Billygean.co.uk

“Want popcorn?” I say, standing up off our sofa as The Apprentice opening credits roll.

“No, thanks,” MindReader says, looking at me a bit weirdly. We have just had curry and gluten-free apple crumble, after all.

“Right,” I say, “I tried to make popcorn the other night when you were out but it was rubbish.”

“How so?” MindReader says, one eye on the television.

“Well at first I covered the bowl in clingfilm but it sort of shrivelled in the microwave, so the kernels popped everywhere. Then I covered it with kitchen roll but the same thing happened. Then I tried to cover it with a big plate but because the bowl has that lip thing for pouring it kept falling off…. so the kernels went everywhere. And then I tried putting a small plate inSIDE the bowl but that crushed the popcorn so it all burnt together in a big ball.”

I say this all in one breath and when i finish MindReader’s expression is perplexed, at best.

“Er, I’m not sure sorry,” he says, and wanders down the hall to the bathroom. He has taken to this hands-off attitude probably out of having rescued me from a million baking disasters in the past.

I shrug and cover them with a tea towel.

The microwave whirs and I hear the popcorn popping happily. I sit on one of our kitchen table chairs and start painting my nails.

“Er,” MindReader says, striding back into the room. Except it sounds more like ER WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

I stand up and look at the microwave. The teatowel – it has gone a shade browner!

“Wha?” I say to MindReader.

I peer again. There is a flame! Tea towel is on fire!

“Um, er,” I say, and do a sort of jig around the microwave while pointing and saying ‘fire’ quite lamely.

MindReader opens the microwave and takes the FLAMING TEATOWEL OUT.

He covers it in water, opens our French doors and puts it on our windowsill while it still smokes.

“Thanks,” I say, and grab my bowl of popcorn.

It three weeks ago.

MindReader and I get out of his car and walk across the knee-high grass towards his sister’s house. He puts an arm around my shoulders as I wave to their dog.

We walk into the living room, unannounced, and there she is. MindReader’s niece is curled up on a pillow, taking up about a quarter of it. She has coppery-coloured hair and tiny starfish hands.

“Can I hold her?” I say.

MindReader’sSister places her in my arms and I stare down at her.

I have never felt maternal, always worried about how selfless I would have to become, the guilt if I did not fall in love with my baby instantly, how crazy I would go if I had to spend any more time in the house.

And there it is. That swooping feeling as MindReader’sNiece reaches her hand up to mine.

I look up to find MindReader’s eyes, a funny expression on his face. It is – at once – a mutual recognition that we hope to have one of our own one day.

“So why aren’t you drinking?” MindReader’s friend says, yelling across MindReader, gesturing to my orange juice.

“Oh,” I say, waving my hand. I am trying to talk about my illness less. But, it is difficult. I worked for 8 hours today (on my feet the whole time) and then pretty much went straight to the Jam House, a club. I don’t want to throw alcohol into the overdoing it mix as well.

MindReader answers for me. “She is a MASSIVE – and I mean massive – lightweight,” he says. He picks up his beer. “Aside from the fact that she’s allergic to this, if she had a mouthful she’d probably be…” he makes a hand gesture which seems to indicate I’d be dancing on tables and then collapsing. I laugh.

“Really? Shit!” MindReader’sFriend says.

“We came here a couple of years ago,” MindReader says, “for Billygean’s 22nd birthday – we weren’t together,” he says.

I smirk, remembering that night. MindReader and Mike in the same room and I didn’t know who I was in love with.

“Anyway, she had – oh – a mouthful of wine, went to the loo and bumped into me and said,” he puts on a gormless voice, “‘I’ve just been sick.’”

I remember that moment. I stumbled out of the toilet, the alcohol rushing in my ears. MindReader was in front of me, bright lights behind him. I stepped close to him, instinctively, – he’s a close friend, I thought – and the very tip of his thumb grazed my waist. I didn’t know what to say.

MindReader’s friend smirks. “And you thought – that’s the girl for me!”

MindReader smiles. “I did.”

I walk down my street towards college. It is my last ever exam. It is stuffy but has rained, and the air is full of that musty hot tarmac smell.

“Excuse me,” a well-dressed woman says, and I stop.

“Is this hall street?” she says.

I blush. “I’m not sure,” I say even though we are on the street next to WHERE I LIVE.

I try to casually get my iphone out and punch in Hall Street. I feel a twinge of pride I must confess. It got me to the bank the other day. It’s true that i really should know where the bank is, but still.

“Ooh great,” she says, peering over my shoulder. She gets a leaflet out of her bag. “It’s 32 Hall Street,” she says, tracing a finger over the address.

I frown at the phone, confused. We appear to be ON Hall Street, which is very little, and there is only one little shop on it.

“Joja brides and grooms?” she says.

“Ohhh THAT,” I say, pointing up the street.

“I did see a bridal shop. But it doesn’t say Joja on it?”

“If you pick up their bridalwear leaflet it says Joja on it,” I say without thinking.

“Oh how wonderful, are you going to get your dress from there too?”

I pause. If I tell the truth – as MindReader tells me I should do – I will look MAD. No I just collect wedding leaflets? Or, more tragically, no my boyfriend actually hasn’t proposed nor shown any sign of doing so?

“Erm, yeah.”

It occurs to me that I could have said no, I’d decided on another dress without looking insane.

“Oh which one? My daughter wants the -”

My phone rings. “I have to go!” I say.

Thank god.