By the Time You Read This Read online

“Just because that millennium bug didn’t happen last New Year’s Day doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen any time now. I don’t want your plane getting into all sorts of trouble.”

  “Mom, I’m in IT and I know that that’s not going to happen. It was all a mix-up.” I sometimes thought my mother assumed I typed letters for a living.

  “If you say so,” she conceded.

  Carla’s dad greeted us at the airport, clearly repressing his enthusiasm, while the two of us found it much easier to let go judging by the squeals of happiness at the sight of real-life palm trees.

  “I’m just glad you could come out and fit me into your busy schedule. I hear you’re some big executive now, Lois!”

  “I don’t know who told you that!” I laughed.

  “Corey.”

  I tried not to look away at the mention of Corey’s name. But flashes of our last meeting popped into my head, before I could banish the memory into the secret compartment marked “don’t go there” in my head.

  Carla’s dad hadn’t changed much, apart from wisps of gray strands in his newly acquired beard and a slight paunch which stretched his shirt ever so slightly. I wondered if he knew about Calvin.

  “Come on, girls, let’s get you back to the apartment and I’ll show you around.”

  Carla’s dad had opened a bar in Castadefells, a small seaside town, and lived nearby in Gava Mar in a small, tastefully decorated one-bedroom apartment.

  “Hope she’s cut out the snoring, because you’ll have to share an airbed!” he said as Carla threw him an evil look.

  Placing my pull-along case beside a glass cabinet containing pictures of his children, I was surprised to see one of myself with the others, standing by the rec, mud on each of our shoes. I must have been about eight years old. Three years after Dad died and there I was, playing with my friends.

  “I’ll leave you girls to freshen up. I’ve left the address of the bar. Take a taxi and come meet me later?”

  “Okay. But just for a bit, though, Dad.” Translation: Carla had no intention of spending more than the required time with her father. She had other plans, which perhaps included hooking up with as many Spanish men as possible to fill the void Fred had left behind.

  “You are so boring!” she whined when I requested a quick snooze after returning from the bar and a very long walk up and down Las Ramblas.

  “I’m just a bit exhausted! We only flew in this morning.”

  “On a two-hour flight!”

  I kicked off my sneakers.

  “We’ve got to sample the nightlife, and I don’t mean Dad’s old-biddy bar either. Apparently that big shopping center we went to turns into a huge multiplex nightclub after about ten. So if we leave soon, we could make it for twelve…”

  My eyes widened in horror.

  Remember to find the time to have fun, Lowey.

  And so I did. If you call “attempting to breathe inside a club thick with cigarette smog and fending off any drunken reveler who thought it their right to air-thrust behind you on the dance floor” fun!

  Outside, away from the crowds, Carla slipped her swollen feet out of her red stiletto shoes and placed them neatly together, next to my sensible footwear of rounded-toe slip-ons. As we sat on the pavement, the cool night air instantly dried the beads of sweat gathering beneath my blouse.

  “Don’t you ever get…lonely?” she suddenly asked.

  “Nope,” I said abruptly and quickly took another sip of my drink as one more drunken reveler shot out of the bar and staggered toward Carla.

  “Guapa!” he sang.

  She rolled her eyes slowly and with exaggeration, then turned her back to the man. “As I was saying…” she said.

  “And as I was saying, no, I don’t get lonely.”

  “But you live in that apartment, all alone.”

  “So?” For one horrible second, I thought she was angling to move back in with me.

  “I can’t even remember you with a guy—”

  “Yes, I know, I know…but take it from me, I really am not lonely. I love my life…” I caught the expression of pity etched onto my best friend’s face. I knew she’d never truly understand me. No one did, except my dad.

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “You heard!”

  “Carla, I like my own company. I know you moved straight back in with your mom after splitting with Fred, but that’s you.”

  “This isn’t about me. You’re only twenty-three, yet you act a bit like a pensioner. I’ve even had to drag you out to-day, otherwise you’d have slept the whole damn time. Need I go on?”

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged. So Carla continued her assassination of my life. My “obsession” with work. Hardly ever going out to clubs, sticking mainly to the after-work crowd of Keitho, Matt and Jamie. My lack of experimentation with “club wear,” metallic make-up or hairstyles. I let her finish, too tired to argue. Besides, I’d never felt the need to explain myself to anyone.

  “And…” continued Carla, sipping on her cocktail, eyebrows scrunching as if thinking of what to say next. It came. “I’m glad we did this. Came to Spain. I mean, apart from seeing the old man, it’s good for us to…I dunno…clear the air and do stuff together.”

  We were so different. Our lives were clearly shifting toward opposite destinations.

  “I’m glad too. It’s actually nice not having to think about the stresses of back home.”

  “Oh, like, what key to press on the computer?” She snorted at her own unfunny joke. However, unbeknown to her or anyone, my stress levels had actually increased recently, thanks to Mr. Purvadis, my landlord, informing me he wanted to sell the apartment.

  “Oh, just buzz off por favor!” she spat at the guy who still lingered around us, clearly thrilled at the shape of Carla’s trasero in that tight-fitting dress.

  My tummy muscles tensed when she predictably leaped onto the subject of Corey. Whenever Carla and I attempted to bond he’d always pop up.

  “I knew about you two.” She sipped her drink. “You and my brother.”

  Perhaps it was the hint of neon light shining on the side of her face, but she suddenly looked evil.

  “Did you think I was an idiot and wouldn’t find out?”

  “Who told you?” My voice quivered slightly.

  “Mom let it slip one day. You know how she can never keep anything to herself. I was so peeved that you didn’t tell me, you know, then. But now I’m grateful.”

  “Because?”

  She sipped at the cocktail. “You and my bro—yuck!”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. For what it’s worth, I think the slut actually liked you.”

  “Yeah, right!” I said nonchalantly, as I took another sip of alcohol.

  “And you obviously liked him, too.”

  “That was then.”

  I disappeared inside the bar, returning ten minutes later with a plate of patatas bravas.

  “I think you still carry a torch for him,” she said, dipping into the plate of food. I had hoped she would have forgotten the conversation, but alcohol, it seemed, made her sharper than ever. I shook my head, hoping she’d change the subject soon.

  “I’ve met someone,” she finally said.

  “What’s he like?”

  “A city investment banker, I kid you not! And, more importantly, Rob’s the absolute love of my life…I hope. Why d’you think I haven’t even looked at another bloke since we got here? I know it sounds weird, but every time I look at Rob, I just get this urge…”

  “To ravish him?”

  A giggle.

  “To just get married and have his babies.”

  “Is that all you want out of life?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but you’re only young.”

  “I can’t believe YOU of all people are saying that. Like you even act your age!”

  I ignored that. “What about getting a job?”

  “I have one at the lin
gerie shop on Oxford Street. Well, I did anyway…But that’s beside the point.”

  That comment further alerted me to our differences. There was I, loaded with ambition, wanting to pursue the highest level work-wise, when all Carla wanted to do was bake cakes.

  “Drink up then, there’s so much more booze to get through!” I said, with as much fake enthusiasm as possible.

  The remainder of the break went well, with visits to the beach and a trip to Barcelona Zoo. But very soon I was back in England, facing some major decisions.

  Mr. Purvadis had been gracious enough to give me three months’ notice on the apartment, by which time it would definitely be going on the market. I consulted the miscellaneous section of The Manual, hoping Dad could impart words of inspiration. Something or someone led me to Risks.

  Go on. Take a risk from time to time. Nothing life-threatening or unsafe, but with things that perhaps have the power to propel you closer to what/who you want to be. Am I making sense? Probably not. I’ll give you an example. No, I can’t. Sorry. I’ve always played it safe—and look where I am now. I so wish I had taken a few small risks. I won’t tell you what they were, Lois, because it just feels too painful to write them down. Sorry, babe, I’m just having a bad day.

  My dad had obviously been on a downer. The pain and regret seeping from the pages was so real and vivid. I had to do something—I couldn’t let my dad down—I just wasn’t sure what.

  At work, I couldn’t escape this nagging feeling. Even Keitho’s shenanigans with his chatroom buddies didn’t have its usual power to lift me. It wasn’t until about a week later, sitting in the staff canteen, that the answer to the question finally became clear.

  I was going to buy my apartment from Mr. Purvadis.

  A risk.

  What with Carla telling me what an idiot I was to “tie myself down,” it still felt like the right thing to do. Even the Bingo Caller echoed caution, prattling on about the 1980s property crash. But I knew that for the first time in my entire life I was living in a place that felt like home, and if I lost money in the process, so be it. Besides, I was going to listen to my dad.

  Try not to allow anyone’s opinion to dictate how you see yourself.

  Plus, I needed a home…

  “I’d never buy a apartment,” offered Jamie, filing her nails while ignoring an incoming call.

  “Me either!” agreed Keitho as Matt appeared from a job.

  “Don’t listen to them, Lois. Keitho’s a drifter and Jamie’s waiting for her secret lover to buy her a love shack!”

  Jamie threw him a sharp gaze.

  “Thanks, Matt!” I said sincerely. He threw me a sweet smile in response and, not for the first time, I felt myself blush like an idiot.

  Working late soon became a regular occurrence and something I didn’t mind, especially when it was just Matt and me. It was easy to get through the time, laughing and joking about nothing much in particular.

  “That’s me done for the night,” I said, switching off the computer.

  “How many ‘Have you switched the computer on?’ questions have you actually asked today?” queried Matt.

  “Just two.”

  “A slight improvement on yesterday. Our call outs would halve overnight if users just remembered to switch the damn thing on before reporting a problem!”

  I smiled. “But then we’d be out of a job!”

  “Didn’t think of that. You up to anything tonight?”

  “A bit of study. Television. And you?”

  “A beer by the TV sounds good.”

  Part of me wanted to say more, to leap out of this sea of small talk. But my nerves won over.

  “Goodnight then, Matt.”

  “Night.”

  I turned to the door.

  “I’m leaving myself in thirty minutes,” he said. I wasn’t sure if that was an invitation.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “You will. Bright and early.”

  I pretended to search for something in my pocket.

  “Looking for something?”

  “Just my subway card.”

  “Come out with me at the weekend, Lois.”

  I thought he’d never ask.

  “I can’t believe you’re going out with Matt,” said Jamie as she tapped at the keyboard. As always, the radio sang and phones rang off the hook in the background. The daily soundtrack to my working life.

  “It’s just dinner!”

  “But without the rest of us…That’s what I’d call a date.”

  “If it turns into something more…” I began, before trailing off. It suddenly felt strange revealing personal details to someone other than Carla.

  “So, what are you wearing?”

  “Trousers and a top.”

  Jamie scanned my comfortable trouser and shirt combo. “So, he’s going to see you just like he does every day. Nice…” she said teasingly.

  “What…what do you think I should wear?” I asked shyly. As if in the presence of a master, desperate for her to share her words of feminine wisdom that would ensure I didn’t make a total mess of my date with Matt.

  “I suppose I could wear my nice jeans…”

  “Let’s go shopping!”

  I hated shopping at the best of times and failed to see the glee that obviously gripped Jamie as she announced her intentions. But I reluctantly agreed, because, as Jamie put it, she’d known Matt for years, and knew what he liked and disliked. She’d be the perfect style adviser, apparently.

  That night I gazed into my wardrobe. At the high-necked shirts. The odd pair of trendy jeans, but nothing you could call overly sexy and sophisticated. I was plain old Lois Bates, Kevin’s daughter, trying to make her mark in this world. I sat on the end of my bed (which hadn’t seen any action during its lifetime) and sighed inwardly. The thought of going out with Matt filled me with excitement but also with fear. I reached under my second pillow and picked up The Manual.

  “This is going to be great!” sang Jamie as we walked up Oxford Street on Saturday. It felt strange spending time with her outside the office, away from the others. And as we bonded over coffee, she told me about her family, namely her mother.

  “Boyfriend after boyfriend that one!” she said with a slurp of coffee.

  “It must have been hard.”

  “Kind of…yeah!”

  “So what about this mystery man of yours then?”

  “What about him?” She looked down at her empty cup.

  “I’m not asking you to tell me who he is.”

  “Good, because I won’t.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Single.”

  “Older?”

  “Same age. And that’s it. Come on, let’s hit the shops!” Which I did, though secretly I was longing to be back at home snuggling on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea. Jamie skipped and dragged me along to an endless array of clothes shops and department stores.

  “I’m not sure about the dress…”

  “But it’s lovely, Lois.” Jamie fingered the tiny backless black dress I suspected would fit Abbi.

  “I’m just not sure it’s really me. It’s a little short…”

  “Matt will love it,” she teased with a wink.

  “You think so?”

  Five minutes later Jamie and I stared toward the same mirror.

  “You look stunning. I told you!” she said. I stared at my reflection and, surprisingly, didn’t mind what was staring back at me—a mature, twenty-three-year-old SEXY woman. I had to rub my eyes just to see if this was really me, while Jamie released my frizz from its ponytail and piled it on top of my head, allowing various curly strands to tumble toward my cheeks as we both stared at my reflection. The dress clung to my curves very flatteringly, making everything look…rather good?

  The two of us stood there staring at the mirror, and suddenly I wished this moment could be caught on camera. And although this would never be one of those ugly duckling to swan stories, I did f
eel a little sex-kittenish if I do say so myself. Watch out, Matty, I thought. Perhaps it was because I’d never been called “stunning” before, or because I was exhausted, or because a part of me wanted to please Matt, but I ended up paying for that backless dress with only an ounce of trepidation. I also bought (with Jamie’s insistence) a pair of red “take me against the wall” killer heels I couldn’t envisage ever being able to walk straight in.

  The last stop was the make-up counter of a department store. I wasn’t sure about the lipstick—bright blood-red and certainly not right with my coloring—even though Jamie assured me it was this season’s shade and the assistant couldn’t have cared less enough to offer an opinion. So I settled on buying my first ever foundation along with the lipstick.

  Miscellaneous: Make-up

  Your mom was never one for war paint—although she did like to roll on a bit of lipstick during our early dates. I suppose what attracted me to her in the first place was her natural beauty. And that’s what will get you noticed by the right boy. It’s such a myth that men prefer you to pile it on. Less is more.

  You’re probably thinking all those girls at school with the shorter skirts and the brightest red lipstick will get all the guys’ attention. Erm…okay, they probably do…erm…as I said…talk to your mother about this one…

  I turned the page, realizing that Dad had written this Miscellaneous entry for my teenage years, because right now it wasn’t making much sense.

  I moved on.

  Miscellaneous: First dates

  First off, I hope this date wasn’t influenced by his looks. So what if his teeth weren’t as crooked the day he asked you out—even Quasimodo had a good heart. Give him a chance whatever his race, dress sense, height, job status. If you stay focused on the wrong things, you could let a good man go. BUT—bad breath? No exceptions.

  So, some male has finally come to his senses, noticed what a rare, precious diamond you are and has asked you on a real date. Or perhaps you’ve followed the entry on asking a boy out (this wouldn’t surprise me, considering how assertive women are these days: have you seen the Blondie video?).

  This may sound old-fashioned, but don’t wear anything too sexy. A skirt up to your armpits may thrill a man gazing at a magazine, but on his arm he wants a classy, attractive woman. And no, I’m not saying that because you are my little girl. Okay, maybe I am, but depending on what age you are reading this, you may or may not have already worked this out for yourself: men are very visual creatures and he’ll merely absorb what he sees. So, giving him a certain impression early on perhaps isn’t the best thing to do.