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.
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
