The Bright Side Read Online Free

slow set in Cleo’s. Unlike Rory, he was capable of conversation, inasmuch as he had deeply held convictions about the relative merits of the local chippers, which he was all too keen to share. We had a little snog while dancing, then retired to a dark corner where he told me I was easily sexy enough to be in Bucks Fizz, maybe even Abba. That didn’t age well as a compliment, but at the time I was firmly swept off my feet. Ours was most definitely a relationship of two halves. The first couple of weeks were great. We saw Flashdance together, went for walks in the park, made a couple of return trips to Cleo’s (suddenly much more fun, now that I was part of a couple). Then he started going for my boobs. I had no real objection to being felt up, as such. It was just the way he went about it, all snarly and aggressive. He reminded me of nothing so much as a hungry dog that had spotted a dropped pork chop. I tried to explain that it was a question of manners more than anything else, but he wouldn’t listen. Then, one quiet Sunday tea-time, he called me up and announced that he’d started seeing “someone a bit more maturer”. A few days later I saw him hand in hand with Dolores Quinn, a notorious local bike (and shoplifter – she ended up in prison, I heard). The shock of being dumped was like nothing I’d ever known. “If it feels like this when the guy’s an arsehole,” I wailed at anyone who would listen, “what the hell’s it like when you’re in love ?” That was it for me and romance, I decided – the risks were too great. I was never going to Cleo’s again – ever! Ever, ever, ever !
    Teenagers … Every small town has its Cool Guy, its Mr Hip-and- Trendy. All the girls are mad about him; all the boys say they want to beat the crap out of him, but really, they just want him to give them the time of day in the street. When I was growing up in Ashbourne, the Cool Guy was Andrew Healey, who was a few years older than us. His family was minted. Mr Healey owned a Ford dealership and Mrs Healey, who was Spanish, was rumoured to have come from serious money private-yacht-type money. Andrew was tall and lean with the whitest teeth and the deepest tan that any of us had ever seen. He wore expensive clothes and drove a brand new car admittedly a Ford Cortina – at great speed through the reddest of lights. And, yes, there’s no denying it, he was a good-looking boy, something like a young Warren Beatty. But he wasn’t the only game in town, not as far as I was concerned. The first time I spoke about it out loud, I was sitting in Caroline Drumm’s bedroom, listening to records and flipping through Smash Hits . This would have been a few months after Marty had dumped me. We were back at school then, starting our final year. But Caroline was in no mood to talk about exams or the unemployment that undoubtedly lay on the other side of them. The Arse On Andrew Healey , that was her topic for the day. She’d been wittering on about it for at least half an hour – not for the first time, either – and must have noticed that I wasn’t really listening. Did I happen to know, she slyly enquired, that people were talking about me? They’d noticed how quiet I’d become, how I seemed to have “lost interest”. Some said I was going to wind up in a convent. Others said worse. The word “lesbian” was never mentioned, but when Caroline stared in my direction and asked if I fully understood what was so great about Andrew Healey’s arse, I knew what she was getting at. (For some reason, rumours about possible lesbianism were very common in my crowd). Andrew’s arse was fine, as arses went, I told her. But he wasn’t my type. Too flashy. Too obvious. Caroline seemed personally offended. Who did I fancy then, she wanted to know, getting all intrigued. I hesitated at first; I didn’t want to embarrass myself. There was one guy, I eventually explained. He was a bit older than us, older than Andrew even. And he wasn’t