Crazygirl Falls in Love (4 page)

Hours later and we were at the bar, ordering
J
ä
gerbombs. It
always seems like such a good idea at the time, doesn’t it? You
have a few drinks and you feel so damn fine that you think you need
more booze, more shots, more of everything.

Here’s one for the kids - Kids, shots
are
never
a good
idea. But you see, the Stranger had been so attentive all evening,
hadn’t left my side, and when he suggested J
ä
ger I jumped at the chance. Anything
to have this chisel-jawed dreamboat by my side.

After slamming our empty shot glasses down
on the bar, the Stranger did something most unexpected. He brushed
a strand of hair off my face (for once my annoying new fringe had
come in handy) and before I knew it we were kissing. Me! Kissing
the Stranger! I could scarce believe it. Fifteen minutes later we
were still kissing. Half an hour later we were basically horizontal
on the bar top. Yeah I know, you can’t buy class right? But guys, I
was
so
happy in
that half hour, even with the puddle of spilt beer on the counter
staining the back of my dress and shot glasses digging into the
folds of my back fat.

Keep in mind, I was, and still am, in a massive Sahara dry
spell. It took all the willpower I could muster to refuse his offer
to go back to his place. I do everything I can not to sleep with
guys before they’ve at least asked me to dinner. Have found that
rule to be very useful in weeding out the manwhores. But there was
a big part of me that wanted to give into temptation. I mean, when
would I get an offer to go home with a Gerard Butler lookalike
again? Maybe never? In fact, most-probably likely definitely
never.

It was tough, oh so tough, but I held firm. When he started to
lead me out of the bar I said that I needed to go home. He had
looked disappointed, asked for my number (but it seemed like it was
under duress), then left.

I didn’t hear from him until
yesterday,
thirteen days
after the event. I’m sorry, but that’s just not
on. Whatever happened to the
day-after-make-out-session-follow-up-text rule? Plus his message
was so lame yesterday, it had read,

Hello Penelope. How are you?

I’ve been riding an emotional see-saw on
whether to contact him since yesterday.
Don’t message back, Penelope
, I’ve
been telling myself.
It won’t lead to
anything good. You want a guy who genuinely wants to be with you,
someone who is willing to text the same night, and the next day,
and every day after that. You deserve someone who treats you well.
Don’t do it, woman!

I turn to Mags and Chloe,

“I’ll be right back.”

I leave them – they’re
still
arguing about Stalker - and
walk in the direction of the bar. I’ve decided to text him back. So
what if it took him thirteen days? I’ve waited 24 hours, that’ll
show him I can be tardy too. I know I should be stronger but...
Gerard Butler guys! The sexiest superstar on the planet besides
maybe Ryan Gosling. I can’t let this opportunity slide. Can’t.
Won’t.

At the bar I shove my bag on the counter and
pull out my phone. I scroll down to his name, but just as I begin
typing I’m interrupted by the music. I hadn’t noticed but the jazz
band has been replaced with a DJ and he’s remixing
Eurythmics’
Sweet
Dreams
. Oh, happy days, I love this
track!

I look up from my embryonic text message to the Stranger
(which is currently one word, “Hi”) and spot the DJ. For a moment I
don’t believe my eyes. It’s the hot waiter from lunch, it’s Blue
Eyes!

I try to catch his gaze but he seems very involved in whatever
he’s mixing. He finally notices me and just as quickly looks back
down at his kit. I can’t believe it’s him. His headphones sit over
blonde, sandy hair, which is just a little longer and a little
wavier than usual. And those eyes… Their brightness is dazzling
even from the other side of the room. He is tall, lean, wearing a
plain white t-shirt and jeans. On the surface it’s nothing to write
home about, but he’s just… I dunno. He’s somethin’.

I smile nervously to myself and take a deep breath as I begin
The Walk Over. Toughest move in the book. Blue Eyes doesn’t notice
me sidling up next to his
DJ-music-mixing-complicated-machinery-stuff thingy, or if he has
noticed me, I’m being properly ignored.

“Hi.” I say.

He glances up and half heartedly smiles, like responding would
be the greatest burden he could think of.

“We met at the Cat and Canary today, remember?”

“Maybe.”

And he looks back down. He’s acting
particularly averse to launching into conversation.
Oh well, clearly he doesn’t think I’m pretty
enough, but I may as well request some tracks while I’m
here.

“I was wondering, I love Eurythmics, could you perhaps play
some more later?”

He looks at up me as if I’m the world’s biggest idiot and
turns his lip up in a sneer,

“The Loft isn’t the type of establishment to play dated 80s
tracks.”

My jaw actually drops. The cruelty drips
from each word as he looks back down at the vinyl. I am frozen to
the spot, mouth open, gaping like a fish. I take a small step
backwards. Unfortunately, there’s a cable I haven’t noticed
directly behind my shoe, and within a second my heel is caught and
I’m hopping on the other trying to untangle myself.
Oh great, this is just fucking
GREAT
.

As if what he said wasn’t enough, he starts chuckling at my
clumsy attempts to free myself. I feel my face blushing bright red,
burning with anger and embarrassment. Who does this dick think he
is?

“You’re a dick.”

Did I just say that? Yep, I just said
that
.

“I’m sorry but this is a classy place and we don’t play that
sort of music.”

“You just played it before!”

Ah, free at last
.
My heel is out and I am ready to storm off in a
huff.

“That wasn’t Eurythmics. It was DJ Ez featuring FKA
Twigs.”

“I know what I heard and it was Annie Lennox!”

I’m yelling. Work people around me have gone
quiet.
Oh go to hell, you dreary
parasites
(read. lawyers).
You want something to gossip about over the water
cooler next week, you got it!

And Crazygirl comes out,

“How dare you talk to me that way? You’re
just a loser nobody
disc jockey
who waits on tables, you don’t have the goods to
back up the attitude. So just… fuck off!”

As my eyes fill with tears I swivel back round to walk back to
Chloe and Mags. And in that split second the tornado of hatred,
animosity, embarrassment and plans for bloodthirsty revenge vanish
as I see who’s in front of me.

It’s the Stranger.

I can actually feel my heart soaring up, up, up and away as he
leans down and pecks me on the lips. I’m frozen to the
spot.

“Hello.” He coos in his oh-so-sexy Spanish accent.

He looks at Blue,

“Who is the pendejo?”

I’ve hung out enough times with the Spaniards to know this is
not a very nice way to refer to another guy. I smile smugly at
Blue. He returns my look with a blank expression. I turn back to
the Stranger,

“He’s no one. Don’t worry about him. What… how…”

The reality of seeing the Stranger is not
sinking in. What is he
doing
here?

“What are you
doing
here?”

“I have come from work with Antonio.”

He waves in the direction of the sofas in the back corner.
There indeed is Antonio, another member of the Beautiful People,
straddled on either side by two lovely ladies.

“I see you fight with your boyfriend, so I come.” The Stranger
continues, giving me a cheeky grin.

“Who? Him?” I jolt my thumb in the direction of Blue, but I
don’t see him anymore. Not really. My eyes are for the Stranger
only,

“He’s not my boyfriend, as if!”

I meet the Strangers eyes and we smile at each other. I feel
like I’m melting. Seriously, there is going to be a puddle of Penny
on the floor if this moment lasts much longer. How is it that just
a few moments ago I was feeling empty, hopeless, rejected… yet here
I stand less than a minute later positively beaming with
unadultered affection for this man I barely know, who with one
gesture has made me feel… Made me feel…

He takes my hand and walks me to the couches. I may as well be
floating. We sit down, facing Antonio and the ladies. The Stranger
pours a shot of Sambuca and places it on a coaster in front of me.
I’m still feeling light and fluffy and melty and I must make this
feeling to go away, stat. God forbid we have another ‘Yo-Bro’
moment. I do the shot and ask for another. I’m still thinking about
how to thank him when he puts an arm around my shoulders and
asks,

“Why you no respond to my message?”

Oh. Shit I’d forgotten about that. If I was smart I would have
thought of a solid reply by now. A reply that had been rehearsed
into a mirror many times before delivery. Something along the lines
of ‘I’m not sure we want the same things, I think not texting me
for thirteen days gave that away’. But how to tell him that without
sounding needy and pathetic?

“I dunno, it’s not like you asked me out for dinner or drinks,
and I’m not really one night stand material...” I trail off
intentionally, hoping he’ll fill the void with some hope of his
own.

He laughs.

“Ah yes, dinners. Women love the dinners.”

Denied.

He lifts his arm from around my shoulders and jumps from the
couch.

“I buy more drinks, what you like, mi amor?”

Mi amor?
I can’t
help it, I’m floating again. I adore it when a guy I actually like
does sweet stuff like buys me drinks. I love it I love it I love
it!

“Can I please have a Campari grapefruit? It’s my
favourite.”

And I suddenly remember I have drinks and friends waiting for
me on the other side of the room. I’ve abandoned Chloe and Mags and
most importantly my drinks for this unbelievable beefcake. What
kind of a friend (and dedicated alcoholic) am I?

“Actually wait,” I pull him back down by his
arm (
such nice arms… keep it together
Penny, c’mon
), “I’ve got plenty of drinks
on the other side of the room, let me grab ‘em.”

Half an hour later me, Chloe and the Stranger are chugging
down the remains of our last order drinks (Mags has gone back to
Stalker) and we have another bottle of Sambuca on the way. So far
I’ve learnt that the Stranger’s favourite colour is green, he works
in the business development division of a management consultancy,
his passion is football and his family live in Barcelona, where he
and Arianna went to school together.

Antonio has taken a liking to Chloe and has stopped paying the
other two ladies any attention. Chloe, as usual, is playing the ice
queen. I know she doesn’t do it on purpose, but when the day
finally comes that Chloe actually likes someone I hope she doesn’t
do the whole ‘Ice Queen’ bit. Kinda related to Hard-To-Get, the Ice
Queen is a technique where a girl acts all superior and high
maintenance when meeting guys. There aren’t many girls who do it on
purpose because let’s be honest, guys tend to go for the fun,
bubbly ‘will laugh at everything he says’ types, but some girls do
Ice Queen without realising it (Exhibit A, Ms Chloe
Dowling).

As an aside, why does the world still use
‘Miss’ and ‘Mrs’? In this modern, post-feminist-revolution age,
can’t we all just agree to use ‘Ms’ for adult females? Call little
girls Miss, fine, but I’m in my late 20s and unmarried and I
am
not
a Miss. I
won’t be denoted based on my relationships or lack-thereof with
men, thank you very much.

My mind is wandering and I’m starting to feel very tipsy
indeed. Too many wines, too many Proseccos, too many shots of
Sambuca and now the Stranger is ordering Jägerbombs (it’s starting
to feel eerily similar to two weekends ago).

“Tonight we will be out late. We have Red Bull now,” he
announces when the tray arrives, winking at me while handling me a
tumbler.

Shakily, I take the glass. I stand by my
earlier statement - shots are
always
a bad idea - but again, I must
keep this hunk’s attention at any cost. One of his Leonidas-like
arms is currently wrapped around my shoulders and I want it to stay
there forever. Totally lame thing to say, I know, but... Gerard
Butler guys!