Cowboys and Englishmen

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Well, to say Paula wasn't happy was a bit of an understatement. She bared her teeth like some angry dragon, as I recounted the drama of the night before. And then the disaster that was my dress, followed cruelly by my phone call with Scott. What irritated me most was that this wasn't me. Granted I can be scatty, disorganised and dramatic come my time of the month, but I needed that job. Yes it was tedious, and disheartening and soul crushing. But it paid the bills.

I'd never let him get to me before, not because I didn't care about him, but probably because I always would. And I couldn't allow myself to venture down the whole self-pitying path. I like food. A lot. Without my exercise in shutting off the past, I'd be obese right now. Morbidly Obese with orange hair.

Scott and I were together for over seven years. That meant that I'd wasted the majority of my twenties on him. 'Child bearing years'. The years when you're supposed to be in your physical prime, travelling and working your way through the male population. As I drove away from the library, twenty seven minutes after setting foot in the door, I felt the anger I hadn't let myself feel before. I was nineteen when I met him, and in my second year of Uni. We met at a Halloween house party, I was dressed as Frankenstein's bride and Scott was Captain Jack Sparrow. I had my eye on a gorgeous blue eyed red head, with the body of an Adonis and the redhead made me so nervous that I downed far too many gory looking shots with eyeball ice cubes in them. Out on the steps to the house, I puked up all over a rose bush and someone held my hair. A geeky looking bloke with so much fake tan on his face that he put the Oompa Loompas to shame.

And lashings of eyeliner that even Johnny Depp would be proud of.

We got talking, his goofy humour sucking me in, and we spent hours out on the lawn, culminating in me scrawling my number with his eyeliner, across his hand. It was like they always say in those cheesy, corny rom com films, we were inseparable. And I don't mean like one of those irritating couples that block out the rest of the world, including their friends to hole up with one another. I mean in the sense that it was so natural. It just happened, I liked him, he liked me, and we wanted the same things.

At least that's the impression he gave me.

Somewhere along the line I ceased to be the happy ending he wanted. And the truth was that I'd have gladly married him. And maybe admitting that was the best and worst thing that I could do. I pulled over beside a dry cleaner, instantly making me think of the neon dress and I cried so dramatically that snot streamed from my nose. It wasn't dignified, in less than forty eight hours I'd join my family, aunts, uncles, cousins, and endure the usual spiel.

'Doesn’t your sister look like a princess, shame about you and Scott.'

'You poor thing, don't worry, Aunt Victoria was a very happy spinster.'

Aunt Victoria wore huge baggy bloomers under her skirts, talked to her porcelain dolls of which she had enough to fill a tennis court twice over, and had a fully grown grey moustache. I touched my upper lip, tracing the path of my impending hair growth, feeling about as sorry for myself as I ever had. And then I went right back to feeling angry again. I revved the engine, mirroring my angsty mood, and just as Alanis Morisette blared from the car speakers, I hightailed it to over to Donna's work.

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

Casey's Cafe was the kind of place old people and builders were drawn to. A little shabby, with peeling paint on the walls and chipped crockery. Owned by Donna's uncle Pete, and passed down through the family, Donna worked there alongside a cleaning job at a local school. And I worked there on Monday and Tuesday evening, and all day Wednesday when the library was closed. As soon as Donna saw me, she threw down her apron and charged towards me, open armed.

'I read your horoscope this morning. I didn't want to say anything, but I knew something bad was on the horizon for today. Tell me everything.'

'Ten minutes Donna!' Pete called from behind the counter, holding a burger that right now I could murder, even given all the chocolate I'd eaten in the past hour. 'Ten minutes and I need you to peel the spuds.'

'Bog off Pete, can't you see Sam's upset?'

Pete rolled his eyes, and to be honest I didn't know how he operated a business. He was the most laid back, easy going bloke I'd ever met, and Donna got away with murder on her shifts. Eating the produce, taking breaks whenever she pleased, and often sailing in late. But he doted on her like he would a daughter, and Donna could charm her way into any heart with one of her dazzling smiles. If I didn't love her so much, I'd hate her. Tall, blonde, blue eyed, with a concave stomach in spite of all the burgers she put away, and boobs that defied gravity. Yes I've noticed. Only because mine are starting to wander the closer I get to thirty.

Pete delivered two hot chocolates in chipped mugs, and left us alone.

'You went on Face book last night, after I left, didn't you Sammers.' Donna folded her arms across her body, looking down at me across the table.

I sank my head into my hands.

'And you messaged him?'

I lifted my head, nodding slowly. Donna sighed. 'Tell me you weren't drunk?'

Strike three. She exhaled heavily.

'Seven years Donna.'

'Could have been worse chick. Could have been seventeen, and by then we'd be wrinkly, and saggy, and old....'

I raised a smile; she was desperately trying to make me smile. 'You got out just in time. He obviously didn't want the same as you....'

'But that's the thing. He did.'

'You deserve so much better than that lying t**t babe.'

'I'm not getting any younger.' I threw up my hands. 'That was my last chance saloon kinda deal Don. I'm bottom of the pile now. Relationship...rubble.'

'Sod off! You're not rubble at all! You're beautiful.'

'Thanks.' I stirred my hot chocolate, knowing she was trying to be nice, but it just reminded me that the only person in the world, who'd ever called me beautiful, was my best friend. And that was equal parts lovely, and depressing.

I told her all about the dress, and my morning from hell, culminating in me being sacked. She shimmied into the seat next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

'You should have called me babe. I could have come and got you.'

'I'm not this...pathetic person.' I wiped away a rogue tear, and she held me tighter.

'You're not pathetic babe. You're having a moment, but you're not pathetic. Here's what you do. Yes it's a right bugger that the dress is ruined, but you know what, crap like that happens all the time. Tell your mum that it was stolen. She thinks Southend is Harlem, so tell her someone stole it. As for Scott, if he calls you again, don't answer. Don't even give the prick the time of day. And your hair? I found a box of chocolate fudge coloured dye in my bathroom cupboard. We'll dye it tomorrow night and nobody will even know at the wedding. Okay?'

I nodded, smiling as she offered me a crumpled Kleenex from her pocket.

'You'll be alright Sam. You're made of tough stuff. And I love you.'

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

I hadn't forgotten about Mum's plans to pop by. So instead of having her come here to the scene of the proverbial dress crime, while said dress was drying over a radiator, I agreed to meet her at her favourite restaurant in London. 'Le Deuxieme Primtemps.' And yes. It is as pretentious as it sounds. Each time we meet there, she has to greet me at the doors because once or twice I've been escorted out of the building because they assume I'm just riff raff off the streets. Once they see me with mum they happily move aside, safe in the knowledge that I'm not a foodie terrorist.

I was under no illusion. Mum wanted to see me to discuss a date she'd found for me, but I was up for anything, provided I got a free meal tonight. All I had left in the freezer were sausages and sweet corn, and I'd been eating that sorry meal for days. First world problems, ey?

'Darling!' My mother greeted me with her usual enthusiastic display that lacked any genuine warmth whatsoever, and then ushered me into the darkest corner of the restaurant. Not so we could have privacy, but so none of her friends saw me with her. I knew my orange hair wasn't something she wanted to discuss with her highbrow socialite chums. As soon as we approached the lavishly decorated table, I saw him. The date she'd told me about, but one thing she'd conveniently left out, was that he was joining us for dinner.

So mother. So typically my mother.

'Her hair isn't normally so....fluorescent.' She was already apologising for me, taking the seat at the far end of the table. I noted that the other place settings faced one another. As if this was a date for two teenagers with an adult chaperone. Oh joy.

'Well I think she's lovely.' Prince Charles spoke up. And when I say Prince Charles, I'm referring to the fact that the guy had the most stupendous overbite and a bald patch to rival that of Friar Tuck. Don't get me wrong, I'm not shallow, I've dated tall, short, overweight, skinny, the lot, but this guy? He was the poster boy for everything I left behind when I left home. So why didn't I scarper? Why didn't I make an excuse and flee from the matchmaking clutches of my overbearing mother?

1. I was hungry

2. I needed the company.

Sad but true. Donna was out on a date tonight, and the handful of friends I had from work really didn't need to be privy to my moody self. That would be friendship suicide, right there. Charles did the gentlemanly thing, pulling out my seat. I engrossed myself in the menu, avoiding eye contact with the toothy man opposite me, who seemed to be staring at me like some peeping Tom beneath a toilet door. The only thing missing was his tongue, hanging out of his mouth, but by the looks of things it'd only be a matter of time before he went full on lecherous. Seriously. Where did my mother find these so-called eligible bachelors?

'Tarquin's just moved back to the city after a sabbatical in Canada, haven't you, Tark.'

I spat out the champagne a waitress passed to me. Tarquin. Seriously. And Tark? I could feel champagne streaming from my nose as my mother shoved a napkin into my hands.

'Manners Samantha!' She chastised. 'Honestly Tarquin she's not usually so rude.'

'Mum. I'm right here.' I narrowed my eyes at her. 'And I'm presuming you lured me here to conveniently meet with a date for the wedding.'

'Darling Tarquin was merely in the area and I thought it would only be polite if I asked him to join us.'

Yeah right. This reeked of pre-meditated. I'd been here before.

'Ladies. Ladies, please.' The Prince Charles-alike reached across the table and clasped my hand. He was clammy. Just as I expected him to be. And now I had the urge to bring up that champagne and the biscuits I'd consumed this afternoon whilst watching The Kardashians on TV.

'Samantha, dearest. I hear you're bridesmaid for your sister’s wedding. I've seen the dress designs.' He removed his hand briefly, much to my relief, and then placed it back down. On my bare arm. 'Lissa and I went to university together. We email one another at least thrice a week. One must always maintain those precious relationships.' He gave me a wink, a sleazy, stomach churning wink. 'But in my humble opinion, the eldest daughter of the Belvedere family is far more....interesting. Shall we say?' Another wink. Really? Was that all he had in his playbook?

I pulled my arm away, grimacing as I wondered how much antibacterial soap would get rid of the grimy feeling there. Thank God that the waitress arrived to take our orders at that precise moment, just in case he was tempted to get a little more touchy-feely.

'Oh look I've got a phone call!' Mother raised her iPhone, the screen most definitely not lit up with a call. Did she really think I was that dense? 'I should take this.'

She disappeared, giving me no time to protest. Talking very obviously to an invisible person, and leaving me with Tarquin.

'You look ravishing in that black gown, Samantha.' He gushed, as my mum disappeared from sight. 'My winkie approves.'

Winkie. Did he really say that? I grabbed my napkin forcing it over my face before I laughed so hard I ruptured my kidneys.