But, you did. Naomi and Emily never reached the amicable stage in their relationship after Sophia came and royally fucked everything up. They broke up after their results. Naomi took her gap year, then went to Goldsmiths to study Politics and Journalism. Emily disappeared, seemingly without a trace.
Naomi's POV
"FUCK!" Why doesn't anything go right for me? I try, God do I try, but it just ends up in a heap as usual. I stare down at the Fairy Liquid that's slowly coursing down my floral skirt. It doesn't really matter, but I'm so fucking angry with myself for being this ridiculous blonde disaster area. Every time. It never bloody fails. And just at that angry moment, cue Simon.
"Aw babe, what've you gone and done now? Such a stupid twat sometimes, aren't you buns?"
He gets my usual raised eyebrow for this remark and his annoying use of that vile pet name. 'Buns'! Who the fuck does he think he is. Idiot man. Things were so much easier when I played for the other team. Women just don't act like men, in that stupid apish 'ug' kind of arrogance. I've clearly been sat looking at him this way for longer than I intended to, because he's stood there searching my face for some kind of cognitive reaction.
"Buns? Buns babe... Where'd you go? Hello?", he's waving now.
" Yes? Can I help you with something?"
"Nah. Nothin' much, I was just wondering when we was gonna go see that flat wasn't I babe? You know, the one you got all excited about the other day? You know, down Covent Garden. Thought you said you was interested. But... I can see you're in one o' them frames o' mind today, so if you don't mind, I'll go myself and take photos for you, yeah babe?"
"Don't call me Buns" I sighed, anger tingeing my voice where I really didn't mean it to.
"Yeah... what?" a blank look crossed his face as he realised what I had actually said. "Buns? I was talking about that flat, babe. You know, the one- ... I thought you liked that name." He looked sad now, like he always did when I get stroppy (which doesn't happen that often. Not really, anyway).
"Yeah, well. I don't. So stop calling me that. It's offensive." I'm muttering by this point, looking down at the stupid green stain on my skirt, feeling instantly angry as I remember why it got there in the first place. When I finally look up, I see Simon reaching up for his jacket off the hooks in the hallway, he turns to scowl at me once more before slamming the door behind him, shouting "Later, Germaine".
He's such a twat sometimes. No, wait, he's not. I am. I'm the one who's been fucking biting his head off for the past three months since we finished Uni. I grab the sad looking cloth and start my futile dabbing efforts to remove the greasy green from an old favourite from my college days, the days where things seemed simple in hindsight, even though they really weren't.
"Still fucking up 4 years down the line aren't you 'Buns'?" I growl to myself, increasing the vigour with which I am now scrubbing my skirt. Fucking thing. It's just frothing and foaming. I'm so angry all the time, Fairy Liquid shouldn't invoke this kind of reaction, although it technically symbolises over 50 years of women submitting to men before their porcelain punishments, so, I guess.
Shit, I forgot to call mum. She's probably still drugged up to her eyeballs since I last went over anyway. Fucking Irish bastard with his fucking potatoes. Fucked her up good this time. That's my job. I punch in the numbers after checking what they actually were in my phone.
"Hi, mum? It's me. Naomi." The reply comes in short breathless whispers of profanities, all related to my recent absence and her permanent confusion as to my current orientation.
"Still seeing straight then, you lovely tit, you?" she eventually manages to utter above a whisper to me. This phone call was going to be another one of those. I can tell. She thinks we're not close, but I get her, I understand her more than anyone else ever can. I thought Kieran came pretty close though. But he ran as fast as his Birkenstocks would carry him at the first sign of trouble back in my Bristol childhood home.
"Yep. Still straight, as I've been for over a year now mum, yeah? – What? No, no job yet. – No, my interview's tomorrow. – Yes I'm going to dress smartly. – No, not the fucking pig t-shirt, I don't even know where that is. Jesus Christ mum." She mutters back her half-hearted apologies and I instantly feel bad, I've always treated her like this, I hate myself for it. We carry on with the formalities for five more minutes until I decide it's finally okay for me to make my excuses and hang up the phone. So I go back to scrubbing my skirt which is wet through by now from where I left the cloth there while I was on the phone.
"Bollocks." I start up the stairs to the awful lilac bedroom to pick out my outfit for tomorrow's interview. Reaching up to the top shelf where I keep the rare items of smart clothes I actually possess, I drag down a basket to rustle through. As I pull it down, it drags with it a not so distant memory that always was the centre of conversation not least in my recent phone conversation. Kneeling down, I pick up the white cotton t-shirt, printed with my infamous pig, instantly flooded by the memories of a day by a lake with the girl who set the 'fuck up ball' in motion. Unconsciously, I smelled the shirt; not sure why I had done it, I stuffed it back into the wardrobe and shut the door tightly, leaning on it as if trying to keep further memories at bay.
I sigh, "What the fuck are you doing?" and decide to look for my suit another time.
Okay, my first fic. I have an annoying habit of experimenting with tenses. If it's annoying in this chapter, let me know. Please review. Am I onto something here? I'm not so sure.