meetin’ me 2day but no show so he can GFH now. I am officially over him. Who am I kiddin? I’ll never be over him!
Alexis Simone Steele (big fur coat, shades, pout) to Carly Greenford: Move on GF! Ur worth more than him. DGYF! And I, 4 one, luv u meercat. Mwah xxxx
Carly Greenford to Alexis Simone Steele: Aaaaw! I luv u 2, meercat. Wot r we like? Gorge, clever ladeez like us letting feckers like that mess with r headz. Grrrrr. U woz also far 2 gud for him. The boy is dead to u 2, CM, okay? Mwah xxx
‘DGYF?’ mutters Martin, confused.
‘Damn Girl You’re Fine.’ I know, because Lexi texted it to me, too.
‘Oh right. So CM?’
‘Call me.’
‘Right,’ he says, sounding pleased with himself. ‘It’s not that hard once you get started, is it?’
‘So, Lexi’s been dumped. That’s what’s wrong with her,’ I say, half to myself.
‘Eh? How do you decipher that?’
‘Because Carly says, “he’s dead to you”.’
‘Dead to you?’ Martin pulls his chin back when he’s puzzled, which I’ve begun to think gives him a look of Gordon Brown.
‘Yeah, dead to you, you know.’
Man, we’re going to run into problems if we can’t even de-code teen speak.
‘It means, you’re over him, he doesn’t matter to you. People say it to you when someone dumps you to make you feel better.’
‘Do they? Nobody said—’
‘Ohmigod!’ I cut him short as I read something that sets my heart racing faster than it already is.
Alexis Simone Steele to Carly Greenford: U know wot u shd do? Internet dating. It’s the biz! Just met a right hottie. He’s twenty-nine but looks much younger and u know how I luv an old timer. Been on one date.’
‘Fuck!’
I slap my hand to my mouth.
‘What?’ says Martin, alarmed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need to hack into Lexi’s email,’ I say, flapping my arms about. ‘You’re an IT man, you know how to hack into someone’s email.’
‘You might not need to,’ says Martin, calmly. Always with the calm. ‘If you know her password.’
‘I don’t! Why the hell would I know her password?’ I snap, and then I feel awful. Poor Martin. He didn’t need to come over tonight. He’s got a girlfriend and here I am snapping at him like
I’m
his girlfriend. I haven’t even
asked
him about his girlfriend! God, I am awful.
I rest my head on his shoulder. ‘Sorry. I really appreciate you coming over. I’m just stressed that’s all.’
‘I know. But we’ll find her, okay? Put your energy into guessing her password.’
I try Carly. No. I try Simone. No. I try meercat, since that seemed to be some sort of in-joke between them, but it’s not that either.
‘Try Caroline,’ says Martin.
‘Are you joking? I must be her most hated person on the planet right now.’
‘Just try it.’
So I do, and it works. And somehow, just that small thing, that surprise indication of my little sister’s feelings for me, means that by the time I’m walking behind Martin towards Battersea Park station tears are streaming down my face.
* * *
It’s possibly typical of a seventeen-year-old that if she was planning to elope to Notting Hill with a man twice her age she should cover her tracks, ludicrously badly. Thank God. Five seconds rooting around her inbox and we know the following things:
• She’s meeting a guy called Tristan who she met on Match.com
• He sounds like a prize twat.
• He lives in Notting Hill. Course he does.
• They’re meeting at Shoreditch House. (A quick Google search reveals this to be a five-storey, uber members bar near Liverpool Street.)
• I have to rescue her.
Martin and I hardly speak on the way there. Martin knows I can’t do conversation when stressed, so all the way on the tube, he whistles, Martin being one of those people who finds silences awkward even with someone he’s known for thirteen years. Then, we’re pegging it along Bishopsgate, in the heart of the City. It’s 9.15 p.m. and the towering glass
Alexis Simone Steele (big fur coat, shades, pout) to Carly Greenford: Move on GF! Ur worth more than him. DGYF! And I, 4 one, luv u meercat. Mwah xxxx
Carly Greenford to Alexis Simone Steele: Aaaaw! I luv u 2, meercat. Wot r we like? Gorge, clever ladeez like us letting feckers like that mess with r headz. Grrrrr. U woz also far 2 gud for him. The boy is dead to u 2, CM, okay? Mwah xxx
‘DGYF?’ mutters Martin, confused.
‘Damn Girl You’re Fine.’ I know, because Lexi texted it to me, too.
‘Oh right. So CM?’
‘Call me.’
‘Right,’ he says, sounding pleased with himself. ‘It’s not that hard once you get started, is it?’
‘So, Lexi’s been dumped. That’s what’s wrong with her,’ I say, half to myself.
‘Eh? How do you decipher that?’
‘Because Carly says, “he’s dead to you”.’
‘Dead to you?’ Martin pulls his chin back when he’s puzzled, which I’ve begun to think gives him a look of Gordon Brown.
‘Yeah, dead to you, you know.’
Man, we’re going to run into problems if we can’t even de-code teen speak.
‘It means, you’re over him, he doesn’t matter to you. People say it to you when someone dumps you to make you feel better.’
‘Do they? Nobody said—’
‘Ohmigod!’ I cut him short as I read something that sets my heart racing faster than it already is.
Alexis Simone Steele to Carly Greenford: U know wot u shd do? Internet dating. It’s the biz! Just met a right hottie. He’s twenty-nine but looks much younger and u know how I luv an old timer. Been on one date.’
‘Fuck!’
I slap my hand to my mouth.
‘What?’ says Martin, alarmed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need to hack into Lexi’s email,’ I say, flapping my arms about. ‘You’re an IT man, you know how to hack into someone’s email.’
‘You might not need to,’ says Martin, calmly. Always with the calm. ‘If you know her password.’
‘I don’t! Why the hell would I know her password?’ I snap, and then I feel awful. Poor Martin. He didn’t need to come over tonight. He’s got a girlfriend and here I am snapping at him like
I’m
his girlfriend. I haven’t even
asked
him about his girlfriend! God, I am awful.
I rest my head on his shoulder. ‘Sorry. I really appreciate you coming over. I’m just stressed that’s all.’
‘I know. But we’ll find her, okay? Put your energy into guessing her password.’
I try Carly. No. I try Simone. No. I try meercat, since that seemed to be some sort of in-joke between them, but it’s not that either.
‘Try Caroline,’ says Martin.
‘Are you joking? I must be her most hated person on the planet right now.’
‘Just try it.’
So I do, and it works. And somehow, just that small thing, that surprise indication of my little sister’s feelings for me, means that by the time I’m walking behind Martin towards Battersea Park station tears are streaming down my face.
* * *
It’s possibly typical of a seventeen-year-old that if she was planning to elope to Notting Hill with a man twice her age she should cover her tracks, ludicrously badly. Thank God. Five seconds rooting around her inbox and we know the following things:
• She’s meeting a guy called Tristan who she met on Match.com
• He sounds like a prize twat.
• He lives in Notting Hill. Course he does.
• They’re meeting at Shoreditch House. (A quick Google search reveals this to be a five-storey, uber members bar near Liverpool Street.)
• I have to rescue her.
Martin and I hardly speak on the way there. Martin knows I can’t do conversation when stressed, so all the way on the tube, he whistles, Martin being one of those people who finds silences awkward even with someone he’s known for thirteen years. Then, we’re pegging it along Bishopsgate, in the heart of the City. It’s 9.15 p.m. and the towering glass
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