Diary Of A Tart June 2000

This series unfolds as a collection of diary entries--private glimpses into one woman's life, where memory, desire, and experience all blur together. While the format borrows from the feel of a real journal, the subsequent chapters won't follow a strict timeline. The subsequent chapters will jump around, dipping into different moments of life. Some young and impressionable, others more mature and unapologetically bold, each reflecting the mood, hunger, or heartache of who she was in that moment.

You'll find that each chapter should carry its own mood. Some are introspective. Others look back with longing or regret. And some, like this one, simply capture the moment unfiltered, and alive with sensation. Not at the stage of her life to draw lessons from the experiences, but simply to record them.

This isn't about documenting life as it was. It's about capturing how it felt--in the heat of it, or in the slow ache after. So let yourself embrace the voice, and allow a bit of artistic license. After all, the real aim here is to tell a story... wrapped in the intimacy of a diary. This series offers a private window into Lily's world--her thoughts, desires, missteps, and awakenings. What may seem like fleeting comments or throwaway details often hint at a much larger story unfolding just beyond her awareness. Moments she records in passing may carry weight she doesn't yet understand, leaving room for the reader to sense the tension beneath the surface.

Some of those hints may eventually take shape in spin-off stories told from other perspectives, in a more traditional narrative style. These won't center on Lily, but they might offer context--filling in the shadows of things she mentions without ever knowing the full truth. Or at least doesn't know yet.

Because that's part of the pleasure, really--seeing the world through her eyes, even when we suspect there's far more going on behind the scenes than she realizes.

June 14, 2000 10:57 PM

Dinner for my birthday tonight. Just the three of us, same as always. We went to the little Italian restaurant in town, because Mum wanted somewhere "a bit proper" and Dad will eat anything if there's garlic bread involved. I wasn't particularly fussed, but I'm glad we went because... well. He was there.

Scott.

As in Scott-from-school Scott. As in Scott-was-on-the-football-team-and-had-that-smile-that-made-girls-squeal Scott.

I nearly dropped my fork when I spotted him walking toward our table with a notepad and towel over his shoulder. He's working there now. Took me a second to believe it. He looked different in the black shirt and apron. His hair's longer, bit messy, but in a way that suits him unfairly well.

He looked right at me, paused, then smiled and said, "Happy birthday."

I swear my heart stopped for half a second. For a moment I was completely flummoxed and thought, Wait, how would he know that? Like maybe he remembered. As if he even knew when my birthday was in the first place. As if he knew who I was.

But then I saw the card Mum had propped up on the table. Bright pink envelope. Massive "Happy Birthday Lily" printed across the front in sparkly letters. Subtle, that. He must've seen it.

Still, I blushed like an idiot anyway.

Mum, of course, leaned across the table the moment he was gone grinning like a cat and said, "Well, someone's got a sharp eye. You've an admirer, Lil." Dad didn't say much, just looked Scott up and down like he was sizing him up and then muttered something about whether they still did the veal parm.

It's not like I ever knew Scott in school. He was the kind of boy people orbited around, always had a group, always knew what to say, teachers loved him even when he mucked about. And me? I was the new girl with the funny accent, that can't keep her slang straight, because I'm just off the plane from England when we moved here for Dad's job.

Starting high school in a new country? Brilliant timing dad. Not awkward at all.

Anyway, Scott was miles out of my league. Still is, I probably. I was just... average. Not invisible, but not memorable either. And yet, tonight he looked right at me, and smiled like he meant it. For a second I almost let myself believe he knew who I was.

I must've said something idiotic about the lasagna. Or nodded weirdly. Honestly, I blacked out a bit from sheer embarrassment.

Now I'm lying here like a complete muppet, thinking it over a hundred different ways. The way he smiled. The way he paused.

It was probably just good customer service. He probably says "happy birthday" to ten tables a night.

So imagine my surprise when he smiled at me, like really smiled, and said, "Hey... didn't we go to school together?"

Cue internal panic. I think I squeaked out something like "Yeah, I think so" before pretending to look at the menu like it had just revealed the secrets of the universe. He was charming, friendly, and confident of course. He had noticed my birthday card on the table and asked how my birthday was going and told me I "look different, in a good way." Which... okay, brain, that could mean anything, but tell that to the swarm of butterflies I suddenly had in my stomach. And the look my parents gave me couldn't have been more different. I got "Someone's got an admirer!" expressed as a good thing and a bad thing at the same time by looking at either of their faces. God just kill me. I hope he didn't notice them.

I couldn't help it. I kept wondering--was he just being nice? Or was he eyeing me up? That half-second pause when he first saw me? The way he asked if I was back in town permanently, or "just visiting"?

Probably nothing. It's always probably nothing. I mean he didn't even realize I never left town because I'm out of his orbit. He probably said the exact same line to table five ten minutes before us. I mean, why would Scott Harper be checking me out? I'm not exactly the kind of girl you remember after high school when you didn't even know me in high school.

Still... it seemed like he remembered something.

I didn't leave my number (obviously), but I did write "thanks for making my birthday extra nice" on the receipt. With a little smiley face. God, it's like I'm regressing in age!

Anyway. Maybe nothing comes of it. Probably won't. But for the first time in a long time, I felt... I wasn't off the radar. Like I wasn't just blending into the background.

And that? That was the best birthday gift I didn't know I needed.

June 15, 2000 8:17 AM

Didn't sleep. Not properly, anyway. Two, maybe three hours, but it was one of those nights where you keep flipping your pillow over, hoping your brain will shut up for five bloody minutes and it just won't.

All I could think about was him. Scott Harper. Still feels a bit mad writing that down.

It was just him, all night. His smile, the way he looked at me, like I was actually a person and not just some background extra. When he said "happy birthday," it was like the whole room went quiet for a second. I swear my brain's got it playing on loop like some embarrassing messed-up love song.

And I know I'm being ridiculous. He's not into girls like me. He never was. In school, it was always the confident ones, the ones who wore crop tops without second-guessing themselves, who laughed loudly and tossed their hair like they were in a shampoo advert. Girls who just knew how to be looked at. I was more... background noise. Not invisible, but hardly the kind of girl someone like Scott would clock twice.

But last night... ugh. It felt different. Even if I was just imagining the whole thing.

And then, of course, my subconscious decided to have a field day.

I had a dream. Not just a dream--one of those dreams. The kind where you wake up and you can't even look yourself in the mirror without going red.

We were somewhere by the water, a lake or maybe the seaside, hard to say, but everything was warm and soft, the sky all hazy pink and gold. He leaned in, tucked my hair behind my ear (I know, I sound like something out of a dodgy paperback), and then he kissed me. Slow, like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

And then it all went a bit sideways in the best way, mind. My heart was pounding so loud I thought it might burst out of my chest. It felt real. Like he was touching me. Like Scott Harper was going to take me like I imagine he did the prom queen back in school.

He had me up against the tree before I could even catch my breath. One second I was standing there being all flirty, the next his hands were on my waist, then my hips, then my thighs. And hang on a sec -- when did my shorts disappear? I know I had them on. My heart was thudding so hard I could feel it in my throat. It felt real. Like Scott bloody Harper was actually going to take me, right there, right up against the tree, like I was in one of those DVDs dad thought he'd cleverly stashed behind the tax files in his office closet. As if I hadn't found those ages ago.

Then he slid his leg between mine, nudging them apart, and Christ, I could feel

everything

. I could feel rough hair on his thigh rubbing up against the softest part of me. And the stiff material of his shorts rubbing against my bare skin, while the bark behind me scraped my arse like a hundred tiny fingernails dragging across me, and urging me on. Like even the tree couldn't get enough of it.

I was wet, so bloody wet, I just knew I was soaking the edges of my knickers. When he pushed a bit more, and his thigh found the crease between my legs, I gasped. All I could do was bury my face into his neck and whimper. "Oh fucking hell," I finally muttered, and gripped his arms to steady myself. "For fuck's sake, you really are something, aren't you? Bet you've done this loads, haven't you? Got a proper routine and everything." Even in my own dream I couldn't be the confident one and had to think of other girls. "This the spot where you bring all the girls from school, then?"

"No, this is just for my birthday girl," he said, and that was it. Sod subtlety. I was trying to climb him like he was the tree behind me. I'd tightened my arms around his neck like I was trying to pull myself up, leg hitching round his waist without even thinking. Gave him a clear enough signal. And he got it.

His hands moved from my hips round to me bum, lifting me off the ground. The lovely thing about dreams is they don't have to make sense. And dreams being what they are, we weren't by the tree anymore. We were in the kitchen at his work, and he was completely naked as the day he was born, while I was still in my birthday dress with no knickers, and my legs wrapped around his waist.

He propped me on the cold steel counter, where I imagine they prep food, holding my waist with one hand, while his other tried to bunch up my skirt and give him access to my snatch. I swear, even in my dream the cool metal sent a jolt straight through me. I was absolutely wet. I could see me dripping on his knob before it even reached me. While he frantically guided himself to me, I gripped my legs 'round his waist, let go of his neck, and desperately tried to pull my dress from my shoulders so I could offer him my tits.

God, even my subconscious is bloody scandalous. What does that say about me? What's wrong with me? And honestly, is it bad that just thinking about it gets me going?

I know I'm not exactly stacked, but I'm well proud of what I've got. And when his mouth found my nipple, I swear I nearly exploded. Dunno what it is -- just the right flick or suck on my nipples and I'm halfway to bloody heaven. And in my dream, he knew exactly how to do it. That was it. I was gone.

And then I woke up to find my left hand on my right tit and my right hand... absolutely soaked between my thighs. Brilliant. It was just a dream. A filthy, over the top, no chance in hell fantasy. The worst part? He probably doesn't even remember me. Only said happy birthday 'cause the card was right there on the table, plain as day. Then had the nerve to ask why I was "back in town," like I'd just popped over for the weekend, when I've never left. I've been here since year nine when Dad's job dragged us back from England. I still say "lift" half the time instead of "elevator" and people look at me like I've just crawled out of a telly.

There was no going back to sleep after that. Here I am, sat in bed with pillow creases on my face and a spot forming on my chin, acting like some tragic heroine in a teen drama. It's daft. I know it's daft. But for a few seconds, in that dream, I felt like someone he might actually want. I'm dreaming about a guy who probably hasn't thought about me since he clocked out last night.

I know it's dumb. I know I'm building this up in my head because real life is so much duller than daydreams. But God, it felt good, just for a second, to believe I could be someone a guy like him might want.

God, I wish I could switch my brain off for five minutes. Or switch me off, really.

Anyway. The pool party for my birthday is tomorrow. I just hope it doesn't turn into a disaster. I invited more people this year, probably too many, knowing me, and I'm already cringing at the idea of Mum saying something wildly inappropriate in front of everyone. Or worse, Dad trying to be funny. He's got that look lately, like he's got some dreadful dad joke locked and loaded. Or worse, try to scope out one of my mates like he's still twenty-five and not someone's dad in socks and sandals.

Please, universe, let me have one normal day. Just one.

June 17, 2000 2:04 PM

Right, I'll say it--I was wrong. The pool party wasn't a disaster. Actually... it sort of ruled.

The weather was perfect. It was warm, and sunny, and not a single cloud about. People actually came too. More than I expected. I was sure it'd be the usual few--me, Kara, Mia, the ones who've stuck around since school, but we had a proper crowd. Music playing, people swimming, snacks everywhere. It was... awesome. Like real fucking awesome fun.

There were a few boys looking half decent in their swim trunks. Not that I was ogling. Much. And maybe, just maybe, I swam a bit too close to Alex at one point. Totally by accident, of course. Couldn't help it after I caught him eyeing me across the pool like I was the bloody birthday cake.

And by some divine miracle, my parents actually left it alone.

They did the whole "We'll be upstairs if you need anything, love" routine, and, shockingly, they stuck to it. I mean, mostly. I caught Dad peeking out of the upstairs window at least three times. I want to believe he was checking no one was sneaking booze or trying to backflip off the pool shed, and not that he was trying to scope out one of my mates. I pretended I didn't notice, though I know Kara did. She gave me this knowing little smirk like,

Hey babe, your dad's being weird again.

Still. They stayed out of the way, didn't make any dreadful jokes or play embarrassing home videos like they've tried prior. Small wins.

But here's the bit that's completely thrown me: Kara saw Scott yesterday. She was at the mall with her sister and passed by the food court, and apparently, he was there chatting with one of his mates. And, get this, she swears she heard him say my name.

My actual name. As in, he didn't just vaguely recognize me from school, he

knew

who I was.

She didn't catch the full bit, just something like, "Yeah, she was at the restaurant the other night--looked really different. In a good way."

In a good way. God, I don't even know what that means, but I've been replaying that sentence in my head like it's a scene from a film. Over and over.

I keep telling myself not to be daft about it. It was probably just a passing comment. Doesn't mean anything. But still... I haven't stopped smiling since Kara told me. It's stupid. Completely irrational. But it made my stomach flutter in that ridiculous way you think stops after a certain age. Apparently not.

Maybe I'm not imagining things after all. Maybe that look he gave me, the smile, the way he paused when he saw me, it wasn't just polite small talk. Maybe there is something.

I don't know what happens next. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. But something's different, and I feel it, even if it's just in me.

Nineteen's off to a weird start. But I think I like it.

June 20, 2000 11:42 PM

Kara is the absolute worst. And by that I mean the best. And also the worst.

We were at hers this afternoon just hanging out and naturally, he came up again. I swear I didn't bring him up, she did!

I mentioned I sort of wanted to pop by the restaurant again sometime soon. Strictly for the pasta, obviously. Not because Scott might be there. (Okay, maybe a tiny bit because of that.)

And Kara, being Kara, gave me that look. The one where she knows she's about to make me do something daft, and said, "If he's there, you have to actually say something to him."

I laughed, thinking she was joking. Like, what would I even say? "Hi, remember me? I once nearly inhaled my birthday dinner while staring at you like a complete airhead."

But she was dead serious. She leaned in, raised her one eyebrow as she does, and went, "Nope. I'm daring you. Proper dare. You have to say something. One actual sentence. And it can't be about breadsticks."

So now it's official. A Dare with a capital D. She even made me pinky swear, the menace. Honestly, I should be cross with her, but part of me is a bit grateful. I've been dithering over this for days and at this point, I either do something or I keep going in mental circles until I combust.

And look, realistically, what's the worst that could happen? He's polite, says something bland, and walks off. I survive. Probably. Best case? Well. Let's not get carried away.

Anyway, I suppose now I've got no excuse. I'll have to go. For the pasta. Completely for the pasta.

And maybe to stop being such a coward.

June 27th, 2000 11:14 PM

Right, so it's been a week.

A full week since Kara dared me to talk to him. Seven whole days. Seven full revolutions of the Earth. A thousand opportunities I've found to make excuses. Because I'm not the sort of girl who does bold things with her hair swept back and her eyeliner perfect.

I haven't gone back. Not once.

At first it was small things. Wednesday I felt weirdly bloated and just couldn't bear the thought of running into him looking like I'd been inflated like a party balloon. Thursday none of my outfits felt right. Everything suddenly looked childish or try-hard or like I was trying to cosplay confidence I absolutely do not have. Friday and Saturday I figured it'd be too busy to even see him.

Sunday I nearly went. Honest. I actually got as far as the car park outside, sat there with the engine running and Britney Spears playing on the radio, trying to psych myself up. I'd even done my best to have my makeup perfect. And then I saw a group of people come out, laughing, probably not even that interesting, and convinced myself I looked too desperate and drove off again like the world's most tragic undercover agent. Mission aborted.

Monday I was sure I had a spot forming right on my chin. The kind that announces itself hours before it shows up, like a storm cloud.

And today? Today I had no excuse.

None. I even wanted to go. I spent the morning half-dreaming about what I'd say if I saw him again. Practised smiling in the mirror like some tragic Hallmark extra. Tried to find that line between "cool and effortless" and "not totally deranged."

Then I chickened out. Again.

I keep waiting for the perfect moment, like I'll somehow just know when it's time. But maybe there isn't one. Maybe you just have to make yourself do the thing even when your hair feels wrong and you're convinced everyone in the room can smell your anxiety.