‘Hi, guys,’ I said, standing over Mia and Hugo. Their heads were both bent to the table; Mia was reading a brochure, Hugo was tapping at his phone.
‘Oh, I don’t know. We could have it in the French saloon but it can only seat 120 people. Hi, Flo,’ said Mia, glancing up and waving a hand in the air as if swatting a fly before looking back to her brochure.
I’d never liked ‘Flo’. It made me think of Tampax. I’d been christened Florence after my maternal grandmother, a thin, energetic Frenchwoman who lived in an old farmhouse outside Bordeaux surrounded by village cats and apricot trees. I’d spent long stretches of my summer holidays there when I was younger, bribed to pick up fallen fruit. If I collected several baskets a day, Grandmère poured me a glass of watered-down wine that evening. It had been our secret and I adored her for it, for treating me like a grown-up when nobody else seemed to, when nobody else would talk to me about Mum and I was scared that I’d forget her. If anyone had dared called Grandmère ‘Flo’, she would have sworn at them in French. She’d died when I was fifteen and I’d clung to my proper name ever since, as if it still linked me to those summers, although I’d long since given up correcting my sisters.
‘Hugo, say hello to Flo,’ added Mia.
‘Hullo, Flo,’ said Hugo, raising his head from his phone and smiling weakly before lowering his gaze to his screen again. Honestly, I’d met more interesting skirting boards. If he was physically attractive I might have understood, but he looked like a pencil in a suit: tall and gangly, with an overly gelled hairline that had started receding, carving out the shape of a large ‘M’ on his forehead.
I looked from Hugo’s head to the table before sitting down. Five place settings, two candlesticks and one fishbowl of white roses equalled eight, which was fine because that was an even number.
‘Where’s Ruby?’ I asked as a waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne and held it in front of Patricia.
Patricia nodded at him. ‘Very good. On her way from a casting, didn’t you say, Mia?’
‘She said she might be late but we should go ahead.’ Mia held up her champagne flute and watched as the waiter poured, then held it up for a toast.
‘Everyone ready?’ she said. ‘Here’s to me. And Hugo,’ she added quickly. ‘Here’s to us, and to the best wedding ever.’ She squealed and scrunched her face as if on the verge of ecstasy at the thought of herself in a white dress.
‘Darling, I couldn’t be prouder,’ said Patricia.
‘So exciting!’ I lied as we clinked glasses.
Hugo winced and patted his chest – he had weirdly thin fingers too – as he put his glass down on the table. ‘Mia, have you brought any Rennie with you? You know champagne always gives me heartburn.’
Ruby arrived an hour later when we were halfway through the main courses. ‘Sorry, they kept us all waiting,’ she said, interrupting a debate which had been running for fifteen minutes about whether Mia and Hugo should have a wedding cake made of cheese or a Sicilian lemon sponge by the East End baker who’d designed Prince Harry and Meghan’s cake.
‘Hi, guys, hi, Flo, hi, Mum,’ she added, dutifully circling the table and kissing each of us on the head before throwing herself in the seat next to me. ‘I could murder a drink.’
‘We were just discussing my cake,’ said Mia, a forkful of fish paused in the air.
‘Our cake,’ corrected Hugo.
‘Catch me up, what have I missed?’
‘What was your casting for?’ asked Patricia, who dreamed of Ruby modelling on the cover of Vogue so she could boast to her friends at bridge club.
‘A new campaign for cold sore cream.’ Ruby glanced up at a hovering waiter. ‘Could I have a vodka and tonic please? Slimline tonic.’ She turned back to the table. ‘And it was crap. I’m not doing it even if they ask me.’
Ruby never seemed to mind missing out on jobs. Castings came and went every week and she shrugged them off, convinced that her big cover moment would come along one day. It helped that she was twenty-six and still had a credit card bankrolled by our father.
‘Oh well,’ said Patricia. ‘What do you want to eat?’
‘Er…’ Ruby looked at our plates. Hugo was chewing a rib-eye; after a debate of several minutes over whether the fish was cooked in butter or oil, Patricia and Mia had opted for the sea bass with the thyme cream on the side; I was having chicken but had swapped the truffled mash for chips because I thought truffle smelled like the crotch of my gym leggings and why anyone would want to eat that was beyond me. Plus, I could count the chips as I ate them. I couldn’t handle very small food like peas or grains of rice because they were too fiddly to count. Chips were fine.
‘Whatever Florence is having please,’ said Ruby. ‘I’m desperate for a fag but…’ She gazed around the room, as if anyone else would be smoking.
‘Can we get back to the wedding?’ demanded Mia.
Ruby sat back in her chair. ‘Yes, sorry. What’s the plan?’
‘We’re having it here but I’m worried about numbers. Are you bringing anyone?’ Mia narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you want to bring Jasper?’
Jasper Montgomery was Ruby’s latest boyfriend, a rakish playboy and the son of a duke who was to inherit a castle in Yorkshire and thousands of acres. Patricia was thrilled; Mia had become less pleased about our sister’s posh new relationship as the weeks wore on because Jasper kept turning up at home unannounced, late and pissed, leaning on the doorbell until someone answered it, usually Mia, whereupon Jasper would tumble into our hallway.
‘How on earth do I know?’ Ruby replied. ‘The wedding’s not until Christmas. That’s…’ she counted by tapping her fingers on the table, ‘four months from now. I can’t predict where we’ll be then.’ She was as relaxed about relationships as she was about timing. And this nonchalance, combined with her freckles and long, chestnut-coloured curls (she’d once been told she resembled a ‘young Julia Roberts’ in her headshots), meant that men fell about her like skittles.
‘Flo, what about you?’ said Mia.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Are you bringing anyone?’
‘To your wedding?’
‘Yes, obviously to my wedding. What else would we be talking about?’
‘Our wedding,’ said Hugo.
The question made me defensive. ‘Well I mean, no… I didn’t… I don’t… I can’t imagine who that would be, so…’
‘Florence, sweetheart, I’ve been thinking about this,’ interrupted Patricia, and my jaw froze, mid-chew. Patricia’s tone had become wheedling, the widow spider seducing her prey before the kill. ‘I think it’s high time you considered your love life. You’re thirty-two, darling. You really should have had a boyfriend by now. What will people think otherwise? Time waits for no man. Or woman, in this case.’
I swallowed. ‘Perhaps they’ll think I’m a lesbian, Patricia.’
‘Gracious me. Are you a les…? Are you one of those?’
I picked up a chip and dunked it in the silver pot of ketchup beside my plate. ‘No, sadly.’
Even though I’d spent years pretending I didn’t care that I’d never had a boyfriend, years telling myself it wasn’t very feminist to worry about such things, privately I did mind. Was it my flat chest? My size eight feet? My pale colouring, or the mole on my forehead that I tried to hide with my hair? Could men tell that I was so inexperienced? Did I emit an off-putting, sexless smell?
Deep down, of course I wanted to fall in love. Doesn’t everyone? I’d spent my teenage years ripping through romantic novels and dreamed of being as alluring as Scarlett O’Hara, with the sassy intelligence of Jo March and the porcelain delicacy of Daisy Buchanan. In reality, I was starting to feel more like Miss Havisham. But although I allowed myself to brood about this on dark Sunday nights, I never admitted as much out loud and I didn’t want to discuss it with my family. Especially when my sisters’ allure was so much greater than my own.
We’d lived as a trio for years. Dad was posted to P
akistan when I was eighteen. Five years later, the Foreign Office moved him to Argentina. That was when Patricia moved into a flat in South Kensington. She’d never liked our house in Kennington because she didn’t think the postcode was fashionable enough, so she persuaded Dad to take out another mortgage and buy her one somewhere else. Patricia insisted it was to allow Ruby, Mia and me to remain living at home but the truth was Patricia felt she deserved to live in a posh flat with thick carpets, expensive floral wallpaper and an SW7 postcode. She was the wife of an ambassador, after all, even if she spent most of her time in London. She visited Buenos Aires every couple of months and Dad flew back for the odd meeting, but they spent such long stretches of time apart I used to wonder how their relationship was a success. Over the years, I’d realized it thrived precisely because of the long periods away. If they lived together full-time, one of them would have murdered the other. Patricia was the highly strung neurotic who made everyone take their shoes off when visiting her flat; Dad was the stable rudder. She wanted a husband who could afford her weekly haircuts and dinners in expensive restaurants; he needed a woman willing to be the diplomatic wife when she did visit. Patricia never minded cutting the ribbon at the opening of a new textile factory or chatting up the wife of the soybean magnate. The South Kensington flat was stuffed with official photographs taken at these events.
Anyway, ever since Patricia moved out, boyfriends had arrived at our house more often than the postman. They were mostly Ruby’s but, before Hugo, Mia’s hit rate had also been high and I’d often come downstairs in the morning to find men called Rupert or Jeremy hunting for tea bags in the kitchen. The only man who made it into my room was ginger, had four legs and was called Marmalade – my 17-year-old cat.
‘But we do worry about you,’ breezed on Patricia, ‘so what I’ve decided is that you should go and see this woman I read about in the hairdresser in Posh! magazine – she’s got a funny name. Gwendolyn something. A love coach. Or guru. Can’t remember which. But apparently she’s brilliant.’
I squinted across the table. ‘A love coach? What do you mean?’
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, darling. Think of her like a therapist but for relationships. You go along, talk to her about your situation and what you’re looking for, and she helps you work out all your funny little issues.’
‘What. Do. You. Mean?’ I repeated slowly, enunciating each word.
‘I just think it must be a bit lonely at your age, still being on your own when your sisters are getting married. Sort of… unnatural.’
‘Mum, hang on,’ interjected Ruby. ‘I’m not getting marr—’
Patricia held a hand up in the air, signalling that she wasn’t finished. ‘Don’t you want to meet someone, darling?’ she said, leaning towards me. ‘Don’t you want to find a lovely chap like Hugo and settle down?’
I looked at Hugo, who was repeatedly running his index finger across his plate to mop up his steak juice, then sticking it in his mouth.
‘Patricia,’ I started, ‘it’s the twenty-first century. Single women aren’t illegal. We can drive cars, we can vote. We can own property. We can play in premiership football teams and…’ I paused, trying to think of more, ‘we can do whatever we like with our own body hair. We can dress how we like. And we can have sex with ourselves, if we like, no man necessary—’
‘Goodness, Florence, let’s not descend to vulgarities,’ replied Patricia, puckering her lips as if she’d just sucked a battery.
But I was building to a crescendo and enjoying myself: ‘—basically, we can do whatever the hell we like and we certainly don’t have to have a boyfriend just because other people say so.’
I leant back in my chair and glared defiantly at her, but Patricia was like a whack-a-mole you couldn’t kill.
‘Darling,’ she replied, cocking her head to one side. ‘Always so resistant. What if this lady can help you?’
‘I don’t need help!’ I replied, although I sounded squeakier than intended, so I swallowed and started again. ‘What I mean is that I’m happy as things are and I don’t need to see a mad old bat with a pack of tarot cards.’
‘It all sounds very above board. She has an office on Harley Street.’
‘Oh, Harley Street! That settles it. She’s got to be legit if she’s on Harley Street.’
‘Florence, come on, you’re being very silly about this. All I was offering was a session with someone who might be able to help you think about things in a different way.’ Patricia paused and reached for her wine glass. ‘Your father thinks it’s a good idea. He does so worry about you.’
I wasn’t sure what was more humiliating: being told to go and see a love coach or the thought of Dad discussing my relationship status with Patricia.
I dropped my head and muttered into my chest.
‘What’s that?’ asked Patricia.
‘Nothing,’ I replied, snapping my head up. ‘Fine, if you and Dad think it’s a good idea then I will go along for a session. One session, so long as we never have to talk about my relationship status in this family ever again. Deal?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said my stepmother, one of her claws reaching across the table to pat my hand. ‘I’ll fix up an appointment. My treat. It’ll make your father so happy.’
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ added Mia. ‘Come on, Flo, surely you don’t want to be on your own for ever?’
‘She might be helpful,’ echoed Ruby, looking at me sympathetically. It was the way you’d look at someone who’d just been told they had a terminal disease and three days to live.
Hugo was still mopping steak juice with his finger.
God, my family.
‘Fine,’ I repeated, picking up another chip and jabbing it in the air at them like a knife. ‘But if I go, you all have to remember what I said tonight – we’re never ever discussing my love life as a group activity again.’
‘All right, all right, Germaine Greer,’ said Mia, ‘keep your hair on. Now, can we chat dates for wedding dress shopping? Since you two are bridesmaids, I want you in the same thing. I was thinking coral?’
So I was right about the bridesmaid dress being sick-coloured.
It was bright the next morning, the sun already warming the attic, so I got out of bed and stood in front of my full-length mirror, naked apart from my pants, to gauge how fat I was feeling. I knew I wasn’t really fat. Not fat fat. But I examined my stomach in the mirror every morning anyway. Bloated? Not bloated? I poked my belly with a finger and slumped so it bulged out beneath my tummy button, then straightened again. I cast my eyes down over my thighs (I wished they were smaller), upwards towards my chest (I wished it was bigger) and then ran a hand through my hair which hung in no discernible style to just below my shoulders. I had to straighten it every time I washed it, otherwise it frizzed out, making me look like a spaniel.
I showered and returned to my bedroom. From the hanging cupboard, I retrieved one of four pairs of identical navy trousers from Uniqlo. From my tops drawer, I took out and unfolded a navy T-shirt. I laid them on my bed and returned to my chest of drawers for a pair of ironed and folded black knickers, peeled from a neat row, plus a bra. I dressed, tied my hair up in its usual ponytail and made my bed.
‘Let’s go, pal,’ I said to Marmalade, scooping him up and counting the stairs in my head as we went down – two, four, six, eight, ten, two, four, six, eight, nine, ten, two, four, six, eight, ten.
I put two slices of bread in the toaster for breakfast: toast with honey, one cup of coffee. After that, I’d make lunch. This, too, was always the same: a cheese and tomato sandwich with butter and pickle, which had always gone pleasantly soggy by 1 p.m., and a piece of flapjack from a batch I made every Sunday afternoon.
I was bad with change. Didn’t like it. So I wore the same outfit and ate the same lunch every day because it made me feel safe. It was a form of control; if my daily life remained unvarying, constant, then nothing calamitous could go wrong. I liked uniform days which e
nded with me lying on the sofa, reading, while a cookery show played on TV. Ideally one with Mary Berry in it. I liked Mary because she was neat and orderly.
Occasionally I worried such a quiet, unambitious life meant I’d be alone for ever, never brave enough to fall in love or go abroad. The furthest I’d ever travelled was to my grandmother’s in France, which was ironic considering my parents were keen explorers who met in India. Mum had been an idealistic 23-year-old who taught English at a school in a Mumbai suburb, and lived in a small apartment nearby where she was woken in the morning by monkeys shrieking on her balcony. I’d always held on to the idea of those noisy monkeys, one of the only stories I could remember her telling me.
Dad was living in the city at the same time, a student writing his dissertation on dynastic Indian politics. This topic had apparently acted as an aphrodisiac on Mum, who’d met him one evening when he was invited over to dinner by her flatmate. That was that. They became inseparable, until the car crash in London eight years later. The crash that rocketed into our lives like a comet and changed everything. That was when I realized change was bad. So, the same clothes; the same lunch; every Monday, by and large, the same as the previous Monday, and the Monday before that. If life stayed the same, life was safe.
That morning, I ate my toast while listening to the radio – a Cabinet minister had been forced to apologize for making a joke about vegans – and ushered Marmalade into the garden.
Mia left for work first. She worked for a fashion PR company, quite senior now, and was responsible for telling women that they should wear crochet and tartan this season and that animal print was out. She’d given up on me because I refused to wear anything other than my self-imposed navy uniform to the shop. Ruby would generally lie in bed until midday, depending on whether she had a casting, then leave a trail of mugs and milky cereal bowls around the house which I put in the dishwasher every evening since, by then, she was always out.
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