The Wedding Date. Jennifer JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
it’s an iPhone. Go, super-tech Granny), a hairbrush with wispy white hair caught up in the bristles. ‘I’m sure…’ A bingo marker (red) and a biro (blue). ‘No, sorry, lovey. No plasters. I don’t even have a clean tissue for you.’
‘It’s ok. Really.’ I stretch out my leg, wincing and gritting my teeth with the pain that follows. Blood is oozing onto the non-ruined part of my tights. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure? That was quite a nasty fall.’
Like I need reminding. I was there. It hurt. A lot.
‘I’m sure. But thank you.’ I feel a bit bad for being so grumpy. It isn’t this sweet old lady’s fault I’m such a doofus. ‘Would you like me to put your things back into your bag for you?’
‘Thank you, lovey.’ She smiles at me again. ‘My hands aren’t so good any more.’
I put the items back into the handbag carefully, not throwing them in like I would with my own. The old lady chats away as I do so, introducing herself as Maude and telling me about her three cats, Daisy, Fluffy and Pickle. Which reminds me. I should probably introduce myself to you. I’d have done it sooner but I was a bit caught up with the whole bus-run-splat saga. You know. You were there.
So, I’m Delilah James, middle child of Raymond and Nancy James. I’m twenty-four and, for reasons beyond my control (mostly financial), I still live at home with my parents and younger brother, Justin. I meant to move out, really I did. I couldn’t wait to spread my wings and fly the nest, but life doesn’t always work out the way you planned it. For example, when I was ten my life plan was to audition for Pop Idol when I was old enough, win (obviously), become a famous pop singer and marry Mark from Westlife. Which didn’t work out at all because:
a) I hurt my own ears when I sing;
b) The show stopped after two series; and
c) Mark from Westlife is gay, which is the only reason he wouldn’t marry me, obviously.
Still, you pick yourself up and move on. Or not, in the case of my residential status.
I was supposed to move out of Mum and Dad’s as soon as I left school. My best friend Lauren (more about her later, I promise) and I had it all planned out. We’d get part-time jobs to fit around college and we’d move into a little flat together. It would be so much fun. There would be no boring old parents to boss us around and tell us to eat vegetables and stuff. We could laze around in our pyjamas all day (when we weren’t at college, obviously) and have Friends marathons every weekend. And, best of all, I wouldn’t live with my annoying little dweeb of a brother.
Perfect!
At least it would have been perfect if we’d managed to find jobs to fit around college. Who knew there was so much work involved in A Levels? Plus, people can be pretty snooty about hiring sixteen-year-olds and paying them a fair wage. Lauren and I decided to postpone out flat share until after college. It was the proper, grown-up thing to do. Except Lauren went one step further in the proper, grown-up decisions and went off to university, leaving me – and our flat share plans – behind. She returned of course, but by then I was loved up with Ben (more about him later, unfortunately) and I assumed we’d do the whole getting-married-and-living-together thing. We didn’t and yet I’m still living at home with the parents instead of flat sharing with Lauren. And why? Because I’m a fool, that’s why. Ben and I split up nine months ago but there’s a stupid part of me that’s still clinging onto the hope that sometime soon he’ll come to his senses, realise he’s been a complete pea-brained imbecile in dumping me and we’ll get back together and live happily ever after.
So, that’s me in a nutshell. I could tell you that I have scarily inadequate general knowledge, that I adore musicals and have a slight addiction to smoothies, but you’ll figure all that out soon enough anyway.
The Office
Text Message:
Delilah: I’m dying, Lauren. Really, truly dying. I can’t face work when I’m this hungover
Lauren: You can’t face work when you’re not hungover
Delilah: That’s so true. Rescue me, pleeeeeease
Lauren: I would but I’m at work too. I’ll treat you to a smoothie tonight
Delilah: You’re the best!
I hobble off the bus, waving to Maude as it pulls away again. She gives a gnarly-fingered wave back, smiling that kind, sweet smile as she disappears from view. We had to wait twenty minutes for another bus, so I’m majorly, majorly late for work now. Trying not to cry (both from the pain in my knee and the fact that I’m hobbling to work, hungover, on a Monday morning), I make way across to the business park, hobbling towards the uninspiring concrete block that is Brinkley’s – my place of work.
Brinkley’s is a biscuit factory, but don’t get too excited. Working at a biscuit factory isn’t nearly as delicious as it sounds, at least not when you work for Neville Brinkley. When I applied for the position of office junior after my A Levels, I assumed I’d be up to my eyeballs in free biscuits. Sampling the products had to be a perk of the job!
Wrong.
There are no perks at Brinkley’s, unless you count bitchy co-workers and nepotism. Which any sane person wouldn’t.
I make my way past the factory to the Portakabin that houses Brinkley’s office staff. It’s ugly and grey with tiny, useless windows that don’t seem to let in any natural light at all. We have to have the strip lighting on at all times – even during the height of summer – which isn’t good when you’ve got a raging hangover from a night at the pub with your mates.
‘What time do you call this?’
I’ve pushed open the door (reluctantly) and stepped into the office, only to be shrieked at by Katey-Louise. My ears can’t handle her at the best of times, so they aren’t best pleased right now. If they could, my ears would pop off the sides of my skull and bog off home to my bed.
‘You’re late.’ Katey-Louise stalks across the office and stands right in front of me with her hands on her hips. I’d love nothing more than to reach out and place my palm across her stupid little face and push her away. She’s invading my space and I don’t like it. I don’t like her.
Katey-Louise screws up her mouth. ‘I’m reporting you.’
Snitching little witch.
‘Give her a break, Katey-Louise. She’s obviously had an accident.’ My colleague Adam – the only colleague I actually like – gets up from his desk and manoeuvres Katey-Louise out of my personal space and leads me towards my desk, slowly. ‘What happened? Are you ok?’
I want to be brave, really I do. But I’d also quite like a bit of sympathy and a valid excuse for being late (having a hangover doesn’t cut it, apparently). So I sniffle a bit and wince as I sit in my chair. I may be overegging it slightly, but my knee does hurt and there is quite a bit of congealing blood.
‘I was pushed over.’ Not entirely true, but it’s better than admitting I tripped over an uneven bit of pavement. Especially with Katey-Louise hovering.
‘Pushed over?’ Katey-Louise snorts. Which is fitting as she’s a snide little pig. ‘Who by? A school kid? Did they try to steal your dinner money?’
‘No.’ I stick my chin in the air. ‘It wasn’t a school kid. It was a bloke. A big bloke.’ I stretch my arms wide to demonstrate. ‘And he didn’t try to steal my dinner money. He tried to steal my handbag.’
‘You mean that one?’ Katey-Louise juts a finger towards the handbag still hooked over my shoulder.
‘Yes,