I don’t even dare wonder what the nutritional value of a bowl of noodles and a can of Vimto for tea is. What I can tell you is that this combo has made my IT guy (Arnielovesme calling him that) hella gassy. He literally cannot stop burping.
Still, given that we have firmly established our relationship as friends only, I am feeling totally at ease in Arnie’s company. So while Belchy McBlecherson is furiously typing code into my laptop, wearing a paisley short-sleeved shirt and tartan trousers, I slink off to change into my hot pink home-only leggings before sitting down cross-legged next to him.
Arnie politely averts his gaze from my new ensemble and nods towards my laptop. ‘The moment of truth. Do you want to see?’
‘Yes please!’
Arnie clicks open my website and I stare. And stare. And stare. My all-time favourite shot from Cannes – a bunch of stylists taking a break between fittings – is the holding photograph with my name written across it in the coolest, looping font.
JASMINE HEPWORTH.
Itme! I’ve spent so long wishing I’d get even the tiniest credit on Violet’s blog that seeing this is almost overwhelming.
‘Are you okay?’ Arnie asks.
‘It looks really good,’ I say, swiping at stray tears. ‘Thank you. Honestly, it means so much.’
‘No worries.’ Arnie looks awkward. He’s clearly not used to outbursts of emotion in the workplace.
‘I don’t suppose you get many clients bursting into tears as a. . . technical director? App designer?’ I trail off.
‘Fuck’s sake, Jasmine. I’ve told you what I do about a million times now.’
‘Sorry. I’m useless. This looks so amazing though, you are an absolute genius. Thank you for all your help. I’m thrilled with it. Now people can find me online and know how to get in touch. That’s a huge start! Next stop, drumming up some business.’
‘Right, I’m outta here. I’m off to a cosplay thing this weekend and I need to get my outfit sorted.’
Cosplay? As in, costume play? As in, the geekiest of all past times? Dear lord. And to think I once ever so vaguely entertained romantic thoughts about my IT guy.
I’m wading through more photos to add to my site when my phone starts to ring. Even Mum uses Whatsapp these days. Maybe it’s someone selling something? I have zero clue what PPI is and not much inclination to talk about it right now.
‘Jasmine, it’s Violet.’
‘Well hello there!’ I trill in an Irish accent. I’m not Irish. I do not know where that came from. What is even wrong with me?
‘Jasmine?’
‘Yep, sorry, it’s me.’
‘Right. Are you planning on coming into work today?’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘I got back from Italy last night so we’re back to work.’
Hmm. Has she forgotten all about being incredibly rude and hurtful? Has she forgotten that she accused me of being an even bigger attention seeker than her? Or of the fact that she said Al only went out with me because he felt sorry for me? Apparently so.
‘Um, you haven’t been in touch for a while so I didn’t know when you were getting back.’
‘Well here I am!’
‘You were also quite mean to me. . .’ I say this very, very quietly, her words still ringing in my ears.Desperate. Disaster. Pathetic.
‘Ah, yes, all water under the bridge now. I got it wrong. Now, what time can you get here?’
It’s not exactly the world’s most profound apology but it will do.
‘I can be at yours in about 45 minutes?’
