Chapter 1: Getting to know you, getting to know all about you
Firstly I want to get a few things straight. If you are a) the sort of person who can’t stand moaning or b) the sort
of person
who finds chess interesting…please do not read on. You have been warned.
As you can tell this is my first feeble attempt at writing a “novel” as such, I spent a whole hour agonising over
what it
should be about. Are you just a budding journalist with no inspiration you ask? Well the first part is true, I am a budding
journalist but I did find inspiration over what to write about. Something amazing happened and it just clicked and I realised
what my best selling novel should be about. It should be about me. Granted, I am not the most interesting person in the world,
neither the sexist, cleverest or slimmest. I am just a normal person with normal ambitions in life (though with a name like
Hazel Partridge maybe I’m not normal). I am like everyone else in the fact that I smell awful in the morning, I hate
brushing
my teeth (seriously, it takes SO much effort) and wear a pair of socks for days on end (please tell me someone else does that).
Oh god, I feel that stressy feeling coming on. This is definitely going to be a challenge. I have no idea what to write about
already. Am I really that boring? (Don’t answer that).
Ok, I will tell you all what happened to me today. That should fill out at least half a page or so. This morning, when leaving
for my daily excitement (the thrilling place that is “The Wentworth Times Office”) I looked in the mirror and froze.
I saw
something, which utterly disgusted me, I could not believe it. I wanted to make an effort to dress up for work (a rare occasion).
This only happens when a) I need money or b) A gorgeous new guy has started working in the office. Anyway, I had dressed up
in my most sophisticated clobber (that being a 7 year old black skirt borrowed from my aunt and a brown shirt which strains
across my bust, looking like I have two water balloons stuffed up it) and put a bit of eyeliner and mascara on. I thought
everything was perfect-I looked pretty decent if I do say so myself BUT I noticed something horrid when I looked into the
mirror. The biggest EVER spot you have seen in your life. Seriously, you can’t get volcanoes bigger than this. I swore
to
myself that it wasn’t there ten minutes ago (why do you always notice them when you are about to leave home?) and took
a closer
look. No one would EVER fancy me looking like this. I did my best to cover it up with concealor but it just went all flaky
and looked even worse. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the worst. Wait for this, I would have to try and ignore
it. I know, I thought this was impossible too but I tried, I really did. When I left for work, things just went from bad to
worse. I missed my bus, ended up standing up in a crowded tube next to sweaty old men (thank god I have the huge spot in the
middle of my chin, they thankfully backed away). When I finally got to work, ten minutes late (common occurrence, stupid tubes)
I sat down at my desk to find a pile of photocopying to do. I could tell I was going to have the most exciting day of my life
ahead of me. Honestly, this isn’t what I want to do. I want to WRITE. I want to have the freedom to express something
I believe
in. Not make coffees for snobby old women who spray spit over you, every time to come within 2 metres of them. This is just
a temporary job though, my boss (Mr Wiseman-actually he isn’t exactly wise) tells me I will get there with determination
and
hard work and I must run a long and photocopy some sheets. He isn’t the pervy boss type; he is actually quite nice (I
didn’t
say that) although he isn’t exactly handsome. He is what I call, non-babelicious. Not sex god material if you know what
I
mean. Although he may be some people’s taste, he definitely isn’t mine. He has an over polite wife and has three
bouncing
girls who wear matching Mickey Mouse outfits. Quite sickening really if you think about it. Still, at least he is happy. Much
more than I have achieved so far.
Let’s look at the evidence. I am 22. I am still single. I live on my own. I spend my weekends eating frozen pizza watching
rubbish on TV. I work for a sleazy newspaper which sells about 10 copies a week (the local gardener buys four of them, don’t
ask me why). Sure, I live in a nice apartment. I can just about manage with money (ask me that again next week and I will
probably give a different answer) and I look reasonably ok (except for my huge hips, horrible stretch marks and seriously
old-fashioned hair). I have asked myself this question time and time again. Am I happy? I don’t think I am-I need to
sort
my life out. Fast.
Chapter 2: I’m so excited and I just can’t hide it
Yes, this will keep you reading. This will wake you up after that boring last chapter (I blame hormones). Something amazing
has happened. Ok, maybe not world shattering, not a hold the front-page situation, but I am sooooooo excited. You are now
looking at (ok, reading about) Miss Hazel Partridge….journalist! Today after work, Mr Wiseman pulled me aside (which
got me
a little worried) and told me he had something to tell me. I was sweating so much at this point (I hadn’t put deodorant
on
that morning, big mistake). I thought he was going to sack me (memories of the bum incident came flooding back, more later…aha
keeps you reading) and say hasta la vista baby…but oh no. He told me he wanted me to “do something” (at this
point, I wondered
whether I should get security on stand by) and this “something” was an article for the newspaper. Written by me.
Ok, maybe
it wouldn’t get a lot of publicity but it was my chance to write. I was to interview a local young man who had recently
won
8 million on the lottery roll over. This was my BIG chance. He told me I had 24 hours to get my act together and sort out
what I was going to say. I was given guidelines on what to ask him, but when it came to writing the big article…it was
all
down to me. I seriously have never been this excited before. It even beats the time I bought the most amazing flip-flops in
Primark for only £2. I don’t know why my boss is trusting me with something this big. I usually mess things up.
When I am
supposed to be photocopying endless sheets, I’m usually photocopying my hands or face to see what they look like on paper.
The MOST embarrassing thing happened to me about a month ago in the office involving a photocopying machine. I thought everyone
had left. I assumed the boss was at a meeting being bossy and that I was the only one there. The thing was, I had been asked
to stay behind for 1 hour or so (desperate, needed money) to do some stapling and filing (hey £4 is £4…it
pays for a tub of
Ben and Jerry’s). I was just minding my own business when the photocopier came into view. I thought I’d give it
a go, I needed
to learn the real truth. Did I have a big bum or not? There was only one way to find out. I lifted up my skirt, climbed up
onto a chair and then opened the photocopying flap thing. I slowly sat down on the glass. Then I heard it. A huge crackling
noise, suspiciously like broken glass. I completely panicked and pressed copy. Before I could see what had come out the other
end, I heard a sniffle from behind me. That was IT, the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. My boss seeing me in my
pants. Not very nice pants either. His eyes popped out of his skull…I was waiting for the “turning red like Phil
from Eastenders”
face but he laughed. He laughed at me. I quickly pulled my skirt up and mumbled something a long the lines of, “sorry
I didn’t
think anyone was here”. I haven’t got to the worst part yet. He walked over to the machine and picked up the copy
of my bum.
Oh my god, I could have died there and then. “ Interesting Miss Partridge, interesting. Next time you wish to photocopy
your
bum, please do it elsewhere” he tried to say keeping a straight face. He handed me the paper and went into his office.
Oh
my god, that was painful. Even more painful was the fact that a) I had broken a £600 photocopier and he didn’t
know b) My
boss saw me in my pants c) I now knew for sure my bum was huge and d) My boss saw me in my pants. You can’t get much
worse
than that really. Anyway, I try to not reflect on the worst moment of my entire life. My boss noticed the photocopier had
broken and I had to pay him £100 to cover repairs. How stingy. Still, hopefully he’s forgotten now (wishful thinking,
you
would feel the same).
Anyway, onto the interview. As soon I got home from work, I rang up and told my friends. Now is the chance to introduce the
crazy individuals I call my mates. Firstly there is Jenna. A total bitch but lovely with it. She works part time in the co-op
and hates it. The rest of time she works for her local hospital radio. I have to keep reminding her that she is actually making
patients feel WORSE than they already do. If you heard the rather irritating tones of Jenna, you’d know why. Still, I
love
her to bits. Next up is Charlotte or Lotto Long Locks, as we like to call her. She is gorgeous and knows it. Her idea of a
perfect day is a spree in Harrods…seriously if you let her loose on her own, she’d end up killing someone. That’s
why I always
have to go with her, which is quite all right by me. I usually end up in the toy department anyway blowing bubbles with some
sad assistant (remind me to get a life). Lastly, there is the lovely Amanda. She is the “I’m always there for you”
type of
friend and she is my lifeline to be honest. Since my mum died when I was 7(serious moment now, I don’t want to go into
it)
she has always been there to talk to and she gives great hugs. She has such much ambition in life, she designs clothes and
once made me the most gorgeous blue dress (which, I erm ended up setting fire to. All I can say is…chip pan...long flouncy
dress…bad combination). I really don’t know what I’d do without her.
Anyway, no more soppy stuff. I have an interview to get prepared for. You never know, the bloke may be the man of my dreams.
Oh no, forgot this is business only. Damn it.
Chapter 3
Money, Money, Money…must be funny, in a rich man’s world
My first journalistic experience. I better start from the beginning, but I may be a while. Today was the big day. I was to
interview a man called Mr Johnson for an article for The Wentworth Times. My boss had told me that if this sells more copies,
I can further myself in the “career ladder”. I liked the sound of that, so prepared myself fully for this interview
(more
about that later but remind me NEVER to wear white again.)
Mr Johnson is a young man of 26. He lives on his own in the South West of London. Last week, he won a whopping 8 million on
the lottery roll over (ka-ching!). Mr Wiseman gave me a photo so I knew how to spot him in the restaurant (well, more fish
and chip palace, we do have a budget you know, that being practically nothing). My eyes seriously popped out of my skull when
I saw the photo. All I can think was woof woof darling, you are a babe. I had to calm myself down at this point because I
felt all overcome. “This man is rich and gorgeous. Perfect package”, I thought to myself. His hair was brown and
his eyes
the most stunning blue you have ever seen. Bluer than the ocean (sorry, I promised this “novel” wouldn’t become
cheesy, but
I can’t help it) and he just had sex god written all over him. Obviously, this made me even more nervous about the interview;
I mean I am hardly Kylie Minogue. If you think of Kylie with bigger thighs (hard I know) bigger hips and cellulite then that
would be me. Still, I had to tell myself that this was work only and in the words of Mr Bud Wiseman (Or Budweiser as us Wentworth
folks like to call him), an employer should never mix business with pleasure. Tell me that when I am stood in front of a 6-foot
sex god and I’d probably punch his face and end up getting arrested for GBH (note: I am not usually a violent person).
Anyway, straying off the topic as usual. The morning of the interview, I was a nervous wreck. I had figured some questions
out but in the end decided to go with the flow. I spent two hours getting ready. I mean, I was on my own with the bloke; I
had to make an effort isn’t I? Thankfully, the evil spot had disappeared so now my face just looked horrible. Instead
of really
horrible. First thing first, I had to decide what to wear. Should I go for “I’m a business woman, don’t mess
with me, black
suit look” or “The casual, I am scruffy and proud” look? I went for the casual look. A white top (BIG MISTAKE)
and some jeans.
I didn’t want to look over the top but at the same time I didn’t want to look like I had just got out of bed. Anyway,
I got
the clothes sorted so now it was just my make up. This is when it got difficult. I hardly ever wear make up so it was the
time to dig out some of my mum’s old Avon gear (dated 1994) to slap on my face. I had no choice because I wanted to look
presentable.
I settled with blue eye shadow, no lipstick and a flicker of mascara. Then all I had to do was shave (my top had no sleeves)
so this meant I had to dig out my pink razor and prepare for pain. Oh my god, it was painful and sooo not worth it. When you
are left with prickly bits everywhere under your arms, you wonder why you never bought that special pass to the local beauty
shop. I just had to make sure I never lifted my arm up, shouldn’t be too hard I thought.
Anyway, on to the interview itself (I am trying my suspense technique, have you noticed) on the way there I filled myself
with PMA (positive mental attitude, everyone knows that) despite the fact that I was 10 minutes late to the Bingabong Chip
Palace. I finally arrived at 2.10pm, and walked in (nearly was sick, oil isn’t my thing) and searched around the restaurant.
So many people, how the hell would I find him? Well I did. I could recognise his face from the photo…oh my god (why the
hell
haven’t I invested in Botox injections…tell me why!!). He was just stunning…a total babe. He IS stunning, think
Will Young
with darker hair and you’re there (obsession with Will Young, do not ask). This is it I thought, my first experience
as a
journalist. I sat down in the seat opposite him and breathed heavily (not in a dirty way of course). “So, you must be
Mr Johnson.
I am here to interview you. I am from the Wentworth Times, pleased to meet you.” I then went on to who I was and how
I was
slightly nervous but all I got was a blank expression. Oh my god, disaster...was it the wrong man? Then I saw him lift up
his hand as if to sweep that rather sexy black hair off his eyes but his hand went to his ear. He pulled out an earphone and
I sighed with relief. “Sorry sweetheart, didn’t notice you there (thanks mate that does wonders for my self esteem).
Are you
here to interview me then?” he said softly. Oh wow…I couldn’t concentrate. Despite the fact he was drop dead
gorgeous, I had
to cope with the fact that a) He had the sexiest voice ever b) He was a really nice guy and c)I looked like a total minger.
I didn’t need to worry after all though because the interview was fine. He was polite, spoke a lot (thankfully as I said
hardly
anything. You would feel the same in my circumstances) and was continually asking whether I was ok. Then the chips came and
that was my moment of utter embarrassment. After a decent interview with him, I thought nothing else could go wrong but oh
no. Firstly why the hell did I wear a white top and secondly why the hell did I have to order chips (ok, slightly hard in
a fish and chip palace). Josh (whoo I’m on first name terms with him now) told me how well I done in the interview and
how
he was sure I would go on to better things. I sneakily asked him whether he was attached or not. He was SINGLE (breath Hazel
breath). I thought that would be completely impossible but maybe not! The chips arrived at the table and I picked up the ketchup
bottle and skirted. Nothing came so I squirted harder. OH MY GOD, that was it. That was it. The second most embarrassing moment
of my entire life. Ketchup everywhere…my hair, my top and even my new trousers from BHS. I felt awful and to top it all
off,
when I bent down to wipe my shoes, I heard a huggge split. That was it, the trousers had gone. They had totally given up on
my huge bum. I bought a size 8(just in case he saw my label obviously) when I’m really a size 12. Remind me never to
do that
again. To make matters even more uncomfortable, Josh was so sweet and politely whispered in my ear that perhaps I shouldn’t
wear white while holding a ketchup bottle. I apologised to Josh, congratulated him on his win and began to walk out. Just
as I was about to go out the door, I felt someone tap me on my ketchupy shoulder. It was Josh and he handed me a piece of
paper and told me I’d dropped it. I thanked him and went out. I glanced quickly at the paper and oh my god I couldn’t
believe
what I saw. Wait for this…on the paper was some NUMBERS. Not just any numbers though…it said, “Call me babe.
0208 789 7765”
Was this for me? No way, he wouldn’t want someone like me to call someone like HIM. Then again, he handed it to me personally.
Oh my god, he likes me too. How anyone as lovely as him would like someone like me is ridiculous. Maybe he is actually a decent
bloke who isn’t just after a size 8 plastic boobs chick. I pondered over whether I should call him or not. I will call
him.
This is my only chance to grab something as sexy as he is. Whooo. As I walked through the streets of Sloane Square, I completely
forgot the fact that I had a massive split in the back of my trousers and had ketchup everywhere. I looked like I’d been
attacked
with a kitchen knife. I didn’t care though…I began imagining what our wedding would be like. Do you think it would
be alright
if I wore a pink wedding dress?
Chapter 4: When I fall in love, it will be forever....
Ok, so this is the deal. I got Josh’s phone number. So what now? I could call up, splutter and make a complete fool of
myself
(hey, it’s what I do best. Maybe I should go into the circus industry. I am sure it pays more than what I am getting
now)
or I could not call up and just be miserable. I decided to take the plunge and dial the number. He is just a man I told myself…a
rather sexy and delicious man at that…but if he acts like he doesn’t care then I’ll just put the phone down.
So, I called.
I’ve never taken such a risk before, the closest I’ve come to taking a risk is nicking a few jelly babies from the
pick and
mix counter in Woollies (they called me to pick them up…honestly). Anyway I called, it rung and he picked up the phone.
Oh
my god, his voice sounded even sexier over a phone line. I started off by mumbling and slurring a few words (don’t ask
me
what they were, please) and thankfully that was his cue to speak. “Oh, this is Hazel isn’t it? Glad you called babe.
I knew
you would.” I responded back by saying (or mumbling. Look you would have sooo been like that too if you were me) that
his
interview would be in the Wentworth Times very shortly. I apologised for the splitting trousers and ketchup incident and he
laughed. He asked me out for dinner the next evening. Hang on hang on…rewind…did I just say DINNER? Ok, yes I did.
Dinner
involves two people staring across a table and gazing in to each other’s eyes doesn’t it? That leads onto a night
of passion
followed by a series of more dates then meeting the folks, the moving in together and then getting married. Maybe I’d
get
to wear a pink wedding dress after all. Ok, I may be slightly dreaming here but what else is a girl to do. “What?”
I replied.
“Dinner. You. Me. Tomorrow at 7pm. Martello’s. Be there” he said sexily and with that he hung up. Oh my good
gracious lord…me
and Josh (sitting in a tree…kissing. Ok, maybe not) at dinner, together.
I was on such a high that night. I rung up my mates and they were out. Damn it. So I hired a pizza for myself (note to myself…one
slice ONLY. You can resist girl! You can resist!) And then settled in front of the television to watch Location Location Location.
I spotted THE most gorgeous house that would be perfect for Josh and me. Well for me anyway but maybe I’m thinking too
far
ahead of myself here. Anyway, I made a list of things to do for the following day. Firstly lose 2 stone…ok maybe not
enough
time to do that…secondly get a nose job…ok not enough time to do that either. I had to de-fuzz myself for the date
which included
shaving every part of me I possibly could manage in the time I had (please tell me other people do that). I need to pluck
my eyebrows too. Any thicker and they’ll be covering my eyes. I don’t think Josh goes for that look somehow. Also
trying to
make my face look presentable so that he didn’t choke on his food as soon as he saw me. Though maybe choking is not such
a
bad idea…it would give a chance to feel his six pack while doing the hero bit and trying to get him to cough it up. Oh
god
I didn’t say that. So there you go that was my amazing plan. A plan for the new me.
Did it work? Erm, what do you think? Does anything ever work for me? Nah. Just call me Hazel Partridge, officially THE most
unlucky girl in the world. Firstly having a totally crap day at work didn’t help. Mr Wiseman had read through the article
I had written and said it was “ok”. Thanks mate, after all the effort of ruining my BHS trousers (size 12) and making
a bloody
fool of myself and it’s just “Ok”. Well stuff him, I didn’t need his comments anyway. To top it all off,
Mr Wiseman told us
(“us” being me, Sarah the “incredible wind machine” Smith, Bob “if you look at me then you want me”
Danson, Penelope “if you
don’t shop in Harvey Nicks then back away” Brown, Thomas “ if I spike my hair then I’ll be Gareth Gates”
Milton, John “eat
me” Jameson and finally the lovely Paula “ don’t touch, very fragile” Jones) that there had been a new
improvement in the
office that he’d like us to see. How thrilled I was to hear that security cameras had been installed in the office. He
subtly
(or rather unsubtle) pointed out that this new idea of his had arisen from the fact that a few months back there had been
an “unfortunate incident with the photocopier involving one of the staff”. He might have well have told the whole
office it
was me. For the rest of that day, all I could hear was whispering and I caught the words “Hazel, bum and big”. Wow,
that just
made me feel a whole lot happier. Stuff them anyway, I am going to be a mega rich journalist with a mega rich husband with
a huge house. They’ll still be searching for their clothes in Oxfam (of course, nothing wrong with that. Opps) while
I’ll
have diamonds from Harrods dripping from me left, right and centre.
Anyway, the suspense is over now. You want to know how the date went do you? Of course, this book has got so interesting and
you are just being greedy and what more. That is right isn’t it? I think I’ll keep it to myself until the next chapter.
Just
to be mean. It DOES involve a chicken (dead, not alive. Thank God), rubber gloves and some washing up liquid. Ha ha, you soooo
want more. Let’s just say I am in love and I kinda like it.
Chapter 5: Throw a chicken in the air, like you just don’t care
You’ve made it to Chapter 5, well done. Thank you for reading this far, whoever you may be. This is when my book gets
interesting.
My date with a sex god, definitely something to keep you reading. I’ll start from the beginning of the evening. End of
work
and I collapsed on my bed (nearly broke it as well…I blame my grandmother for my huge bum. It’s not my fault). I
actually
realised I had a full two hours to get ready. I needed to transform myself from stapling office chick to stylish journalist
chick. This was going to take some time. I split my 2 hours up into 4 sections of half an hour (this is how far my logic stretches).
The first half an hour, I focused on my hair. I tried to use my curling tongs but I ended up burning the end of my hair (I
only realised this when I saw smoke arising from it…that suggested something could be wrong) so I had to snip this bit
off.
Great, now I had uneven hair but at least it was freshly washed. The next half an hour was make up time… I had bought
some
mascara especially. I had to scrape the barrel and go to Claire’s (seriously…this is a SCARY place. Being surrounded
by ten
year old girls is not how I like to spend my afternoon, but it had to be done). Anyway after my make up session I looked quite
nice if I do say so myself. Despite looking like Ozzy Osbourne on a bad day, I had improved my look. The next half an hour
was my clothes time. Jenny suggested I wore something that suggested the “girl next door look” but I thought Josh
went for
the more “sexy minx look” so I went for that. Red dress (learnt my lesson by not wearing white. NEVER AGAIN) which
went down
to my knees (not too much leg on show. You want to leave something to the imagination. Can you tell I read dating books…I
hope not) and some red heels (bargain at £10 from New Look. If you haven’t been down there, go there NOW. You will
regret
it if you don’t). My last half-hour was sorting out odds and ends. Then it was time to leave…and can you believe
it…I got
to the restaurant ON TIME. So far…so good. I felt déjà vu as I stared around the restaurant looking for
Josh. Although this
time he noticed ME and politely pulled out my chair. Oh my god…he looked amazing. Better than perfection if that’s
possible.
He was dressed quite casually…but it looked like he had made the effort. His hair…oh my gracious lord…it looked
so good that
I could eat it. Anyway, enough about hair for now. Josh was SO nice, as soon as we sat down he said, “Hazel…may
I say you
are looking delicious tonight”. Whooo my self-esteem had just risen! We chatted for a bit, he talked about the new apartment
he bought with his winnings and how he hates living on his own (HELLO mate…I’d share it with you any day!). Then
he asked
me what I wanted to eat. We had the most delicious starter (sorry, the name is far too complex with me) and then while we
were waiting for the main course, “Isn’t she lovely” by Stevie Wonder started playing. I seriously felt like
I was in heaven…until
the main course arrived. I have no clue what it actually was but all I knew was that it had chicken in it. So we tucked in…this
is where things went down hill. Ok, firstly it’s not my fault the bloody chicken was so hard to cut (blame the chefs…not
moi)
and secondly, I had no intention of actually physically harming him. Josh was busying enjoying his meal…while I was struggling
to cut up a VERY difficult piece of chicken breast (must have been a little minx when it was alive) when suddenly I saw something
flying through the air. MY piece of chicken had whacked Josh in the eye. There you have it…my third most embarrassing
moment
of my entire life. He held his eye as if some killer chicken had just grabbed his eyeball…but thankfully he seemed all
right
as he was laughing. “Josh...I am so sorry. You must think I’m a right idiot. I didn’t intentionally mean to
harm you with
a flying chicken”. I said. “Hazel…don’t worry about it. It just adds to the excitement of the evening.”
He said. THANK GOD
he wasn’t seriously harmed…from now on CHICKEN’S ARE EVIL, no one can persuade me otherwise. Despite this minor
problem with
the flying chicken, the rest of the date went on quite smoothly. We gazed into eachothers eyes (did I tell you Josh has the
most amazing eyes?) and chatted non-stop. Just as we were about to leave, Josh suggested we have one more glass of wine. Big
mistake my friends, big mistake. Just as I was reaching for the glass to pour in the wine…I managed to bring the tablecloth
with me and everything spilled over the floor. I had to deal with the fact that a) I had loads of people looking at me b)
Red wine had gone all over Josh’s trousers and c) WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME? Cue the “I’m so sorry
Josh” and the “It
doesn’t matter Hazel”. This time Josh suggested we paid…and go back to his place to clear up. HELLO did you
hear me…I just
said GO BACK TO HIS PLACE. What do you think I said? “Oh Josh…sorry but how can you ever suggest such a thing?”
No! I said
yes you wally. So that’s what we did. Josh didn’t seem to mind walking out of the restaurant looking like he’d
wet himself…I
didn’t care either. Oh my god, his car was great. His apartment was great. It was so “Josh”. It has to be worth
at least 2
million. It looked awfully big for one person…it looked like it needed a woman’s touch (wink wink). So, there I
was. Standing
in the doorway of a millionaire’s pad. A gorgeous millionaire as well. “Babe, you don’t know anything that
could get this
stain of do you?” (May I inform you at this point that the erm stain was around his “lower region”) “Of
course I do…where
is your kitchen?” He pointed me to his huge… kitchen and I had no idea what to do. Then I had a brainwave…washing
up liquid!
That would get rid of the stain! “Where do you keep your rubber gloves and things like that?” “It’s a
bit early for that don’t
you think?” he said. I blushed and replied “Sorry, I just need them to get off your stain”. “Of course
you do. Bottom shelf.”
He said. So there I was on my knees with washing up liquid and rubber gloves at the ready…and then I realised what the
hell
I was doing. “Sorry, if you just use these, it should come off…I hope.” I said. So, he started rubbing this
washing up liquid
in and there you have it. Another classic Hazel disaster. It just made his trousers ten times worse. They looked really expensive
as well…could even be Gucci. I apologised again and again…and he went off somewhere to change his trousers (no,
I didn’t follow
him). When he came back (in some rather TIGHT leather trousers I must add. Not that I was looking) I told him I had to leave.
So I picked up my bag and suddenly he grabbed me and kissed me. That was it…I was in love. Stuff the chicken…stuff
the wine
incident. He likes me and I like him. Isn’t life grand?
Chapter 6: That’s the way aha aha I like it
I can now declare I officially have a love life. I am head over heels in love with Josh…as he is with me (well I bloody
hope
so). He is THE best kisser ever…ok well he hasn’t had much competition. Comparing him to Eggy Edward (his nickname
involves
a rather long and nasty story I’d rather not get into) at the year 11-school disco, there is erm no comparison really.
After
the most amazing kiss of my life, I did the most stupid thing ever and actually asked to be driven home. It’s not that
I didn’t
want to be there, it’s just I didn’t want this kiss to evolve into something more. I love Josh, I really do but
I want to
take a bit of time to get to know him more. Call me old fashioned but that’s just the way things work for me! (Ok, I
am totally
regretting it now) Anyway, my perfect chance came to show him off at the annual office party on Friday 8th October (where
most places have a party around Christmas time, we have ours in mid-October. Don’t ask me why, the only answer I can
get out
of Mr Wiseman is that “Here at Wentworth, we like to be different” Oh, so that explains it then).
The annual Wentworth Time’s office party. A time for giving, sharing and being sick all over your boss’s car. Actually,
I
think the last bit only applies to me. Last year’s party wasn’t what you’d call “swinging” or “happening”.
Then again it never
is really. Every year I seem to make a fool of myself in one shape or form. Last year was no exception. You thought my boss
seeing me in my pants was bad…just listen to this.
It all started off pretty normal at the annual party…I prepared myself to spend my whole evening standing by the nibbles
and
punch (added bonus was that the punch is always disgusting so no one ever goes in that direction). I completely amazed myself
by actually getting dressed up for the occasion (black see through top…bad idea…tight leather skirt…bad idea)
but I didn’t
actually realise that I looked like a complete tart until I got there. There I was standing in a hall full of thin stick girls
in long ball gowns and the men in black suits. There was me with the cheapest tacky skirt (5.99 from pound stretcher. I thought
it was a bargain at the time. Never again) and the most revealing top (slightly more upmarket at £10) in a room full
of people
who looked like they’d stepped into a ballroom dancing competition. How the hell did Wentworth get so classy? I thought
the
dress code for this occasion was usually “the first thing you find in your wardrobe”. Obviously not eh. Mr Wiseman
came to
inform me that he was sorry that he hadn’t mentioned this before but they’d recently decided to make the occasion
more formal.
Great, so I stood on my own like a wally all night. I drank and I drank the punch (thanks to the person who mentioned to me
that it had alcohol in it. Thanks a lot!) until my whole body couldn’t actually take any more liquid. I also had to cope
with
the fact that no men there were even bordering on the “fit line” and were either a) butt ugly b) gay or c) married.
Bob was
the only SLIGHTLY decent looking bloke there but the fact that he wore trousers with a zip at the back. Call me picky, but
I just don’t like that. Also his idea of a romantic date is a trip down to Clacton for a game on the 2ps machines (apologies
to the people of Clacton but no way). He also has the most incredibly annoying frog ringtone on his mobile that sounds like
he’s farting. Don’t think he’s realised that yet though. I think apart from sad old me; Mr Wiseman was the
only one alone
at the party. His wife must have been busy with their bouncing bunny kin’s.
So…I made the biggest mistake of my life and went up to him. If I could erase that one moment (ok a few others too) in
my
life then I would. May I mention at this point, I was totally out of it and actually didn’t realise what time or what
day
it actually was. So I went up to him and he nervously grinned as if to say…back away you drunk tart but he was too polite
to say that. I could read him like a book though. I told him silly I felt in my clothes and he smiled and I THINK he said,
“You look fine to me”. Now come on, ok…if that’s not a come on, what is? So I did the most idiotic thing
and grabbed him for
a dance. Dancing with your boss may even appeal to some people, not me but I have the excuse that I was drunk at the time.
So we danced, well I danced; he sort of shuffled along to the beat. Sorry but I had to stop…he look like a duck having
a fit.
I just couldn’t take anymore and it didn’t help that the room was spinning around me. At the time, I couldn’t
actually remember
how I got to the party (possibly by bus but who knows) and so I rudely asked whether I could be driven home. You could sooo
tell he didn’t want to but he didn’t have much choice as I was already running down to his car. I just needed to
get out of
there really. So he let me into his car (god help him) and that was it. I can’t remember the exact words but I think
I said
something like “Mr Wiseman, I think you’re incredibly sexy. You really turn me on you beast”. Damn it, why
does the truth
always have to come out when you’re drunk (note to myself: never drink again. Ever) He went so red and replied, “Hazel,
I
think you are slightly drunk. It’s best I get you home as soon as possible”. Then things went from bad to worse.
1) I repeatedly
told him how much I liked him (I WAS DRUNK, HELLO?) 2) I was sick ALL over his brand new car (there is still a stain there,
I swear I saw it the other day and 3) I splurted out all my secrets to him while he was driving me home. I told him how I
sometimes don’t wear underwear to work (so, I’m not a great at cleaning my stuff. Sue me why don’t you). He
then dropped me
off at my apartment and just as he turned to get into his car, I was sick all over him again, his new jacket as well (I saw
the label…it looked well posh). I felt AWFUL. Thankfully I can’t remember every detail about that night…I mean,
I could have
even kissed him but that doesn’t need to be thought about now (push it to the side Hazel). I felt an idiot, I acted so
unprofessional
and to top it all off I had to cop a whole load of grief from Paula the next day at work (she handed me a book called, “Dealing
with your alcohol addiction. Why would I need that?). I was SO lucky though…Mr Wiseman didn’t sack me. He didn’t
actually
say anything surprisingly. We have a funny relationship, my boss and me.
So there you have it…you’ve all have a good laugh now. So you think that all I ever do turns into disaster? Well
no my friend,
no! This year’s party was better because I had Josh. I had the most amazing time…I ended up with a black eye but
who cares!
Now, I would tell you about it now but I like this suspense thingy. You’ll just have to wait a bit longer my friend!
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