Even though I know that Janice’s Paris weekend probably won’t be much more romantic than my own, I can’t help feeling a bit cheesed off at my own state of affairs in comparison to hers. I can’t even afford a day trip to Bognor. And I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m going to do about it. So when I’ve put the phone down, I fashion myself a rough cheese, chilli and peanut butter sandwich and tune into Trisha to watch women in polyester leggings discuss wayward teenage daughters and dysfunctional acne-riddled sons.
Sam is as good as his word though. On Saturday morning, he calls me to make sure I get up, then he loafs round in his new Levi’s Twisted jeans, a grey V-neck T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap to explain how grown-ups apply for loans.
‘Looking good.’ I tweak the hat. ‘Like the weekend outfit. Very Father of Two.’
‘Not looking so bad yourself.’ He gives me a hug and laughs at the fact that I’m still in my pink and white stripy pyjamas, all muzzy with sleep. ‘Come on, bed breath. Let’s sort out this mess.’
And bless him. He spends the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon helping me define my objectives. Actually, he practically has to tell me what my objectives are, but he’s a great help. By four o’clock, I have what he tells me is a sound business plan. And I’m feeling so optimistic that I offer to cook him dinner tonight as a sort of thank you.
‘It’ll have to be beans on toast, mind,’ I tell him. ‘Unless you want to pay for it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looks kind of embarrassed.
‘Why?’ I can’t help asking him, even though it’s none of my business really.
‘Well, I’ve got a date.’
‘I see.’ For some reason I’m completely pissed off. It’s not often Sam turns down my dinner invitations. He’d rather bite off his foot at the ankle and throw it to the dogs than miss one of my slap-up feasts.
‘With Pussy. The girl from the wedding. She phoned me a while ago. We’re going to some trendy new club in the West End.’
‘Oh,’ I say dismissively. ‘Sniffing after Slinky Malinky No Boobs, eh? But you hate clubbing.’
‘I don’t.’
‘With me you do. You always refuse to come.’
‘Because you and George always make me go to gay clubs. And I always get hit on.’
‘Don’t be such a homophobe.’
‘I’m not. I just—’
‘Anyway.’ I shrug. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘But I don’t have to go now.’
‘You might as well,’ I say, finding it necessary to add, ‘I’m probably busy anyway. Very busy actually. Many thanks, though, for all your help.’
‘But—’
‘Bye.’
When he’s gone I flop onto my bed, looking up at my big silver glitterball and wondering what the hell made me behave like that. I’m just a bit pissed off that he must have known about this date for a whole week. And he hasn’t bothered to tell me. I tell him everything. Well, almost everything, And I’m feeling protective, I suppose. I don’t like Pussy. I suspect she’s really not a very nice person. And Sam’s like a big brother. I don’t want him to get dumped on.
Even though he’s usually the one who does the dumping.
The bank schedules my appointment for next Wednesday. And when the day comes, I pull on my smartest trouser suit. There’s a small chicken madras stain on the left thigh, but if I keep the jacket on it won’t show.
After all, this loan is really my last chance. A chance to make Mum proud of me. It’s the least she deserves, after all. God knows, since Dad left, she’s made enough sacrifices for me. The least she can hope for is a daughter who doesn’t lounge around the house watching hospital soaps all day.
Mind you, life would have been a hell of a lot easier for me if she had just bloody well given up on me. I could have been a complete failure in peace then. Damn her. Why couldn’t she have rejected me at birth? Held up her hand and announced to the midwife, ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t bond. Put it up for adoption.’ Or left me in a bin bag in a phone box outside St Pancras. Why does she have to be so bloody, irritatingly supportive all the time? She’s no idea of the pressure it puts on me.
At the bank I have to wait for a good hour outside the Loans Adviser’s office. I’m just thinking about sodding right off out of there and lying to Sam about it when the door opens and a man pokes his head out.
‘Ms Faulkner will see you now.’
Bugger.
‘Sorry.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘It’s not Faulkner any more. It’s back to Brisco now. Keep forgetting, you know?’