Cowboys and Englishmen

Chapter Two

There's an old saying. ‘When it rains, it pours.’ Whoever made up that saying, hundreds of years ago, was no doubt one of my ancestors.

I woke up the next morning wearing the neon-hideous, yellow bridesmaid’s dress. Worse still, I'd been shot. Or I thought I'd been shot for a moment, because I was covered in red, sticky, syrupy liquid. My cream carpet looked like the scene of a heinous crime. That's when I realised I'd fallen asleep cradling a bottle of red wine. I don't even like red wine. It just so happened that Scott had left behind a few bottles of vintage Shiraz and I'd deemed it a good idea or get plastered.

Whilst wearing the stupidly expensive silk and chiffon gown.

It was ruined. Trashed. Beyond salvation.

To add insult to injury, my laptop was open. It seemed in my infinite drunken wisdom, that I'd messaged Scott on Face book. A message marked with 'Seen at 01:52am'. This was not good. This was as far from good as you could get. The message stared back at me. I'd used caps lock. Of course I had.

-You name stealing liar hope you rot you name stealing liar. You stole my name. Ps your wife is ugly.

I hurled the screen away from me, like that would somehow retract the message, my hand clamped over my mouth. This was not happening. Surely, I hadn't just messaged my ex-boyfriend in a drunken stupor. And then I remembered the dress, the garment I was supposed to wear in two days time for the wedding rehearsal. 

Huge patches of the dress were stained pink. The ghastly gown was now even more repellent. Before this moment I would have deemed that impossible. When I caught the time on the owl shaped clock Donna bought me last Christmas, I nearly had a coronary. I was half an hour late to work. And I smelled like a brewery. Chucking my phone into my tattered rip off Gucci bag. I didn't bother stopping for breakfast. This meant only one thing. I'd be raiding the corner shop at ten am, wolfing down snickers bars like a rabid dog. It was a compulsion.

I was on probation as it was at work, doing the most mind numbing job, putting away returned library books and printing stickers for the spines of said books. Occasionally I sat at the desk, scanning books. Such a treat. Paula, my stern, humourless boss would not look so kindly at my hangover, wine drenched self, and that's why I needed to get a wriggle on. I ripped off the dress so fast that I heard a 'ping' noise, but it wasn't like I had time to worry about that now. As it was the dress was destined for landfill, unless I could work some magic with the washing machine when I got home. And pigs might fly.

On the way to work, of course every set of lights I stopped at were red. Sod's law. I plugged in my phone to the hands free kit, drumming my nails against the wheel and wishing they weren't so bitten down. That's when Gerard Butler pulled up alongside me. Of course I don't mean the actual Gerard Butler. He wore a suit, or the suit wore him, the way it hugged broad shoulders and....

He was smiling at me.

I couldn't remember if I'd brushed my teeth yet, but all the same, I shot him my winning, red carpet smile. Then I caught the twitch at the corner of his sultry, full lips. He was amused, and trying not to laugh. Did I have something in my teeth? Could he see from that far away? Was I playing my Backstreet Boys album too loud? I lowered the volume just as he looked back at me and this time there was no doubt as to where he was looking.

My hair. My bright orange birds nest. The shame.

I flicked my sunglasses from the glove box, as if they might shroud the bright, puce colour on my cheeks, and managed to poke myself in the eye so hard that I accidentally pressed the car horn and scared the life out of myself. When I looked back at the road, Mr Butler had driven away, leaving me stationary at the lights, with an irate queue of traffic behind me. As the chorus of hooting drivers continued, I attempted to move away, and of course, I stalled the car.

...................

As I shuffled hurriedly through the library car park, my phone rang. I didn't recognise the number but I answered it. If this was my network provider I'd launch a mornings worth of female wrath in their direction, and maybe, just maybe, I'd feel a little better. Having some nerdy bloke in a call centre somewhere cowering under his desk as I told him all about my day, might make me feel a little saner. I’m blaming Gerard. If it weren't for him I'd probably have forgotten the saga with my hair last night, and focused on the task in front of me. Grovelling to Paula.

'Hello?' I answered the call, quickening my step as the minutes ticked by. 'Hello?'

'Sam?'

Surely it wasn't Scott. The cherry on top of the cake for today.

'Hi Scott.' I tried to sound cheerful, hoping that I could pass off the whole message thing as a whole lot of nothing. A joke.

'Sam....I was worried about you. I got your number off Imelda.'

In case you're wondering, Imelda is my mother. And also, apparently, Scott's best friend.

'Ah, good old Melly'. That sarcastic remark left my lips before I had chance to rein it in. You could always guarantee she'd poke her oar into my business, and no doubt I'd be hearing about this when she 'popped by' later. Unannounced.

'Are we good, Sam? Only I got a message this morning while I was up with my son....'

Gabriel. The kid with the stolen name. A kid I had hoped was hideous, with a squashed face like a cabbage patch doll. Instead, he was blue eyed, blonde haired, and made my ovaries ache. Of course he was.

'Yeah sorry it was a frape.'

'A what?'

'Donna. You know Donna. She fraped me. Sorry about that. Listen, Scott I have a big meeting to attend, so....'

'At the library?'

He really was close to my mum. I hadn't been working here when we split up.

'Yes.' I spat. 'A meeting at the library. A very important meeting, I'll have you know.'

'Okay....' He wasn't convinced. 'Well...I just thought I'd check on you. And make sure that this doesn't happen again. Miranda and I share a Face book account now. And we don't appreciate such messages.'

He sounded so different. London had got her claws into him, and now he spoke like some lord from a hoity toity period drama.

I stopped walking, knowing how Scott used to be the kind that wanted his space. He'd never have dreamt of sharing a Face book account with me, not that I'd want him to. I've always been the type to cringe when couples share email addresses. They're always the smug kind, who wear matching Christmas jumpers and have his and hers bath. The kind who dole out advice to singletons, giving themselves as shining examples of how successful relationships can be.

Yawn.

He really had changed, and the horrible thing about that was that I hadn't. I was boyfriend-less, with hair that could be seen from outer space, and I worked two soulless jobs just to make ends meet. Not that ends were meeting very well at the moment. And there he was, Mister Career, the husband and doting father with a cherub faced son and most probably a huge palatial house in London. All the things he said he didn't want.

Now he was chastising me for my drunken message because Miranda might see it. I felt about as small and embarrassed as I ever had. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, maybe he saw me as some stagnant drifter coasting through life and he wanted someone more focused. Someone with a future. Ending the call, I decided I could be another five minutes late for work. And I drowned my sorrows with the aid of two Snickers bars and a Kit Kat.

Before facing my uppity boss, nearly two hours late.