mean
more romantic
? Or
exciting
? Or even …
less soil-focused
?
“Well.” Jo pulled the face she always pulled when she was about to say something not very politically correct. A half- apologizing , half-really-
not
sort of face. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you didn’t have to worry about other people’s lawns day and night to make ends meet?”
I put down my fork, sausage still attached. “Are you suggesting that I need a boyfriend to
pay my way
?”
“No! Well …”
“There’s a word for that back home,” I said hotly. “It’s not a very nice word either.”
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I don’t mean like that.” Jo buttered another slice of toast, unperturbed. “Obviously he’d have to be a lovely guy who’d adore you, and you’d have to adore him, but there’s nothing wrong with letting someone else take care of you a bit.”
“If I’d wanted to be taken care of, I’d have stayed at home.”
“Think yourself lucky. If I’d stayed at home, I’d have been doing all the taking care. And I’d have needed someone to take care of
me
,” Jo retorted. “A full-time therapist, for a kickoff. My parents are
enraging
, not like yours. Can we swap?”
I ate the other bit of my sausage and chewed it for a long time so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
Without meaning to, Jo had touched on—no, not touched on, punched—a real sore spot. My independence was something I was proud of, and I’d have eaten porridge for a week rather than be late with any of the bills in the flat. (Actually, I had done that once or twice in the early days, though obviously I’d never told her.) It was a point of honor for me that Mum and Dad hadn’t had to lend me a penny since I left home, and I’d paid back my college fees through gardening jobs in the holidays.
I didn’t hold it against Jo, but it was easy for her to accept the odd bit of help from her mum and dad—they had the money, for a start, and her family went from being very rich to very poor every hundred years, so they were used to it. My family, though, had been through a nightmare few years while I was still at school, and it had left me fiercely protective about my finances. That part of our life wasn’t something my parents and I ever talked about, and the one good thing about busy, anonymous London was that no one here knew about it—unlike back home, where you could wear a hat one day and be known as “the girl with the hat” for the rest of your life.
I knew not opening up about stuff like this made me look like a chippy northerner sometimes, but I’d rather that than tell Jo the whole story. I liked the new Amy she knew; I was quite happy to leave the old Amy back home in Rothery.
“Am I barking up the wrong tree?” Jo went on, taking advantage of my full mouth. “I mean, if you’re on the other bus, tell me. I know loads of gay people. In fact, I could introduce you to—”
I swallowed my sausage as fast as I could. “I do want a boyfriend. Eventually. I just want a normal one. Someone with an actual job. Someone who eats at Pret a Manger at lunchtime, and has a travelcard and a mutt like Badger, not a spaniel with a family tree. I’m not saying your friends aren’t nice—I just don’t have much to say to very posh boys. Not unless they like gardening too. By which I mean, actual gardening, not directing their groundsmen.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” observed Jo.
“I just want someone normal,” I said stoutly. “I’m just a normal girl, and I want a normal bloke.”
She smiled. “None of us are normal. We’re all special in our own way.”
“Have you been reading Grace Wright’s self-help books again?”
We eyed each other over the breakfast tray, and I hoped Jo knew I didn’t mean any offense.
“Anyway, you can talk,” I pointed out, trying to lighten the mood. “Who on earth was that Rolf bloke last night? I mean, was he real? Or was it some kind of reality TV
more romantic
? Or
exciting
? Or even …
less soil-focused
?
“Well.” Jo pulled the face she always pulled when she was about to say something not very politically correct. A half- apologizing , half-really-
not
sort of face. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you didn’t have to worry about other people’s lawns day and night to make ends meet?”
I put down my fork, sausage still attached. “Are you suggesting that I need a boyfriend to
pay my way
?”
“No! Well …”
“There’s a word for that back home,” I said hotly. “It’s not a very nice word either.”
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I don’t mean like that.” Jo buttered another slice of toast, unperturbed. “Obviously he’d have to be a lovely guy who’d adore you, and you’d have to adore him, but there’s nothing wrong with letting someone else take care of you a bit.”
“If I’d wanted to be taken care of, I’d have stayed at home.”
“Think yourself lucky. If I’d stayed at home, I’d have been doing all the taking care. And I’d have needed someone to take care of
me
,” Jo retorted. “A full-time therapist, for a kickoff. My parents are
enraging
, not like yours. Can we swap?”
I ate the other bit of my sausage and chewed it for a long time so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
Without meaning to, Jo had touched on—no, not touched on, punched—a real sore spot. My independence was something I was proud of, and I’d have eaten porridge for a week rather than be late with any of the bills in the flat. (Actually, I had done that once or twice in the early days, though obviously I’d never told her.) It was a point of honor for me that Mum and Dad hadn’t had to lend me a penny since I left home, and I’d paid back my college fees through gardening jobs in the holidays.
I didn’t hold it against Jo, but it was easy for her to accept the odd bit of help from her mum and dad—they had the money, for a start, and her family went from being very rich to very poor every hundred years, so they were used to it. My family, though, had been through a nightmare few years while I was still at school, and it had left me fiercely protective about my finances. That part of our life wasn’t something my parents and I ever talked about, and the one good thing about busy, anonymous London was that no one here knew about it—unlike back home, where you could wear a hat one day and be known as “the girl with the hat” for the rest of your life.
I knew not opening up about stuff like this made me look like a chippy northerner sometimes, but I’d rather that than tell Jo the whole story. I liked the new Amy she knew; I was quite happy to leave the old Amy back home in Rothery.
“Am I barking up the wrong tree?” Jo went on, taking advantage of my full mouth. “I mean, if you’re on the other bus, tell me. I know loads of gay people. In fact, I could introduce you to—”
I swallowed my sausage as fast as I could. “I do want a boyfriend. Eventually. I just want a normal one. Someone with an actual job. Someone who eats at Pret a Manger at lunchtime, and has a travelcard and a mutt like Badger, not a spaniel with a family tree. I’m not saying your friends aren’t nice—I just don’t have much to say to very posh boys. Not unless they like gardening too. By which I mean, actual gardening, not directing their groundsmen.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” observed Jo.
“I just want someone normal,” I said stoutly. “I’m just a normal girl, and I want a normal bloke.”
She smiled. “None of us are normal. We’re all special in our own way.”
“Have you been reading Grace Wright’s self-help books again?”
We eyed each other over the breakfast tray, and I hoped Jo knew I didn’t mean any offense.
“Anyway, you can talk,” I pointed out, trying to lighten the mood. “Who on earth was that Rolf bloke last night? I mean, was he real? Or was it some kind of reality TV
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