George
By looli
- 485 reads
I slam the phone down
Bastard!
Where does he get off being so blatantly honest with me? I know that
it's never going to happen but I don't see why that means I have to
deal with it. Just because he doesn't even know I exist, doesn't mean
he won't wake up one day and think I am his goddess of love, and that
he simply must have me
I stomp around the house huffing and puffing, with gusto that would
make the big bad wolf look like an asthmatic.
After 10 minutes, and right on schedule, the depression sets in. It's
totally illogical I know, and it is not as if it is unexpected either -
I think I could have the whole lot scripted now. I start to mull over
my entire life, and start with a critical self analysis.....or
basically give myself a right slagging off.
Well look at me. I'm grossly unattractive, clearly overweight,
obviously characterless (must have had another overnight lobotomy which
comes free with an amnesia kit for erasing all memory of the
procedure), No sense of humor (or I would find all this funny) and
evidently I am destined for a life of loneliness, to reside in the
terminal abode. Welcome to Solitude City.......population
1......me.
I hate it when George is right.
Lucky he is my best friend, and has been for the last seven years,
otherwise I wouldn't have been able to vent my anger so obscenely. I
mean, I don't think my mother would have handled "Fuck off you moronic,
brain deficient, Squid" with quite so much dignity. Still, I will have
to call him back to apologise and remind him of all the reasons why he
loves me and puts up with my temper, (which makes Satan look like a UN
Ambassador for Good Relations by the way)
He's going out tonight on a date with the gorgeous Sheryl. He has been
waiting for this moment for almost as long as I have been obsessing
about Robin. That is actually how we got onto the bloody topic of Robin
and my Impending Doom. I am pleased though that I spent the first half
of the conversation boosting his ego, telling how wonderful he is and
how much she will like him if he would only take that lump of coal out
of his arse before it becomes a diamond. He has to relax and chill out!
I also had to help him decide what to wear, thankfully saving him from
his choice du jour, which had been a Mega-death T-shirt, badly stoned
wash, rejected jeans and old tennis shoes.
I make a note in my agenda to call him while he is out........right
under the entry, "Buy an agenda!"
I spend the next half hour writing a silly "sorry" song to leave on his
answer machine. I know it's feeble to wait until he has gone out but
it's OK, he knows I will. He is more than well aware of my phonophobic
tendencies by now! It'll make him laugh. Comedy! The only cure to the
"my best friends is being a real bitch" syndrome.
The way to George's heart has always been through his funny bone. Make
him laugh, and he's putty in your hands. That why I love him and he is
my best friend!
I have hardly been alone for a moment since I have met George. The
only times we are apart is when we are working, seeing our family's or
on those rare moments when either of us actually scores a date. Which
unfortunately is much rarer for me than for George , although we are
both heading dangerously for extinction. The rest of the time, we hang
together. I know his kitchen better than my own, have my own shelf in
his bathroom and have a set of his clothes (an old pair of leggings, a
Purple Ronnie T-shirt that I gave him years ago, and a huge pair of bed
socks) ready to slip into when veg-mode sets in. Whenever neither of us
have social commitments, which is on average, let's say.....7 times a
week, we can either be found in the local pub where we have our own
residence table or at his apartment around the corner, drinking wine
(when it's my turn Chateaux neuf du pape, and when it's his
turn......lam-flaming-brusco.........no bitterness here) watching
movies or comedy re-runs of Blackadder and the Younge Ones.
It's not love. Well - it is love, but not the romantic, I want to bury
my nose in your sweaty armpit and cover you with strawberry yoghurt,
kind of love. No. An observing friend once told me that she thought I
could be in love with him. That we already had a perfect relationship,
all we have to do is take it one step further. But I disagree. It is
because we have not taken this step, that we have such a good
relationship. We just don't fancy each other. We have sparks, an
electrical charge that everyone notices when we are together, but it is
not chemistry. I need tenderness in my life, and romance and......sex.
Yes I need sex in my life. But I can't take George seriously. Every
time we try to be sensitive and caring with each other, we end up
pissing ourselves laughing. My perfect dream would be to live with
George, and to have a lover who comes and goes whenever the desire
arises. I'm not being callous here, and saying that I want a part time
gigolo (although, now that I come to think of it.....ahem, sorry.
Drifting off there) I do fatasize about going on romantic dinner dates
and being swept off my feet like in Pretty Woman (I mean who
doesn't???)........but I have such fun with George, I want to be
friends with him forever.
What I have always found with relationships, is that they are such fun
at first. Exciting, and new. What do I wear? How do I do my hair? Does
this bra make my tits look good? The anticipation......will he enjoy my
company?, will he ask me for coffee? Will he kiss me? (or more usually
for me....will he ever say anything even mildly interesting) That's all
great. I love all that. But once it starts getting more familiar, and
the dates start becoming regular events. And you stop bothering to wear
matching underwear (because he's already caught you wearing the big
pink ones your Mum's been buying you every year for Christmas....since
you were 12) and an evening together no longer means going to the
movies, or the theatre, but sitting at home and watching telly, and of
course, the "lazy Sunday together" now constitutes waking up at midday
and going to meet the lads at the pub to watch the football, ("together
of course darling, I really want you to come" and so on, you've heard
it) And those are the things I'd rather do with George. At least then
we'd laugh. And he wouldn't pat my arse after asking me to go to the
bar and get him and the lads another round ("oh and one for yourself of
course"). Well, not as much anyway!
I don't exactly know what I want, but it is becoming clearer and
clearer as I grow older, the things that I don't want.
Robin certainly would make the short list, and boy would I like to
interview him, but he doesn't seem to know that I exist. He is sweet
and polite to me but that's his job, he works as a barman at the local
night-spot. There is nothing above and beyond the call of duty, despite
my best efforts. Maybe I should face up to the truth, George is right,
he probably couldn't even pick me out of a line up of farmyard
animals.
Right now I am going cold turkey. A cunning experiment from the George
and Jen Laboritory. I'm hoping that he will notice my absence and even,
if I am lucky, might ask if I have been on holiday. I make a note to
book a session in a tanning shop, I would hate him to think that I had
really been sitting at home going up the walls counting down the days
to see him again. OK I exaggerate a little, but you should see him, and
then you would understand!
I promised George a while ago, when we were concocting this little
experiment that if he didn't notice me, I would indeed give up. I would
raise the white flag and surrender. Lord knows my work would be better
without all of the late nights dancing!
I spend the evening writing letters to friends and family that I get to
see rarely. I find it a pleasant pastime, almost like a kind of therapy
and although they seldom reply, I know it makes their day receiving
them.
The next morning I wake early and decide to call George to get the
gossip on his "millennium date" as we had begun calling it. His first
proper date this century. I hope it is not like the computer millennium
bug scare, highly over rated, over planned and over-counted down for
(if there is such a thing) and turned out to be nothing but another
tick of the clock. He'll be on his way to work now so he won't mind me
calling and interrupting his exciting hour long car journey.
After several rings he answers grumpily "What do you want?" "Hey
buddie" I yell trying to cheer him up. I know he is always a bit grumpy
before his first coffee and cigarette but this is ridiculous. "So come
on then" I goad, "Dish the dirt, tell us the story, what happened
babe?" "Fuck off Jen, It's 7:30am" he replies and all I can summon up
is a series of blubbering sounds "bu bu bbu" "I am in bed, Sheryl is
asleep beside me and we have taken the day off. Leave me alone" I sense
he is about to drop the receiver and am too shocked to react and then
he adds "Oh, and thanks for the sorry song, dozey bird!" I love that he
calls me dozey bird and can't help smile as I put down the
telephone.
So George scored.
On a first date.
With the gorgeous Sheryl.
I can't believe it. I really cannot truly believe it. How can it
happen? I am pleased for him of course, way to go George, but it is a
bit irrational of him to pull a sicky! George is far too conventional
for that, he hasn't had a single sick day this year. This must be
serious. It will be good for him to have a day off, I am pleased,
although a little miffed. I have been begging him for weeks to take off
a day with me and go to Alton Towers, but he always complained that he
was too busy. No time to think of it now though, I am late for work.
Besides, today is Wednesday. We always meet up on Wednesday nights to
play the local bar quiz. We're not too bad and occasionally even win
you know.
I race out of the house in my usual flurry forgetting almost all of the
extra things that I needed for work and have been promising to bring in
all week. I wish I could work from home, or at least in one place where
all of my things could be and everything I need could be at an arms
length. I am sick of having to carry a laptop and a case filled with
paperwork and computer disks.
I stay a little late after work. Not out of love or need to work, but I
intended to go straight to the pub from work and George never gets
there until about 7:30 so I wanted to kill a bit of time and may as
well do it catching up with my email. I don't like sitting on my own,
not because I am shy or afraid of looking lonely, but I just get really
bored quickly. I spend the first ten minutes watching the clock tick
and staring at every piece of wall in the pub, all of which are
boringly familiar now. Then I spend the next five minutes drumming my
fingernails and trying to name all of the American states in my head. I
usually end up pulling out a pen and some paper if I have them, and
make funny anagrams with my friends names. I can usually manage a total
of twenty minutes before I start wanting to tear my hair out, along
with the heart of whoever I am waiting for. Not the best person to meet
after a long day at the office.
I get to the Dog and Bra at 7:35 exactly, I order myself a pint of
lager and after signing us up for the quiz I find us a good table and
settle down, confident that George will arrive any moment.
It's quite a good turn out for the quiz, about 9 teams already; should
be a good battle. I begin to get a little worried when the quizmaster
(AKA Jim, the Landlord) announces that the game will be starting in 2
minutes and George, still missing and worse, unreachable by phone. I
have left 5 messages already and so face that reality that he is not
coming. As Jim, The Dob and Bra's very own Bamba Gasgoine comfies
himself at the front table with a large pint of guiness and turns to
me, frowning and shaking his head in sympathy at my being alone. He
insists that I join another team and as he asks for volunteers, it is
the sad geeky team to my left that shout the loudest. I slowly lumber
to their table under Landlord's orders silently vowing to make George
pay for this!
For the next few days I hear nothing from my best friend. Zero contact.
Radio silence from the friend I have known for 7 years. The guy who
know me better than I know myself. The person I share everything just
disappears. I have left messages everywhere I can think of and visited
all the places we used to go but he has simply vanished. And left me to
face life on my own. Thanks buddie.
By the end of the week, my worry and concern for George becomes victim
of disease, as anger and betrayal spread through me. I get over my fear
of being alone and decide that since my fellow conspirator and
laboratory partner has disappeared and so I therefore declare our
experiment null and void and plan to go and see Robin tonight. George
will think I am pathetic, it has been less than a week, but it is
partly his fault for abandoning me. I have had a boring, lonely week
and it is Friday today and I intend to have some fun!
I finish work earlier than usual and head home quickly to avoid the
rush hour. I want tonight to be relaxed and enjoyable. I can't deal
with standing for twenty minutes on the tube with my head lodged in
someone's armpit. A disadvantage to being small.
When I get home I make some coffee and relax on the sofa in the sun. I
love the way my whole lounge is filled with rays of light in the early
evening. It always makes it look so warm and soothing. I don't plan on
going out until about 11:30 and so I have planty of time to relax and
wind down from the week. I mull happily over my evening ahead. I don't
mind going out alone. Usually I wouldn't think of going to a night club
on my own, and in fact wouldn't go to any other nightclub alone, but
right now I have the choice of going alone, or not going at all, and
not going at all would mean not seeing Robin. Now do you see the
dilemma?
Later I run a bath and soak for over an hour listening to Tracy
Chapman. Unfortunately, CD's are not quite long enough for the perfect
bath so half way through I have to pad naked out of the bathroom into
the living room and pop on another relaxing CD, then skid back in the
pools of water my dripping hair has left. Back in the tub and having
avoided serious injury (but sporting a twice stubbed toe and a bruised
knee) I sink underwater and blow bubbles, feeling refreshed and
cleansed once more.
With wrinkled skin I climb from the soapy water and sit for a moment of
the side of the tub as I let myself get reacquainted with my
surroundings. I always have baths far too hot so much that I feel light
headed when I get out. I remember frequently running out of hot water
and being frequently scolded (if you excuse the pun)
Usually I never blow dry my scraggle of dirty blond hair, but tonight I
sit in front of the mirror armed with a hair dryer, curling tongs,
straighteners, mousse, wax and hairspray intent on creating a
masterpiece.
After half an hour my hair is a completely, unmanageable, frizzy mess
and I am in the kitchen pouring extra virgin olive oil that a friend
bought back from Italy, over a hairbrush that is stuck in my hair.
After 15 minutes of pulling and screaming, with plenty of crying and
cursing along the way, I wash my hair again and this time opt for the
natural drying method. How is it people learn to do their hair? Is
there some course you take that I missed? Can I be a mature
student?
The whole Shirley Temple hair things has spoilt my mood a little but I
determine pull myself out of it and go for the corkscrew and a bottle
of good claret. I am not a connoisseur of wine, I usually choose wine
by the fondness for the shape and label of the bottle, and the price of
course, but I think this should more than pacify my stresses
feeling.
With the first glass, I sit on the edge of the sofa sipping it slowly
and aimlessly flicking through the drivel on television. Obviously
everyone is out partying and having a night out, so only the sad people
with no life stay at home watching TV. And so what do we do, cover the
stations with crap game shows with patronizing celebrities feeling
sorry for us and doing anything to entertain. With the second glass,
however, I relax into a comfortable snoozing position and once again my
worries begin to pass. I even manage to forget about George. I have
left enough messages for him; it is up to him now.
At about 11 O'clock (and three quarters of a bottle of wine) I get up
and start the task of deciding what to wear. After much deliberating,
cogitating and digesting I opt for jeans, trainers and a sporting vest
top. Robin has many other women admires and most of them dress up in
little black numbers and plaster their face with make up, with a
trowel. I could never compete with them. Nope. My only chance is to be
different. Noticeable. Don't they say somewhere that in order to be
noticed, you must be different (is there a book somewhere by the way,
where they right down everything that "they say") my make-up stretches
to light mascara to cover the blonde eyelashes I was "blessed" with as
my mother says, the ones that make me look 12, and clear, colourless
lip-gloss. I don't want to feel over dressed and self confident tonight
- I want to feel as natural as possible.
At 11:30 I head out, and although I tried to ignore it my heart was
beating faster. I wished that George was with me, I wanted his support
more than ever now. I also couldn't help cussing that he was forcing me
to do this on my own and was nowhere to be found when I needed him. I
waited for the bus in eager anticipation to see Robin. I knew that as
soon as I saw him, everything would feel better. He made me bounce
inside.
I get to the club early, well before the midnight rush. I don't like
standing in the queue, particularly alone and if that meant sitting
alone at the bar.....gazing at Robin, then so be it. I paid the rip off
tenner to the welcoming doorman and entered heading immediately for
Robin's usual bar area, but it wasn't Robin who I saw standing behind
the counter waiting. It was a nervous, bright eyed new boy. Was Robin
on a break? Or working on a different bar? I scanned the club, made
easy as it was still practically empty, but I couldn't see him
anywhere. I did see alex though, another of the bar-tenders that I am
familiar with. He had always been kind to me and gave me the occasional
drink on the house. We said our Hello's and after a quick conversation
out of politeness he asked after George. This was my perfect
opportunity to mention Robin but I had not anticipated his reply. Robin
had left and gone to a bar in a town about 50 miles away. I couldn't
believe it. I would never see him again.
It hit me hard. I don't know how long I stood there frozen, but the
next thing I remember Alex was going a glass of brandy and asking me to
take it. I took the drink and drank it in one gulp. I am not sure if it
was that that sent my head spinning, or the shocking news I had heard,
but I had to clutch the bar to save myself from falling. After a few
minutes, I fled the bar despite the doorman mistaking me for a tourist
unimpressed by the club. He grabbed my arm repeatedly stating that any
moment now the club would be brimming full of people. I knew this to be
true, but to me, it would always be empty now.
At home, I drank the rest of the bottle of wine and half of another
one, crying as I chain smoked cigarettes and clutched the phone trying
George's mobile every ten minutes.
I awoke Saturday afternoon, or at least that's what I think I did.
Perhaps I "came to" or "came around" I can't be certain, but there was
definitely knocking. Very, very loud knocking, although a money-spider
walking in the room would have sounded like very loud knocking to my
head that morning! I tried to bury the throbbing thing on my shoulders
that used to hold claim to being my head, with a pillow but it wouldn't
go away and then worsened as I heard a voice shouting my name through
the letterbox. After several times I recognized the voice to be
George's and dragged my abused body out of bed, adorned my dressing
gown and waddled to the front door. George had seen me looking worse,
he was the only one that I would allow to see me in this appalling
state.
I opened the door to see George, radiant and smiling with his arm
around the very gorgeous and very shocked Sheryl. Within seconds, after
fully taking in the grotesque image before his eyes, George's smile
turns into a scowl of disgust. "Hi, I'm Sheryl" sparks up the cheery
beauty, breaking the tension immediately. "We should have called to say
we were coming. This is our fault, we will come back some other time"
She reached for his arm and began to guide him back in retreat.
"Runaway, Runaway" I could hear her silently shouting. "No, don't be
silly" I pipe up, "Heavy night" I say which is absolutely no way to
describe my badly hidden slept in clothes and red wine stain down my
dressing gown I had forgotten about. "Won't take me a moment to freshen
up" Before I knew it I had hold of George's other arm in a mini
tug-of-war and was offering coffee. Why I did this I have no idea. I
obviously forgot the disgusting state that my apartment was in. And of
course, once I had them seated in the lounge, had cleared away the
remnants of the night before and looked in the mirror, I realized how I
had seriously underestimated the task of "freshening up" I now
understood their doubting frowns.
I did the best with what I had, and it was not too bad a job
considering. I looked human at least as I sat down feeling a gooseberry
in my own house as George and Sheryl sat almost on top of each other on
the sofa, whispering and giggling to themselves like teenagers. Before
I could say a word, and before I had even finished pouring the coffee,
George loudly announced that they had wonderful news. Sheryl was moving
in to George's apartment. As I stood stunned, gawping at George, the
coffee overflowed and spilt all over my foot, sending me rushing into
the bathroom to stick it under the cold tap. For a second, I thought
and hoped that George would follow me to make sure I was alright, and
to ask me my honest opinion of Sheryl, but he didn't. After 10 minutes
I appeared with a wet flannel on my foot, hobbling back to my seat
while they snogged, oblivious to me. So much for worrying about me.
"Look Jen" said George coming up for air when he finally noticed my
presence "I don't think your up for visitors. We'll call you next and
maybe you can come around to dinner" With that, they left. I was too
speechless and wounded to be able to doing anything about it. Instead I
just closed the door behind them and collapsed on the sofa. Was that
the same George I knew? My best friend? And he said "We'll call you".
"We". They have been going out for just over a week and now they are a
"We" George and I were like brother and sister, Batman and Robin (oh
don't start me thinking about him) We were inseparable, until Miss Nice
Legs turned up. Last time I was at George's we were cooking together.
Well actually he was cooking while I, much to his frustration, drank
the wine he was cooking with and chopped the occasional vegetables.
Anyway along with onions and garlic, I also succeeded in chopping one
pink baby finger. I am mo Ainsley Harriot when it comes to chopping
veg, but I still have no idea how I managed it. It wasn't serious
enough to warrant stitches, but it didn't seem to want to stop
bleeding. Within seconds of the carnage, George Nightingale pounced to
action and like a true super hero, Band Aid man whipped my hand under
the cold tap and pulled out his handily stored, for just such tragedy,
first aid kit. He went to work on my treated-as-fatal wound and
concluded by placing band-aids willy-nilly about my finger. And yet
here, under his nose and quite frankly a direct result of his dramatic
news, I receive a serious burn and all he can do is play tonsil tennis
with "nice legs"
So right now I pretty much feel like pants. My love life has crashed
and burned and my best friend left me high and dry. I wish I could live
the whole day again, like in Groundhog day. I think I would stay in bed
this time!
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