Love Me by Gemma Weekes Page A

I say.
I don’t
.
I don’t
.
I don’t.
    â€˜You sure? ’Cause it seemed like you might’ve been having a bit of a row earlier.’
    â€˜Yeah. No. Not really,’ I tell her, ‘more of a disagreement.’
    â€˜Disagreement?’
    â€˜Stupid stuff, nothing major.’ I laugh. ‘You know. Like brother and sister.’
    â€˜Right . . . Phew!’ She grins a glance at me, makes a showof wiping her dry forehead. ‘Just had to check on that one, you know. You’re my mate and I wouldn’t wanna take the mick. You know that, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I say, feeling muddy and slightly crazed. My mate? We have nothing in common at all, really. I met both her and Dwayne at work. And I’m pretty sure it would depress the hell out of Dwayne to know the only one I had any type of crush on was Max – of the platonic variety of course. She was one of the most extreme-looking people I’ve ever met, and the Clicker likes that sort of thing.
    I was in late for work one day, and my row was already fully populated by the Undead when I arrived. One of the only free seats was next to this living cartoon, this ice-cream blonde who even
sat
mischievously. If beauty had a caricature, it would be Max. Improbably large, blue eyes at an improbable distance from each other in her triangular face. A high forehead and narrow, full mouth, cheekbones like razors, white-blonde hair down to her ass. Skinny as a no-fat latte, rocking a shapeless vintage mini-dress over a shrunken jumper. She was shocking to look at. She made the rest of the room look khaki drab. So I took the seat on her left, mainly to see this freakishly pretty thing up close. And then, when I was logging onto my terminal (‘terminal’ as in ‘illness’), she kind of double-taked between phone calls and said:
    â€˜Hiya!’
    â€˜Hey.’
    â€˜Are you new?’
    â€˜I wish.’
    â€˜Don’t we all?’ She laughed. I sank a bit in the middle, she was
so
beautiful. I wondered what it must be like.
    â€˜I like your dress,’ I said.
    â€˜Thanks! It was only a tenner!’ she replied and went shuffling around in her bag, one of those flimsy jobs yousometimes get free with women’s magazines. She had a super-easy manner about her, like she’d never had to worry, ever. She wore leopard-print wedges with ankle straps and purple tights. I stole a photo.
    â€˜Are you a photographer or summink?’
    â€˜Yeah I . . . well. Sort of. I take pictures.’
    â€˜That’s bloody brilliant! I’m a model,’ she said without self-consciousness. With a promising rustle, she pulled out a packet of Jaffa Cakes and shoved them at me. ‘Go on! Be a devil!’
    I had one, we introduced ourselves and so began our little mutual appreciation society. I took some pictures of her for free over the next couple of weeks, some of my best. Her portfolio got a boost, and so did my tired routine as I began trailing her around Shoreditch on drinking expeditions.
    Well. It was fun while it lasted.
    â€˜How did you hook up with him anyway?’ I ask now, fighting to be casual.
    â€˜Pretty random, really. I bumped into him on Oxford Street a couple of weeks ago and we started talking.’
    â€˜You hate Oxford Street.’
    â€˜I had a casting.’
    â€˜That big one you told me about?’
    â€˜Yeah, exactly! For
Gloss
magazine.’ Spiteful bastard. I remember that day. Right after what happened with me, he bumped into my friend and gave her his number. ‘You’ve got a bloody good memory. Must be your little puritanical lifestyle.’
    â€˜What do you mean, puritanical? I’m a drunk, if you haven’t noticed.’
    We drive in silence for a while, Max bobbing up and down to the commercial gangsta rap on the radio, singing along.
    â€˜You like this shit?’ I ask her.
    â€˜Not particularly. Just catchy