Pride and Premiership (4 page)

Used the lunch break to bring the maxi dress back home because all the girls agreed that the LBD was better. Well, actually, all except that feminazi Kara. She thought I should wear the maxi dress because it left more to the imagination, and when I chose the LBD she went into one and said it was too short.

Why on earth does she think it’s called a LITTLE black dress?!

Whatever.

Now Malibu has just called and wound me up even more. “Look, Remy,” she said, “you know I don’t usually agree with a thing Kara says, and I think you should wear the LBD, OK? But it is a bit … well… All I’m saying is, no matter what he says to you, just remember this rhyme:
Play hard to get and you won’t regret.
OK? Because men—”

“Are dogs. OK–aaay. I get it,” I told her.

Right. Back to work.

OMG! Robbie is the fittest, sexiest, most amazing boy ever!

He was
perfect
from the moment he picked me up and he had no idea what I’d been going through. The bloody girls at Kara’s must have been discussing his “throat infection” when I took the maxi dress home, and by the time I got back he was as popular as the credit crunch.

I know they were telling me to be careful to protect me, but it was really doing my head in. And then the Feminazi made things worse by saying, “He sounds like a cad.”

None of us had ever heard of the word “cad”.

“That’s probably because it’s mainly used by the upper classes,” she explained.

No. That’s probably because it was mainly used 150 years ago
, I thought.

But I didn’t dare say that out loud. Because Kara’s the same age as Madonna, and looks all right for herself (who wouldn’t if they owned a beauty salon?), she likes to think she’s still young.

Anyway, when she said, “A cad is probably what YOU girls would describe as a player,” the girls loved it and kept saying in fake posh voices, “So, we’ll finally get to meet the cad!”

I laughed it off, but I really wanted them to shut up. Especially the Feminazi. And it was like Robbie read my mind, because when he arrived he politely introduced himself to the girls and shook their hands. Then he walked me to his spanking new black Range Rover and held the passenger door open for me like in the movies. His white linen suit was spotless. His hair (with the highlights I’m going to fix) was blowing in the breeze and he looked absolutely drop-dead! But the best bit was that the Feminazi looked like she was actually about to! In. Her. Wannabe Madonna. Face.

Robbie’s car is unbelievable. It has wheel rims I’ve only ever seen on
Pimp My Ride
, cream leather seats with his initials on the headrests, an Xbox, a DVD player and a satnav that’s actually set IN the dashboard!

“It’s a secret, princess,” he said when I asked where he was taking me. And I really did feel like one – Princess Remy Louise (Wilkins) Bennet.

Robbie weaved his way through rush-hour traffic and then we hit a chock-a-blocked M1, but I wouldn’t have cared if it had taken for ever to get there, because he was full of banter and kept telling me how nice I looked. He had me laughing and blushing all the way, until we finally turned into a gravel drive that took us past a golf course and led us up to the front of a HUGE cream-stoned mansion.

A doorman dressed in a smart grey uniform said, “Welcome to Le Grove, madam,” and it was so–oo unbelievable – him calling ME madam – that I had to fight off the giggles.

“We’re eating in the restaurant,” Robbie told him, getting out of the car and handing him his keys.

The restaurant was amazing, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and I swear it was fit for royalty. I scanned the room as we were shown to our table – gorgeous girls dressed to kill were having dinner with grey-haired old men.
He–eeeelp!
I thought, convinced they were all staring at me. Then my LBD kept riding up as I walked (which made my nerves even worse) and I had to keep tugging it back down. It was a relief when I finally made it to our table without exposing my backside to the world.

As we looked through the menu, Robbie cracked a few jokes about being the youngest bloke in the room. Then the waiter came for our order and I asked for the steak.

“Make that two,” Robbie said.

SEE, he CAN read my mind. He even ordered the same food!

When he asked for an expensive bottle of wine, I wanted to down it with him so–oo badly but only had one glass, remembering the WAG Charter. (Obviously, I’m a mess after two.)

“Don’t you like it?” he asked.

“Love it, but I’m … not a big drinker,” I said.

He looked well impressed with that. His blue eyes sparkled for Christmas. “If I’m gonna drink all this wine, I’ll have to book a room and drive home in the morning,” he said.

Book a room?
I thought.
Methinks you’re trying to seduce me. Yes–ss. NO. Yes–ss. NO. Yes–ss – damn the WAG Charter. It’s your life.

“Do you want me for dessert?” asked Robbie.

“Huh?” I gasped.

“I said d’you want coffee or dessert?” he repeated.

Oops! (Must invest in some cotton buds tomorrow.) “Er… Yeah. Dessert. Why not?” I replied.

I had an apple tart that looked delicious, but I couldn’t taste the bloody thing because every part of me was wondering what to do. From:
OMG, shall I go up to his room and just go for it?
To:
But the WAG Charter says I have to wait eight weeks!

Aargh! Then I remembered Malibu’s warning this afternoon. “Right, Remy, do you want to be his plaything for one night? Or” – I glanced up at the chandeliers, then flicked my eyes to the windows and absorbed the acres and acres of immaculate lawnage – “do you want to live like THIS for the rest of your life?”

No-bloody-brainer.

So I told myself:
Play hard to get and you won’t regret
. And I did it again and again and again. Five times. Eight times. Twenty times. Until Robbie said, “You look exhausted, princess. I’ll call you a cab.”

He walked me to the cab, and before I got in he snogged me to within an inch of my life.

Definitely the best date in the history of the universe!

I was having a proper hot dream about Robbie. Things were steaming up in the Le Grove hotel room. Then, just as it was getting to the best bit, I sprang up thinking,
OMG. He didn’t even TRY to take me up to his hotel room last night. Why? Why? Why?

I’m not saying he should have jumped on me or anything, but he could have at least attempted to get me up those stairs. Asked me up for a coffee. SOMETHING.

I think I need some moral support.

I’ll phone Kellie. We’re allowed to wake each other up in emergencies.

“Do you know what bloody time it is?” Kellie moaned when she eventually answered her phone. (After my fifth try!)

“Don’t get emo on me now, Kel,” I told her. “Not when I need you.” She listened as I told her everything. About Robbie’s car. His suit. The hotel. The kiss. “Things were perfect,” I said. “We even ordered the same food.” Then I told her I practically had a mental breakdown deciding whether or not to go home. “But now I’ve clicked. He didn’t want me to stay anyway.” I gave a big sigh. “I dunno. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy me.”

“Shut up,” she replied, “you’re gorgeous. What did you wear?”

“The LBD.”

“Hmm… LBDs can highlight your worst bits if they don’t fit right, but I read the other day that a maxi dress hides a multitude of sins. Why didn’t you wear that?”

Grr…

“Why didn’t I wear that?” I growled. “I phoned you in the morning and asked you which dress to wear. You said you couldn’t tell without seeing them.”

“Sorry,” she said. “But I had a little thing like AS LEVELS on my mind.”

I’d totally forgotten that this was Kellie’s exam week. Doh! I apologized and admitted, “I’ve been selfish, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can I go now?”

I put the LBD back on to check how I looked last night and tried to think positive.
There’s nothing to stop you from being the new Colleen Rooney
, I told myself. But when I swung round to see how I looked from behind, I thought,
Colleen’s bum can’t be this big. It just CAN’T be
! It looked like Dumbo’s bum cheeks had been squashed into a piece of black cling film. No wonder Robbie couldn’t wait to see the back of me. (No pun intended.)

Can’t sleep. It’s weird but now Robbie’s dissed me, everything about him seems perfect. Even his highlights and his
big
nose.

Threw the LBD in the bin (what’s the point in highlighting my worst bits?) then grabbed some Doritos from the kitchen cupboard (thought I might as well console myself). Was going to pig out in front of the TV, but when I opened the living-room door Dad was sleeping on the sofa. Mum always makes him sleep downstairs when she has the hump with him.

Poor Dad. We’re not just joined by blood any more but by major unwantedness!

Dear God, please let me get to sleep. I’m being assessed at the college beauty salon today and I don’t want to see Robbie every time I close my eyes. Ple–eeeeease.

I’ll even tidy my room.

Typical. I finally nod off at five, then Malibu bursts into my room three hours later to ask how it went.

“It was perfect!” I pretended. “We had dinner in a posh hotel in Hertfordshire.”

“A hotel? Hmm…” she said. “I hope you stuck to the WAG Charter.”

“Of course I did!” She asked me to swear on Leo DiCaprio’s life. And when I did, she believed me.

“I bet he was gagging for you, though,” she said.

“Yeah – had to practically beat him down with a stick.”

Right, better get ready for college. Hopefully for the last time. Can’t take being a trainee for much longer. OK, so it means I get an extra hour in bed on Thursdays, but it also means that I have to do a six-day week – major suckation. Plus the clients that come to the college salon think they can criticize my work just because I haven’t qualified yet. Sometimes I feel like shouting, “Shut up! You’re bloody getting this for free!”

Maybe I should have put up with Tara (spit, spit) Reid’s bullying and stayed on for sixth form, because work isn’t a bowl of cherries either. We all have to arrive looking glam and fully made-up, which takes me about an hour so I set the alarm for 7.28 a.m. (need a two-minute snooze). That’s earlier than I had to wake up for school! And on top of that, I’m mainly on reception duty because a trainee is only supposed to do treatments on workmates – and the Feminazi sticks to the rules. That means I have to answer the phone, write appointments in the diary and plaster my face with a smile like an American checkout girl – “Have a Nice Day” – the moment a client walks through the door. The Feminazi demands it. She says I’m the first point of contact and I’m representing her. But if I REALLY represented her, I’d stand on the reception desk and look down on everyone.

Anyway, after this session, and a good report from Kara, I should have enough accreditations for my NVQ and will officially become a beauty therapist. Ye–sss!

Got distracted by
Big Brother
. Everyone’s in bed. How can those lazy gits win 100k for this? OMG, that Bryan bloke snores like a pig!

Strange. Lance Wilson just phoned the house looking for Malibu. Haven’t heard from him in ages. I told him Malibu was at work.

“Of course,” he said. “What a numpty.”

He asked how she was doing and I said, “Great. She’s pulled herself a Chelsea footballer.” Because I wanted him to burn.

And he replied, “Great. I’m really happy for her.”

Yeah, right
, I thought, because he sounded gutted. Oh well, like Beyoncé says,
“If ya liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

Just in case Robbie didn’t invite me to his room for a v. good reason (e.g. could have had hole in underpants), I’ve texted this message:
Thanks 4 dinner. It was great. x