Crazygirl Falls in Love

By
Alexandra Wnuk

Crazygirl Falls in Love

Published by Alexandra Susan Wnuk

Copyright © 2015 Alexandra Susan Wnuk

Thank
you for downloading this e-book. The work is copyright and remains
the property of the author. It may not be reproduced, copied or
distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you
enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their
own copy.

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are
either a product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or
events is entirely coincidental.

E-book
ePub ISBN- 978-0-9931803-1-6

Dedicated to coffee, cheese and wine

Who
are there for me in the good
There for me in the bad

There
in the mornings. There at night
There in my pantry, my dreams and in my heart

The
best revenge isn’t to live well

Write
a novel

Base
it on all the shitty people you know

Publish it

Make a
lot of money

Watch
their heads explode in anger and frustration

Nothing in this story is true (see copyright
declaration)

I’m dancing wildly, barefoot, in the middle of a pub. There’s
a sharp pain in the sole of my left foot, which I’m guessing is
broken glass from the pint glass I just trod on. My head is
spinning and my tummy is queasy, and I’ve finally managed to forget
the events of today, but at what cost?

I’m on the ‘dance floor’ (not really a dance
floor, just an area of the Bayswater Arms that isn’t filled with
tables and stools) with my new friend, PJ Staples. Yep, that’s his
name. I’m dancing with a skin-headed, tattoo-sleeved, most likely
double nipple-pierced personal trainer named
PJ Staples
. I have no job, no
friends, an ex-imaginary boyfriend because I deluded myself into
thinking we were dating (beyond embarrassing), no prospects, no
future, no money, no Jesus,
nothing
. I feel invisible, and I’m
dancing with someone I’d normally consider an absolute douche-turd,
but because I’m wasted am hanging out with him
anyway.

I take another gulp of whiskey. Some sloshes onto my
top,

“Weeeeee!” I yell, singing along to the music, “Relight my
fire! You’re love is my only desire! Relight my fire!”

PJ puts his arms around my waist and tries to pull me into
him. I struggle away a little because although most women would
consider him most dribbly, he’s not my type.

Then R Kelly
Vibe
comes on,

“Oh my GOD! I LOVE THIS SONG!” I scream.

The couple of patrons scattered around the pub shoot me
disapproving looks. My arms and legs start moving more wildly than
ever. I've stuck to the trusty two-step for the past half hour,
assuming it'll minimise the retardedness. Which is does, you can't
fault a two-step. But there's always that tipping point on a night
out, isn’t there? Where you give up trying to look
quasi-coordinated and succumb to delicious dancing temptation. The
lack of bullying and insults I've received from my side-to-side
bopping (which my psyche interprets as "hey, you're not such a bad
dancer after all!") gives me a misguided sense of confidence,
reaches out to my alcohol-soaked muscles and commands, "Ah to hell
with it, hit it dancing queen! Go to thine destiny!" And I start
twerking, looking like a rickety pensioner whose horse just came in
10 to 1.

As I wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care, PJ
Staples leers at me,

“You know we’re fucking tonight, right?”

From some place deep inside a tidal wave of indignation sweeps
my body, and I slap his hands away,

“Ex
cuse
me?”

“You and me, luv, the chemistry, it’s on,”
he says it with such bloated arrogance I feel sorry for him for a
second.
Is this guy
serious?

“Uh, yeah, sorry but I don’t think so,” I reply, turning
around to go find my shoes which are somewhere near the
jukebox.

“What?” he asks good-naturedly, taking my arm and pulling me
back to stay.

“I’m going home, mi amigo.”

“Great, we’ll go together,” he takes both my wrists and pulls
me toward the door, “my car’s parked round the corner.”

“No, I want to stay here,” I change my mind, my survival
instinct kicking in.

He doesn’t reply but pulls harder on my arms, and I am forced
to take a step forward. I’m not liking this. I pull back slightly
and immediately feel his grip tightening, and now it’s hurting the
skin on my wrist.

“Come on,” he says more forcefully.

“No,” I respond, now pulling back as hard as I can, but every
time I increase my energy for pulling, his doubles his for
dragging. 

My butt is sticking out with my efforts to
yank myself out of his grasp, but no matter how hard I try my body
is still being hauled forward, and suddenly my mind isn’t clouded
with brown spirits anymore. I am leaving this pub with a potential
date-rapist whether I like it or not. My mind goes into mass panic
sensory overload. 
No no no no no! I don’t want to go with
him
!
I pull back
as hard as I can but I’m no match for his strength. He’s a PT, he
does weights for a living for Christ's sake.

We’re only a few steps away from the door and I want to scream
for someone to help but I can’t for some reason. I look around with
the eyes of a trapped animal but no one in the pub seems
interested.

Oh my god
.

Well, if anyone is going to have a happy ending, I’m glad it’s
Maya. I read her Viber message again,

Speaking of how nice my new man friend is, he baked me
cupcakes for my birthday. You read that correctly – he BAKED
CUPCAKES. A man did that. I am beginning to question the roundness
of the earth.

What would we do without technology, eh? How would I be able
to chat to Maya, who is all the way in remote,
last-stop-before-Antarctica Melbourne (also known as my home
town)?

Good for her
, I
think for the fourth time since initiating our back and forth
international catch up. Maya’s had a bad run of things recently.
Placing my phone back down I resume shovelling oversalted chips
into my mouth. I’ve stepped out for lunch for the first time in
four months. My boss doesn’t believe in lunch. To be fair, most
Partners at Gribbles Law don’t, but today she’s out food and wine
tasting for her upcoming nuptials, providing me and the rest of the
team with this beautiful, rare, golden
opportunity.

My lunch date is myself. Chloe – my ever
loyal and reliable best mate - bailed on me to go sofa shopping. So
here I sit at the pub, alone but not unhappy, novel of the month
perched on my left (Motley Crue’s autobiography – in my next life I
have
got
to come
back as a male rock star). My Blackberry sits on my right, screen
flashing as work emails fly in swift and fast.

I’m feeling rather chipper. Probably has something to do with
the carb coma I’m about to succumb to. This has been the first
proper meal I’ve had in ages. I usually skip lunch (not by choice
mind you... stupid Gribbles...) but by 4:00 p.m. am starving so hit
the emergency stash of Digestives I keep in my second drawer. I
stuff my face with those and Fruit Pastilles (emergency stash found
in my third drawer) until I resemble a human Yorkshire pudding.
Then I drag my exhausted, glycaemically-slumped butt home. I’ll go
for a run (because I like running), give up on the idea of making
dinner immediately (because I don’t like cooking), order Chinese
takeout or Domino’s, eat that, then end up eating more
biscuits.

Then I’ll give into my most primal of urges
– I put on
Sex and the City
and drink red wine until I pass
out.

But perhaps today that cycle will be broken, because by golly
today’s grub was solid feed. I’m almost sad to have to leave. Why
can’t I be rich and stay here all day, drinking wine and gazing
wistfully over Canary Wharf and looking up celebrity goss on Daily
Mail whilst being stood up by friends?

I begrudgingly wave for the bill and start rifling through my
handbag. I’m sure I had chewy in here somewhere? As I continue to
rummage the shadow of a waiter creeps across the table.

“
Cash or card?” a male voice asks, placing the bill next to the
bread plate.

I looked up to the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes that
immediately make me self conscious about the poo-brown hues of my
own. I instinctively look down. He seems familiar but I can’t quite
put my finger on it...

“Card please,” I mumble, then look up, “say, have we met
somewhere before?”

“Not sure, maybe,” the amazing manly manshake shrugs as I
punch my pin.

He rips off the receipt and places the sliver of paper and my
card back onto the metal plate cheque thingy, then walks back to
the kitchen.

It doesn’t take me long to forget him. As I cross Mackenzie
Walk to get back to the office I see a tall girl waving at me. I
don’t think I recognise her (never seen her before in my life in
fact) but I don’t want to look like an asshole so I return the wave
as a sort of social nicety. Turns out my initial instinct was
right. She’s a total random and was waving to the lass behind me,
so that I’m left looking like a friendless freak. I hate it when
that happens.

***

I am now in full Food Coma mode, beseeching the clock to tick
along faster while pretending to review one of Tesco’s leases.
Oops, did I just say Tesco? I meant… Schmermesco. Technically
speaking, I’m not allowed to talk about my clients. Let’s just keep
this one on the down low, hokay muchachos?

I’ve always loved Fridays. Who doesn’t? But
I’ve grown to crave them like a sugar junkie craves an Almond Joy,
because weekends mean two full days away from Stalker Sam. He’s a
fresh Senior Associate who started a month ago, and is the most
annoying thing since the evolution of the housefly. Earlier this
week he followed me to the coffee machine more times than I care to
count, then stole my number from the firm’s PeopleFinder (or as us
Gribblettes call it, Stalkernet) and started chatting to me on
Whatsapp. I mean...
Jeez
. If one is going to use the
stalking technique, surely they should be less obvious about it?
For starters, stop lurking in the corridor.

Speaking of, here he comes, swiping his card on the reader and
holding the door open for our boss, the notorious Sarah
‘Angrypants’ Daye. I guess she’s back early from wedding food
tasting time. Figures, she never takes a break.

I peek up at them from my desk. She’s a frightening creature,
this Angrypants of ours. Tall and slim, she’d be a knockout if she
didn’t look a decade older than her rumoured 37 years. Her thin
face is covered in fine wrinkles, particularly around the eyes. Her
lips are thin as floss and always pursed slightly downwards. But
the scariest part isn’t her fierce appearance, it’s her CV. She
made Partner at thirty two years young. Only the leanest, meanest,
competitivest, Terminator-eque-fighting machines make Partner at
such a young age. Her one goal is to keep Associates like me
utilised at two hundred and fifty percent. We all hate
her.

She’s not even that bright, just intimidating, but that’s the
legal profession for you. All it takes is aggression, tenacity and
a dash of technical knowledge. And buzzwords. Lots and lots of
buzzwords. The more times you can squeeze in words like
‘synergies’, ‘value add’ and ‘leverage’ into your vocab the faster
your career will progress.