Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  "Are you dancing?" I grin, hopefully, at Luke.

  "Are you asking?" He laughs.

  I'm always asking, I love dancing. I'm good at it. I adore the sheer indulgence of it. Flailing my arms and legs, shaking my head, letting it out, letting go. Mostly I ignore the actual melody and beat but happily this doesn't seem to matter. My enthusiasm more than compensates. Luke is also a good dancer. His style is quite different. He carefully learns steps and routines. He's cautious and measured. I always leave the dance floor with a clammy stomach, hair sticking to the back of my neck, blistered feet, smudged makeup and exhausted, aching limbs. Luke rarely sweats. We used to club together a lot when we first met.

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  "So?" I ask again as I begin to move toward the rug, the area naturally carved out to act as a dance floor. But Luke doesn't follow me. He's probably spotted an empty glass that needs refilling or noticed that the char-grilled peppers with anchovy and capers are being neglected. Luke is a far better host than I'll ever be. I don't look after people at my parties. More often than not, it's all I can do to look after myself. My idea of being the perfect hostess is to supply an array of good food, copious amounts of champagne and attractive and absorbing people. I put these ingredients in a room and see what happens. I enjoy the chaos of watching people mix with one another. I would never dream of introducing Bill to Jo because they both have an interest in Alfred Hitchcock. I expect my friends to have the sense to introduce themselves to one another, to find the loo, and I'd be positively concerned if they didn't fill their own glasses. Luckily my laissez-faire attitude is in contrast to Luke's more traditional approach. He always makes sure that there are clean towels and plenty of loo roll in the downstairs bathroom, he is skilled at guaranteeing that everyone leaves with the correct coat and partner. It's really Luke that ensures our parties are successful. So it is understandable that Luke can't take time out to dance with me. And mildly frustrating. I look around for some other poor victim and drag Peter to his feet. After Peter I dance with Daisy, Sam, Bob, Phil and Claire. I'm indiscriminate in my choice of partner, the important factor is that I get to spin and twirl so madly I have a head-rush.

  I sigh with relief as Luke and I wave good-bye to the last guests. Well, not quite the last, as Sam, Daisy, Lucy, Rose and Peter stay behind. But to us these friends are more like family than guests. I smile at Luke as he pours large brandies. He nods toward the garden, indicating that he and Peter are heading that way to smoke cigars and enjoy the balmy July night. I want him to stay and debrief the party, but he points out that

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  we don't like people to smoke inside. We do have nice things and it would be awful to burn a hole in the antique French lace cushion covers or drop ash on the hand-tufted Moroccan rug. Anal retention, a thing that develops with age. Lucy joins the boys to smoke a cigarette. Not that it's unknown for her to smoke a cigar, we both did at university, but only for effect. Absolutely no pleasure involved at all. It was simply a pulling technique, a successful one.

  We've had in excess of a bottle and a half of champagne each, so it seems ludicrous to stop now. We start the postparty hunt for dregs. We find three half bottles. Champagne bottles are heavy and as there was so much to drink no one had to suffer the indignity of draining bottles, except us, now. Together this isn't tacky, it's sensible. Once our glasses are full we turn, with varying amounts of enthusiasm, to the issue of clearing up.

  "No leave it, really," I assure generously. "I'll do it in the morning." I only believe this because of the large quantities of alcohol I've drunk. "Let's sit down and gossip." The advantage of Luke being out of earshot is that I can indulge in a postmortem. Who said what? Who looked fab? Who'd been a victim? Who fancied who? Who ate too much? And, importantly, who threw up in my Tibetan hand-carved umbrella stand? Predictably, Sam and Daisy don't need to be persuaded, they literally drop what they are doing (mental note: two side plates to be replaced) and flop into our big leather armchairs. Rose, bless her, continues carefully to scrape discarded food and napkins into a huge black bin-liner. I pour everyone another large glass of champagne and then revert to loading the dishwasher. Haphazard as the execution of this operation proves to be, I know that I won't relax until at least one dishwasher load is whirling away. I blame my mother for that.

  Woozy, full up, a bit icky, we all feel great.

  "Put the wedding video on," says Sam.

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  "No, you've all seen it." I venture a polite, unconvincing refusal.

  "But it's lovely." Sam knows the formula.

  "Go on, you're dying to," Lucy says as she comes in from the garden. She really isn't as good at playing my game. I don't need much persuading.

  Luke wanders through to refill the brandy glasses. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. He does this uninterested, tutting thing because it is demanded of men whenever their wedding video, or similar, is being shown ("or similar" equals looking at pictures of babies, even themselves as babies, recounting of first date or proposal, choosing underwear or valentine's cards). No one really believes that they are hardhearted or uninterested. It's a big global conspiracy so that we can pretend that they are all tough with the monopoly on being cool and we can maintain exclusive film rights on slushy stuff. On the whole it works. So Luke wanders past the TV, eyes rolling, and I don't let on that I caught him watching it at 3 A.M. yesterday morning.

  "Ohhhh," the girls let out in a Greek chorus and edge toward the TV cuddling cushions. Even Lucy softens. Sort of.

  "My hair looked really good like that."

  The video, indeed all wedding videos, have a peculiar effect on women. We have loads of basics in common: love of chocolate, love of alcohol, an encyclopedic knowledge of all high street clothes shops. We've all read everything Jane Austen ever wrote, and we all harbor unfeasibly high hopes for the world of romance.

  Sam and Daisy, who are both single, become different animals as soon as the video starts to play. Sam starts to cry. She cried when we were buying my dress, throughout the actual ceremony, when we sung hymns, when we cut the cake, when I threw my bouquet and when we left for our honeymoon. She cried so much throughout the whole process that my Gran

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  thought she was one of Luke's exes. Gran thought it very peculiar (but typical of her lovely Connie) that I'd let one of his ex-girlfriends ("who was no better than she ought to be") participate in the ceremony. She'd have given Sam a thrashing for having the cheek to turn up. Poor Sam. Sam has seen my wedding video more often than The Wizard of Oz but she still starts crying as soon as the organ cranks up and I'm sure that isn't entirely to do with the awful playing. She cries quietly. Not a sad booing but through a big "it-will-happen-to-me-one-day" smile. She can smile, too, as I reckon she is also thinking And I won't make the mistake of carrying my bouquet too high so it obscures my neckline. Sam has really studied this video.

  Daisy's reaction is a lot more pensive and controlled. She's had a few boyfriends of course but she's never really lost her head and heart. She's really into "The One" syndrome. Daisy becomes pensive and says things like, "you know when you know," "you can't hurry love," "every teapot has a lid." As fond as we are of Daisy, this pseudo-soothing mumbo jumbo irritates us all. Rose and I are fully paid-up members of the camp which runs along the lines, "I knew, but he took some convincing," "you can hurry love, you can race at Schumacher speed if necessary," "but who the hell wants to marry a teapot?"

  Lucy's viewing pleasure is derived from a cynical knowledge that every wedding she attends is a lucky escape. She thanks God that she isn't the one trussed up like a Christmas pantomime fairy. Actually, she enjoyed my wedding and commented, "So few are really stylish. Convention and tradition actively work against common sense and good taste, but yours Connie (pause, for effect) was not an embarrassment." Luke and I had been pleased with this compliment. She likes watching our wedding video because she was my chief bridesmaid and therefore had quite a majo
r role. Her comments are

  limited to how well she looks and the occasional beauty tip for the rest of us—"In retrospect, would you have chosen those shoes?" However, she was great fun on the day. She tipped up at my house at the crack of dawn and bossed and directed the hairdressers, the makeup artists, the florist, the chauffeur and the other bridesmaids, with such equanimity that my day was entirely hassle free, a real delight. She did all this directing and bossing and stuff while dripping champagne intravenously into myself and my mother. She said this was to ensure I was drunk enough to go through with it, but I know she was kidding. So although Lucy sits playing super bitch, we all know that really this is only an act. She's not a super bitch.

  Rose watches the video with a more gentle, wise attitude. She's done it herself so has no reason to feel competitive or resentful, or pitying, or hopeful. She just comments on how happy we both look and she laughs a lot at Peter's Best Man speech.

  I watch the video feeling immensely proud. It's like I'm watching someone else's life. It's just so perfect.

  It is a fact that five minutes after you're married your dress is old news, your haircut an embarrassment and your makeup like a poor set-design on Top of the Pops. They don't tell you that in the wedding magazines. They give you endless tips on October flowers, or when you should remove your veil, or exactly what a croque en bouche is! Which is hardly life and death. I have a certain amount of sympathy with the "How do I arrange the top table for my wedding, as both my father and stepfather will be attending?," less for "I'd like to have Irish folk dancers/bagpipes/Morris dancers—do you know where I can find such people?" (surely the advice here should be "don't bother"). "Do you know where I can buy wedding shoes for size eight feet?" is also a call with which I can sympathize, but really, let's cut the crap and get to the Aristotelian problems of

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  wedding-day debate. "How can I prevent my dress dating, so that I don't have to hide behind the settee on our fifth wedding anniversary when my husband gets the album out?" Another thought, "Do you have any salient tips on how to avoid my makeup causing the same embarrassment to me, as leg warmers surely must cause Olivia Newton John?" But the magazines don't have the answers to this kind of thing, so don't even waste time looking for them.

  The video is, by anyone's standards, the naffest thing about my wedding. I love it. I thought I wouldn't. I thought it would be intrusive (it was). I thought my friends would laugh (they did). I thought it would just be another thing to worry about (it was), but my mum argued that it was an essential part of the day and that I'd treasure it more than my dress (she probably said that I'd treasure it more than my husband, but I'm sanitizing her character for commercial gain). Anyway she was right. I love it.

  I'd always said I didn't want a big day. I wanted a few very close friends, and something simple, cream and straight (to wear, rather than eat or marry). My nearest and dearest resisted an open belly-laugh. No one actually catcalled, "But you love being the center of attention. I can't imagine you letting this opportunity pass you by." No one actually hooted, "But you throw parties as frequently as the rest of us throw the duvet over the unmade bed." Instead, my mother brought home that month's copy of Brides and Setting up Home. Artful soul, my mum.

  I was fascinated. I was absorbed. I was hooked. I was a bride-to-be.

  There is absolutely nothing amazing about these magazines beyond the fact that normally sensible women, of roughly sound mind and body, not only buy them but frequently repeat the purchase. Moreover we take them seriously. They become important to us, they become our trusted

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  guides, our loyal friends, our Bible. I clearly remember my mum handing the magazine over and it was a moment of pure distinct revelation. From that moment on there was no heroic talk of simple, cream and straight and a few close friends. Road to Damascus. I understood that more was more. The cover was so . . . hopeful, pink, smiley, pink, informative, pink. Even if it is not actually pink, even if the cover is actively blue, it feels pink. Dreamy, girlie, promising, innocent. Suddenly it mattered to me that I knew my, "Step by step to perfect hair and makeup," "How much a wedding really costs?" and "How to cope with divorced parents" (and mine are married). I wanted it! This magazine was my secret arsenal in the lifetime battle of the "Happily Ever After" because here it was in black and white, "be a princess for a day." All for £2.95. Sold to the lady on the left. To the lady on the right. And the one standing at the back.

  I devoted man-hours that amounted to weeks choosing a dress, flowers, cars, menus, shoes, headdresses. The groom had been the easy bit. More frightening yet I devoted man-hours that amounted to months practicing my wedding-day smile, my wedding-day walk, my wedding-day first dance, my wedding-day blush (I have never blushed in my life), my wedding-day thank you. I was well and truly ensconced in Fantasyland and I liked it there!

  The video brings me back down to earth. My star appearance in the video does not reveal a demure, mysterious princess in sepia tones. It showcases a noisy, bossy, funny, happy, Technicolor twenty-something bride, who is having a huge laugh with her noisy, bossy, funny, happy, Technicolor twenty-something friends. The video shows Peter pretending to Luke that he's lost the rings, it shows Daisy stop me just before I enter the church to straighten my veil. It catches our friend Rob with his fly open, Sam and Lucy squabbling over catching the bouquet (both failed, Daisy caught it). It shows

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  Luke's younger brother boasting that he held "some bird's" hair back as she puked, my father tripping up as he staggers into the cab at the end of the night, and it catches my mum sighing fondly under her breath, "You've never come home sober from a wedding in the thirty-five years I've known you." Fondlyish.

  The romantic bits are nothing like the magazines, they are much more real. They are much more simple. Luke smiling at me. Me smiling at Luke. Luke and me holding hands.

  We watch the video, right the way through without hitting the fast-forward button. When it is over there isn't a dry eye in the house. Lucy's tears are tears of boredom.

  The next day is a long one. There's always more paperwork the Monday after a great weekend. My head hurts with a combination of lack of sleep, excess alcohol and the low after a weekend high. Five more days before the weekend, I sigh, bored. My work is not that bad. I don't always actively dislike it. But it is work. By definition. I'm here because they pay me. Winning the lottery would definitely change my life.

  Everyone is always impressed with the fact that I am a management consultant, but in reality my role is limited to plugging data into a computer system. As I become more senior I can look forward to deciding which data and how it should be plugged in. Ultimately, I will get to decide which computer system and whose it should be plugged into. It isn't challenging. It isn't creative. I feel terminally ungrateful and dull when I meet people at parties, who on finding out what I do for a living, shout excitably "Well that sounds fascinating" or "Marvelous firm to work for, how did you get into that then?" It seems so churlish to say, "No, really, it isn't fascinating at all, anyone could do it. I've had more fun watching washing dry."

  However, there are good things about my job. Sam,

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  always on hand for a chat and a lunchtime sandwich, sits three desks along from me. We work in one of those open-plan hot-desk environments, which are as intrusive as they are ineffective. No one ever really "hot-desks." If a new girl arrives having read the hype and sits down at any old desk, she'll soon discover the error of her ways. The good thing about the open-plan office is that as a married woman I only have clean linen to launder and therefore don't mind a public dissection of my relationship. If Luke and I have sex at the weekend, the general opinion on the floor is that it's really great that he still fancies me after one year of marriage. Alternatively, if we haven't had sex no one is surprised or suspicious, we have after all been together years, so we're past that stage where you overdepend on the
physical. I am the only married person in my department, so the open-plan arrangement allows me the chance to gratuitously enjoy other people's liaisons, successful or otherwise. My department called "Accommodation Management" is a new-fangled idea. The firm's heritage is in technology. "Accommodation Management" is all to do with helping the little people adapt to change when the big people thrust it upon them. As it's a "people job" it is predictably, predominantly a female department. The firm is predominantly male, which means that someone on my team is always snogging someone in another team, which is strictly prohibited and therefore utterly compelling. Besides this in-house entertainment, the other advantages of my job are that we are based in the center of Soho, which is brilliant for drunken nights on the town and handy for the gym (ha) and there is a really nice Pret a Manger next door but one.

  It is a slow morning. I've played three unsuccessful rounds of electronic solitaire, taken two personal calls and sent six personal e-mails. To avoid the charge of complete abuse of my employer's trust, I do a bit of filing, take one

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  business call, make one business call and I send three business e-mails. I also catch someone in my team pretending to take dictation but really listening to the Now 310 album on her headset. I quickly find her something equally pointless and numbing to do, by way of teaching her a lesson. Even with this amount of activity I am fed up and watch the clock drag its hands around to 12:30. On the dot, Sue pops her head around my cube.