We'd both decide to wear our New Look leggings (matching) and I'd let J-La use my Babyliss straighteners to sort out her fringe and then we'd stand side by side at the mirror and she'd go, 'You're so yum' and I'd be all, 'And you're hotter than a chip pan' and we'd tilt our heads into each other and I'd think, 'I'm so lucky to be going out with Men's Health Magazine's 4th Hottest Woman Alive in a 2013 poll, except you're blatantly hotter than that Katy Perry and I want a re-count.'
I'd let her start the car as I scratched a ketchup stain off her puffa jacket and then got into the Renault Megane Tony gave us. She'd be all, 'I'm-a-gonna play our sawng' and click the stereo on. 'Deep' by East 17 would come on and we'd both smile and she'd do the rappy bits and I'd do the singy bits and we'd have played it nine times by the time we reached Julia's because we're both so romantical and she'd be all, 'Love dat song. You're my boo' and I'd grin and pick a Cheerio out of her hair.
We'd honk the horn and then Julia would come out of her flat in her faux-fur jacket, wavin' at us and I'd hear J-La squeal a bit. As she walked towards the car in her awkward heels, we'd be gigglin', goin', 'Work it. Work it. Own it.' She'd open the creaky back door of the Renault and climb in and we'd smell her Paco Rabanne perfume and she'd point at her hair and smile and go, 'Red' and J-La, without missing a beat would go, 'Better'. We'd change the track to sommat less mushy and it'd be 'You Can Do It' by Ice-T and Julia would impress us no end by spittin' lyrics as we drove. She so ghetto, innit.
At the empty Pizza Hut, J-La would make her favourite discovery since gel heel protectors: The Salad Bar. Julia'd be all, 'Take a bowl and pile it as high as you like' and Jen would look like the time I told her they let you ride elephants in Thailand and go, 'Have they got sweetcorn, yo? Aw, man! Cha-chiiiing! LOVE SWEETCORN!' and dash off to fill her bowl with yellow kernels. As she fussed at the salad bar, picking up radishes and goin', 'Dis a hairy grape, babe?', Julia would be sussin' me out. She'd be all, 'You work? Got own teef? Own car?' and I'd try and 'splain that I did have a car, but after attemptin' nuff wheelies, J-La might have made it die. RIP Punto, innit. Then Julia would do what straight women always do, goin', 'I know a lesbian. Kim. You know her?' and I'd sigh and be all, 'Maybe' and she'd carry on, goin', 'I thought about being a lesbian once. Seems so much easier than men, innit' and I'd snort and think, 'Oh, you reck? Say that after you stomped out of a Tegan and Sara gig because your missus is havin' an Olympic Cry about havin' fat arms which aren't fat and then goin' home for no special cuddle because 'her fat arms would only end up suffocatin' you'. Lather, rinse, repeat.' Instead, I'd go, 'You can share nuff underwear. Bonus' and she'd nod emphatically.
J-La would come back with her sweetcorn-filled bowl (with a single radish balanced on top). She'd pop it in her mouth and be all, 'Mmmmm-crunchy', but then we'd stop mid-bite of our Meat Feasts as the peppery taste kicked in and she'd start flailin' her arms like a pigeon, goin, 'Shit! That's hot!' and begin hoppin' around and coughing. I'd be all, 'Least the restaurant's empty. Idiot.' And then it'd go down the wrong way.
And Julia would have to give her the Heimlich manoeuvre. And I'd think, 'This never happened in 'Mystic Pizza'...' And then, 'How do you still look hot when you chokin' to death? Weird.'
And the tatteredy old radish would fly out of her mouth and slap the glass window. And J-La would cough and cough and then look up at Julia and be all, 'You my hero' and Julia would look all relieved and let her flop on the zig-zag carpet.
But Jennifer Lawrence is not my girlfriend.