Every June, one of the most spectacular and glamorous events in the area takes place just under nine miles from where I live. Much of Yorkshire and a few from elsewhere descent on Beverley locusts migrating. At least, it feels like it. The ladies day at Beverley racecourse is the ultimate day out. Today there is beautiful dresses, stylish suits and the ultimate race and you can feel the excitement buzzing in the air. I know as much about horse racing as I do theoretical physics, but that’s irrelevant. To me, the event is about sparkling Prosecco on a sunny spring day, women dressed to the nine’s, and more fun than you’d find outside the walls of Alton Towers. It is compulsory to attend with a group of friends, the law of averages dictating that at least one will win enough, either on the main race or the smaller ones combined, to treat the losers to a takeaway at the end of the day. We are here en masse on what is miraculously, the warmest day of the year so far; Scott and Ra
The rest of the afternoon is as close to the definition of pure enjoyment as you can get. We laugh, drink cheer our way through the final two races before stepping on packed but merry train back to Hull. Nobody cares if their toes are stepped on by stiletto heels or of their hat falls off and ends up looking dirty. We ought to stop drinking and go home to a warm horlicks, but the city nightlife is too seductive. As the train pulls into a station to let a couple off, I glance at Dani and Jamie. Their arms are wrapped around a pile and each other – with their eyes locked in mutual adoration. Dani catches me looking at her. “You okay?” She mouths. I nod and smile. As Jamie pulls her tighter, I know I don’t have to ask her the same. Rachel, meanwhile, is resting her head drunkenly on Scott’s shoulder two seats away from where Chris and I are sitting, holding hands. I can’t see Scott’s face as woman wearing the biggest hat I’ve ever seen is blocking his way. But from Rachel’s expres
Dani pulls a face and scrunches her nose, “What did you say you fancy? I couldn’t hear you I’ve the noise.” I stare at her, unable to repeat the words, let alone believe them. “I fancy…” my voice trails off. She looks at me in bewilderment, “what? A dance? A drink?” I nod, snapping out of my daze. “Yes, I fancy a drink.” “Well, it’s my round,” she says, pulling her purse from her bag. “You’d better wait here; in case these lot start throwing their knickers at him.” As Dani heads to the bar, I find myself wandering away to look for Chris. I spend twenty minutes searching the venue, desperate to reinstate order in my twisted mind. I fancy Chris, not Scott. Chris not Scott. I fancy Chris. The more I say it, the more convinced I am and the better I feel. Unfortunately the improvement in my psychological well-being is short lived. It becomes obvious that Chris has ditched us. He’s abandoned us and disappeared to god knows where. I feel a flash of panic that he saw me watch
Rachel stays the entire day Sunday and I spend the day bumping into her and Scott and exchanging awkward pleasantries. I keep expecting her to leave, but she doesn’t. By Monday morning, I’m desperate to get out of the house so head off to work at quarter past seven. I have my bag over my shoulder and my hand on the door handle when Rachel emerges from Scott’s room, wearing one of his new shirts – and a flush on her neck. “Hi again.” All of a sudden she looks shy, which is odd from someone who had no compunction about her orgasmic groans reverberating through the walls for over twenty four hours. “Hi Rachel,” I smile. “Good weekend?” “You could say that,” she giggles. I’m at my desk by ten to eight and spend the first hour sorting through the mountain of emails I didn’t manage to look at on Friday. At eight fifty, I can hear Mr Brown approaching the double doors from the corridor; I’d recognise his laugh anywhere. He’s chatting to someone as he opens the door. “Morning,
The Rachel Weekend as it’s become known by me, Dani and Katie, turns out to just be the start. The new Scott has been unleashed. The weekend after the Rachel weekend, he has a date with a photographer called Jenny. It lasts for several days. The Saturday after that, there’s a gym with a Pilates instructor called Leanne. She only lasts one night, but then he’s back with Rachel. But only in the Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. By Saturday, a graphic designer called Chloe pops out of nowhere. She stays until Monday, when Rachel appears again. But only for one night, because he’s back with Jenny again the following evening, while I’m left to fight off phone calls from others. And so it goes on. In the three weeks or so since the Beverley Races, I hardly see Scott. When I do he’s either off out with some woman or other, or coming back with them, where they closet themselves in his bedroom – emerging hours, or more often – days later, with the most nauseatingly dreamy look on their face.
As my only other single friend, I invite Katie over to share chocolate and wine. There was a time when, if I didn’t have a date on a Saturday night, I’d sit in with Scott watching something on DVD from the corner rental shop. It was an exercise in compromise as this is a shop that time forgot. If you wanted mid nineties classics, this would be your place. Anything approaching a new release, you’d have to wait another five years, before Gary the owner, contemplates getting it in. Aside from that, Scott’s idea of a great movie and mine aren’t always the same thing. My choices have been; just like heaven, maid in Manhattan, just my luck. His choices have been speed, Shawshank redemption. I took it for granted until now. I can no longer count on Scott to just be there. To listen as I whinge about my love life. To hold my bag of minstrels so that I can pretend he’s eaten them. To hand me the tissues when David kisses Elizabeth and her souls returns to her body. Still, I’m having
Scott arrives home at eleven the next morning and immediately jumps in the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he finds his way to the kitchen, as I’m making brunch. “Rachel called for you, again, last night,” I tell him as I try to unpurse my lips. “Uh. Did she?” He at least has the decency to look guilty about messing her around. “Yes,” I reply, coldly. Scott is wearing a pair of cargo pants and a pink T-Shirt. Nothing special, yet he manages to look impossibly sexy. I haven’t got my head around that idea yet. Scott being sexy, I mean. Scott looking half decent used to be a difficult enough concept. Every morning, I expect him to emerge looking like he used to; as if he stepped out of a Time Machine, all monstrous clothing and mad hair. Instead, his clothes enhance a physique to which I had never paid a moment’s attention to, until recently. One with sculpted biceps, a toned stomach, a broad and muscular back and a perfectly formed arse. It’s hard to believe that’s always b
The following weekend, things are looking up. I’ve stopped wallowing in self pity and I have a date. I know that some people might not see this as a reason to celebrate, given my success rate. But. As I have discovered only too well, it’s better than sitting at home, watching Dirty Dancing, again, and listening to the groans of ecstasy coming through Scott’s wall. Besides, I have a good feeling about this one. Call me blindly optimistic, but, Wayne – whom I met at a business lunch – seems like a gentleman, unlike some of the guys I’ve been out with. He’s also slightly less, how can I say this…. Obvious in the looks department. A bit shorter. Thinner. Pointy-nosed. Oh, that makes him sound terrible and he’s not. He’s quite good looking. Certainly passable. Which will do for me, because what makes a man sexy and nice – and all the other things I’m looking for, has nothing to do with how he looks. I’ve learned that much. I’m also convinced that Wayne has the potential to be mo
If anybody had told me six months ago that Dani and my dimwit brother would become an item, I’d have questioned their sanity. She’s sophisticated, intelligent and witty. And, well, he farts like a flatulent rhinoceros and is refined as those hillbillies on The Hills Have Eyes. Yet, they got together two weeks after the fire, when Dani expressed a sudden and mysterious desire to join me when I popped round to Steve’s to loan him The Walking Dead box set. I stayed for fifteen minutes. Dani stayed for four days. Her theory is that I am blind to Steve’s charm because he’s my brother. That he’s fun, loving, amusing and attentive. She also tried to tell me that he’s great in bed, but I acted like a grown up and stuck my fingers in my ears, while singing “la-la-la-can’t-head-you-la-la-la” until she stopped. As for Steve, well, he’s smitten. Honestly, she’s turned him into a puppy dog – albeit not a very cute one. Despite my reservations, they seem to be enjoying themselves. And for the
The moment I see him I am balled over by how handsome he is, he’s irresistibly, mouth wateringly sexy. I’m looking at a man who, thanks to project Scott, is the ultimate manifestation of female desire. He turns heads wherever he goes. But that isn’t the reason I love him. It’s not the clothes, or the hairstyle, it isn’t even his body or face. The Scott I love is the funny, intelligent, caring, loyal and lovely person I met all those years ago. That’s the Scott I long for, the Scott I can’t spend another day without. The trimmings and display are irrelevant. “Hi there, Emma,” he grins. His grin becomes a smile and it sends a surge of Hope through my veins, turning my legs to jelly and killing my ability to speak. “Are you okay?” “Yes. I … yes,” I stutter. Emotion rushes through me and my heartbeat thuds in my chest, thundering in my ears. “I’m just surprised to see you,” I say once my words find their way back to me. “And… happy?” I nod as tears cloud my vision. “Ve
There’s one single word on the front: Emma. Seeing my name written in Scott’s very distinctive handwriting makes my heart pause and I gasp for breath. With my heart racing and fingers trembling, I open the envelope and head to my small balcony terrace. I throw myself into the chair, cross my legs and scan the letter, unable to devour its contents quick enough. ******** Dearest Emma, I’ve written this letter multiple times, and rewritten it in my mind at least a thousand times. Yet o never thought putting pen to paper would be so difficult. This is the eleventh copy and I’m still not happy with it. I thought about quoting your favourite poetry and literature but nothing seems appropriate enough to explain the situation, so it’s down to clumsy old me. There’s just one small problem; what do you say to the woman you’ve been in love with for years? From the moment I first met you, Emma, my life has been enhanced in a way I can’t fully explain. All those cold, wet and miserable aft
I try to think of an ingenious way to get through security. But after yet another infuriating conversation with another official, I’m forced to accept that the methods to combat terrorism are also enough to intervene when a unfit, scruffy and desperate woman. With an alarming and increasing level of determination I decide to buy a ticket to somewhere in Asia, just so that I can get through the security gates. But after another episode at the security desk, the fact that my passport is in a box at my new home is clearly a show-stopper. I stand in the airport in a confused daze, and take out my phone. I wanted to do this in person, but now I have no choice. I close my eyes and wait for the line to ring. It goes straight to voicemail. “Oh god,” I cry, but nobody notices. For almost an hour I pace up and down, trying to come up with a brilliant plan. But no matter how I try, nothing happens and no plan is formed. I look at my watch for the millionth time today and see that
I’m normally the safest driver in the world. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Scott would say I drive like a grandma, behind the wheel , sticking to the speed limit and often below it. Scott, my heart aches. But with the needle on my speedometer touching a perilous 74mph – okay, so I’m not the next Schumacher or Hamilton, but I’m belting along the M62 in a small Vauxhall corsa leaving behind a caravan and two heavy duty trucks. My heart is hammering against my ribcage as I play corny movie scenes in my head. Lovers running with open arms and floaty haired women being spun around. Kisses that go on forever. The problem is, that this reunion isn’t going to be straightforward. Firstly, there’s Katie. Whether she fancies Daniel or not, there’s protocol to follow. Call me old fashioned, but declaring your love for someone else’s boyfriend isn’t the done thing. Yet, that is exactly what I’m about to do. And I’m not sure if I care about the consequences. And then there’s t
Dani is screaming so loudly that the poor patients at the other end of the corridor must think she is undergoing an amputation without pain relief. “Why didn’t you tell me? For fuck sake!” “I… I .. don’t know,” I stammer. “I didn’t want to compromise your friendship with Katie for a start.” “How?” She asks incredulously. “Katie’s in love with Scott, like you said. Even if I was going to be a total arsehole and try to steal him – which I’m not – what good would come of telling you? It’d just land you with information that you’d be powerless to act on.” “Uhhhhh,” Dani rubs her hands down her face. “What a mess.” “Don’t I know it,” I agree. “I don’t mean about you and Scott,” she tuts impatiently. “Though I grant you, that is also a mess.” “What then?” She sighs and her eyes find the window. “You know when I said that I thought Katie was in love with Scott?” I nod. “I was wrong.” It takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. “What?” “She likes Scott, don’
Given the fact that my mum was in a serious near death experience twelve hours ago, she’s looking amazingly well. “Just typical, isn’t it?” She mutters as she grabs another peanut m&m. “Everyone in the real housewives has a hot tub and none of theirs houses burned down.” Dani just smiles and offers me an m&m. “No thank you,” I shake my head. “But then I suppose they had the real thing and wasn’t swimming around in a discarded birthing pool.” My mum must be made of stronger stuff than me. While she is happily stuffing her face with chocolate, I feel like I’ve been hit by a damn truck. It’s not just the aftermath of the fire though, although that alone could leave me in a state of shock until 2040. My mind is also spinning with thoughts of Scott, who is now en route to Doncaster airport. I hope he’s not too annoyed with me for sneaking off, but then I did have a good excuse, even though visiting hours don’t officially start until 10am. It’s a good job Dani managed to
Scott has gone to the local store, just as he always does on his days off. Only this isn’t a normal day off. All his bags are packed and waiting by the door, ready for his departure in two hours. I’m supposed to go to the airport to see him off, but the moment my eyes opened this morning, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I won’t be able to watch him and Katie head off together without bursting into tears and giving the game away. I take a notepad and pen from my bag, and begin writing as quickly as I can. I don’t have long until he returns. ‘Dear Scott, I’m sorry that I didn’t get to go to the airport with you, but if I don’t make visiting hours at 9:00am, I won’t see mum. She needs me right now, more than you need me, after what happened. I know you’ll understand, under the circumstances. Have an amazing trip and please don’t forget about me, will you? I’ll miss you more than I could ever explain. I meant what I said – I want a post card from every destination - don’t
Scott abandons the car without consideration for others outside of Mum’s and Dad’s house and we quickly jump out. The air is thick with smoke and fear as the neighbours with grey faces huddle amongst themselves. There’s firefighters everywhere; running and shouting. I stand in front of the house and struggle to breathe as the flames crackle and roar, as they burst from three windows and the smoke billows into the night. “Where are they?” “They’re still in there,” Steve says, his eyes heavy with tears. “I tried to go in, but the hallway was filled with smoke and….” Without even thinking, I race towards the house, but Scott wraps his arms around me and pulls me back. “LET ME GO!” I scream. “Let the professionals do their jobs, Emma,” he pleads as his arms wrap tighter around me. I watch horrified as the firefighters wearing breathing apparatus make their way into the house. There’s orders being shouted and soon the house is being doused with foam and water. I feel a sudden r