Pride and Premiership Read Online Free Page A

“What a numpty.”
    He asked how she was doing and I said, “Great. She’s pulled herself a Chelsea footballer.” Because I wanted him to burn.
    And he replied, “Great. I’m really happy for her.”
    Yeah, right
, I thought, because he sounded gutted. Oh well, like Beyoncé says,
“If ya liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”
9.15 a.m.
    Just in case Robbie didn’t invite me to his room for a v. good reason (e.g. could have had hole in underpants), I’ve texted this message:
Thanks 4 dinner. It was great. x
    Now let’s see what he comes back with. (Really wish I hadn’t put that kiss on the end.)
9.18 a.m.
    Nothing.
9.21 a.m.
    Nothing, but won’t judge. (Network could be jammed.)
9.25 a.m.
    Still no reply.
    Right, Robbie Wilkins. You are the caddiest cad in Britain. So don’t even think about contacting me. No texts. No phone calls. No emails. Don’t poke me on Facebook. Ever. And believe me, I’ll stay strong, like other wronged women of the world, and bounce back, Jennifer Aniston and Cheryl Cole style. Because today I WILL pass my NVQ. And that will be the first step on the ladder to me becoming a top businesswoman with salons all over the country. And you’ll regret dissing me!
5.30 p.m.
    College went all right today, after a proper shaky start. I did two waxes, one manicure and one pedicure, with an instructor watching me like bloody Hawk-Eye. Talk about pressure! Being emo about the Cad didn’t help either. Especially when my first treatment was on Stick Insect. She may be a super-skinny model type from the neck down, but she’s a horse from the neck up. I just wish she’d realize it and wipe that smug “I’m thinner than you” look off her face.
    She came in for a leg wax, and grabbed a magazine to distract from the pain.
    “Bloody hell,” she said, flicking through a copy of
OK
magazine. “Colleen should have had another stint at Weight Watchers before she wore that bikini.”
    “Ah, don’t be cruel,” I told her. “She’s gone through enough.”
    “See for yourself.” Stick Insect pointed to a photograph of Colleen on a Barbados beach. She looked fine to me – like a normal girl who eats chips and Krispy Kremes. That’s why I like Colleen. She’s sort of like … me.
    “Huge,” said Stick Insect.
    The way I was feeling, she might as well have been prodding the flab on my bum and shouting, “Robbie reject. Robbie reject.” And I remembered this time a few years ago when Malibu had looked across at a mag Mum was reading and said how pretty Steven Gerard’s wife was.
    “No prettier than you,” Mum had told her. “You’re the perfect type to marry a footballer.”
    I’d waited for her to tell me that I was too, but got nothing. That hurt, and it felt like Stick Insect was saying the same thing now. But there was no point in taking it out on her. I can do professional.
    “Must be a bad angle,” I said nicely. “Colleen’s only a size ten or twelve.”
    “Like I said,” she replied, “huge.”
    That. Was. IT.
    While my instructor looked at the wall clock to check how long I was taking, I deliberately didn’t hold the skin of Stick Insect’s leg when I tore away the next wax strip. She let out a massive scream. Bloodcurdling, it was. The instructor flashed her eyes back to us straight away.
    My NVQ was slipping away – FAST.
    “That really hurt!” complained Stick Insect.
    “Sorry, madam, is your menstruation due soon?” I said, copying the posh voice that Kara uses when she wants clients to buy an expensive product.
    Luckily it was, so I told her it was a more sensitive time to wax but that I’d be doubly careful now I knew. And from the smile I got from the instructor, it looked like I’d scored some bonus marks at the same time as dishing out pain to the Stick Insect. Yay!
    The only other decent thing about today is that I made up with James. He came up to me and wished me good luck as soon as I got through the college doors. So I wished him good luck