Sequel: Upwards ›
Frontwards
Glass half-full.
Friday, November 4th, 2005 – LATER
Oh my God I think I am drunk. Yep, I’m pretty sure of it. Drinky drunk drunk, perched on the edge of the bath with my diary on my lap so apologies, future me, for the sloppy handwriting. I’m sure you understand. I bet you’re reading this in the morning to try and piece together what happened tonight or last night or whatever. Do you have a headache, future Daisy? Do you feel sick?
Frank thinks I’m feeling sick now because I had to say something to get away so I could write this all down. I’d like to have some recollection of what happened tonight just in case my memory turns out to be hazy when I wake up, so I’m writing stuff down while I still remember it. That’s very sensible, isn’t it? Far too sensible to be normal. Why can’t I just be a normal 23 year old?
Anyway, I’ll start at the beginning, before all the wine, because that just seems like a good place to start.
In my fridge we found the following: six tomatoes, a can of diet coke, two bottles of pinot grigio, a questionable cauliflower, a Chinese takeaway menu and some cat food.
“I guess my housemate hasn’t been shopping yet,” I deduced, smiling sheepishly at Frank as he chuckled adorably. I reached in and retrieved the takeaway menu. “Chinese?”
“Sure,” he grinned, leaning across me so close that I could smell him. He smelt like cigarette smoke and vanilla and it was maybe the best combination that I had ever known. He pulled out a bottle of the wine. “Would madam care to sample the wine we have on offer this fine evening?” he said in a mock-serious voice, and I gave a short laugh as I rooted around for a couple of glasses. This is where it began. This is where the dynamics of our relationship changed. After a couple of glasses, all thoughts of food were forgotten along with my inhibitions and common sense.
I’m not sure if it was just the wine, or if it was Frank’s devilishly good looks, or if it was simply the fact that I had been (involuntarily) celibate for the past 8 months, or possibly some combination of all of these things, but as I sat beside Frank on my sofa, with my third glass of wine half-empty (or half-full, if we must), a crazy part of me thought that it would be a really good idea to kiss him. And, I don’t know if it’s attributable to any of these factors, or just plain insanity, but an even crazier part of me – a part that can be seldom seen – caused me to actually lean across and do it.
Thankfully, judging by the way I was received, with a deep groan and a rough embrace, Frank seemed to think it was a pretty good idea too. His lips were warm, contrasting against the cool sliver of metal that was his lip ring, which was extremely arousing. Somehow, during all of this, I managed to place my wine glass onto the coffee table, and then the real fun began. Suddenly I was being pinned on my back, and Frank was looming above me, grinning, and then his lips were against mine again and his hands were on my waist and my hands were in his hair, which was surprisingly soft, and the wine was taking over and I wasn’t even really Daisy anymore. I was some kind of desirable, sexual being, and it felt wonderful.
I shall emphasise to you now, dear reader, that I am not generally an impulsive person, despite what you may have assumed about the little I have divulged about myself thus far. So I will now give you a quick summary of my life. (Obviously I didn’t actually write this into my beautiful diary, but I have added it now to further emphasise the true insanity of the circumstances and the behaviour I displayed. As if I was going to perch on the edge of my bathtub and scribble down the story of my life into a diary that only I would be reading, whilst an extremely sexy man was sitting on my sofa. That would be insane.)
On the seventh of May, 1982, Richard Montague from Nottingham, England, paced around a waiting room in a Calais hospital for 38 minutes. During that time, his wife, Marie Lavione from Paris, France, was giving birth to their first – and only – child. They named their daughter Daisy, in accordance with the wallpaper in the maternity ward. I often wonder how many Daisys were born in that room over the years.
For the first year or so of my life, I was as French as the day is long. There are photos of me as a baby wearing a tiny beret and looking miserable on the back of a bicycle. I was practically brought up on a diet of croissants and red wine, but just before I learnt to speak, we moved back to Nottingham, and I was raised in a small house in the suburbs, the same house that I brought Frank back to, with the same bathtub that I perched on as I scribbled furiously into a small diary. This was the house that my father grew up in, and it was the only thing that I inherited after his death.
Stomach cancer. I was six years old. Of course I don’t really remember any of it, except for a noticeable absence of Santa Claus the following Christmas. My mother fell into somewhat of a depression for ten years, leaving me to be brought up by her sister, who eventually had to move in next door to accommodate for my wellbeing. In my cousin Kate I found my best friend. She was nothing like me, but that’s what made us so close. I was brought up without cuddles, believing that it was normal for adults to spend days at a time in bed, or make their infants pack their own lunchboxes (it was jam sandwiches every day for a good four years) and subsequently I guess turned out a little bit odd. I was the sort of child who busied herself with finding things out. The sort of child who would take apart a remote control or a whole TV just to see how it works. My mother didn’t care. I never got any attention from her, no matter what I did, and so I became used to blending into the background. I was quiet and reserved and I hid in my own dreams. Only when I was with Kate did I become even vaguely normal. We used to catch butterflies together and I always wanted to dissect them but Kate always let them free again and they were beautiful, really, even if they were causing a hurricane in New Zealand.
When I was sixteen, my mother met Claude, and thus began to crawl out of her depression. Unfortunately, as it turns out, it was too late by then to establish a healthy relationship with her. I was harbouring a lot of repressed resent at her for missing out on my childhood, and she was just the kind of woman who is hard to agree with anyway. A twitchy kind of woman, who wears pointy shoes and finds fault with everything. Two years later, almost as soon as I became a legally responsible adult, she moved back to Paris with Claude. They have four children now. Good luck to them.
I attended Cambridge University on a mathematics scholarship and graduated with first-class honours. In my time there, I managed to acquire somewhere around the region of £13,000 in debt, so I took a year in employment before I saved enough money for my Master’s degree in Applied Mathematical Science. And the rest, as they say, is history. In fact, that’s a stupid saying because it is all history. Everything is history. Every single second that has ever passed is history now, even this one. I am very proud of that sentence.
Now that you have some insight into my general manner, I shall continue.
“Is this stupid?” I muttered, my words only slightly lost against Frank’s mouth as my hand ran up and down his spine.
“Probably,” he replied, planting tiny little kisses across my collarbone which made me actually bite my lip. I never thought that actually happened. I thought that was just something that the porn industry made up, but no! It is real. It is really happening. I am biting my lip. Lord have mercy.
Regretfully, I stopped him and we both sat up again, casting flushed glances across at each other every so often. In a vague attempt to compose myself and save a scrap of dignity, I straightened my glasses and smoothed down my hair and readjusted my bra, which had somehow become dislodged at some point in the heat of the moment. I also noted that several of the top buttons on my blouse had been unfastened, without my knowledge, but I left them as they were because I’m a sexy bitch. Haaaa.
Doctor Who was playing on the TV, though we had never been really watching it, and seemed somewhat strange to me that this was our background noise, so I turned it over. I’ve never been a big Doctor Who fan. It’s all much too far-fetched for my liking and I suppose I’m just not one of those science-fiction type geeks. I’m more of a maths-degree and thick-glasses type of geek.
Look at me, wasting time in the bathroom rambling on about the different types of geeks while there is a gorgeous man sitting on my sofa, watching a sealife documentary. What is happening to me? ARGH.
So anyway I’ll finish the story, although there is not much left to be told and my head is starting to spin a little bit and how long has the soap in this bathroom been unicorn-shaped? I am so drunk.
“Sorry,” I eventually said to him, because I felt like I probably should. He could have thought I was some sort of sexual predator, luring him back to my house so I could have my wicked way with him. That was of course never my intention, but now it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Oh shut up, Daisy.
“Don’t be,” Frank grinned, placing a warm hand on my left thigh.
I made a noise which may have sounded something like a confused weasel. Kind of a “Hmnfrgnm?” sound, which I’m sure was very attractive.
“I think you’re great,” Frank said, but all I could focus on were his lips which had felt so wonderful against mine and all I could think about was how much I wanted them to be against mine again now. They were red and moist and sweet, like strawberries. Damn I’m hungry. I wasn’t really listening to him much because I was focussed on admiring him and keeping my hunger at bay before I just went crazy and started on the cat food, but he carried on anyway and I think he said something along the lines of “I know we don’t know each other but I really like you, Daisy.” Or perhaps it was “I know you don’t know my mother but I really like shoes, Daisy.” Through the wine it was hard to tell, but I certainly hope it was the former; otherwise I have definitely invited a lunatic into my house.
It is at this point that our heroine Daisy begins to swell with happiness and lets her instincts take over once more and kisses our hero, Frank, very softly on the mouth to let him know that she likes him too, even if he is actually a crazy person and was talking about shoes all along. I thought I could probably learn to live with that, when Frank and I were married. I mean, it’s not that weird anyway because it is all truth; I do not know his mother and don’t we all like shoes, really? They are certainly useful for keeping our feet dry and SHUT UP DAISY THIS ISN’T ABOUT SHOES.
For a few more minutes, we began to kiss as David Attenborough spoke about some kind of new fish he had found. Whoop-de-fucking-do, Dave, you may have found a new fish but I have found true love so stick that in your pipe and shove it up your arse. Dear lord I think I am delirious from all the wine and the kissing.
“You are so weird,” Frank breathed as we parted, which I thought was kind of a strange thing to say to a girl you have just been kissing. Even if it is true. So I raised an eyebrow at him (or tried to, anyway) and waited for him to continue. He let out a soft chuckle and took my hands in his. “I mean, you’re weird in the best possible way. You are delightfully weird.”
“It’s not the smoothest compliment ever, but I’ll take it.”
Frank laughed and kissed my cheek. “I think you’re wonderful, Daisy. Mad as a box of frogs, but beautiful and funny and cool.”
Nobody has ever called me cool before. Mostly because I am by no stretch of the imagination cool. I wear pencil skirts and my hair is always in a tidy bun and I read Oscar Wilde. I’m an accountant, for Christ sake. I don’t go to parties and I don’t listen to obscure music and I have two friends; one of whom is a blood relative and the other of whom is a cat. Does any of this sound cool to you? No.
As for beautiful, I am staring at my reflection in the mirror right now and wondering. My lips are kind of oversized and my nose is generous. I am a little on the chubby side, and a lot on the short side so I’m almost spherical. My eyes look small, hidden away behind thick lenses, and I have a couple of spots on my chin that just won’t go away. I have freckles even though it’s winter. My hair is messy from all the shenanigans on the sofa. My fingernails are bitten down to the flesh. I certainly wouldn’t call myself beautiful, your honour, but the more I look at myself, the more I come to accept that I am not perfect but I am me, and if Frank thinks I am beautiful then I am inclined to believe him.
It had crossed my mind that perhaps he was saying all of these nice things just to get into my pants. But even if that is the case, who the fuck cares? It has been EIGHT MONTHS since my last sexual endeavour and as a woman I have needs, dammit. Needs that must be fulfilled. So get yourself out of this goddam bathroom and go seduce that rockstar, Montague.
There is a gentle knock on the bathroom door and I glance up, startled like a baby deer. “Daisy?” comes a wonderful voice, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, slamming my book shut. Oh hang on, that doesn’t work, does it? “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Okay, sure,” he says, and then I wait three seconds until I’m sure he is gone, before I turn back to scribble all of this down.
You might think I am crazy, dear reader, and I know there is probably not much evidenceto the contrary, but this is just how love goes. And besides, it’s not like I don’t know anything about this man. As we spoke and drank wine (wine that is now making me feel a little queasy as I write this) I discovered quite a lot about him, actually. His name is Frank Anthony Iero Jr. He has just turned 24 years old. He is a guitarist in a band (the name of the band escapes me, but we all know which band I am referring to). He is a vegetarian. He is from New Jersey, which is near New York. He has lots of tattoos, some of which he showed to me and when he did so I saw his pelvic bones and ohmygoshI’mhyperventilatingatthethought. So, you see, when you really think about it, I know quite a lot about this man. Certainly enough, anyway, for me to justify all of the stupid risks I have taken tonight and hopefully enough to justify the really stupid risk I am about to take right now.
Oh my God I think I am drunk. Yep, I’m pretty sure of it. Drinky drunk drunk, perched on the edge of the bath with my diary on my lap so apologies, future me, for the sloppy handwriting. I’m sure you understand. I bet you’re reading this in the morning to try and piece together what happened tonight or last night or whatever. Do you have a headache, future Daisy? Do you feel sick?
Frank thinks I’m feeling sick now because I had to say something to get away so I could write this all down. I’d like to have some recollection of what happened tonight just in case my memory turns out to be hazy when I wake up, so I’m writing stuff down while I still remember it. That’s very sensible, isn’t it? Far too sensible to be normal. Why can’t I just be a normal 23 year old?
Anyway, I’ll start at the beginning, before all the wine, because that just seems like a good place to start.
In my fridge we found the following: six tomatoes, a can of diet coke, two bottles of pinot grigio, a questionable cauliflower, a Chinese takeaway menu and some cat food.
“I guess my housemate hasn’t been shopping yet,” I deduced, smiling sheepishly at Frank as he chuckled adorably. I reached in and retrieved the takeaway menu. “Chinese?”
“Sure,” he grinned, leaning across me so close that I could smell him. He smelt like cigarette smoke and vanilla and it was maybe the best combination that I had ever known. He pulled out a bottle of the wine. “Would madam care to sample the wine we have on offer this fine evening?” he said in a mock-serious voice, and I gave a short laugh as I rooted around for a couple of glasses. This is where it began. This is where the dynamics of our relationship changed. After a couple of glasses, all thoughts of food were forgotten along with my inhibitions and common sense.
I’m not sure if it was just the wine, or if it was Frank’s devilishly good looks, or if it was simply the fact that I had been (involuntarily) celibate for the past 8 months, or possibly some combination of all of these things, but as I sat beside Frank on my sofa, with my third glass of wine half-empty (or half-full, if we must), a crazy part of me thought that it would be a really good idea to kiss him. And, I don’t know if it’s attributable to any of these factors, or just plain insanity, but an even crazier part of me – a part that can be seldom seen – caused me to actually lean across and do it.
Thankfully, judging by the way I was received, with a deep groan and a rough embrace, Frank seemed to think it was a pretty good idea too. His lips were warm, contrasting against the cool sliver of metal that was his lip ring, which was extremely arousing. Somehow, during all of this, I managed to place my wine glass onto the coffee table, and then the real fun began. Suddenly I was being pinned on my back, and Frank was looming above me, grinning, and then his lips were against mine again and his hands were on my waist and my hands were in his hair, which was surprisingly soft, and the wine was taking over and I wasn’t even really Daisy anymore. I was some kind of desirable, sexual being, and it felt wonderful.
I shall emphasise to you now, dear reader, that I am not generally an impulsive person, despite what you may have assumed about the little I have divulged about myself thus far. So I will now give you a quick summary of my life. (Obviously I didn’t actually write this into my beautiful diary, but I have added it now to further emphasise the true insanity of the circumstances and the behaviour I displayed. As if I was going to perch on the edge of my bathtub and scribble down the story of my life into a diary that only I would be reading, whilst an extremely sexy man was sitting on my sofa. That would be insane.)
On the seventh of May, 1982, Richard Montague from Nottingham, England, paced around a waiting room in a Calais hospital for 38 minutes. During that time, his wife, Marie Lavione from Paris, France, was giving birth to their first – and only – child. They named their daughter Daisy, in accordance with the wallpaper in the maternity ward. I often wonder how many Daisys were born in that room over the years.
For the first year or so of my life, I was as French as the day is long. There are photos of me as a baby wearing a tiny beret and looking miserable on the back of a bicycle. I was practically brought up on a diet of croissants and red wine, but just before I learnt to speak, we moved back to Nottingham, and I was raised in a small house in the suburbs, the same house that I brought Frank back to, with the same bathtub that I perched on as I scribbled furiously into a small diary. This was the house that my father grew up in, and it was the only thing that I inherited after his death.
Stomach cancer. I was six years old. Of course I don’t really remember any of it, except for a noticeable absence of Santa Claus the following Christmas. My mother fell into somewhat of a depression for ten years, leaving me to be brought up by her sister, who eventually had to move in next door to accommodate for my wellbeing. In my cousin Kate I found my best friend. She was nothing like me, but that’s what made us so close. I was brought up without cuddles, believing that it was normal for adults to spend days at a time in bed, or make their infants pack their own lunchboxes (it was jam sandwiches every day for a good four years) and subsequently I guess turned out a little bit odd. I was the sort of child who busied herself with finding things out. The sort of child who would take apart a remote control or a whole TV just to see how it works. My mother didn’t care. I never got any attention from her, no matter what I did, and so I became used to blending into the background. I was quiet and reserved and I hid in my own dreams. Only when I was with Kate did I become even vaguely normal. We used to catch butterflies together and I always wanted to dissect them but Kate always let them free again and they were beautiful, really, even if they were causing a hurricane in New Zealand.
When I was sixteen, my mother met Claude, and thus began to crawl out of her depression. Unfortunately, as it turns out, it was too late by then to establish a healthy relationship with her. I was harbouring a lot of repressed resent at her for missing out on my childhood, and she was just the kind of woman who is hard to agree with anyway. A twitchy kind of woman, who wears pointy shoes and finds fault with everything. Two years later, almost as soon as I became a legally responsible adult, she moved back to Paris with Claude. They have four children now. Good luck to them.
I attended Cambridge University on a mathematics scholarship and graduated with first-class honours. In my time there, I managed to acquire somewhere around the region of £13,000 in debt, so I took a year in employment before I saved enough money for my Master’s degree in Applied Mathematical Science. And the rest, as they say, is history. In fact, that’s a stupid saying because it is all history. Everything is history. Every single second that has ever passed is history now, even this one. I am very proud of that sentence.
Now that you have some insight into my general manner, I shall continue.
“Is this stupid?” I muttered, my words only slightly lost against Frank’s mouth as my hand ran up and down his spine.
“Probably,” he replied, planting tiny little kisses across my collarbone which made me actually bite my lip. I never thought that actually happened. I thought that was just something that the porn industry made up, but no! It is real. It is really happening. I am biting my lip. Lord have mercy.
Regretfully, I stopped him and we both sat up again, casting flushed glances across at each other every so often. In a vague attempt to compose myself and save a scrap of dignity, I straightened my glasses and smoothed down my hair and readjusted my bra, which had somehow become dislodged at some point in the heat of the moment. I also noted that several of the top buttons on my blouse had been unfastened, without my knowledge, but I left them as they were because I’m a sexy bitch. Haaaa.
Doctor Who was playing on the TV, though we had never been really watching it, and seemed somewhat strange to me that this was our background noise, so I turned it over. I’ve never been a big Doctor Who fan. It’s all much too far-fetched for my liking and I suppose I’m just not one of those science-fiction type geeks. I’m more of a maths-degree and thick-glasses type of geek.
Look at me, wasting time in the bathroom rambling on about the different types of geeks while there is a gorgeous man sitting on my sofa, watching a sealife documentary. What is happening to me? ARGH.
So anyway I’ll finish the story, although there is not much left to be told and my head is starting to spin a little bit and how long has the soap in this bathroom been unicorn-shaped? I am so drunk.
“Sorry,” I eventually said to him, because I felt like I probably should. He could have thought I was some sort of sexual predator, luring him back to my house so I could have my wicked way with him. That was of course never my intention, but now it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Oh shut up, Daisy.
“Don’t be,” Frank grinned, placing a warm hand on my left thigh.
I made a noise which may have sounded something like a confused weasel. Kind of a “Hmnfrgnm?” sound, which I’m sure was very attractive.
“I think you’re great,” Frank said, but all I could focus on were his lips which had felt so wonderful against mine and all I could think about was how much I wanted them to be against mine again now. They were red and moist and sweet, like strawberries. Damn I’m hungry. I wasn’t really listening to him much because I was focussed on admiring him and keeping my hunger at bay before I just went crazy and started on the cat food, but he carried on anyway and I think he said something along the lines of “I know we don’t know each other but I really like you, Daisy.” Or perhaps it was “I know you don’t know my mother but I really like shoes, Daisy.” Through the wine it was hard to tell, but I certainly hope it was the former; otherwise I have definitely invited a lunatic into my house.
It is at this point that our heroine Daisy begins to swell with happiness and lets her instincts take over once more and kisses our hero, Frank, very softly on the mouth to let him know that she likes him too, even if he is actually a crazy person and was talking about shoes all along. I thought I could probably learn to live with that, when Frank and I were married. I mean, it’s not that weird anyway because it is all truth; I do not know his mother and don’t we all like shoes, really? They are certainly useful for keeping our feet dry and SHUT UP DAISY THIS ISN’T ABOUT SHOES.
For a few more minutes, we began to kiss as David Attenborough spoke about some kind of new fish he had found. Whoop-de-fucking-do, Dave, you may have found a new fish but I have found true love so stick that in your pipe and shove it up your arse. Dear lord I think I am delirious from all the wine and the kissing.
“You are so weird,” Frank breathed as we parted, which I thought was kind of a strange thing to say to a girl you have just been kissing. Even if it is true. So I raised an eyebrow at him (or tried to, anyway) and waited for him to continue. He let out a soft chuckle and took my hands in his. “I mean, you’re weird in the best possible way. You are delightfully weird.”
“It’s not the smoothest compliment ever, but I’ll take it.”
Frank laughed and kissed my cheek. “I think you’re wonderful, Daisy. Mad as a box of frogs, but beautiful and funny and cool.”
Nobody has ever called me cool before. Mostly because I am by no stretch of the imagination cool. I wear pencil skirts and my hair is always in a tidy bun and I read Oscar Wilde. I’m an accountant, for Christ sake. I don’t go to parties and I don’t listen to obscure music and I have two friends; one of whom is a blood relative and the other of whom is a cat. Does any of this sound cool to you? No.
As for beautiful, I am staring at my reflection in the mirror right now and wondering. My lips are kind of oversized and my nose is generous. I am a little on the chubby side, and a lot on the short side so I’m almost spherical. My eyes look small, hidden away behind thick lenses, and I have a couple of spots on my chin that just won’t go away. I have freckles even though it’s winter. My hair is messy from all the shenanigans on the sofa. My fingernails are bitten down to the flesh. I certainly wouldn’t call myself beautiful, your honour, but the more I look at myself, the more I come to accept that I am not perfect but I am me, and if Frank thinks I am beautiful then I am inclined to believe him.
It had crossed my mind that perhaps he was saying all of these nice things just to get into my pants. But even if that is the case, who the fuck cares? It has been EIGHT MONTHS since my last sexual endeavour and as a woman I have needs, dammit. Needs that must be fulfilled. So get yourself out of this goddam bathroom and go seduce that rockstar, Montague.
There is a gentle knock on the bathroom door and I glance up, startled like a baby deer. “Daisy?” comes a wonderful voice, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, slamming my book shut. Oh hang on, that doesn’t work, does it? “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Okay, sure,” he says, and then I wait three seconds until I’m sure he is gone, before I turn back to scribble all of this down.
You might think I am crazy, dear reader, and I know there is probably not much evidenceto the contrary, but this is just how love goes. And besides, it’s not like I don’t know anything about this man. As we spoke and drank wine (wine that is now making me feel a little queasy as I write this) I discovered quite a lot about him, actually. His name is Frank Anthony Iero Jr. He has just turned 24 years old. He is a guitarist in a band (the name of the band escapes me, but we all know which band I am referring to). He is a vegetarian. He is from New Jersey, which is near New York. He has lots of tattoos, some of which he showed to me and when he did so I saw his pelvic bones and ohmygoshI’mhyperventilatingatthethought. So, you see, when you really think about it, I know quite a lot about this man. Certainly enough, anyway, for me to justify all of the stupid risks I have taken tonight and hopefully enough to justify the really stupid risk I am about to take right now.