Authors: Hilary Freeman
Don't Ask
Hilary Freeman
is an experienced journalist and agony aunt, working for national newspapers, magazines and websites, as well as on TV and radio. She is
currently the agony aunt for Sky. Her first novel,
Loving Danny
, was shortlisted for the Lancashire Children’s Book of the Year Award. Hilary lives in Camden Town with her husband
and is Amy Winehouse’s neighbour – although she’s never been round for coffee.
First published in Great Britain in 2009
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Hilary Freeman, 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Hilary Freeman to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 85340 997 4 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 323 6
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD Cover design by Patrick Knowles
This book is dedicated to my grandma,
Thilde ‘Safta’ Brook,
in celebration of her 90th birthday,
and to the memory of my late grandpa,
Sid ‘Saba’ Brook.
Jack was perfect. And that was the problem.
I knew I should have been congratulating myself on being the luckiest girl in the world, on winning the boyfriend lottery, but instead I couldn’t help wondering: if Jack was perfect,
then what was wrong with him?
You see, I know very well that nobody is perfect, least of all me. A perfect girlfriend wouldn’t have done what I’ve done. A perfect girlfriend wouldn’t even have thought
of it. Miss Perfect would have been content to live happily ever after with her lovely, handsome, funny, clever, ideal boyfriend, without giving his impeccable wonderfulness a second thought.
Indeed, she wouldn’t have possessed a cynical bone in her body or a suspicious notion in her perfectly oval little head. But I’m not her, I’m me (which I’m kind of glad
about, as she sounds rather dull). I’m the girl who always has to pick the scab off her knee, just as it’s starting to heal nicely. I’m the girl who’ll take her mobile phone
apart to see how it works on the inside, and then be unable to put it back together again.
I’ll make no excuses for what I’ve done, except to state: I simply couldn’t help myself.
It all started as a game, a challenge, which grew out of a notion.
‘How are things going with Jack?’ asked Katie, one rainy Saturday afternoon three months ago, as we were lounging around in my bedroom, variously surfing the net, painting each
other’s toenails and discussing our half-term plans (even though we’d only just gone back to school after the Christmas holidays).
‘Good,’ I said. ‘He’s great. But there are a few things that have been bothering me . . .’
The first bit is not actually true. Katie didn’t ask me about Jack. I brought up the subject myself because I was dying for her to ask and she just kept ignoring my hints. In her defence,
my boyfriend had become my favourite – some would say virtually my only – topic of conversation over the previous few months and, patient as Katie is, she was beginning to tire of my
endless musings on his character (not to mention his looks, tastes, clothes, interests and ambitions). Fair enough, I suppose. But personally, I think she was failing in her duties as my best
friend. Commandment number one: thou shalt listen without complaint, protest or interruption. Which, I noted, I would be sure to remind her of next time she bored me rigid moaning about her
mum’s new boyfriend.
What really happened was this.
One Saturday afternoon. In my bedroom, etc, etc . . .
‘Katie,’ I asked, in my best pleading voice, a few minutes after we’d last put the subject to rest. ‘Can I ask you something about Jack?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she muttered, without looking up. I’m sure that if her eyelids hadn’t been in the way I would have seen her eyeballs rolling back in her head. ‘What is it
now?’
‘Well,’ I said, more brightly now that I had her reluctant attention. ‘There are a few things that have been bothering me. You know we were talking about how he won’t
talk about his ex? I’ve been trying really hard not to let it bug me, but I still don’t understand why he won’t.’
She sighed, audibly.
‘No, but really, Katie,’ I tried again, ‘I know she finished with him, and so he was probably upset and all, but it was over a year ago and he still goes all funny every time
anything to do with the past comes up. I just want to know what went wrong, because I don’t have a clue what happened. Why did she break up with him?’
‘I don’t get why you need to know,’ said Katie, in a kindly but exasperated tone. ‘You’re happy with him, he treats you brilliantly and you fancy him loads, so why
does it matter why his ex dumped him? If she hadn’t done it, then you’d never have met him, would you?’
‘True,’ I said, and I pondered her point for a moment. ‘But he’s so lovely and amazing to be with, why would anybody
not
want to be with him? I know
I
could never dream of dumping him. And why won’t he talk about it? Or her? At all? Ever?’
‘Not
everybody
likes talking about their relationships
ad infinitum,’
Katie replied, raising her left eyebrow. ‘Some people think it’s a turnoff to
bleat on about their exes. And just because he’s perfect for you, doesn’t mean he was perfect for Anne or Amanda, or whatever her name was.’
I knew she had deliberately chosen the wrong names, just to be annoying. ‘Alex,’ I corrected. ‘Her name was Alex. Alex Porter. That’s about all I do know about her. That
and the fact she was a huge football fan, like Jack.’
‘Alex, Schmalex. Stop worrying about her. I’m sure she hasn’t given you a second thought.’ Katie started fiddling around on my computer keyboard. ‘Come on, why
don’t we see if we’ve got any new friend requests on Topfriendz?’
‘In a minute,’ I told her, ignoring her attempt at a distraction. ‘But it’s not just Alex,’ I continued. ‘It’s other things too. I mean, I hardly know
anything about when Jack was younger. I know his dad died when he was twelve, but that’s it. Don’t you think that’s weird?’
Katie took a deep breath and gave me a patronising little smile. ‘No, not really.’ She paused. ‘Lily, hon, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but can you just shut up
about it and simply enjoy being with Jack, OK?’
‘OK,’ I agreed, because there’s no point continuing a conversation with someone who doesn’t want to take part. But I had no intention of letting the subject drop for
long.
As Katie knew very well, I’m not the sort of person who can ‘just shut up and enjoy’ being with a guy. According to my mother, I’m indomitable – she probably chose
the word because she knew I’d have to look it up – which is a polite way of saying a pain in the backside, who always does what she wants. I discovered that there’s another word,
rambunctious, which means almost the same thing. As a description, I like it better because it makes me picture an out-of-control sheep bumping around in a small room, knocking things over. That
just about sums up my life. And my relationships.
For most people, dating someone new is a bit like playing pass the parcel – although, usually, without the cheesy music. On your first date, your boyfriend is a neat package, wrapped in
shiny paper; he’s made an effort, bought some new aftershave, he’s careful what he says and he minds his manners. Gradually, as time passes and you spend more time together, the sheets
of shiny wrapping paper fall away and you start to uncover his true personality. Some of the layers reveal good surprises (he’s generous, he enjoys the same films), others disappointing ones
(he never changes his socks, he likes Westlife), and so little by little, you discover his traits and his flaws, his talents and his phobias. If you’re lucky – and keep on playing until
the very end – you’ll tear off the last sheet to find you’ve won the prize of a great relationship, with someone you know inside out. I know this analogy doesn’t entirely
work, as the package in pass the parcel gets smaller and smaller – which means you’d end up going out with Tom Thumb (or Tom Cruise) – but I’m afraid it’s the best I
can come up with right now.
