“You’re joking,” Callum says, his mouth dropping open. There’s a piece of chewed-up sandwich inside that I can’t stop staring at—ew.
I frown. “What? No . . . she really is a wedding planner.”
“No, no, not that. It’s just, my cousin is getting married at Castle Lochland over half term. Jane Kemp?”
The name does ring a bell. “I think it is the Kemp–Smithson wedding,” I agree. Normally, I wouldn’t remember details like that, but this is an exception as it’s such a big deal for my mum.
“Smithson! That’s it. I always forget the guy’s name. What a coincidence! In fact, I think it must be fate.” He leans towards me, his hand casually falling on top of mine. I feel as if he’s leaning in to kiss me . . .
A loud shriek makes us both turn our heads. My eyes scan the lake’s edge, until I spot the source: it’s just a child being chased around by his mum. The little boy is wearing a bright paper crown marked with a big “6,” and following a few steps behind are ten or eleven more children and one or two mums and dads.
“Oh, it must be a birthday party!”
“Great. A bunch of noisy kids to ruin the mood,” Callum mumbles.
I don’t think I agree with him, although I suppose it does interrupt the romantic atmosphere somewhat. Then a drop of water lands on my head. (Where on earth have those clouds come from? They seem to have materialized out of nowhere.) “Somehow,” I say, “I don’t think the party’s going to ruin it.”
At which point, as if my words are a prophecy, the heavens open, and our beautiful picnic is drenched by the rain.
Chapter Eighteen
All Callum’s careful arranging goes out of the window as we hurriedly toss everything back into the hamper. The birthday group are now really screeching and running for shelter.
When everything is put away, Callum grabs my hand. “This way!” he says.
I still have a paper plate in my hand, which I hold over my head as a very poor substitute for an umbrella. We run towards the park gates and into the welcoming dry of a coffee shop near the station.
Even from that short downpour, my hair is soaked. My makeup, so carefully applied earlier, is also letting me down big time. I look up at Callum, who hardly seems wet at all. His short hair is as perfect as ever. How do boys do that?
He wipes a drop of rain from the tip of my nose. To my surprise, his shoulders slump down. “Sorry about this. The weather forecast this morning didn’t say anything about rain.”
“That’s OK. You can’t always rely on what those guys say anyway, right?” I grin.
“Clearly not.” His eyes glower.
“Hey, don’t worry about it—really.” I put my hand on his arm.
He shakes me off. “Meh. Would you mind ordering me a latte? I’m going to the loo to get dry.” He hands me a fiver and storms off.
I’m left staring at his back, the five-pound note limp in my hand. Then I shake out of it: the rain’s ruined his plans for the day and he’s mad. That’s OK. I get in the (now) long line for coffee.
“Oof, what a nightmare!” cries the woman behind me. I turn round and recognize her as one of the women from the birthday party. “That wasn’t forecast, was it?”
“Apparently not!” I say.
“What am I going to do with a dozen screaming kids expecting an outdoors party? Any ideas?”
I shrug, but the woman keeps on talking. “All I have is a nearly sodden birthday cake. I guess I’ll just have to serve it here. Great! Add sugar highs to my growing list of problems . . .”
I look over her shoulder at the swarm of bored children and I feel her disappointment. “Can I do anything? Can I get your drink so you can start cutting the cake?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful! Thank you.” She hands me a couple of pounds. “Just a tea for me. Lord, do I need it!” She rushes back to the kids, one of whom—the six-year-old birthday boy—is climbing up onto a table. “Get down, Lucas!” she shouts irritably.
I laugh. Finally, when it’s my turn at the counter, I order a latte and two cups of tea with milk.
“Who’s the third drink for?” Callum pops up behind my shoulder and I jump. He looks relaxed again, I’m pleased to see.
“Oh, the poor mum looking after that gaggle of kids.”
“That’s nice of you.” Callum takes the latte from out of my hand and walks to the farthest seat away from the birthday party.
“Do you mind if I pop to the loo first?” I ask. Callum waves his hand dismissively, so I take that as a yes.
Under the harsh lights of the cloakroom, I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I brush away some of the mascara that has drifted off my lashes, and try to fluff some sort of life back into my damp hair. But it’s the look in my eyes that’s shaking me. I just don’t look at all . . . happy.
I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong. Callum has been a perfect gentleman—with a couple of little blips about the alcohol and then the rain. But there’s a weird swirling feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with being hungry. There’s just none of the . . . the excitement, the spark, that I was expecting to feel. In fact, it almost feels as if the tiled walls are closing remorselessly in on me and all I really want to do is come up with a reason to leave without seeming rude. I’m enjoying hiding away in here far too much.
I half think about texting Elliot for advice, but I know he’ll scold me for being on my phone during a date, so I decide to pull myself together. You’re just not being fair, Penny, I tell myself. Give him a chance at least.
Mood bolstered, I put on a big smile again and head out into the coffee shop.
“Thought you’d got lost in there,” says Callum.
“Nope, all good.”
“Well, you look beautiful. Even drenched by the rain.” He touches my hand as I sit down and I blush furiously. Although I’m unsure where my feelings are at right now, he looks absolutely, meltingly gorgeous, and any uneasy feelings I’ve been having seem to vanish. Am I really that fickle?
“Thanks,” I say.
“Sorry to interrupt, sorry to interrupt!” The woman from earlier comes hurrying over, and I can’t help noticing the flicker of frustration that distorts Callum’s perfect features. Luckily, the woman doesn’t seem to notice, and I give her a warm smile. “Thank you so much for my tea. In return, here’s a couple of slices of birthday cake.”
She plops two smooshed-up pieces of chocolate cake wrapped in a brown napkin on the table and dashes back.
I pick up one of the slices and take a bite. It’s delicious. “Wow, free cake!” I say. “And it’s really, really good!”
Callum shrugs. “I’m not really a big cake fan.”
“Hey, this is so weird, we’ve just been given free cake!” I feel excitement bubble up through my veins. It’s the perfect opportunity to see what Callum is really like.
Callum stares at me like I’ve gone off the deep end. “Uh, yeah, and . . . ?”
“And . . . OK, hear me out. In my family, we have this tradition called Magical Mystery Day. We haven’t done it for a little while, but it always used to start with cake—and then we’d have to go from place to place, having cake with every meal.”
“Sounds a little dumb . . .” There’s a forced smile creasing his face, which is followed by an awkward chuckle.
“Yeah, I guess it is . . .” My face falls.
Callum notices and backtracks. “Not dumb, but . . . childish. You know, fun when you’re a kid, but . . . Your parents sound like they were great fun. Now, though, when you get given free cake in London you have to be careful it’s not spiked with anything.”
“That’s kind of a cynical way to look at life.”
“Hey, you can’t be too careful. And we can do better than cake. Since it’s raining, why don’t we catch a movie?”
I look down at my watch. It’s still over an hour before I have to catch the train, but I don’t have time for a film. His reaction to Magical Mystery Day
has taken whatever wind was left in my sails clean away. When I mentioned it to Noah, he immediately joined in the fun. Can I really be with someone who can’t enjoy the awesome cake-moments in life? I’m just not sure this is going to work. I shake my head. “I have to catch the train home—but maybe another time?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.
There’s disappointment in Callum’s eyes, but then they light up again. “Maybe I’ll see you in Scotland next week then?” he says.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I say. I immediately wish I hadn’t told him. But then again, I’m going to be so busy helping Mum, I’m not really going to have time to see Callum. I’ll have to let him down gently another time or skilfully avoid him like a Charlie’s Angel.
“Come on, let me walk you to the station.”
“Oh . . . you don’t have to do that, really . . .”
“Yeah, I do. This date has already gone wrong enough. Serves me right for trying to impress, I guess.” He gestures to the hamper.
He looks so sad that my heart goes out to him. Instinctively, I grab his hand. “No, it’s been great. You can’t help the weather. Let’s try again—maybe on your home turf it will be better.”
He smiles, and my heart jumps. He is incredibly cute. WHY AM I SO FICKLE ?
He puts an arm round my shoulders and walks me out of the coffee shop and back towards the Tube station. The rain is still coming down hard, so we half-jog towards the entrance.
“It’s really good to get to know you better, Penny,” he says, stopping outside the barriers. “For instance, now I know the way to your heart maybe is through chocolate cake.” He winks.
“Yeah,” I say, the word coming out as more of a sigh. His hand traces down the length of my arm, from my shoulder to my palm.
My heart beats wildly inside my chest, and I feel like I’ve run a mile—even though we’re standing still. I tilt my chin up and catch his eyes, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Until Scotland, then.”
“Until then.”
His hand grips mine, pulling me closer. His other hand drifts to my chin and gently, ever so gently, his lips touch mine.
4 October
First Date Jitters
Even writing the title for this post will be enough to shock you into clicking it. Yes, that’s right . . . I have been on a date. With a boy. Who is not from Brooklyn. I’ll give you guys a moment . . .
. . .
. . .
Having only ever been on a handful of first dates before, I don’t have an encyclopedia of positive experiences to draw from. In fact, most have been downright disastrous. If I’m honest, after everything that’s happened in the past year, it felt quite strange agreeing to meet with someone, but I figured I had nothing to lose. Whether we never spoke again, parted on friendly terms, or completely hit it off, how would I ever know unless I at least tried?
For a while I was in denial that it was even a date at all, but after numerous friends drilled it into me, I decided I’d better come to terms with the fact that it actually COULD be a date, and that it was OK. I think once you label something with the word “date,” everything becomes a lot more terrifying.
—What if it’s awkward ?
—What if we run out of things to talk about?
—What if he eats with his mouth open?
—What if I fall over and flash my pants ?
The possibilities are ENDLESS.
Before my date, I managed eventually to run out of what if ’s. I’d exhausted all possible horrors, gone through all possible scenarios.
Anyway, who knows if this will amount to anything, but I found it was nice to spend some time with new company—and we were given free cake so, all in all, not bad for an afternoon! I’m also pleased I was able to step out of my comfort zone and leave any niggling thoughts at home.
Do you get nervous before a first date? Do you have any awful date experiences to share? Spill the beans to make me feel better.
Girl Online, going offline xxx
Chapter Nineteen
“So, how was the kiss?” Elliot asks, lying on his front in my bed, his legs kicked up behind him. I’ve just finished telling him all about our semi-disastrous date—from the picnic to the rain to the Magical Mystery Day comments.
“It was really nice,” I say, leaning back against the headboard.
“ ‘Nice.’ Ugh, that’s like the kiss of death!” Elliot’s nose wrinkles as he talks. “Really? Nice is all you’ve got? Nice is like . . . the Middlesbrough of all compliments.”
“Have you even been to Middlesbrough?”
“No, but I don’t have to. It just sounds like it fits.”
“And anyway,” I say, “I said ‘really nice.’ ”
Elliot throws his hands up in the air. “Oh wow, big whoop. So honestly, it was only nice?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, on the surface he’s like my perfect guy, but there just isn’t that spark.”
“These things can take time, I suppose.” Elliot still sounds doubtful. “So are you going to see him again?”
“I kinda don’t have a choice. It turns out he’s been invited to the wedding that Mum and Sadie Lee are organizing, so I would have seen him there anyway . . . After that though, I don’t know. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
“What is it with you and guys at weddings? Still nothing from Noah?”
I shake my head. Having Sadie Lee and Bella around has only intensified my desire to hear from him, to contact him, to let him know people are thinking about him. But every time my finger hovers over his number, I force myself to put the phone away. I’ve tried to reach him in the past: now I’m going to follow Sadie Lee’s lead and wait until he’s ready. He wants to lock himself away; that’s his decision. Even if it does seem like a pretty selfish one to me. And the longer he cuts himself off, the angrier I’m becoming about it.
“Well, in the meantime, I’ve been reading up on Castle Lochland and it looks amazing. Do you think it’s too much for me and Alex to wear matching kilts already? Also, I hope it doesn’t rain all the time.”
“Matching kilts? Please, no! And as for the rain, I think you’re not going to get much of a choice with that one.”
“And you’re going to have to introduce me to this Callum guy, anyway. Then I can decide for myself whether it matters that your first kiss was more blah than wow.”
“It wasn’t blah,” I say, feeling defensive. And it wasn’t. It was exactly what I said . . . nice. It just didn’t blow me away. But wasn’t I expecting too much? Everything else about him screams that I should give him another shot. Maybe in his home environment, he’ll be more relaxed. And, even though Sadie Lee and Bella will be there, I’ll be so far away from all the other reminders of Noah that maybe I can relax too.
Elliot spins over onto his back. “I can’t believe Megan got kicked out of Leah’s studio session. Have you spoken to her since?”
I shake my head. “No. I debated sending her a message, but I think she’s the one who needs to come to me this time.”
“Yeah, too right. You’re always way too nice to that girl. She’s trouble on two legs. I still haven’t forgiven her for that Celeb Watch stunt and I can’t believe you have. Are you forgetting Milkshakegate? The only time I’ve ever genuinely found Megan funny was when she was dripping with the milkshakes we dumped over her . . .” A smile spreads across my face, but I instantly feel a tiny pang of guilt and I regain my serious composure.
“I know. But I’m sure she won’t do anything like that again—she’s learnt her lesson.”
Elliot snorts.
“Something else interesting happened yesterday,” I say. “I took this photograph and sent it to Melissa . . .” I clamp my mouth shut. Suddenly I feel shy about it. Elliot knows I’ve been searching for something “uniquely Penny” that would be worthy of the opportunity François-Pierre Nouveau offered me, but he doesn’t know I’ve been sending photos to his office
manager. I have a feeling this photo might be the start of something, but I don’t want to jinx anything by sharing the news with Elliot.
Like the fact that Melissa’s response to my latest photograph was her most enthusiastic yet.
“Annnnd . . . ?” Elliot prompts.
A big thump on the other side of my bedroom wall jolts us both upright. “Wait—did that come from your room?” I ask him.
His eyes are wide with alarm. “Uh, I think so.”
There’s another crash, so violent it shakes the pictures on my wall and one of my posters, giving up the ghost, comes fluttering down.
“What on earth’s going on?” I ask.
Then we hear a voice. A woman’s voice. Elliot’s mum. And she sounds mad.
Elliot leaps to his feet and rushes out of my room. I follow him down the stairs as quickly as I can, swinging round the banisters to keep up with him. In a flash, we’re on the ground floor of my house, out of my front door and round the steps to Elliot’s. Elliot fumbles with the key, allowing me to catch up. I want to tell him to slow down, not to rush into what might be going on, but he’s a man of single-minded focus.
By the time we reach his attic room at the top of his house I’m totally out of breath. And if I wasn’t winded already, what I see now would take my breath away from me anyway.
Mrs. Wentworth, Elliot’s mum, is in his room, tearing it inside out and upside down. His clothes are strewn everywhere, his normally uber-neat, colour-coordinated wardrobe a big mess on the floor. She looks like a mad woman, a glint in her eye. She’s normally so put together (that’s where Elliot gets his neat streak from) but today her hair is tumbling out of its ponytail and the buttons on her shirt aren’t even done up straight.
Elliot lets out a sound that is barely human: half groan, half scream. “MUM! What . . . the . . .”
“I know you’re helping him hide things from me! Where is it?”
“Where’s WHAT?”
“Evidence! Trust me, I’ve searched every inch of this house except your room and I haven’t found anything, so I know it must be in here somewhere.”