Take My Hand (3 page)

What the fuck
was
that? Maybe I’m getting
the flu.

Emily

“
Guess
we won’t be ticking number one off after all,” Rachel said with a
disapproving shake of the head when we arrived back at the flat.

“
Why?
I drank didn’t I?”

“But the list clearly states ‘get wasted’.
You’re still functioning like a normal human being therefore you have
not
followed
the list on this occasion.”

Maybe I don’t want to follow the bloody list!

“But at least we’re a step closer to number
eighteen.” Right – all the sex. Yeah, I don’t think so.

“It’s one date, Rach,” I argued. I can’t
believe she talked me into going out with Jared. Don’t get me wrong he’s a nice
enough guy, and pretty hot if you’re into the surfer look, but I know already
we have nothing in common. He’s confident. I’m not. He’s a talker. I’m not.
He’s obviously comfortable in life, and surprise surprise – I’m not. Plus
he’s got to be in his mid-twenties at least. He must be settled by now. What
would he see in a nineteen year old with no experience in anything?

“But one date will lead to a second, and a
second will lead to a third. AKA the acceptable length of time to indulge in
all the sex without coming across as a total slut bag.” I rolled my eyes at
her. “Promise me you’ll try? I know it’s all new to you but isn’t this what you
wanted? Why we’re down here?”

I sighed in defeat. She was right. I’m a shy
and nervous person by nature. I am useless in social situations but that’s
because I’ve never been allowed to put myself in them before. I
do
want
to change that. That
is
why we are here.

“I’m not having sex with him,” I declared. Rachel
pouted and put on her most convincing disappointed face. “But I promise to talk
to him. See how it goes.” And I will. In that very moment I decided that was my
plan. I’m going to
force
myself to talk to everyone I meet – make
conversation, exchange useless information… discuss the weather. Like
everything else in life, the more you practise the better you get right? If I’m
honest I can’t say I particularly
want
new friends - I’m happy with just
Rachel and my brother Chris to talk to - but I’m certain I
need
new friends
if I want the ‘normal’ Uni life I’ve been dreaming about.

Besides, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have
more than ten Facebook friends. Believe me it’s even worse than it sounds
– apart from Rachel and Chris, four of them are distant Aunties I’ve
never even met, one is my mum and the other three are from the Library Lovers
group at my old school. If we had Glee clubs in this country, the Library
Lovers would be in it. They were the outcasts, the nerds – the ones with
spots and glasses… and yep, they felt sorry enough for
me
to add me to
their
friend lists.

Bloody hell I really
do
need friends.

“Right well I’m gonna call Chris and then
head to bed,” I mumbled through a yawn. I think the alcohol was having some
kind of delayed reaction because I suddenly felt like three tonnes of crap.

“K, Ho. Say hi for me.” I nodded and turned
to my bedroom. “Oh and don’t forget to tell him I still think he’s all shades
of sexy!” she called after me. Ugh. I literally shuddered.

“He’s my brother! That’s just…
eww.
”

I heard Rachel laugh as I opened the door to
my tiny bedroom and flopped myself backwards onto the bed. When I reached down
to the floor to grab my mobile from my bag I banged my head on the wall. How
was everything so much smaller yet so much more expensive down south? Rachel’s
parents are helping out with the extortionate rent on this place but I know
I’ll have to start paying my own way soon. My mum refused, presumably in the
hope that would shatter my chances of actually succeeding in life.

Find a job is Number 9 on the New Life list
and as soon as I’ve honed my social skills, I’ll crack on with that.

I successfully wriggled out of my dress one
handed while I dialled my brother’s number.

“Hey, Emmie!” he answered. “How’s Uni life
treating you?”

“I don’t start till next week. You know
that.”

“Well excuse me for trying to make
conversation,” he teased. On reflection I did sound a little offhand. “What’s
up? Tell me.”

“Nothing really. I’m just a little… oh I
don’t know.”

“Come on, Emmie, what it is?” Chris always
knew when something was bothering me. I’ve never been able to lie to him. Not
successfully at least.

“I’ve got a date.”

“Jesus, you’re not gonna start talking sex
with me are you? There are some things a brother just doesn’t want to know.”

“Eww no! Of course not! I’m just… nervous.
You know I don’t really know how to talk to people – guys especially. I
just don’t know what I’m expected to talk about.”

“Emmie, we’re guys – not aliens. Just
talk like you would to me. Tell him about your day, what you’re studying, what
your goals are – that kind of shit.”

“My goals aren’t shit!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re
overthinking things. Just take it one sentence at a time and you’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“No maybes about it. I’m older than you,
which means I know everything remember?” I giggled. Chris and Rachel are the
only people who can provoke that reaction from me. “Now before you go on this
date, I’m gonna need to ask you some questions.”

Here we go…

“Like?”

“Is he a dickhead?”

“No! At least I don’t
think
so.”

“Hmm, okay that’ll do for now. Does he have a
job?”

“Yes. He works in a pub. That’s where I met
him.”

“A
pub?
One, since when do you go to
pubs? And two, you’re smart, Emmie. You should be aiming for a doctor or
something.”

“Well one, since Rachel made me. And two,
stop being so judgemental. You work in a garage!”

“Yeah well I’m fantastic so I don’t need a
fancy job to promote myself. Anyway question three – does he drive?”

“I don’t know! I’ve only just met him. That’s
the point of a date right? To get to know each other? Ask me these questions
again tomorrow if you must.” I snapped, but I wasn’t actually angry. I knew he
was just looking out for me.

“Fine. I’ll back off.”
Doubtful.
“But
number four is more of a statement than a question. You should know I won’t
hesitate to punch his fucking lights out if he messes with my baby sister. Got
it?” And that’s why I love him.

“Got it. Look, I’m gonna go now. I’m really
tired from all the travelling.”

“Sure thing, Emmie. I’ll talk to you
tomorrow.”

“Night, Chris.”

“Night, Emmie.”

Notice how neither of us mentioned our
parents? Well, you’ll probably
never
hear Chris talk about them –
seeing as they haven’t spoken to each other in over four years. The thing is,
my parents are all about ‘the show’. It’s important to them what their toffee-nosed
friends think of us as a family. They raised us to be well behaved and
respectful. We’d help out at local charities every Saturday and go to church
every Sunday. Which was fine – admirable even. What’s not so admirable is
the fact they disowned Chris for wanting to be a mechanic instead of going to
university. How could they possibly be proud of a son with just an ordinary
working-class job? I mean, what must their friends think when their kids are
going out to teach or heal or inflict justice in court, and they’ve got Chris
coming home covered in muck and grease?

That’s one of the things I detest about them.
If they weren’t so far up their own arses they’d see what a wonderful son they
were missing out on.

Speaking of charity work, that’s how I met
Rachel. When I was seven my mum took me to the local community centre where a
weekly support group for disabled kids and their families was taking place.
Obviously I wouldn’t judge
now
but it was a little overwhelming for a
seven year old to be surrounded by all these kids who were so different from
you. My mum pointed to a brown-haired girl in a wheelchair and told me to go
and be friendly to her. So being the good little girl I was raised to be, I
did.

Shame the said girl wasn’t interested in
being friendly back. Rachel was just as intimidating as a little girl as she is
now – and it has nothing to do with the chair. She didn’t want to be
there with all the other ‘freaks’ as she put it back then. She doesn’t remember
life without her chair and she didn’t see why she had to be treated any
differently to everyone else, but her mum made her go because she was
‘special’. ‘Sod being special’ eight year old Rachel said to me with the same
don’t-mess-with-me scowl she still uses to this day.

I soon discovered perseverance was the key
when it came to Rachel – it still is. It’s almost like you need to prove
you’re in it for the long haul with her. Unless you’re sporting a mighty fine
six pack maybe…

My mum took me to the centre every week for
six months (I think she wanted to get acquainted with the posh folk that ran
the centre) and she always pointed to the same girl and told me to go and play.
The first few weeks mainly consisted of me sitting on the floor hugging my
knees in silence while Rachel continued to scowl at the world around her.

It was about four weeks in when I’d gotten
that fed up of her ignoring me I summoned some courage right from the pit of my
stomach and spoke to her first.

“Why are you so horrible?” I asked bluntly. I
remember her looking at me all wide-eyed and shocked like she couldn’t believe
I actually had a voice.

“You’re not supposed to say things like that.
You’re supposed to feel sorry for me. I’m ‘special’ remember?” she snapped
bitterly, flicking her brown hair off her little round face. It’s strange
remembering Rachel with brown hair. It’s permanently been a different colour of
the rainbow since she was fifteen.

“Well I don’t,” I snapped back –
pouting like only children can. “Just because you can’t walk doesn’t mean you
can be nasty to me. I don’t even
want
to be your friend. I’m only here
because my mummy forces me to come every week.” And that’s what did it. Once
Rachel saw that I didn’t give a crap whether she was stood up or sat down, or
that I wasn’t some goody two shoes wanting credit for befriending the crippled
kid – she thawed almost instantly.

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

**********

Why was I doing this again? Oh yeah, because
Rachel forced me. I’d just done my makeup for the third time with the stuff I
bought in Tesco this morning. I did our first grocery shop before breakfast (I
had to if we wanted to eat today) and I arrived home feeling awfully
independent and grown up. Yeah, that really is as pathetic as it sounds.

I was surprised to find the store was set out
just the same as the ones up north, which meant I gathered what we needed
quickly. I knew my way around Tesco like a second home. My mum has always
shopped there, except when someone she wanted to impress was coming for dinner
and then she would up her game and shop at Marks and Spencer’s.

Once I was somewhat happy with my face I teased
my hair up into a messy bun, just like a magazine article once showed me. I was
ready to go in my skinny black jeans, silver halter-neck and suede cowgirl
boots. All I had to do now was some incessant foot tapping while I waited for
seven o’clock to arrive.

Jared planned to pick me up from the flat but
when I opened my mouth to reel off the address Rachel jumped in and said I’d
meet him at the pub instead. Then she whispered in my ear something about
potential stalkers and rapists. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already!

“Stop fidgeting. You’ll have him thinking
you’re backwards,” Rachel said followed by a disapproving tut. I looked at my
bracelet watch – fifteen minutes to go.

“I’d best get going I suppose,” I muttered.
Fifteen minutes should be plenty of time to hail a taxi and get to the pub with
a few minutes to spare.

“Oh no you don’t.”
Huh?
“You’re not
leaving till seven.”

“But I’m
meeting
him at seven.”

“Exactly. You need to keep him waiting. The
build up of not knowing if you’re gonna show or not will make him want you all
the more, trust me.”

“Whatever,” I dismissed her, waving my hand.
Punctual was my middle name and I’d only end up more anxious if I thought I was
going to be late. Besides, maybe I didn’t
want
him to want me even more.
“I’m leaving
now
. Love you.” I bent down to kiss the top of her head.

“Love you too, Ho. And remember – no
tongues on the first date.” Rolling my eyes and giggling softly, I grabbed my
handbag and left for the most nerve-wracking night of my life to date.

When I walked into the bar I spotted Jared
propped up on a barstool chatting to the nameless American barman from last
night. He was sporting the same uninterested grimace, hostile posture and
shaggy brown hair (not ordinary boring brown – if I looked carefully
enough there were tiny threads of blonde peppered through the layers which
rested in a ruffled heap on top of his head) as the last time we met too.