop-dead gorgeous hero), who saves Trudy after Lewis Redman (the good-looking, two-timing bad boy), dumps her minutes before the summer prom.

  Unfortunately for me, there isn’t even a Lewis Redman on the scene. There’s no good-looking bad boy, no ugly one, no nice but dull nerd, no hunk, no wimp, no nothing, and I’ve been starving myself for weeks!

  I force myself to smile as my stylist Wendy starts to comb through my wet hair. Ralph’s so real to me I’m never lonely. But you can’t take a fictional character to a dance, and it’s only in fairy tales guys like Ralph Forrester fall in love with the fat girl. No, if Ralph was real, he’d ask out Carrie Hamilton-Smith, just like every other guy on the planet.

  “Do you want your hair straight or curly, Tamara?” asks Wendy, who looks super cool with her new ice-platinum bob.

  “Curly, please.” The only thing I like about myself is my hair; it’s a beautiful rich, dark copper, just like Mummy’s.

  “Leave it to me,” she says, squeezing a big ball of mousse into her hand. “I’m thinking classic Hollywood, scraped back off your face –”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, shaking my hair back into position so it covers my cheeks.

  Wendy frowns and, clamping her hands to either side of my head, forces me to look in the mirror. “You’ve got a really pretty face, and that bloke of yours will want to see it. What did you say his name was?”

  “Ralph.” I blush the colour of the shocking-pink nail varnish I chose for my nails. “He’s coming down on the train tonight.”

  “Details,” Wendy demands, sectioning off my hair. “And don’t leave anything out!”

  “Ralph’s tall,” I tell her. “Almost six foot, but not quite, and he’s got dark-brown hair, and his eyes are the exact colour of hot chocolate.”

  Cheryl, her skinny apprentice, with cropped mauve hair, giggles, and for the first time since I arrived, I start to feel special, like I’m supposed to do at my first real dance.

  “Age?” Cheryl prompts, handing Wendy a roller.

  “Nineteen.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He’s at Cambridge, studying law.”

  “Good looking?” Wendy enquires.

  “Oh yes,” I say, glancing down at my book cover, where Ralph and Trudy are dancing beneath the moonlight. “He’s gorgeous!”

  They brain dump a load of information on how I need to watch myself around good-looking blokes (Wendy’s words), because they can’t be trusted (Cheryl’s words), and you need to keep them on a short leash (Sam the manager’s words). I listen to it all, hearing nothing, just enjoying the buzz of being envied, even if it only lasts as long as I’m getting my hair done.

  “Tammy Winters!” Rachael emerges from around the corner in a skin-tight red dress that barely covers her non-existent bum, Carrie and the others following behind her. “I didn’t realise you were going tonight.”

  I hate her, and at the same time I’m buzzing that she’s noticed me.

  “Of course she’s going,” says Cheryl, as loud as her red lipstick. “Ralph’s making a special trip to take her.”

  I slide down the chair in a pathetic effort to disappear, wishing now Rachael would just walk by like she usually does.

  “Ralph?” says Rachael, raising a perfectly plucked right eyebrow.

  I cringe and try to keep smiling, even though my heart’s pounding so loud, it’s about to drown out the background music.

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” says Carrie, looking like a five-foot-seven Barbie doll dressed in a powder-blue slip dress with matching Manolos and handbag.

  “Didn’t you?” I bet she knows I’m lying. When we were small we used to make up all kinds of stories, but that was before Rachael got her claws into Carrie and turned her into a bitch.

  “So a waist wasn’t the only thing you brought back from fat camp,” Rachael muses, tucking a lose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Is that where you met him?”

  “No, I met him online,” I tell her, because I can’t think of anything bitchy or clever to say.

  “So he hasn’t seen you,” Rachael exclaims. “That explains everything!”

  That little bit of confidence I bought myself when I managed to zip up that Valentino fizzles out and dies.

  “Leave it out, girls,” Wendy scolds them as she starts to roller up my hair from the front. “He sounds, well, cute. Tall, dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes...”

  I slip my book a little further into my handbag, just to make sure they can’t see the front cover.

  “Can’t wait to see him,” Rachael sings, looking down her new nose at me. “Especially his chocolate-brown eyes.”

  I nod and try to sit still, which isn’t easy with my insides wriggling like crazy. What am I going to do? I’ve got less than eight hours to find a boy to go out with me, and not just any boy. He’s got to be tall, dark, and gorgeous and called Ralph, or I’m never going to be able to show my face again!

  Saturday 12:00 p.m.

  Gary

  “Check his temperature every half hour,” says Bill. “And if it goes up another degree, you call me straight away, got it?”

  “Got it.” I’m trying really hard not to roll my eyes or sound sarcastic, but it’s bloody hard work when he’s been barking orders at me for the last half hour.

  “Gary, this is important.”

  “Okay, I got it!” I give up trying to watch Star Trek at this point and settle on enjoying what’s left of my beer. A beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon and I’m stuck inside babysitting Jack, when I could be round Vernon’s getting drunk, stoned, and laid, preferably in that order.

  “And make sure he drinks plenty of water.”

  I open my mouth to tell him not to be such an old woman, but what’s the point? Bill isn’t my best mate anymore. He stopped being that when Grace died and turned into a paranoid parent overnight. But I don’t want to talk about that – I can’t.

  “Gary, have you listened to a word I said?”

  He�
��s standing over me with his arms folded, tapping his size twelves. Dressed in his black tuxedo he looks more like some gangster than part-time hotel barman.

  “Gary?”

  Now I’m no seven-stone wimp, but the size Bill is, I feel like one, and if I push any more of his buttons, he’s quite likely to break every bone in my body. “Yeah, yeah, temperature checking, water, blankets, no weed, no fun...”

  “Gary.” Bill changes tactics now, trying to reason with me. “Jack’s all I’ve got left.”

  I hate it when he starts talking like this. It gets me right in the chest, and then I make it a hundred times worse when I look at Jack. Jack’s been shivering under his Star Wars duvet all morning. He’s a cheeky little bugger – usually there’s no shutting him up – but he doesn’t look good. His face has gone this horrible grey colour, and his blond hair is dripping with sweat.

  I turn away. I know what you’re thinking: I must be a bastard – but I’m not. I’m no angel, I’ll grant you that, but bastard – no. I stack shelves ten hours a day so we can keep this dump of a house, buy the food, I even do the cooking when Bill can’t be bothered; but I can’t do all this caring stuff, I just can’t, and I can’t be the rock-solid friend, either.

  I heard Bill crying the other night. I ignored him, of course. I mean, if I was sobbing like a baby, the last thing in the world I’d want is for him to put his arm around me and tell me everything’s going to be all right. It isn’t. His life sucks. He’s stuck looking after a kid at nineteen, and he doesn’t even have the memories of a great shag. Still, that’s his problem. I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I take another swig of beer, and another, and another, but I still feel like a bag of crap.

  “Tell you what,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful. “Why don’t I do your shift at the hotel and you can stay at home with Jack?” Now believe me, the prospect of serving drinks to a bunch of stuffy-nosed toffs isn’t my idea of fun, but I need distance. It’s the best thing for Bill, the best thing for Jack, and it’s the best thing for me. And I need to look after me, ‘cos no one else will.

  “The Grand wouldn’t let you in even if you were a paying guest,” Bill snarls, his square face now looking really menacing. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  I have, did so this morning, and I thought I looked pretty good. Black hair gives me attitude, and thanks to my dragon tattoo, I pulled this really hot girl last weekend who was getting her lower back inked. But there’s no point telling Bill any of this. All he cares about is Social Services and getting Jack to school on time. I shrug and drink some more beer.

  “And no more of that!” he roars, grabbing my beer. “I want you sober if you’re looking after Jack. Got it?”

  Shoving him out of my face, I pick up my sketchbook so I can do some drawing, and he turns away, muttering something about me being a selfish bastard as he hunts for his mobile.

  “I’ll be back at one!” he tells me when he finds it.

  “Whatever.”

  He grunts, not sure what that means, and crouches down next to Jack. “You’ll be okay, won’t you, squirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he says, ruffling Jack’s hair. “And if you don’t feel better tomorrow, I’ll take you to the doctor.”

  “Will you bring me back some ice cream?”

  “Anything you want,” he tells him before laying into me again. “And Gary, if anything happens to Jack, I’ll kill you!”

  He would, too, so I wait till he’s well out the door before I go into the kitchen and get the beer I hid in the bucket with all the dusters beneath the kitchen sink. Bill would never think of looking there; Grace always did all the cleaning.

  While I’m out there, I grab a Coke for Jack and a packet of those jam biscuits Bill never lets him eat, chuck them in his direction, and then I flop back in my chair to get nicely wasted. “What do you want to watch?”

  “Robots,” says Jack.

  I groan; it’s got to be the lamest cartoon ever. “What about Dr. Who?”

  “Robots.”

  “Star Trek?”

  “You promised we’d watch Robots.” Jack looks up at me with the saddest of blue puppy-dog eyes, which is guaranteed to get him whatever he wants.

  The DVD isn’t in the right box, and by the time I find it, I’ve drunk all my beer.

  “I wish Mum was here,” Jack sniffs, looking even more pathetic.

  Just hearing Grace’s name makes me want to slash my wrists. “I thought you wanted to watch this bloody cartoon!”

  “I want her!”

  “You got me.”

  “I don’t want you!”

  “Well tough!” I can’t take any more of his moaning, so I go into my room, and in the cardboard box beneath our old dining room table where I keep my paints, I find the vodka I bought last night. Shit, there’s only a couple of mouthfuls left. Hoping it’s enough, I take a swig and shudder as it hits the back of my throat and burns its way down. It burns more every day.

  “I’m telling Bill!” Jack cries, standing in the doorway and hugging his blanket. “You’re not supposed to drink – Bill said!”

  “You say anything, and I’ll tell Bill who really broke the back door!”

  His bottom lip starts to wobble, and he legs it back into the front room.

  “Jack, I’m sorry.” Tripping over his bloody Lego, I stumble into the wall and crush my big toe. “Shit!”

  “I hate you!” He sniffs, hiding beneath his blanket on the sofa.

  I hate me too, but the vodka’s kicked in, and once again I’m protected from it all. “Why don’t I go out and get some sweets. Then you and me can be mates again.”

  “I don’t want sweets and I don’t want to be your mate.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want my mum!”

  “Well you can’t have her because she’s DEAD!” The instant I say it, I want to take it back again. “Jack, I’m sorry.”

  He blanks me.

  “Jack, I’m really sorry.” I don’t know why I keep saying these things. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but the words seem to leave my mouth before I realise what’s going on. “Want to do some drawing?”

  I do a quick cartoon of him with a light sabre doing battle with Darth Maul. Jack’s been crazy about Star Wars ever since some girl told him he looked like Anakin Skywalker. “Well?”

  He still blanks me.

  “What about if I give you my Star Wars poster?”

  He still blanks me, only this time I’m getting annoyed. He’s been after that poster of mine forever – well, ever since I took him to see the last Star Wars film.

  “Fine, be like that, see if I care!” Hurling my pad to the floor, I sink down in the armchair and close my eyes, because if we can’t get on and I can’t draw, drink, or do anything else that matters, I might as well get some sleep.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak…

  I groan as something drags me away from a great dream in which I’m getting stoned with Tina from work. I try to find my way back there, because I’ve always wondered what she wears under her uniform, but the noise just grows in volume. Brain throbbing, I blink one eye open and hold up my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding sunlight.

  “Jack?” I turn towards the squeaking to see him standing on his toes, trying to reach something on the top shelf of the bookcase.

  “Jack, what are you doing?”

  He continues to blank me. The squeaking is coming from him repeatedly jumping on the wonky floorboard as he struggles to reach whatever it is.

  “Jack?”

  He turns round and sticks his tongue out at me.

  I stick my tongue out at him before reaching for the vodka. Shit, I forgot it was empty. Needing alcohol quick to dull my aching head, I wander into the hall to see if Bill’s got any more cider left, and I’m still looking for it when there’s this train wreck of a crash making the whole house shake.

  “Jack?” I run into the front room to find him
sprawled under the fallen bookcase, a wreckage of spilt DVDs, picture frames, and a hundred and one shattered porcelain figurines covering the carpet.

  “You bloody idiot!” I pick him up and dump him back on the sofa, wincing as I slice my foot open on a bit of broken cat.

  “I’m sorry.” He sobs, great bubbles of snot running out of his nose.

  “What d’you have to do that for?” I chuck broken bits of cat and dog into an empty KFC bucket while soaking the carpet with blood.

  “I miss Mum,” he says, hugging a silver-framed picture to his chest.

  “Look what you’ve done!”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  My pulse is pounding in time with my head as I stare at the mess. These were all hers. She collected them, and now they’re smashed. We lost her, we pawned all her jewellery, and Bill sold all her clothes down the car boot sale. This was all we had, some stupid pottery figures, and now they’re broken.

  “Gary?”

  “JUST SHUT UP!” I can’t think through the surge of boiling blood. Jack’s ruined everything. How am I going to remember her when there’s nothing left?

  “Bill said you’re not allowed to shout at me,” he says, his face all screwed up with tears.

  “Well, Bill isn’t here, is he?”

  “I hate you!”

  “Well, I HATE ME TOO!” I snatch the picture from him before he messes that up too. I know which one it is. It’s the one of us all I took in Hyde Park two summers ago. She looked really pretty in that one, really happy. Her hair was still golden, long, thick, and shiny, and her eyes sparkled. It’s not fair. Why did it have to happen to her?

  Saturday 5:00 p.m.

  Tammy

  If only I’d kept my big mouth shut, I could have gone on my own, and if I was really lucky, Callum would have asked me to dance (not that he fancies me or anything). He fancies Carrie Hamilton-Smith like every other guy on the planet, but it’s nice to dance with him, even if he isn’t interested.

  He always asks me to dance when Aerosmith plays. It’s a kind of ritual, and for a few minutes I feel pretty, and it definitely beats pretending you’re replying to a really important text or sitting in the corner with the other fat social rejects. But I’ve blown that. I ruined everything the moment I got carried away in the salon, and now Carrie and the others are going to expect me to turn up with a six-foot hunk, and I can’t even get a gross guy to ask me out!