Crazygirl Falls in Love (16 page)

So yes, I’m not exactly happy about Emma’s current
misadventures regarding married men, but who the hell am I to
judge? Can you imagine what her emotional state must be after all
those experiences? I’m amazed she hasn’t topped herself
yet.

An Outlook email brings me back to my work reality. Wellity
wellity wellity, if it isn’t my favourite man of the hour – He Who
Shall Not Be Named. The last email Stalker sent Lloyds was early
this morning, summarising an earlier documentation request. I guess
this is his response.

I begin reading.

Hi Sam,

Thanks for the spreadsheet, we will endeavour to address all
items by midday tomorrow. We need to discuss capital gains and
overseeing rights next week. I’ll send a meeting request to
yourself and Penelope for Monday.

Best wishes

I read the email a second and third time then laugh to myself.
Good luck asshole, there’s as much chance of me attending that
meeting as there is of me jumping into a microwave and pressing
‘High’.

The emails fly back and forth between Stalker and He Who Shall
Not Be Named and I feel my life getting more shitty at every
passing hour. I hate having him back in my life. I hate my job. I
hate my boss. I hate my colleagues. I hate the never ending stream
of patronising emails from Angrypants, like the one that’s just
come through,

Jonesy,

Just to confirm, your plus one for Saturday is Miss Chloe
Haughton? Don't worry, I know women in their 30s dread being put on
the ‘Singles’ table, so I've put you with my extended family from
Newcastle.

See you Saturday.

When I read it I feel like throwing up. First of all, who’s
30? I’m 29 and a half. Second, Chloe and I don’t give a flying fuck
whether we’re labelled ‘single’ or not. I'm only going to this
stupid wedding because I have no choice, and Chloe is only going
because she owes me one. Third, we don’t care where we sit. In
fact, the singles table would be preferable to a group of boring
married Geordies.

And excuse me but
women
in their 30s? What about men in
their 30s? They don't mind being on the singles table because,
what, they get asked about their professions whereas women get
asked why they're still single? Like it’s our fault or
something?

By the end of the afternoon I am in such a funk no amount of
Dorito grease will lift me out of it. There’s only one thing left
that might cheer me up – going home and having a hot
bath.

In my apartment I collapse on the couch and turn on Sopranos.
Poor Carmela, she really loved Tony and just look how he treated
her. I microwave a bag of popcorn, crack open a beer, grab a Yorkie
and recline into the soft folds of my sofa. Ahhhh. That’s better.
Being the slob I am, I place the bowl of popcorn directly under my
chin and lick bits into my mouth. They stick to my tongue so it
avoids the hassle of using my hands. Hands are too much effort at
this point. I consider running a bath then remember I haven’t
cleaned the tub in a few weeks, so it’s probably got that line of
grey slime around the sides.

I continue to watch and eat. The more episodes I see the more
morose I become by Tony’s cheating, deceptive ways. I start
thinking of the Stranger again. Are all men the same? It sure seems
like it. Maybe it doesn’t matter what guy I end up with, because
deep down they’re all identical. They are all just variations of He
Who Shall Not Be Named or Choda or Crazy. Or at least, the ones I’m
attracted to. I mean, I know there are nice guys out there, those
‘Eugene’ types. The boring guys who stand in the corner of the room
at parties, and when you make the effort to talk to them you
realise that they really are as boring as they look.

But who wants to end up with a Eugene?

I look outside at the pouring rain. London rarely gets a
downpour like this. The daily soul-destroying hair-frizzifying
drizzle is normal but there’s a right tempest going on. I hear a
crack of thunder, which matches my mood to a tee.

The more popcorn I lick into my mouth the
more restless I become. I end up pouring the rest of the bowl into
my mouth (and get a mouthful of those tooth-shattering unpopped
corn balls) then start to pace the apartment. I want to purge
myself of the layers of rejection and shame that have been
deposited on my person since last night. And I
could
use a shot of endorphins...
Before I know it I’m tying the shoelaces on my runners and plugging
in my earphones. Fuck the weather, my attitude is so self
destructive today anyway, why not top it off with an insanity
workout (weather-wise, not the DVD variety).

The skies are dark and murky, like a black soup. It’s
difficult leaving the warm comfort of the apartment and I start to
shiver as I close the gate behind me. I’m not wearing much. It’s
cold now but give it fifteen minutes and my body will be generating
its own heat. The rain hits my face as I run and sure enough I’m
warm soon. Hot, even. Half an hour in and I am sweating in all the
usual weird spots, and it feels good. The ground squelches under my
runners as I jog.

What’s so bad about life anyway?
My body starts to sing to me. There are so many
good things about the world that will never abandon me. Coffee,
wine, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Emma, Chloe, Mags, radiators, fresh
sheets, bath salts, slippers, extra mature aged cheddar. Life is
good! Stop whinging about guys. Guys are only a tiny part of a big,
wonderful world.

The rain beats down harder on my face and
shoulders. My running top is clinging to my boobs and arms and my
shorts are dripping water. Past Hyde Park gate I see there's not a
soul in sight, which is weird for 9:00 p.m on a weeknight. I
continue to run along despite the torrents of water. I feel tough.
This is how we do things Down Under. Growing up in Oz you have no
choice but to man-up. If the snakes and spiders and sharks and
various other evils of nature don’t make you, then the extreme
weather and violent sports will. Have you
seen
an Aussie football match? It’s a
blood bath! Played by the roughest, fittest, strongest, most
extreme men our island nation produces. Even the ‘softer’ sports
like netball are played viciously, with scratching and elbowing and
tricks to snap another player’s ACLs (which, by the way, is by
slamming your foot down onto another players' after they land from
a jump).

Jogging along to my music (Mariah Carey, the 90s years) I
notice a small crumpled heap in the middle of the lawn. At first it
looks like a dark blob. The closer I get the more it resembles a
human, a human squatting over another dark shape.

I hesitate before crossing the lawn. It could be a junkie, or
an escaped prisoner, or one of those annoying people who refer to
themselves in the third person. But something pulls at my
heartstrings. What kind of a person would I be if I keep running?
What if they need help? I start to walk over, slowly at first. The
dark shapes aren’t moving. When I finally recognise who they are I
launch into a full sprint.

“Mr Harold?!” I pull up and kneel beside him.

The General is kneeling beside Captain. Eyes closed, the poor
mutt is lying half covered in mud, eyes terrified, panting slowly
and heavily.

“What are you doing out here?!” I yell over the
rain.

The rain pours off the General’s face as he looks up. His eyes
are distraught.

“Crumbs lass, we’re in an awful spot of bother. When the rain
began we started back for home but Captain ran over and ate
something, then collapsed.”

“What did he eat?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, but it’s getting worse.”

Without the running keeping my heart rate up I’m already
starting to feel the cold. Sheesh, the General must be freezing,
he’s only wearing a thin coat which is soaked through. I kneel down
to pat Captain, whose eyes are looking more bloodshot by the
second.

I go into autolawyer mode (it’s like autopilot, but instead of
flying a plane we drive our thoughts into a logical
sequence),

“Okay Mr H, let's try to look at the situation calmly and
rationally. We’re in the middle of Hyde Park.”

“Aye.”

“No one knows where we are.”

“Aye.”

“We don’t have a phone, and there are no people around to help
us.”

“Aye.”

Brain-panic helicopter noises start whirring
in my skull.
Think Penny,
think
. I could run over to the nearest
house? But even if I sprint it would take at least ten minutes,
then ten minutes to come back with an umbrella and a towel. The
General and Captain will catch their death if they stay out here
that long. I could move them both under a tree and tell them to
wait for me? But the General will still likely catch pneumonia,
especially since his clothes are soaked through. And the dog, what
of him?

Shit.

“Mr Harold, you have to come with me. We need to get you out
of the rain or you’ll freeze to death.”

“What about Captain?”

“We have to come back for him.”

At this, Mr Harold straightens his shoulders. A look of
determination etches itself into the many wrinkles spanning his
face,

“I won’t leave him, lass. In my regiment, you don’t leave
anyone behind.”

Horrified the General might launch into a D-Day flashback I
stay silent. But I don’t know what to do. Captain’s breaths are
coming in slower now, I’m starting to freeze myself and Mr Harold
is going to die.

“I’ll have to carry him,” I start, “We’ll go to the nearest
house and call for help.”

I kneel down to pick up the dog. But I’m not exactly dealing
with a miniature poodle. This is a big, hefty chunk of male
Rottweiler crossed with some other big breed. In terms of upper
body strength I’m one of the strongest girls I know. I can do an
entire pull up all by myself. But I struggle lifting Captain, just
managing to sling him over my shoulder. We begin stumbling along,
slipping on the wet grass and mud. Mr Harold clings to me, patting
Captain’s head as we blunder and trip our way across the
lawn.

I don’t have hands free to wipe the rain from my eyes and
face, so I stagger blindly. After five minutes my shoulders are
aching and my arms and back are burning. I ask for a breather. As I
pick up Captain for Round Two I start to properly worry about the
situation. I’m not sure I’ll be able to lift him if I put him down
again.

Another five minutes in and we’ve finally reached the path. I
squat down with Captain still panting in my arms. I can’t keep it
up, I’m wiped. But I have to! What was I just saying about being a
tough Australian? The General is depending on me. Captain is
depending on me. I try to stand but struggle. My legs are
shaking.

“Mr Harold, I have to… put him down… for a bit...” I’m out of
breath, but at least I’m warm again. I’m sweating from the
exertion.

I place Captain down on the wet gravely path. I stand up to
stretch (my back and shoulder smart sharply as I do). To ease the
pain I lean down and place my hands on my knees. I bow my head and
try to think of what to do. This fucking rain is still coming down
hard and fast. If I manage to lift this muscled canine again I’ll
be able to carry him for another minute, two minutes max. I don’t
have the strength to carry him another ten (which is about the
nearest house I can think of) but I can’t leave them here. Could I
carry him in one minute slots? That’ll take forever.

“Need a hand, Young Peanut?”

I lift my head.
Oh
no, out of all the people
... But I’m too
relieved to feel upset about my rotten luck. In fact, for the first
time since Loft I’m actually really happy to see
him.

Blue squats down to give Captain a gentle stroke. The mutt’s
breaths are coming in shorter and sharper now. I grab Blue’s arm
and his eyes meet mine. Honestly, this guy doesn’t deserve visual
organs as beautiful as these. I start shouting at him,

“I need your help!”

“I can see that.”

“The dog needs a vet, turns out he’s not aware eating London
park refuse is a terrible idea. Could you carry him to the nearest
house?”

“Not at all, just lead the way, babe.”

I’m not your babe
.
I ignore the urge to tell him off and put my arm around the General
instead. Blue lifts Captain. In contrast to my clumsy attempts, he
carries the hundred pound beast like it weighs no more than a
feather. For the first time since we met I notice Blue has a super
strong upper body. He’s tall and broad, not scary-Schwarzenegger
broad but nicely proportioned. We walk in silence, the heavy rain
so loud that casual conversation is neigh impossible. Plus, it’s
really not the right time and place. We have a dying creature on
our hands. Well, Blue’s hands.

Ten or so minutes later and we are walking through the gate of
a very expensive townhouse. The little old lady who answers the
door looks amazed at the sight of three soaked people at her door,
one carrying a huge, soggy Rottweiler-crossed-with-a-bear. After a
quick explanation she proves most accommodating. She lets Blue
place Captain on a rug on the patio (which is sheltered, thank
goodness) and tells us that she’ll look up the number for a
vet.