Read Online Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy by Lucy-Anne Holmes - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy-Anne Holmes
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‘H-e-e-e-l-l-p.’
‘You need painkillers and fluids.’ I pop the painkillers out of their silver wrappers and hand them to her with the Lucozade. ‘Come on, get these down you.’
‘What are they?’
‘Paracetamol or ibuprofen or something, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
She picks up the packet that lies on the bed, squints at it and then relents and takes the pills.
‘Now, you should brush your teeth, never underestimate the power of brushing your teeth when hungover.’
‘You should be a nurse,’ she says, shielding her eyes with her hand and wincing at the light my weak little 40-watt bulb is producing. I yank open one of my bedside table drawers and survey my sunglasses. I pick out my Dame Edna shades with the tiny green and purple feathers sticking out at the sides and slide them onto her face.
‘That better?’
She nods. Very slowly.
‘There we go, now you’re hanging in style. You know, I could be a nurse, a hangover nurse. I could hire myself out to hungover people. That’s actually not a bad idea. I’d make a fortune on New Year’s Day.’
‘How are we, ladies?’ Al says, leaning on the doorframe and regarding us both. ‘Mrs T, you look charming.’
Mum nods slowly once again.
‘I made some frittata.’
‘Ooh, yes, please.’ I smile.
Could there be a better flatmate than Al? There is nothing he cannot do with an egg.
‘He made frittata?’ Mother seems baffled.
‘Yes, he’s amazing at cooking.’
‘He’s a man and he made frittata?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why does that make me so very happy?’
‘And you haven’t even tried it yet. Wait until you try it and then see how happy it makes you.’
‘I couldn’t eat.’
‘Mum, you have to eat.’
‘I had a Mini Roll,’ she says, a little indignantly.
‘Well, I’ll leave it in the kitchen for you, Fan-Tastic.’
‘Thanks, Al.’
I love the way Al calls me Fan-Tastic or Fanny Fan-Tastic, and I have tried to make a superlative out of his name but I’ve always failed. Al-Azing? Sensation-Al? See. Rubbish.
Mum’s leaning back against the pillows with her shades on. It’s not so much a Victoria Beckham bob now, more like some bloke called Bob who fared pretty badly in a pub brawl.
‘Oh, Mum, you’ve been asked out,’ I say.
Mum’s eyebrows rise above her sunglasses.
‘Dr Flemming was wondering if you’d go to a Mozart by candlelight concert with him on Friday.’
‘Oh.’
It wasn’t an excited ‘oh’.
‘His number’s on the fridge, will you call him and say yes or no? When you can speak.’
Another very slow nod.
‘Mum, Matt proposed last night.’
She lifts her shades and sees my smile.
‘I said yes.’
‘You’re getting married.’
She sounds a little surprised. I can’t blame her. My dad used to say no one would ever marry me.
‘Yes. Soon. Matt wants to get on with it quickly.’
A little tear trickles down her smiling face and I feel myself relax for the first time since returning from Philippa’s. A tear and a smile. Now this is a much more healthy reaction to my wedding news.
‘Oh, you big softie, stop that crying.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs. ‘I just never thought I’d see you married.’
And on that flattering note I get up and leave the room to acquaint myself with Al’s frittata and finish my book.
Chapter 12
‘What we drinking?’ Philippa says as we walk into the dingy gig venue. ‘Sod it, shall we Jägerbomb?’
‘Blimey,’ I say, because Philippa was on the bomb last night too.
‘Yes! See! See, what your impending nuptials are doing to me!’
We’re in Nunstone for the gig. Mum did get up, at 5.15 but was back in bed by 6.03. She said she needed to lie in a darkened room, and that I should go out and celebrate my proposal with my best friend. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not something that Philippa would ever contemplate celebrating. Anyway, I’m glad to be out and I’m glad it’s just the two of us.
‘My shout,’ I tell
‘You need painkillers and fluids.’ I pop the painkillers out of their silver wrappers and hand them to her with the Lucozade. ‘Come on, get these down you.’
‘What are they?’
‘Paracetamol or ibuprofen or something, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
She picks up the packet that lies on the bed, squints at it and then relents and takes the pills.
‘Now, you should brush your teeth, never underestimate the power of brushing your teeth when hungover.’
‘You should be a nurse,’ she says, shielding her eyes with her hand and wincing at the light my weak little 40-watt bulb is producing. I yank open one of my bedside table drawers and survey my sunglasses. I pick out my Dame Edna shades with the tiny green and purple feathers sticking out at the sides and slide them onto her face.
‘That better?’
She nods. Very slowly.
‘There we go, now you’re hanging in style. You know, I could be a nurse, a hangover nurse. I could hire myself out to hungover people. That’s actually not a bad idea. I’d make a fortune on New Year’s Day.’
‘How are we, ladies?’ Al says, leaning on the doorframe and regarding us both. ‘Mrs T, you look charming.’
Mum nods slowly once again.
‘I made some frittata.’
‘Ooh, yes, please.’ I smile.
Could there be a better flatmate than Al? There is nothing he cannot do with an egg.
‘He made frittata?’ Mother seems baffled.
‘Yes, he’s amazing at cooking.’
‘He’s a man and he made frittata?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why does that make me so very happy?’
‘And you haven’t even tried it yet. Wait until you try it and then see how happy it makes you.’
‘I couldn’t eat.’
‘Mum, you have to eat.’
‘I had a Mini Roll,’ she says, a little indignantly.
‘Well, I’ll leave it in the kitchen for you, Fan-Tastic.’
‘Thanks, Al.’
I love the way Al calls me Fan-Tastic or Fanny Fan-Tastic, and I have tried to make a superlative out of his name but I’ve always failed. Al-Azing? Sensation-Al? See. Rubbish.
Mum’s leaning back against the pillows with her shades on. It’s not so much a Victoria Beckham bob now, more like some bloke called Bob who fared pretty badly in a pub brawl.
‘Oh, Mum, you’ve been asked out,’ I say.
Mum’s eyebrows rise above her sunglasses.
‘Dr Flemming was wondering if you’d go to a Mozart by candlelight concert with him on Friday.’
‘Oh.’
It wasn’t an excited ‘oh’.
‘His number’s on the fridge, will you call him and say yes or no? When you can speak.’
Another very slow nod.
‘Mum, Matt proposed last night.’
She lifts her shades and sees my smile.
‘I said yes.’
‘You’re getting married.’
She sounds a little surprised. I can’t blame her. My dad used to say no one would ever marry me.
‘Yes. Soon. Matt wants to get on with it quickly.’
A little tear trickles down her smiling face and I feel myself relax for the first time since returning from Philippa’s. A tear and a smile. Now this is a much more healthy reaction to my wedding news.
‘Oh, you big softie, stop that crying.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs. ‘I just never thought I’d see you married.’
And on that flattering note I get up and leave the room to acquaint myself with Al’s frittata and finish my book.
Chapter 12
‘What we drinking?’ Philippa says as we walk into the dingy gig venue. ‘Sod it, shall we Jägerbomb?’
‘Blimey,’ I say, because Philippa was on the bomb last night too.
‘Yes! See! See, what your impending nuptials are doing to me!’
We’re in Nunstone for the gig. Mum did get up, at 5.15 but was back in bed by 6.03. She said she needed to lie in a darkened room, and that I should go out and celebrate my proposal with my best friend. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not something that Philippa would ever contemplate celebrating. Anyway, I’m glad to be out and I’m glad it’s just the two of us.
‘My shout,’ I tell
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