Page 19 of The Suite Life
The strong, smoky taste of the salmon hits me like a tidal wave and the fact that it is masquerading as something sweet pushes me over the edge.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, not feeling too good,’ I mutter, trying to hide my panic, before bolting to the toilets.
Once I’m out of sight, I hastily spit the unwanted seafood cupcake into my hand, because that’s just the kind of classy date I am.
Inside the ladies’ loos, I spit into the sink repeatedly, desperately attempting to rid my mouth of the lingering fish taste. Swilling water around my mouth provides some relief, but I’m almost tempted to stick a bit of liquid soap in there – can it really be worse?
After what feels like an eternity, I return to the table. Roscoe’s face looks like thunder, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him, mustering up my best unwell-person impression, like I’m a kid trying to blag a day off school from my mum. ‘I haven’t been feeling myself today. I’m a little sick – but it definitely wasn’t the food.’
‘I know it wasn’t the food,’ Roscoe says, his tone suddenly completely different. Oh, he seems mad.
For a second, I just look at him. He eventually breaks the silence by dropping the poo bags full of food down on the table in front of him.
‘I know it wasn’t the food because you didn’t eat any,’ he clarifies. ‘Your phone was ringing in your bag – a few times, back to back, and I was worried it might be urgent so I was going to bring it to you.’
He hands me my phone, and then my bag, and it couldn’t be more obvious that he’s giving me my cue to leave.
I silently take them from him and head for the door. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t even say goodbye.
Back out in the street, I realise that the calls were from my mum, so I call her back to make sure everything is okay. Now I know that it’s my mum, I’m not worried. She often calls a few times if I don’t pick up – and oftentimes she just calls me by accident, because she never remembers to lock her phone screen.
‘Hello, darling,’ she says as she answers.
‘Hi, Mum, did you want me?’ I ask. ‘I’ve just seen your calls.’
‘Oh, sorry, everything is fine, I was just in the area and I thought I would see if you fancied some lunch,’ she suggests.
‘Yes,’ I say, a little too quickly. ‘I’m starving.’
I make a plan to meet my mum and, thankfully, I have plenty of time left in my break. Well, the last thing I want to do is head back to fess up that it all went disastrously wrong, and I really am hungry.
Ha, and to think, I was worried about what I would do if we had a second date. The chance would be a fine thing.
10
What does a generally bland dresser wear to a metal gig? It sounds like the set-up to a joke but, genuinely, I want to know.
I mean, I don’t think I’m bland, obviously. I love clothes – shopping, wearing things, trying different looks. But my preferred colour palette is muted, and I’m not exactly a provocative dresser – I don’t have the confidence for that. But, by metal standards, the browns and greens you’ll find in my wardrobe are more ‘lady of the manor’ than Children of Bodom – can you tell I’ve been googling metal bands? I even put a metal playlist on, while I was getting ready, but only for about five minutes before I gave up and stuck on some Taylor Swift instead.
Tonight I’ve got my date with Kane, from metal band Chillz, and he is expecting someone who looks the part to turn up. Genuinely, the only thing that is remotely metal about me is my fillings.
I stood in front of my own wardrobe for ages and, unsurprisingly, didn’t find the black leather or silver chains I was hoping I might’ve had but had somehow forgotten I’d bought.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and after my date with Roscoe was such a disaster, my date with Kane tonight feels like my last real chance. I’m pulling out the big guns – if pulling out the big guns means I am rifling through my mum’s wardrobe, which I’m almost certain it doesn’t.
I used to do this when I was a kid, I would go through her clothes, trying all sorts of things on, looking myself up and down in the mirror and laughing. It was like a time capsule, with things that were decades old, that even my mum wouldn’t wear. Thankfully, it still is.
I’ve opted for a black lace tutu dress (a really cheap one, that she bought in a fancy dress shop, to wear to an eighties party that she went to as Madonna), a cropped fur jacket that has seen more decades than I have, and a pair of red-tinted glasses that I found in a drawer on my dad’s side.
I look myself up and down in the mirror. Bloody hell, I look like Elton John. Perhaps I’ll ditch the red-tinted glasses.
The frills of my dress bounce almost comedically as I move, making my way back to my bathroom, where I put on even more make-up, hoping lots of black eyeliner and red lipstick can pick up the slack. I flick my eyes out at the sides, in at the corners, and even draw on a few bonus flicks below my eyes – I’m not sure what they’re supposed to be, but they’re not coming off now.
I had the sense when I arrived to tell my mum and dad that I was only popping in and out, so said hi and bye, safe in the knowledge that it’s TV quiz show prime time and that I should be able to make my way out unseen. The last thing I need is to have to explain to them where I’m going, or why I’m dressed up like this – I’m not even sure what I would tell them.
I make it to the door with only Ted noticing. He wags his tail at me but I can tell there’s a tone; even the dog is judging me.
