Crazygirl Falls in Love Read online

  Crazygirl Falls in Love

  By Alexandra Wnuk

  Copyright

  Crazygirl Falls in Love

  Published by Alexandra Susan Wnuk

  Copyright © 2015 Alexandra Susan Wnuk

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. The work is copyright and remains the property of the author. It may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  E-book ePub ISBN- 978-0-9931803-1-6

  Dedication

  Dedicated to coffee, cheese and wine

  Who are there for me in the good

  There for me in the bad

  There in the mornings. There at night

  There in my pantry, my dreams and in my heart

  The best revenge isn’t to live well

  Write a novel

  Base it on all the shitty people you know

  Publish it

  Make a lot of money

  Watch their heads explode in anger and frustration

  Nothing in this story is true (see copyright declaration)

  Ten days into the future

  I’m dancing wildly, barefoot, in the middle of a pub. There’s a sharp pain in the sole of my left foot, which I’m guessing is broken glass from the pint glass I just trod on. My head is spinning and my tummy is queasy, and I’ve finally managed to forget the events of today, but at what cost?

  I’m on the ‘dance floor’ (not really a dance floor, just an area of the Bayswater Arms that isn’t filled with tables and stools) with my new friend, PJ Staples. Yep, that’s his name. I’m dancing with a skin-headed, tattoo-sleeved, most likely double nipple-pierced personal trainer named PJ Staples. I have no job, no friends, an ex-imaginary boyfriend because I deluded myself into thinking we were dating (beyond embarrassing), no prospects, no future, no money, no Jesus, nothing. I feel invisible, and I’m dancing with someone I’d normally consider an absolute douche-turd, but because I’m wasted am hanging out with him anyway.

  I take another gulp of whiskey. Some sloshes onto my top,

  “Weeeeee!” I yell, singing along to the music, “Relight my fire! You’re love is my only desire! Relight my fire!”

  PJ puts his arms around my waist and tries to pull me into him. I struggle away a little because although most women would consider him most dribbly, he’s not my type.

  Then R Kelly Vibe comes on,

  “Oh my GOD! I LOVE THIS SONG!” I scream.

  The couple of patrons scattered around the pub shoot me disapproving looks. My arms and legs start moving more wildly than ever. I've stuck to the trusty two-step for the past half hour, assuming it'll minimise the retardedness. Which is does, you can't fault a two-step. But there's always that tipping point on a night out, isn’t there? Where you give up trying to look quasi-coordinated and succumb to delicious dancing temptation. The lack of bullying and insults I've received from my side-to-side bopping (which my psyche interprets as "hey, you're not such a bad dancer after all!") gives me a misguided sense of confidence, reaches out to my alcohol-soaked muscles and commands, "Ah to hell with it, hit it dancing queen! Go to thine destiny!" And I start twerking, looking like a rickety pensioner whose horse just came in 10 to 1.

  As I wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care, PJ Staples leers at me,

  “You know we’re fucking tonight, right?”

  From some place deep inside a tidal wave of indignation sweeps my body, and I slap his hands away,

  “Excuse me?”

  “You and me, luv, the chemistry, it’s on,” he says it with such bloated arrogance I feel sorry for him for a second. Is this guy serious?

  “Uh, yeah, sorry but I don’t think so,” I reply, turning around to go find my shoes which are somewhere near the jukebox.

  “What?” he asks good-naturedly, taking my arm and pulling me back to stay.

  “I’m going home, mi amigo.”

  “Great, we’ll go together,” he takes both my wrists and pulls me toward the door, “my car’s parked round the corner.”

  “No, I want to stay here,” I change my mind, my survival instinct kicking in.

  He doesn’t reply but pulls harder on my arms, and I am forced to take a step forward. I’m not liking this. I pull back slightly and immediately feel his grip tightening, and now it’s hurting the skin on my wrist.

  “Come on,” he says more forcefully.

  “No,” I respond, now pulling back as hard as I can, but every time I increase my energy for pulling, his doubles his for dragging.

  My butt is sticking out with my efforts to yank myself out of his grasp, but no matter how hard I try my body is still being hauled forward, and suddenly my mind isn’t clouded with brown spirits anymore. I am leaving this pub with a potential date-rapist whether I like it or not. My mind goes into mass panic sensory overload. No no no no no! I don’t want to go with him! I pull back as hard as I can but I’m no match for his strength. He’s a PT, he does weights for a living for Christ's sake.

  We’re only a few steps away from the door and I want to scream for someone to help but I can’t for some reason. I look around with the eyes of a trapped animal but no one in the pub seems interested.

  Oh my god.

  Friday - Stalker Sam

  Well, if anyone is going to have a happy ending, I’m glad it’s Maya. I read her Viber message again,

  Speaking of how nice my new man friend is, he baked me cupcakes for my birthday. You read that correctly – he BAKED CUPCAKES. A man did that. I am beginning to question the roundness of the earth.

  What would we do without technology, eh? How would I be able to chat to Maya, who is all the way in remote, last-stop-before-Antarctica Melbourne (also known as my home town)?

  Good for her, I think for the fourth time since initiating our back and forth international catch up. Maya’s had a bad run of things recently. Placing my phone back down I resume shovelling oversalted chips into my mouth. I’ve stepped out for lunch for the first time in four months. My boss doesn’t believe in lunch. To be fair, most Partners at Gribbles Law don’t, but today she’s out food and wine tasting for her upcoming nuptials, providing me and the rest of the team with this beautiful, rare, golden opportunity.

  My lunch date is myself. Chloe – my ever loyal and reliable best mate - bailed on me to go sofa shopping. So here I sit at the pub, alone but not unhappy, novel of the month perched on my left (Motley Crue’s autobiography – in my next life I have got to come back as a male rock star). My Blackberry sits on my right, screen flashing as work emails fly in swift and fast.

  I’m feeling rather chipper. Probably has something to do with the carb coma I’m about to succumb to. This has been the first proper meal I’ve had in ages. I usually skip lunch (not by choice mind you... stupid Gribbles...) but by 4:00 p.m. am starving so hit the emergency stash of Digestives I keep in my second drawer. I stuff my face with those and Fruit Pastilles (emergency stash found in my third drawer) until I resemble a human Yorkshire pudding. Then I drag my exhausted, glycaemically-slumped butt home. I’ll go for a run (because I like running), give up on the idea of making dinner immediately (because I don’t like cooking), order Chinese takeout or Domino’s, eat that, then end up eating more biscuits.

  Then I’ll give into my most primal of urges – I put on Sex and the City and drink red wine until I pass out.

  But perhaps today that cycle will be broken, because by golly today’s gru
b was solid feed. I’m almost sad to have to leave. Why can’t I be rich and stay here all day, drinking wine and gazing wistfully over Canary Wharf and looking up celebrity goss on Daily Mail whilst being stood up by friends?

  I begrudgingly wave for the bill and start rifling through my handbag. I’m sure I had chewy in here somewhere? As I continue to rummage the shadow of a waiter creeps across the table.

  “Cash or card?” a male voice asks, placing the bill next to the bread plate.

  I looked up to the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes that immediately make me self conscious about the poo-brown hues of my own. I instinctively look down. He seems familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it...

  “Card please,” I mumble, then look up, “say, have we met somewhere before?”

  “Not sure, maybe,” the amazing manly manshake shrugs as I punch my pin.

  He rips off the receipt and places the sliver of paper and my card back onto the metal plate cheque thingy, then walks back to the kitchen.

  It doesn’t take me long to forget him. As I cross Mackenzie Walk to get back to the office I see a tall girl waving at me. I don’t think I recognise her (never seen her before in my life in fact) but I don’t want to look like an asshole so I return the wave as a sort of social nicety. Turns out my initial instinct was right. She’s a total random and was waving to the lass behind me, so that I’m left looking like a friendless freak. I hate it when that happens.

  ***

  I am now in full Food Coma mode, beseeching the clock to tick along faster while pretending to review one of Tesco’s leases. Oops, did I just say Tesco? I meant… Schmermesco. Technically speaking, I’m not allowed to talk about my clients. Let’s just keep this one on the down low, hokay muchachos?

  I’ve always loved Fridays. Who doesn’t? But I’ve grown to crave them like a sugar junkie craves an Almond Joy, because weekends mean two full days away from Stalker Sam. He’s a fresh Senior Associate who started a month ago, and is the most annoying thing since the evolution of the housefly. Earlier this week he followed me to the coffee machine more times than I care to count, then stole my number from the firm’s PeopleFinder (or as us Gribblettes call it, Stalkernet) and started chatting to me on Whatsapp. I mean... Jeez. If one is going to use the stalking technique, surely they should be less obvious about it? For starters, stop lurking in the corridor.

  Speaking of, here he comes, swiping his card on the reader and holding the door open for our boss, the notorious Sarah ‘Angrypants’ Daye. I guess she’s back early from wedding food tasting time. Figures, she never takes a break.

  I peek up at them from my desk. She’s a frightening creature, this Angrypants of ours. Tall and slim, she’d be a knockout if she didn’t look a decade older than her rumoured 37 years. Her thin face is covered in fine wrinkles, particularly around the eyes. Her lips are thin as floss and always pursed slightly downwards. But the scariest part isn’t her fierce appearance, it’s her CV. She made Partner at thirty two years young. Only the leanest, meanest, competitivest, Terminator-eque-fighting machines make Partner at such a young age. Her one goal is to keep Associates like me utilised at two hundred and fifty percent. We all hate her.

  She’s not even that bright, just intimidating, but that’s the legal profession for you. All it takes is aggression, tenacity and a dash of technical knowledge. And buzzwords. Lots and lots of buzzwords. The more times you can squeeze in words like ‘synergies’, ‘value add’ and ‘leverage’ into your vocab the faster your career will progress.

  I’m not competitive (besides the odd moment over a game of Scrabble), nor tenacious, nor intimidating, and I hate buzz words. Why is it always ‘the overarching policy’ and not just ‘the policy’? The policy by its definition is overarching! Anyway, with that kind of an attitude I’m still at Associate level. They call lawyers like me Associates for Life, notwithstanding I’m just shy of thirty and should be well on the way to Junior Partner. Fish like me simply don’t have what it takes to scale that next rung.

  I look up from Schmermesco as Stalker and Angrypants walk past my desk. Angrypants is looking tired and cantankerous, as per usual. You know those people who have Perma-Exhausted Faces, like Susan Sarandon? Angrypants is one of those. She wears those dark saggy bags as a mark of honour. Eye bags show the world that she’s been up all night reviewing leases. Eye bags mean diligence and commitment. Eye bags command respect.

  Stalker shoots me a wink and a goofy smile as he passes my desk. I sigh to myself. I mean… why? Why does it always have to be that guy? Why are we never chased by the hot ones? Like that waiter from lunch. Why couldn’t he have winked at me, asked for my number, stalked me a little?

  I check the clock again (move you little bastard!) and go back to my half scribbled note next to subclause 2.3.5. I see my phone flash. It’s Chloe.

  Sorry again about earlier, Mission Sofa was aborted when I saw the crowds at John Lewis. Nightmare. So where are we headed tonight?

  I’d promised her we’d go out. I pick up my Galaxy, which I’ve grown to love like I would my own child, and begin typing,

  Work is putting on drinks at Loft. Fancy joining? I’ll text Mags now too. Free drinks and finger food! Let’s go Lady Marmalade styles - why spend mine when I can spend yours?

  “What up, gangsta-a-a?”

  Ugh, really? I look up from my screen and there he is. The new bane of my existence.

  “Hi Sam,” I say as I look back down.

  I place my phone down and start shuffling my papers, trying to look as busy as possible. Stalker doesn’t take the hint and proceeds to sit on the edge of my desk.

  “Been meaning to ask ya, mind if I call you P-Diddy, or P-square?”

  I blink.

  “I’d prefer Penny. You know, because it’s my name.”

  “Oh. Okay, no problemo. Are you coming out tonight? I’m considering making it my welcome drinks. You know, because I’m new and all.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  But standing far away from you, my stalkerish little friend.

  “Word. Catch you later, ‘gator.”

  And suddenly I feel really sorry for this idiot, who with every syllable is confirming that he is the lamest person I’ve ever met. I look up from shuffling my papers, sigh, and throw him a bone,

  “In a while, crocodile.”

  Stalker takes both hands out from his pockets, pretends they’re guns, clicks them at me and walks off. I shudder and go back to my phone to message Mags.

  Free drinks tonight at Loft, Brewer Street? Starts at six. Don’t be late else bar tab will run out

  Gribbles are usually quite generous with their quarterly drink nights, but you never know. Plus, Mags needs all the encouragement she can get to arrive on time. Earlier this week she, Chloe and I were supposed to meet up for dinner. Long story short, we were waiting for Mags for two hours. Chloe doesn’t eat a lot during the day but in the evenings she must have a massive dinner, and on time too. If you keep her waiting then… well, it ain’t good. After a few abusive voice messages left by a very hungry Chloe, Mags called. She had forgotten about us and was volunteering at an animal rescue shelter.

  Mags pings back immediately. I’m pleasantly surprised. Bless her but I’m usually waiting hours, sometimes days, to get a response.

  Yay! See you there, promise I won’t be late!

  ***

  Five hours later Chloe and I are sipping Loft’s cheapest Shiraz (no complaints, it’s free) wondering why Mags is an hour late. I take a long gulp, keeping my eyes firmly locked on Chloe’s. We’re trying to avoid the gazes of the Gribbles lads. It’s not that they’re not nice people, besides the freaks, like that guy in M&A whose hobby is to carve vegetable shapes out of aluminium cans (last Christmas I received an aluminium lettuce with a card saying ‘Lettuce be friends’). But yes, besides the oddballs they’re generally okay, just not our scene. I’d rather chew off my arm than date someone like Stalker, and they’re even less Chloe’s types. She likes
rugged, hairy-faced-Wolverine-types, not weedy lawyers.

  But hey, my colleagues are leagues better than the engineers-with-no-lives Chloe works for. The more wine we down the more bitter she becomes about her work peeps. I take another gulp as she continues,

  “... utterly incompetent and couldn’t take a calibration if God gave them the instruction manual, ignorant fools always looking for the lowest bidder. Haven’t they ever heard of value for money? The second cheapest contractor, the second cheapest, has ten-fold more experience and is actually competent at testing installations, but no no no, we have to save money now, regardless that we’ll be spending more later fixing their mistakes. And then there’s Majnoon, I still cannot believe what he did today…”

  Just as I’m about to tell her to chill-the-fu-u-udge out because she’s killing my buzz, we hear a squeal behind us. It’s Mags, her frizzy red mane pointing in every direction, green eyes sparkling,

  “Hi lovelies! So sorry I’m late, my class ran overtime then a bunch of students kept me back to argue their assignment marks. These kids, they’ll be the death of me.”

  She gives us each a quick hug. Mags teaches English and History at some high school somewhere. We often urge her to switch careers, teaching takes up so much of her spare time, and kids are all sociopaths as far as I’m concerned. But Mags never listens. She says teaching is her calling. She has one of those beautiful personalities where her kindness constantly shines through, like a star going nova.

  “No worries, how are you?” I ask her, sipping my wine (hope this stuff doesn’t give me the ever-so-sexy purple toothed grin).

  “Good thanks. Mind, I’m glad the weekend is here! What were we talking about?”

  “Majnoon,” Chloe spits, flicking her dark mahogany locks, and I notice how similar her hair colour is to the red wine we’re sipping.

  Majnoon is a nickname Chloe coined for a manager at her work. It means crazy or psycho in Arabic. Why Arabic? Because Chloe’s company develops Middle Eastern oil fields and she’s picked up a bit of the language. One of their oil fields is called Majnoon because of the insane amounts of black gold found there. Not that Majnoon himself is Arabic – they’re all Brits at Wilson & Smith Engineering – but Chloe thought it slightly more subtle to refer to him in the Arabic form while she bad-mouths him in the office kitchen.