Free Pride and Premiership by Michelle Gayle Page A

go, that was a humongous fat one. But sometimes you have to do what it takes.
    I’m about to place the order with Wong Man Chu and get them to deliver the food at eight. Yay!
7.30 p.m.
    I’ve had a proper heart-to-heart with Dad.
    “Dad,” I said, “you and Mum have got complacent. And THAT is the beginning of the end of a relationship.”
    He nodded like he was majorly disappointed with himself and then said, “So I take it Tara Reid isn’t about to kill you?”
    “Erm … no,” I admitted. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to—”
    But before I could tell him about my plan he said, “Remy, you know I love you, don’t you.”
    The “L” word AGAIN. What’s got into my parents?
    “Dad, are you sick or something?” I asked him.
    “No, don’t be daft!” he said.
    “OK. Is Mum?”
    “We’re as fit as two fiddles,” he assured me.
    “Oh. Well then… In that case… Yeah, I er … love you, too.”
    After that he looked even more embarrassed than me. He dropped his head, shuffled his feet about and then eventually said, “Look, I know how special your half-birthdays are. So … I’m sorry for throwing away your card from Alan, OK?”
    “YOU?” So clean-up-mad Mum was telling the truth! Her nagging must have turned the man she says is allergic to the Hoover into clean-up-mad Dad!
    “Yes. I was having a little…” He stopped.
    “Personality transplant?” I nearly said.
    “Anyway, I’m sorry,” he told me, then turned on his heels and scarpered.
7.58 p.m.
    My (well, Malibu’s) little complacency speech must have worked a treat, it sounds as though Mum and Dad have made up – I can hear them kissing in the hallway. Eugh! There should be a law against hearing your parents snog!
    The front door’s opening. Yes–ss! This must be the Chinese takeaway arriving, to make their night even better.
    I can’t resist having a look.
8.01 p.m.
    It wasn’t the Wong Man Chu delivery man at the front door. My loved-up parents had opened it for themselves and were about to step out.
    “Where’re you going?” I asked.
    “I’m taking your mum out for dinner,” Dad said. “She deserves it.”
    “Oh, Reg.” Mum sighed.
    Just then, the delivery man did arrive. He got off his moped and walked up the path with four white plastic bags in his hand. “Delivery for—”
    “Me!” I screeched quickly.
    “Bloody hell, Remy. You feeding the bloody five thousand?” said Dad.
    “Er … something like that.”
    Then Mum took Dad’s arm and they went off like a pair of lovesick teenagers.
    That’s most of my wages down the drain. But solving parental marriage crisis does make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Friday 4 July – 7.10 a.m.
    Aa–aaargh, my stomach! It feels like I’ve swallowed a boulder. A boulder that was airlifted from the bottom of Lake Grease. OMG. Why couldn’t I resist that Chinese? It was a three-course meal for two that was meant for my blooming parents and I still managed to stuff most of it!
    Oh well, I’m minutes away from the personal training session that Kellie sorted out. I’m sure I’ll run it off.
7.20 a.m.
    Tracksuit? Check! iPod shuffle? Check! Work clothes? Check!
    Right, ready to – ugh! My stomach again. Need the loo!
7.25 a.m.
    OMG. I look paler than a goth. I’ll have to sack the training.
7.27 a.m.
    Eek! Just remembered Kellie said I’d have a toned bum in twenty minutes.
    Robbie’s back tomorrow – I want his eyes to pop out of his head when he sees me. Definitely have to go. How bad can it be?
8.25 a.m.
    Disaster! No, an absolute shameful catastrophe. It was so bad that Kevin, our trainer (who was just as fit as Kellie said), has sent me home to “recuperate”.
    “Don’t worry, it happens sometimes,” he told me.
    How could he be so nice to someone who had just covered him in projectile sweet-and-sour prawns?
    Oh no. I’m cringing just thinking about it.
    I didn’t even get to use the machine that would have toned me to within an inch of my life. What’s