asked for my phone number.’
She smirked. ‘Yet. Bet you anything he asks you out properly before the weekend.’
‘Ayesha,’ I said, sarcastically, ‘you are wiser than the owl offspring of Yoda and the Dalai Lama. You are sager than –’
‘Shut up!’ she said and threw the pyjama case at me.
Now I knew she meant well, but no way was I ready for dating again.
Meaning that even though Toby Smith had the OMG-factor; even though he was Prince Fittie of Fitlandia and even though he had charmed the Icicle Knickers right off me that morning, it was irrelevant.
This little piggy was OFF the market.
After Ayesha left, I went with Dad and River to Something Blue’s rehearsal for the wedding gig on Saturday. Firmly pushing away the thought that I’d (possibly) been conceived on top of his coat, (eew) I greeted my godfather Harvey with a kiss on the cheek while Marvin, his husband, gave us a cheery wave from behind the drum kit.
Then one, two, three, he counted them in and wow.
Yes, of course I was biased, but when Mum sang she could put a new spin on love songs you’d heard a million times. And the sweetest thing was every word was sung for Dad.
Aww.
Forget dragons and castles and knights on white horses and all that fairy-tale balls. This was true love. OK, maybe most sixteen-year-olds wouldn’t want to follow in their parents’ romantic footsteps, but I did. Their once-in-a-lifetime love was what I thought I’d found with Matt.
Even after seventeen years together, Dad’s default expression was, I can’t believe my luck. Mum’s was, Me neither.
Thanks to Matt the Rat, mine went, How did I get it so wrong?
Anyway, me, Dad and River started clapping as the last note faded, but Harv was frowning. He unhooked his guitar strap and turned to face Mum and Marv, who was tapping the air absent-mindedly with his drumsticks.
‘You know guys, it’s dog eat dog out there and while the Something Blue sound is tight, we need to keep pushing the musical envelope. We need a USP.’
‘A what?’ asked Mum and Marv together.
‘Unique Selling Point,’ Harv said thoughtfully. ‘Ukulele, banjo, slide trombone. Brass, strings . . . whatever. An edge. The question is, do we know anyone who’s available?’
Badger’s ice-breaker. ‘I met a lad at college who plays the trumpet,’ I long-shotted into the ensuing silence. ‘And the French horn.’
‘Trumpet,’ echoed Harv. He and Marv chin-stroked in unison. ‘They’re versatile creatures, horn players. Good presence. A good horn owns the stage. Invite him for a jam, yeah?’
‘Sure,’ I said, regretting the words as soon as they were out because:
a) Badger’s playing may suck for all I knew.
b) ‘Presence?’ The guy got upstaged by a beanbag.
Rehearsal over, we’d hardly got in through the front door before Mrs Boyle rang again with an update. Beth had said she’d only come home if her parents would let her still see Shaney. In an epic victory for Beth, her dad agreed and she’d moved back. This sent me into a bit of a panic. Why hadn’t Beth told me this herself ? Things were worse than I thought.
Phonecall over, Mum hauled me into a hug that nearly crushed my ribcage. ‘Daisy, thank you thank you thank you for not being a nightmare teenager.’
‘Gerrrooofff !’ I mumbled into her shoulder.
‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘All the stuff you do with River and helping us out with Something Borrowed, you’re a star. You haven’t given us a minute’s trouble since the day you were born. I feel very lucky.’
‘I feel lucky too,’ my flattened lungs gasped.
It was true. She and Dad pretty much wrote the Laid-back Parenting Bible with their non-judgemental mission statement of Let’s Share Everything. My parents, New Age. Beth’s parents, Stone Age. No-brainer.
But possessing cool parents was not without its drawbacks, as Mum went on to demonstrate.
‘Mainly thank you for not being anything like me when I was sixteen. Bloody hell, when I think back to the mischief me and your dad got up to.’
Her eyes were going worryingly dreamy. ‘I remember this one time, we were thinning the lettuces at Grandad’s allotment when the heavens opened. So we nipped in the potting shed to dry off. Well, one thing led to another . . .’
She paused, lost in memory, and that was my cue to fabricate an urgent assignment and run up to my room where I didn’t do any homework, but I did check my college email.
All hail the Oracle of Ayesha. It was uncanny how often she got things dead right. If it had been the Dark Ages, superstitious peasants would have burned her at the stake. I did indeed have an email from Toby asking me if I fancied ‘doing something together’ this weekend.
Now, I realised that barring the newly born, ancient and lady-favouring, there wasn’t a woman on earth who wouldn’t be chewing her own arm off for the chance to go on a date with the God of Gorge that was Toby Smith.
Except me apparently. Obviously, I was some kind of freak. My eyes told me I fancied his frankly spectacular ass off, but my brain had a mind of its own and that was pressing the thanks, but no thanks button. Why? Guilt. Ridiculous, pointless guilt.
Daisy, you are single. Single. SINGLE. I told myself.
So why did this feel like cheating?
My hands kept reaching for the keyboard and pulling away before my fingertips could hit the yes please, Toby keys.
With Ayesha on an overnighter at the observatory with Tom, I tried Beth again. (Still nothing.) Perhaps she was too occupied with her one-woman attempt to break the internet to answer the phone. Seriously, wherever I logged on – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat – there they were, #blessed Beth being #soproud with her #bestboyfriendever #Shaney
Hmmm.
#cheesytags
#spew.
I gazed at the latest photo-splosion of Shaney quitting the pub because he’d passed his personal trainer qualification. Bulging muscles and fake tan don’t do it for me, but I’d never seen Beth smilier and I felt a stab of guilt for breaking Rule #2 with my unsupportive bitchy comments.
I tried her number again, but there was still no answer so I logged back on to Facebook to DM her.
And that’s when everything changed.
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