Prior Engagements

by Sarah Goodwin

  “I suppose not,” I admitted, “and I need to tell him that I’m sorry for just walking out on him, and that I want him to be happy.”

  Yvonne sighed, whether at my idiocy or the impossibility of the situation I couldn’t guess.

  “Please Von.”

  “OK,” she said, “but only because I think there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you’ve been married just under three months, and you’re already chasing after another man – literally, and in a way that is probably going to involve criminal damages.”

  “I’m not chasing after Will, not how you mean anyway,” I said, my face burning. A seagull fluttered down onto the bin beside me, making me jump. It looked at me with its beady judgmental eyes, then squawked and flew off again, its fluffy white arse letting loose a torrent of shit that splattered over my discarded magazine, right onto Naomi Campbell’s grinning face.

  Everyone was judging me today.

  “Just help me, please?” I begged.

  “I’ll be there whenever you need me,” she promised.

  “Tonight?”

  “Can’t – date night. I’ve got three musicians on the line for drinks at my place – a Rastafarian, a flute player, and rock guitarist called Hammer. I can’t pass that up to break into a café with your dopy arse.”

  “Yvonne – your promised! And you can get it on with students any night, it’s not like they have busy schedules.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll call it off, and I’ll get my looting gear out of storage,” Yvonne huffed, “but if we get caught, and I get put away, never to have sex again – I will blame you, and have you bumped off.”

  “That’s fine by me,” I said, praying that she was joking about the looting gear (she had acquired a very nice flat screen around the time of the London riots. And a whole cupboard full of designer shoes).

  I rang off and started to wander back towards the main street. As long as Yvonne was going to help me I didn’t care that she thought I was trying to get Will back. I was not tracking him down just so I could leap on him and declare my wobbly lady feelings – sure as Lidl tampons were made of woodchips and spackle.

  It started to drizzle, and the pale sandstone of the buildings around me became darker as the rain intensified. I felt suddenly very sad, because soon I wouldn’t be around to see the rain falling over grand and dirty Bath. The tourists and orange uni busses, the rain and the thousand-and-one cafés, the crazy street preaching Buddhists and the pigeons on Pulteney Bridge would continue without me, while I went back to New York, a stranger in a strange place.

  I walked back to the Royal Crescent under a metaphorical cloud, and a real one, getting drenched even as I walked slower and slower, unsure of how I was going to get back into the Foffaney house.

  My phone started to chirrup as I took momentary shelter in a doorway. My wet hands slipped on the flippy plastic gadget, and I finally managed to get it open. It was Mum.

  “Annie?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Yes Mum, it’s me,” I took a deep breath, “so...you’re going out with Fifi?”

  I was prepared for a number of responses to this – denial, embarrassment, sheepishness, bravado, vomit-worthy declarations of everlasting love...but I was not expecting my Mum to shout, “You can’t deny our love!” right into my unsuspecting ear.

  “Mum! No one’s denying anything. And now some of us are deaf.”

  “Sorry love...I’ve been looking up my lesbian heritage (a historical society that would surely give the National Trust a run for their bustle collections, and who would be hell bent on preserving certain episodes of Brookside for future generations) and it’s making me rather angry. That Santorum man is all over the place.”

  “What place?”

  “The tumblr.”

  Oh Lord, burn the internet, smash the browsers and the phone lines, my mother had discovered the hotbed of porn and cute animal pictures (at least, that’s all I used tumblr for).

  “Mum, leave Santorum out of it. I’m completely OK with you and Fifi being together. Or at least I will be. I was surprised, that’s all.”

  “Why?” said Mum sharply.

  “Because Dad was a man,” I said, exasperated, “as are all of the costumed dandies you’ve carpeted your house with, it’s not like you’ve been hankering after Caroline Bingley,”

  “I would never hanker after Caroline,” Mum said, appalled, “and besides, your father, despite being an alright husband, was enough to put me off men for life.”

  Well, I could see her point there.

  “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

  “I didn’t know, not until...I suppose the first clue I had was how Fifi made me feel that day she came round. After that...once I was sure she felt the same, I just couldn’t find a way to tell you.”

  I felt my frustration with her soften into affection, after all, she was still my crazy Mum. I should be thanking my lucky stars that she’d found someone equally weird to make her happy.

  “It’s OK, I know now don’t I? And I suppose I’ll see you together at the party?” I said

  “Oh yes, I’ve already got my outfit sorted out.”

  I made a mental note to worry about that later.

  “I’m actually on my way to lunch with Dorian and his family now,” I said, “so I have to go...I’ll give him your love shall I?”

  Mum sighed, “Yes, alright.”

  On that rather unsupportive note the conversation ended, and I was left with a dead phone against my ear, and a droplet of rain crawling down my back. I felt a little bit disheartened, alright, so I’d escaped another Will lecture, but...it felt like Mum had given up on me. Like she was tired of me not listening. Which wasn’t fair! If there had been a grain of truth in her theory about Will – in what anyone was telling me, I’d have gone after him. Or, no, I’d have gone out with him, and not Stephen all those years ago.

  Why were people still going on about it? I’d made my choice. Christ, it wasn’t like I was trying to convince Mum to drop Fifi and get back with Dad. Because it was clear that they weren’t meant to be.

  Seriously, everyone needed to buy some kind of self-help book, What To Do When You’re Cleary Wrong, and Your Friend is Sick of Hearing Your Barmy Relationship Advice.

  When I reached Dorian’s parent’s house I wasn’t entirely sure if I should ring the bell or not. Without Dorian with me I felt like a fraud. Fortunately Fifi opened the door, a packet of cigarettes in her hand, and spotted me lingering like a drowned peasant on the street.

  “Had a pleasant stroll?” she asked, leaning against the wall and inserting a cigarette into an (for goodness sake, what planet was she from?) ivory cigarette holder.

  “Not really, no,” I admitted, leaning next to her, “everyone’s leaping into my business like it’s family fun hour at the pool, and my decisions are just that big inflatable in the middle, waiting to get pissed all over,” I said moodily.

  Fifi looked at me, raising her eyebrow. “I see, so someone else shares my views?”

  “Everyone thought the world was flat – the majority can be clueless bastards,” I snapped, then deflated, “sorry...I just...I went to look at the café and it’s put me in a shitty mood.”

  “You don’t say?” Fifi said, but she was smiling, “why did you go to the café?”

  “I wanted...I mean, I had this idea, about how I could find Will. There was another person who worked at the café and they’d have to have Will’s address, or even his number, so they could get a reference off him. I thought if I could find a way to reach them, they could tell me where Will is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I shouldn’t have just left him, and it’s my fault he let the café go. I need to apologise to him, and find out that he’s doing alright.”

  Fifi shook her head and tapped ash from her cigarette. “And yet you claim you don’t love him.”

  I sighed so deeply that it came out as
a growl of frustration.

  “So, how are you going to get this information?” Fifi asked.

  “I’m getting a friend to help me break into the café so we can go through Will’s files for clues” I told her, feeling a small amount of street-creddy pride, because, yes, I had criminal associates.

  Fifi’s face lit up.

  “Oh! Let me come too! Please, I’d love to see your café, and it’d be so fun to sneak in somewhere– like being in the Brownies again.”

  All I’d done in the Brownies was make plant holders and get severely scolded for stamping in wet molehills and getting my boots all muddy. Maybe posh people got uber-ninja Brownie sessions, to prepare them for the assaults of the B2 demographic.

  I couldn’t say no to her, she had done so much for me, making me feel so welcome and looking out for my Mum.

  “Fine, I’ll take you with me tonight.”

  She actually clapped her hands with glee. “I’ll pick out something special to wear...will I need a pistol”?

  “What?” I said, alarm spiking through me.

  “A pistol. You know, a firearm, a gun, a piece?”

  “Please don’t bring a gun,” I said, realising that I’d never thought I’d have to use those words. “Why do you even own a gun?”

  Fifi shrugged. “Sometimes I’m obliged to use public transport.”

  I could actually feel my blood pressure going up, so I chose not to ask any further questions.

  Fifi sucked the last of the life from her cigarette and snapped the spent end away into a little gold thing that looked like a handheld car ashtray.

  “Once more into the breach,” she said cheerily, “Freddy, Cuthbert and Siegfried came back while you were gone, so we’re having a great big family luncheon,” she lowered her voice, “if we’re lucky, there’ll be boiled tongue.”

  I screwed up my nose. “Please tell me you’re joking?”

  “About Freddy and the others? No, sadly not. About the tongue... wait and see.”

  “Urgh.”

  “Don’t worry, just slip it to me if you can’t stomach it.”

  “I’m not going to slip you my tongue.”

  “Cheek!” Fifi grinned, opening the door and letting me inside, “I’m saving my tongue for your mother.”

  I flicked her on the bum, and she squealed.

  Lunch was thankfully tongueless and served in yet another room that I hadn’t seen before. In contrast to the refined pink of the breakfast room, the ‘best parlour’ was cream and green, with a polished brass band around the walls and a bottle green sofa. We sat at an ornately carved table with a green leather top, stamped with a gold pattern. Lunch was already set out- stands of sandwiches and cakes, two large teapots and eight place settings, all but two of which were occupied.

  Fifi and I took our seats next to Dorian. Alice and Jerry sat at the ends of the table, and Dorian’s brothers had claimed the other side. Tilly was noticeably absent.

  Freddy was looking worse than he had when I’d last seen him. He listed sideways in his seat, clearly very drunk, and he had a cigarette burn in the cuff of his jumper. Cuthbert (bowtie) and Siegfried (foxy eyebrows) didn’t seem at all put out by their brother’s bladdered appearance. In fact, Cuthbert was on his Blackberry (watching porn, if the sheen of nervous sweat on his face was to be believed- surely no email or game of Tetris could be so thrilling?) and Siegfried was already tucking into a plate of food.

  Alice welcomed us back to the table, and we all set about our lunch in silence. Fifi and I shared amused glances as Siegfried tore into dainty sandwiches and dropped discarded crusts and crumbs all over the table.

  Alice eventually snapped, “The stock market will still be there when we’re finished with lunch, for goodness’ sake Cuthbert.” At which point Cuthbert put down his phone and casually transferred a napkin to his lap.

  “I suppose you’ve made a killing,” Fifi said.

  Cuthbert nodded vaguely, a blush staining his cheeks.

  “And as soon as you get away from this table it’ll be spend, spend, spend,” she said, sweetly, “typical men, so consumed by thoughts of their swollen... bank balances.”

  I snorted with laughter, and almost choked on a bite of salmon sandwich.

  Cuthbert, now flame-faced, picked up a sandwich filled with goats’ cheese pâté and stayed silent for the rest of the meal.

  It was a bizarre lunch. Freddy had changed his clothes for the occasion, and was now wearing a pair of yellow skinny jeans and a black v-necked jumper, both made of a velveteen fabric so he looked like a giant, soused wasp. He ate crumpets one after another, drenching each one in honey and dripping it all over the table. Fifi collected icing roses from the dainty cakes and dissolved them in her teacup of hot milk, watching the liquid turn rosy. Dorian ate his sandwiches from the wide crust end, which annoyed me for no real reason, and I tried to find a sandwich that didn’t contain either raw tomato or cress, and was bitterly disappointed. Instead I took the last cake, a sultana speckled scone.

  I was just reaching for the pot of strawberry jam when Siegfried reached across the table and took the scone from my plate.

  I watched, utterly gob-founded as he broke the scone in half and started to eat it. What the hell was he playing at? There were by this time no other intact items of food on the table, my scone had been the last available morsel, mainly because Siegfried had eaten everything else.

  “Excuse me,” I said, rather loudly.

  No one else seemed to be paying attention to the scone theft going on under their noses. They didn’t look up as I spoke.

  Something inside me snapped.

  “Oi!” I roared, in the manner of a Victorian fishwife.

  All eyes were on me in less time that it takes to say ‘by Jove!’

  “Annie?” Dorian said questioningly.

  “That’s my scone,” I said, looking directly at Siegfried with my best ‘snippy waitress’ eyes, “or at least it was until you shoved it in your mouth.”

  No one seemed to know how to react to this, it was as though stealing food from other people’s plates was the norm, and I was the weirdo for taking offence. Hell, for all I knew it was normal for posh people to snatch food from other people – the Queen might well do it all the time.

  “Janine will bring more scones,” Alice said, eventually, “I’ll ring for her now...”

  “I don’t particularly want a scone,” I explained, “I just don’t appreciate people snatching things from my plate.” I glared at Siegfried and all the frustration of the past few weeks came to a head. All the salady-hoardy-lack-of-sex-Will-guilt-stuck-in-New-York frustration.

  “Don’t do it again,” I said, as low and threateningly as I could, the kind of voice I reserved for foreign call centre people who wanted me to pay off my debts without delay.

  Fifi stuck her tongue out at her brother and Freddy chuckled tipsily and said ‘scone’ to himself in a silly voice. Siegfried’s face had gone puce, and both Alice and Jerry looked extremely embarrassed, as well they might.

  Dorian glanced at his parents, then looked at me, a half smile curling his mouth. “Perhaps we should call this luncheon officially at a close?”

  I nodded and stood up, “I think I need some air, and by air, I mean ‘a great filthy burger’.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Fifi declared, “I adore German cuisine.”

  “Thank you for having me,” I said stiffly to Jerry and Alice, like I was seven years old again and had just spent two hours bored out of my mind watching a school acquaintance play with dolls that I wasn’t allowed to touch.

  Fifi and I left the dining room and headed downstairs.

  “It’s going to be fast food, not proper restaurant stuff...or even proper beef stuff, that OK with you?” I asked.

  Fifi nodded, sliding open a door in the wall to reveal a coat closet. It was easily bigger than the kitchen at the café. My things were already there, and I suspected Janine of transporting them. I put on my green peacoat and
Fifi slipped on a mocha coloured fur coat that reached her knees, and which had a wide waist belt with a silver clasp.

  “This is going to be so much fun,” she trilled, stepping into vintage black stilettos, “like going on Safari with all the windows down.”

  I prayed she didn’t have a gun hidden in her coat somewhere.

  “Burger King it is then,” I said.

  Fifi pulled an umbrella out of a tall, teak stand. It was pink, and had a handle like the flamingo croquet mallets in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.

  “Annie,” Fifi asked as we stepped out into the drizzle, “what’s a Burger King?”

  “Oh,” Fifi said, when I presented her with her bacon and cheeseburger meal, “I thought some sort of crown motif would be involved.”

  “Sorry, no. But look,” I waved a plastic cup at her, “questionable mayonnaise.”

  “Just like at the Ritz,” Fifi grinned, and started to read the cardboard package around her fries.

  A teenager with long, black, asymmetric hair and a Burger King uniform on slouched past like a spirit somehow leaked from the underworld.

  “Excuse me,” Fifi asked him, “do you have any crowns?”

  He looked at her like she was an alien, and also the loveliest thing he had ever seen (which was really the only way that anyone could look at Fifi).

  “There’s a crown in the kid’s meal.”

  “May I have one?” Fifi asked.

  The teenager pattered off on his greasy trainers like a puppy. Fifi unwrapped her lopsided burger and took an enormous bite out of it. I picked at my fries while she devoured her meal, and finally opened my own burger as Fifi drained her Coke with a gurgling slurp.

  “Good?” I asked.

  “Not even slightly,” she said, “and yet I wouldn’t mind another one.”

  The teenager returned with a cardboard boxed kid’s meal.

  “Thank you,” she said and handed him a ten pound note, “keep the change.”

  These were clearly the only nice words anyone had ever said to the poor kid, and he promptly scampered back to the kitchen.