How The Story of Us Unfolds
Imagine One - in which you go on a long overdue night out in London and get more than you bargained for
--- ...and all that counts is here and now. My universe will never be the same... ---
It is a truth universally acknowledged that being a couple of years away from turning thirty and a high ranking member of the singleton brigade officially made you the new modern-day Bridget Jones.
But of course that’s all bullshit and in reality you know that. You’re fully aware that you are not defined by your marital status, your sexuality nor the way you choose to live your life - so long as you don’t murder anyone or join a cult, that is. The Twenty-First Century is a time where no set rules apply - you don’t need to find a husband before you turn twenty and be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen for the rest of your days. It’s a time for opportunity, for setting your own goals for happiness; no judgements, no complaints. You know this; you’re fully aware of this… but sometimes you just have to forget all logic and throw caution to the wind.
You swore to have a detox from men to break that unrelenting cycle of boys who seemed nice at first but really were only after one thing. Or the boys who liked to treat their partners like dirt, like something they could control. You had told yourself over and over again to not ignore the red flags but still you found yourself there - and now quite happily five months into your detox, you are embracing the single life and declaring loud and proud that you do not need a man.
Secretly though you still yearn for The One. If such a guy ever existed. But you’ve convinced yourself he doesn’t and so Bridget Jones was sticking around for the foreseeable.
When yet another member of your friend group gets engaged, you plaster that ‘I’m so happy for you but oh my god I WANT TO KILL MYSELF’ smile on your face. Then you let them convince you to join them on the Hen Night in London for the weekend. The last singleton in your group of five so obviously you need to look hot - or at least your best attempt at looking hot. Fortunately the friend known as ‘The Fit One’ will always step up to do your nails and curl your hair, ‘The Sensible One’ will be there to guide you on appropriate attire and the benefits of a push-up bra to accentuate your figure and ‘The Party Girl One’ will put on banging tunes to get you in the mood while you get ready. As your friend who has recently gotten engaged was known as ‘The Baby One’, you have to push that small fact aside so you don’t get depressed and forgo your reputation as ‘The Funny One’.
It wasn’t your biggest ambition to be known as ‘The Funny One’ in a friend group. But such is life.
The best way to get yourself through such a tortuous evening is to get very, very drunk. Of course. Then when you start shouting out that you are simply loving being a Bridget Jones you assume everyone around you fully believes you. And it doesn’t take you long to achieve your goal - margaritas, tequila shots, fish bowls and mojitos are the way forward and you cheer louder and louder every time another round is brought to your table - the furry Hen Do headband complete with male genitalia on springs bouncing violently with your movements. The look you’re going for is a Classy Bird which makes your detox more required - if you actually do manage to attract a guy that evening, they will definitely not be The One you’re yearning for. Not when you have penises on your head.
The Baby-Now-Engaged One had found a great venue that was doubling up as a karaoke bar that night and one by one your friends get up to sing loudly to a roaring audience - actual talent not actually required. Despite your inebriated state you politely decline the catcalls to take your turn on stage, suddenly feeling bashful and declaring you need another drink before you can even think about going up there.
The Sensible One loses her identity after the fourth fish bowl and officially declares in a slur that she’s “pissed out of her skull” and your head rolls forward to land on the table as the room starts to spin around you. “When are you gonna settle down?”, “this detox has gone on long enough, surely?”, “aren’t you missing sex yet?” and “what happened to that guy with all the parrots?” are just some of the multitude of questions thrown at you that evening and you feel like you could scream and storm out. Instead you call out “Bridget Jones fo' life!” and plonk your head back down, squeezing your eyes shut as the drunken mumbling continues around you.
The mumbling suddenly becomes squealing and you shoot your head up straight to find the source of the mayhem. The Party Girl One is fluttering her hands violently in front of her face and chanting “oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” while The Fit One starts clawing her insanely long acrylic nails through her hair extensions - all eyes in the direction of the bar area.
“What the fuck are you-?” You start but The Sensible One answers quickly.
“Max George from The Wanted is at the fucking bar.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Bloody is.” The Baby-Now-Engaged One seems to forget she is in fact engaged as she literally eye-fucks the back of his head. “I saw him walk in. Oh my god he still looks as fit as he did in the band.”
“Don’t you have a fiancé?”
“I can look, can't I?”
“Technically no. Anyway it’s not like you’d have a chance with Max from The Wanted.” You roll your eyes with a scoff; the alcohol clearly already has a bad effect on your filter system.
“Fine.” The answer is curt and you realise you’ve inadvertently offended her. “You’re the last single one - why don’t we try and hook you up with him?”
“Piss off.” You feel your face heat up. “How do you know he’s even single and anyway if you don’t have a chance, I definitely don’t. Plus I’m still on my detox. No men. Bridget Jones loud and proud.”
“I bet we can at least get him to buy you a drink.”
“I bet you’re full of shit.”
“Okay.” The challenging tone knocks you back for a split second and you blink up as your four friends stand and hover over you in your seat. “I bet we can get Max from The Wanted to buy you a drink and when he does you have to go up and sing karaoke. The full works as well - Ed, Camila and Cardi B.”
“No way. It’s not like it’ll work anyway so why bother.” You know your tone is feeble.
“So confident. Why don’t you prove it?”
Your eyes narrow; you’ve never been one to turn down a challenge especially in a drunken state. “Fine because even though he’s not going to do it, at least I can say I’ve met Max George and he turned me down for a drink. Fans will foam at the mouth in jealousy.”
“He wasn’t her favourite member though, was he?”
“No, she liked the curly haired one.”
“That’s Siva isn’t it?”
You ignore them and stand in what you hope is a graceful and smooth movement but actually you manage to bang your hip on the corner of the table and spill a couple of drinks in the process. You grasp your hip and groan at the pain, limping towards the bar before allowing your friends to grab your arms and lead you to one-fifth of your favourite boyband of the last ten years.
Max visibly jumps as your friends call out his name in a high pitched screech that could cause dogs to howl, and suddenly you feel your stomach somersault as you realise this is not a good idea. It’s actually the worst idea in the history of worst ideas ever. What good could possibly come from this? Sure you’ll meet Max George but you are so drunk it’s embarrassing and lord knows what state you look in. Before you can even try and dig your heels in to escape the inevitable doom, you’re paraded in front of him like you’re the special prize speedboat on a TV game show and he looks amused as he tries to take in four drunken girls who were trying to shout louder than the other.
“Alright, girls. Alright.” He holds up his hands to stop them with a laugh. “Calm yourselves! Incredibly flattered as I am, I have a girlfriend, so…”
“No, that’s okay. We just need you to buy her a drink so we win the bet.”
You giggle awkwardly and lower your chin as Max chuckles at you and you’re suddenly very aware you have bouncing penises on your head. Not the best look when you meet a member of your favourite boyband but at least he was finding the whole thing funny. The Party Girl One starts taking selfie after selfie of the whole affair and you don’t know whether to be happy there will be picture evidence you met Max George, or that that very evidence is going to remind you of the mortification until the end of time.
You need to leave this place before you can embarrass yourself and Max any further. Stepping away slowly from the fray, you squeak out in shock as you feel yourself fall backwards over somebody’s foot but very quickly you’re folded in a pair of arms and brought back upright. “Oh my god!” You call out, grasping onto the shirt in front of you as you try and regain your footing. Your hands find biceps, shoulders… and then suddenly your mouth drops two feet as you meet a pair of bright blue eyes. “Oh my fucking god.”
“Hey! It’s the curly haired one!” You hear in the distance.
He nods towards the voice but doesn’t let go of your waist. “Yep, I’ll take that. I’ve been called worse, I guess.” He looks down at you and you tell yourself to close your mouth before he can look in and discover the contents of your stomach. “Are you okay?”
“Um.” Your mouth is dry. A bucket of water being thrown over you would be most welcoming right now. “I-I’m bloody marvellous,” you finally reply, squaring your shoulders. You can be cool. He may look as gorgeous as you remember him looking but that doesn’t mean you can act like a total fangirl in front of him. He smiles at you and for a moment you feel like you’re the only two in the whole bar - until your friends start pulling on his arm demanding pictures and autographs. You turn and see the look of relief on Max’s face as suddenly focus is shifted away from him but as he turns back to you he holds out a shot glass.
“I hear your singing is astronomical. Apparently it’s worth buying the shot to hear.” He’s the cheeky Manc boy the fangirl you from ten years ago knew and loved and you can’t help but accept the drink despite the consequences. “Bird, she’s gonna do a karaoke number for us.”
“Really?” He looks sceptical and you raise an eyebrow and stick out your hip, grimacing when the aches reappear. You bruise like a peach and that will not look pretty tomorrow. “You’re gonna sing karaoke? Can you even stand straight?”
“Yes,” you slur, poking him in the shoulder. “I learnt all by myself, don't you know. Can walk and everything.”
“Congratulations.”
“Why thank you.” Hands on hips; in your mind you look suave and sophisticated. The portrait of utter perfection. The Sensible One has run up to the stage to put in your request - South of the Border - your party trick. Two-fifths of The Wanted are about to be incredibly impressed by your stunning rendition. You tip your head back and down the shot, puffing your cheeks out as the strong liqueur hits the back of your throat. Shaking your head, you look back at Jay McGuiness and know exactly what you want to say… only your words and filtering system seem to be on the blinker.
“You… you were my favouritest.” You watch as he laughs under his breath and tries to look nonchalant. “Like I had a poster. Well it wasn’t a poster - it was actually a really small picture of you that I kept on my fridge when I was at Uni.” It sounds so cool in your head. “It was only a small picture but I had it laminated.”
“I love the commitment. I’ve never had a girl laminate me before.” His hands are hovering near your waist; you don’t realise you’re swaying from side to side and he’s reaching out in preparation to catch you again.
“And I had all your albums but I’ve never met you before. Oh and I voted like all the time on Strictly. You were sooo good! Your Paso Doble…” You drift off and close your eyes, trying to form words on a level to really highlight your appreciation. “There was a flaaaaaame; it was that hot.” Your arms start moving erratically as you try to re-enact the routine. Max is coughing behind his hand and your friends are clearly cringing in your direction. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m coming across here very well. I am normal, I swear. Kinda normal. Ish. Just a tiny bit weird.”
“No, no.” Jay’s grinning widely and reaches up to flick at your headband. “I’m loving the penis headband, by the way. Very classy.” He leans in close to whisper in your ear and you feel the shiver rippling through you as he does. “So can I have your name, or…?”
“You don’t want my name.” You slap his shoulder lightly, shoving him slightly away as you go all bashful. “You just like my penis headband.”
“If that were true then I’m totally in the wrong kind of bar. Although it's pretty impressive.” He flicks it again. “Looks exactly like mine except mine is miniscule.”
“Oh, Bird, no.” Max groans and shakes his head in despair. Jay blushes automatically in response and goes on the defensive.
“What?”
“That is officially the worst line I’ve ever heard from you. Ever. No wonder you’re still single.”
“Oh, it just came out - I didn’t mean…” He runs his hand through his hair and shuffles on his feet. You smile lazily and find yourself being drawn in… then in a split second you’re pulled away from him and dragged by The Fit One and The Party Girl One towards the stage where the DJ is calling out your name to a cheering crowd. You fold your arms over your stomach and suddenly feel like you want to hurl and you spy Jay moving slowly through the throngs of people towards you.
“Aww fuck.” A microphone is thrust into your hand, your so-called friends join you on stage as the music kicks in and you go into fight or flight mode. You lock eyes with Jay and he gives you an encouraging grin as you lift up the microphone… and do a god-awful rendition with a terrible fake deep voice as you start to sing Ed’s part.
Your confidence grows as you jump straight into the chorus, your swaying getting more and more dangerous though you fully believe you are dancing perfectly to the beat. Jay reacts in a nanosecond and jumps up as you fall forward and he catches you once again. You laugh as he tilts you back up straight and Camila’s verse kicks in.
Naturally you sing this extremely high in a key that hasn’t yet been heard by the human race. “…I saw you lookin’ from across the way and suddenly I’m glad I came, I - oh my god! TW reference! Did you hear that?!” Your excitement makes him dissolve into laughter which only spurs you on further. “I amo… Uh… I don’t speak any Span-ish… la la la la la lando… mmm… green eyes, taking your time, knowing that we’ll never be the same.” He’s looking at you intently and you think you must be bloody alluring in that moment to have someone as gorgeous as him giving you those eyes. Maybe drinking makes you sound better than what you actually do. “…don’t wake up this love is like a dream.”
He grabs the microphone and tilts it towards his face, his fingers gentle over yours and subtly caressing. “So join me in this bed that I’m in, push up on me and sweat darling…” You’re momentarily transfixed as he sings to you, his other hand pressing to your side to ensure you don’t sway too far to the left. It is a possibility - you’re definitely about to swoon.
Only then Cardi B’s rap kicks in and you decide to impress him with your mad rap skills complete with hand gestures Eminem would be proud of. Jay blinks in surprise and grins at you as you take on a deep tone, attempting to sound gangsta. The crowd cheers and applauds your efforts, and Jay has a hand over his face as he tries to suppress hysterical laughter. That really isn’t what you were going for but it doesn’t stop him leaning back into you and nervously requesting your phone number once the song comes to a close.
“You don’t want my number. I have penises on my head for fucks sake.” You whisper back, feeling his breath on your cheek and you close your eyes at the sensation.
“I really do.”
“But I’m on a detox from men. I’m The Funny One and the last single one for a reason. No one dates The Funny One for real and I’m not up for one nighters.” You feel your knees buckle as your body leans in, unconsciously seeking out his warmth. Jay reaches up and takes a hold of your fingers, squeezing gently. “You’ll only break my heart anyway.”
“And what if I promise you I won’t?”
