Free Do You Remember the First Time? by Jenny Colgan Page B

beckoned over another couple of drinks.
    ‘Really not much,’ I said. ‘They elect a right-wing president in Europe, but there’s not a lot we can do about that. And I know who wins Big Brother , but I doubt the odds are great.’
    ‘If you’re from the future you should really look older,’ she said grumpily.
    We sat there.
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Well, judging by the spread of my pubic hair, I’d say about sixteen.’
    Tashy took a long draught of her drink. ‘Fuck. I mean, how the hell?’
    ‘You know when you cut the cake at your wedding …?’
    ‘You didn’t make another stupid wish?’
    I nodded slowly.
    ‘Your wish came true at my wedding?’ she said slowly.
    I nodded. There was a long pause.
    ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘that makes one of us.’ I remembered her sniffling on the bench.
    ‘Thing is,’ I said, ‘the only person who recognises me is you.’
    ‘Oh no,’ said Tashy.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Maybe you’re a complete figment of my imagination, like that giant rabbit.’ She examined the huge bill the waiter had put in front of her. ‘Maybe not. So what are you going to do?’
    ‘Fuck knows. My job is gone.’
    ‘Really? I think Flora Scurrison, Teenage Accountant has something of a ring to it.’
    ‘My flat too.’
    ‘Oh, your little flat. I’m so sorry. Have you spoken to Olly?’
    ‘God, no. I’m just so relieved somebody recognises me I hadn’t thought about it.’
    ‘Wow, he’ll be thrilled to get some nubile little—’
    ‘Don’t be disgusting. And don’t be stupid. If I’m going to be a nubile little teen I’m definitely going to be after Jamie Theakston or Gareth Gates or someone, anyway.’
    ‘You’re joking.’ She stared at me suddenly. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
    As she stared at me, Tashy’s face started to crumble.
    ‘Tash. Tash, what’s the matter? What is it? Why were you on the bench?’
    She let out a familiar Tashy wail. ‘I don’t knooow!’
    ‘It’s not Max, is it? Please, don’t let it be Max.’
    She looked up at me, tear-stained, as I beckoned over another couple of Mojitos.
    ‘Maybe,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just nerves. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I promise I didn’t bring about an inexplicable cosmic phenomenon just to bother you about your wedding.’
    She studied my face for a bit. ‘Is that an enormous spot you’ve got brewing on your forehead?’ said Tashy.
    I rubbed it crossly. ‘Stop changing the subject.’
    ‘So, what’s the matter?’
    Tashy shrugged. ‘It’s daft really. When you’re younger, you think, oh yeah, I’ve got tons of friends, it’ll last for ever. Then you grow up, and everybody’s working and so busy and settling down, then tons of people move out of London to have babies and you never hear from them ever again. Ever. Like they’ve been eaten by polecats. So, then you wake up one day and you think, God, I’ve got a problem, who can I call. Then you realise that your partner, your life, the person you’re meant to spend your life with – you can’t talk to them.’
    ‘You can talk to me,’ I said gently.
    ‘I have a teenage soulmate,’ said Tashy. And she rubbed fiercely at her wandering mascara. Then she leaned forward. ‘This time,’ she pointed at me, ‘don’t marry someone just because they’re nice to you when you’re thirty-two.’
    ‘Tashy, I just look younger, I’m not retarded. And there are worse things than marrying a nice man,’ I said.
    ‘I know. Oh, I know how lucky I am. I know. I know,’ she said. Then, in a smaller voice: ‘I don’t know if I can watch him eat a boiled egg every morning for the next forty years.’
    ‘Every morning?’
    ‘He makes it perfectly. Then he lets out this ridiculous sigh through his teeth, like: “Ahh. Egg. Jolly good.” Then he breaks the shell very carefully, and nibbles round the top bit with his teeth. Yeeugh. Like a little rat.’
    ‘Hmm. Do you think just the riot squad,