The Budding Roses

M&M's

Friday 12th April

It utterly baffles me, it really does, but where does Natasha find both the time and inclination to meet so many different boys? And how is she able to generate a meaningful relationship with someone she has only moments before spoken to for the first time?

'Matt and Matty?' I had queried, as Natasha explained to me the details of this latest unearthing.

'Yeah, what's wrong with that?'

'M&M?'

'Don't worry, Matt and Matty are both eighteen, so they can buy us drinks. We won't get caught.'

'Remind me again how you even know these people.'

'I met them at Fliss's "friends only" party. Don't you remember me telling you about the most amazing boy that I snogged, well that was Matt? He's such a fab kisser, but that's because he's older and more experienced. Plus Matt and Matty, well they've just done their exams, and they've got jobs in Manchester, and well Matt, can you believe that he drives a Nova? That's right, an actual Nova! It's kitted out to the maximum. They're so mature, just the sort of guys that you're always wanting to meet. Really intellectual.'

Saturday 13th April

Natasha's description of M&M rings in my ears. "So mature", she had definitely said that, her words so confident that they are etched upon my brain.

Well if mature is synonymous with frightfully dull then she's got the definition right. In which case I think I'm better sticking with the immaturities of boys from my own year group.

The evening was dismal; a barren mess of rain parched wheat, spread mile upon mile across a plain with no horizon. What a pair of M&M's they really were, and the peanut ones too; horrible and a pointless idea.

From the moment I clambered on to the foam spewing back seat of that filthy health hazard of a car, squeezed in to a tiny space, so small that barely even a fart could survive, I found myself once more contemplating the question of why Natasha and I are still friends. It's like we are forever entwined within a loveless marriage, so impenetrable the contract that not even the toughest judge in the land can break it. Surely she's sick of me too?

But really, how can even a philistine like Natasha, find sitting in a Vauxhall Nova, listening to "techno" music, a stimulating activity? If she's not lying to me then she's certainly lying to herself, but unfortunately these are the shameful lows that she will go to, just to get a boy to like her.

It got worse. At the pub she skipped off straight away, her hands now clasped on to Matt's. How can she make physical contact so readily with someone she barely knows? Okay I know it's just hands, but still, doesn't she have any concept of personal space?

'Isn't Simone talking to you?' Natasha was quick to observe the silence between Matty and I, of course feeling it her duty to mediate the (lack of) conversation. Heaven forbid that we might be happy not talking.

'Simone why I aren't you talking to Matty? Stop being so shy and just enjoy yourself.'

Why does she insist on thinking that I'm shy when just an ounce of perception would enable even the slowest of minds to differentiate between social anxiety and boredom? Maybe this was also the reason why Matty was so quiet, because he too was praying for some kind of self annihilation?

'So have you been to that new bar, Monkey?' Matty spoke at last.

'I don't really go in to town on a night. I'm not old enough, plus it's not really my thing.'

'Of course she hasn't been to Monkey,' Natasha laughed, 'Simone's idea of a good night is sitting at home reading Sylvia Plath and crying about it.'