Read By the Time You Read This Online
Authors: Lola Jaye
By the Time You Read This (17 page)
“Nope. Lo Bag the tomboy in her jeans and puffy coat and me in my baggy rolled-up cords, thinking I looked
so cool!
” he said, attempting to free me from the cufflink.
“Freedom!” I sang as Corey finally managed to unhook them.
“Not quite,” he replied with a hoarse voice. That “thing” between us was back, his beautiful face edging closer, and again my eyes snapped shut. Waiting. I felt his hot breath waft over my face as my lips fought the urge to break into a smile, puckering instead, ready for Corey. When I didn’t feel anything, my eyes opened just as Corey’s butterfly kiss met with my forehead.
He forced a pained smile. “You don’t know how much I want to kiss you,” he whispered.
“Then…”
“But, I can’t, Lo Bag. It…This isn’t right…”
“It’s just a kiss…”
“It’s never ‘just a kiss’ with us, Lo Bag. It’s always so much more than that. To me, anyway.”
I looked down.
“I’m with someone and it just wouldn’t be right to do this to her.”
“I know.” I brushed my lips against his forehead, now furrowed with anxiety, and opened my mouth to speak. Then shut it again. There was no need for more words because nothing needed to be said. And as we sat in the car overlooking the streets of our youth, remembering scenes of kiss-chase and childish dreams (I was going to be a scientist, Corey a pilot), I realized we were both edging toward paths that did not involve one another. And probably never would.
We’d truly become adults.
Kevin Trivia:
With a wife and the birth of my beautiful baby girl, I became…complete.
W
ith each birthday I’d taken the actual day off work—a sort of build-up to the reading of Dad’s entry. A ritual that had never and would never involve someone else. But the night before my twenty-fifth I found myself in the unenviable position of unplanned babysitter to Abbi, Mom literally dumping her at the apartment before rushing off to “do something urgent.” Twenty-five, to me, was a milestone and I was confident my dad thought so too, so his entry would be special, poignant and I didn’t want my little sister smearing sticky fingers all over it.
“I like your apartment!” announced Abbi, precariously handling the Bang & Olufsen remote control as I placed
The Manual
onto the highest shelf I could find.
“Come on, eat up!” I encouraged an hour later.
“I hate spaghetti!” spat Abbi as she twirled long swirls of spaghetti plus sauce in and around the bowl with one hand, clutching her very lifelike dolly (named Doll) in the other. Thankfully smelly donkey days were long gone.
“It’s yummy!” I replied. I’d read somewhere that pasta was an excellent sleep aid. “Look, Doll loves it!” I said, dragging the doll off the table and almost dipping its head into the spaghetti bowl.
Abbi found this funny. “You’re so silly!”
“Eat up…and there’s ice cream for afters!”
I tucked little Abbi into the spare bed by about eight thirty, and reached for
The Manual,
unable to wait until the allotted time of midnight. I still felt excitement whenever I opened the dulling green cover, unmatched by anything or anyone in my life. Even opening my first huge paycheck after starting my new job hadn’t induced the same feeling. Never would. This was it for me. Hearing from my dad.
Twenty-five! Twenty-five!
I don’t know about you, but twenty-five was a strange one for me. It felt…
I heard a scream, then ran into my room to find Abbi perched on the bed, with tears tumbling from her eyelids.
“What is it, Abbs?” Without a thought, I placed an arm onto her tiny shoulders and pulled an errant curl away with my hand.
“I want my donkey.”
“I thought he’d…gone.”
“I want him back.”
I distinctly remembered offering to set fire to it after Mom had successfully prized it away.
“How about a story, instead?”
Abbi swiped at her nose, nodding her head furiously.
“Let me get you a tissue!” I said quickly.
“No, okay, please read me a story then, Lois.” She said this so sweetly, the little minx. So much so that I was willing to temporarily forget the current threat of a snot invasion.
“I’ll have to make one up.”
“Okay!” She snuggled in closer as I recited the tale of an ex pop princess marrying a footballer and riding off together on their great big bling-covered motorbike. The End.
“More!”
“No way!” I said, tickling her just under her chin, which led to a bubbling outburst of giggles. Then, for no reason at all, I brought Abbi into my chest, placing my nose into her soft curls, feeling this strange but overpowering swell of protection toward her.
I finally got her down in the early hours of the morning and, with my feet resting on the coffee table, continued with
The Manual.
…grown-up. I suppose it’s that realization that you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five—I don’t know, but it means different things for different people. Or it may not mean much at all to you, just another number.
What’s clear is the fact you’re not my little girl any more. No, forget that last bit—YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY LITTLE GIRL. Remember, the last time I saw you, you
were only five…And every day I wonder what you look like now. Long hair? Short hair? A bright pink Mohican? All I can visualize is you dressed in a yellow dress with a white lace hem, tiny bunches of hair and looking up at me with those huge innocent eyes and a smile that could melt three ice fountains in a split second…
I thought about Abbi upstairs—Lots more havoc to wreak and a barrage of hearts to break. Her life just beginning, as mine was when Dad left. I continued.
…your mom telling you off and you running to me for the sympathy vote—and almost always getting it. The games we used to play. The songs we’d sing. Oh and the boogying. Your old man could dance, but you could really move! I remember you used to love this song that came on the TV. To me the worst song in the world, but as soon as you heard it, you were off. Tiny little legs, getting all excited and manic. You’d actually shed a tear as it finished! So, of course I had to buy it for you (just one of the things you my child, made me do against my will). The song’s called “With Stars On.” And at one point it was all you ever wanted to hear. You’d beg me to play it, then wrinkle your nose in delight as you heard the chorus. That was “our song,” Lowey.
I found it again, a few days after the diagnosis, and the words, well, they just hit me as it summed up everything I wanted to say to you (well, almost everything if we put
The Manual
into the equation). I waited till now to remind you about it, because I figured you’d be mature enough to listen to it without wrinkling your nose and
sniggering at the two guys in flares and thinking, “Could things get any cheesier? What is my dad liiiike?”
As I said, by now you’ll be mature (and strong enough) to know what I’m trying to say to you. Again, the song’s called “With Stars On” by Jimmy K. Jones and Sister. I don’t need to say any more. Just listen to the words.
I was intrigued. Dad had set me a challenge. Little did he know that with the Internet I could just about find anything, and locating an old record from the Seventies couldn’t be
that
hard?
Okay, it was. The obvious place to start was in Mom’s store cupboard, but of course all of dad’s things were gone.
A week later, I realized it would be easier to find a crappy gold bullion triangle than Jimmy K. Jones and Sister’s hit record. During my rare lunch breaks I phoned practically every record shop listed in the phone book and scoured the Internet, but to no avail.
But I had my dad’s camera, his manual, and I was determined to find the record.
P
ost break-up with Rob, Carla needed a place to live.
“I just can’t bloody cope with Mom and Calvin acting all lovey-dovey around me,” she cried. Her eyes were red, mascara-smeared, but her hair remained pristinely silky and soft as it tumbled down her back.
“I still can’t believe he did that to you.”
“After all his promises as well. Let’s not forget about those. Being together forever, and all that stuff!” She shook her head mournfully and began to sob again. I hated see
ing her like this, but perhaps I was the last person who should offer advice, because I had never loved a boyfriend the way she’d loved Rob. I had always shied away from that type of thing, and watching my best friend crumple right in front of me reinforced one of the reasons why.
“And can you believe he dumped ME and blamed ME? What, did I force him to have text sex with lots of women, including his PA?”
Of course, after just a few days I began to remember what it really meant to be “roomies” with Carla. An experience long consigned to the “trauma, keep out” part of my head. Carla had managed to remain almost as lazy as she had been when we first lived together and was probably worse than Oliver. Only, instead of socks on the floor, there were bras and lace panties draped all over the place.
“You really should think about getting out and about again,” I said gently, returning late from another day at the office, shattered and totally ready for bed.
“I will. It’s not as if I have a job, though, is it? Rob paid for everything. And, talking of which, do I owe you any rent?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said sincerely, although surely, I thought to myself, it wouldn’t have broken a nail if she’d cooked the odd meal. I pulled a coaster under her steaming mug of tea. “You’ll need to face the world at some point, you know.”
“I know. I just thought…I just thought he was ‘The One.’ You know?” Her voice broke and I noticed the tears begin to well.
But, no, I didn’t know. I’d never, ever thought of anyone as “The One,” and frankly found the whole notion quite silly. Wasn’t meeting someone just about timing anyway?
Corey had proved that if the timing was right, we’d have gotten further than we had done.
I placed my hand on her arm. “I’m here, all right?”
“Yeah, I know. And thanks for letting me stay in your posh pad. Wasn’t like this when I was here.”
“You mean it wasn’t this clean, madam!”
A smile. “Point taken.”
We both laughed.
“Lois, can you do me another favor?”
“Yes…” I replied wearily.
“Open that bottle of tequila me and Rob bought you from holiday.”
That night Carla was able to temporarily forget her heartache by falling asleep with a half empty bottle of tequila by her side. If only it was that easy to find Dad’s record. Much to my colleagues utter shock, I took an unplanned day off to spend time scanning an array of speciality record shops in the West End yet to succumb to the lure of CDs. I finally located a dusty copy of “With Stars On,” and got it home before realizing that a three compact disc player with treble base system wasn’t actually suitable for a twelve-inch record.
I rushed over to Mom’s, as I’d promised to go for Sunday lunch, but made my excuses to leave straight after dessert, heading next door to see if Corey’s record player might still be about somewhere. No one was home except Calvin and I reluctantly explained my dilemma.
He adopted an exaggerated thinking pose. “As far as I know, Corey took all his stuff with him to France, including the record player. It’s almost a vintage piece now.”
I let out a puff of exasperated air.
“But I used to be a DJ and I still have my Technic decks!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really! Follow me!” he smiled warmly, leading me to Corey’s room, which was now used as part spare room, part storage space. Calvin’s decks were set up in one corner of the room. I slipped the record out of the sleeve and attempted to switch the record player on.
“Let me,” he offered.
“S…sorry…” I stuttered, feeling a little nervous because I was about to absorb something new from my dad.
The needle swung into action, and suddenly this ultra-dodgy piece of music began to fill the air. Calvin tried to keep a straight face as if hoping it would get better.
I will never forget
The very first time that we met
You looked at me with those big doey eyes
You’re my girl
You’re my girl, all the while
And I knew from afar
That you would be my star
With stars on
With stars on
A very special love
With stars on
With stars on
A special, special love
Suddenly Dad was in the room. Holding me. Listening to me. Breathing the same air as me. Letting me know he still loved me. His daughter. His love. Something in me wanted
to crack open a rush of emotion, but I couldn’t. I had to keep it together.
With stars on
With stars on
A very special love
With stars on
With stars on
The only one that comes with stars!
The record stopped too quickly, so I played it again. And again. And again.
I hadn’t even noticed Calvin leave the room until he returned with a bowl of chips and a drink, to find me kneeling on the floor with warm tears racing down my face.
I’d never planned it this way. And it definitely would have been to a different person. But opening up to Calvin—the only person within a two-second radius—felt surprisingly good, and I felt purged afterward, plus he was a good listener. This only made me appreciate Corey more, seeing as he was the only one I’d ever really opened up to about Dad before.
“Thanks, Calvin.”
“Any time. He sounds like a great guy, your dad. But the song…”
“A bit cheesy, I know.”
“I was going to say, he obviously loved you very, very much.”
I heard the front door open.
“Hi, you two!” sang Carla’s mom, immediately grabbing her husband and planting an array of kisses onto his lips.
“I’d better go,” I said, placing the record in its sleeve.
“No, stay. I have the best news!” she said, clutching Calvin’s hand. “Corey’s only gone and done it!”
“Done what? Won that art prize he was going for?” I asked.
“Oh, darlin”…I’m not sure if I should say…” she said, biting her lip.
“You can tell me!” I said with a smile.
“All right then, only because I know you’ll be okay about it all. Well…he’s only gone and proposed! He’s engaged! My little boy’s engaged!”
Miscellaneous: Getting dumped as a teenager and getting dumped as an adult
I’ve lumped these together because getting dumped is hard at ANY age. The only clear difference being, as an adult you’ll have lots to keep you occupied, but as a kid…we’re talking drag, drag, drag.
Yes, getting dumped feels really hard and can seem like someone has just cracked and broken a giant raw egg onto your world. I mean, who’s ready to sit and listen to a row of sentences that basically form the same message, however cleverly put together? It all means the same thing: rejection. I won’t mince my words: IT HURTS. A LOT.
You might hear the old analogy “there’s plenty more fish in the sea” quite a bit and want to thump one of the many mouths it comes out of, so I won’t say that, or any of the mass of other clichés so freely used. I will say, just because this particular idiotic, silly, deluded, unwise guy wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him in the face, does in no way mean a smarter, better (and great at soccer) guy isn’t out there waiting just for you.
Good, eh?
I so wish I could make you feel better right now. Hold you in my arms until the tears stop…Oh, I admit it, I’m welling up myself here and I haven’t even been dumped (not since Ella Jones, anyway). But here’s the good news: the hurt does leave the building, decreasing little by little each day. You go from thinking about this guy every waking moment, to thinking about him one hundred and fifty times a day, then one hundred and forty-nine, then one hundred and forty-eight. A little less each day until it whittles down to nothing. I promise you, it will get better. You’ll learn to get on with things. You’d better too! It’s the only life you’ve got, so please don’t spend it thinking and hurting about someone who isn’t actually worth the hassle.
