“I was reading Martha Stewart Weddings on the flight here,” said Erica. “There was an article in there about hand-stitching embellishment on to card in wool for invitations and placecards. They looked charming.” If Erica’s embroidery skills were anything like her ironing skills, I thought, our wedding invitations would literally be writ in blood.
“Cool!” said Nick. “Oh, and Hugh’s going to put together some suggested menus. As soon as he sends them over, I’ll forward them to you, Pip, because I know you’ll want to be in charge of the food. But anyway, Imogen also showed us pictures of a winter wedding they did where they made, like, a tent of fairy lights suspended from the ceiling in the hall, which looked wicked, so I think we should have that. And mirrors on all the tables to reflect the light.”
“Queen Anne’s lace is in season in winter,” Erica said. “It’s very useful for bouquets. Creates a lovely ethereal effect, a bit like mist.” Well, who knew? The woman is a florist as well as a nurse and a food critic, I thought sourly.
“Let me make a note of that,” Nick put his iPad on the table. “Queen Mary’s what?”
“Queen Anne’s lace,” Erica said. “And of course, you’ll want to think about your attendants and what they’ll wear.”
“Callie says she has to wait until Pippa’s chosen a dress before she even thinks about hers,” Nick said. “She suggested you two meet up and go shopping next week sometime, Pip. I think she’s worried about running out of time.”
“I’ve chosen my shoes,” I said defensively. “And there’s plenty of time. It’s only a dress.”
“And of course you’ll have Susannah’s little ones as flower girls, won’t you? So fortunate to have twins in the family and Bella and Katniss look like little angels. And Deirdre’s tot, Albie, for your page boy?”
Erica was addressing all her remarks to Nick, not even looking at me.
“Good idea,” Nick said. “You’re up for that, aren’t you, Pip?”
No, I wasn’t. The shameful truth is I’m not great with kids. Mum says that if I have my own some day, I’ll change my mind, but I’m not convinced. To be honest, all my encounters with other people’s babies leave me feeling a bit bewildered. When they aren’t crying they’re cute enough, I suppose, when they’re just warm, heavy weights in your arms, like cats only floppier and less squirmy, without the purring. So like cats, only not as good. But then they poo or start crying or whatever and it’s a relief to give them back to their parents. And then when they get a bit bigger they’re all about needing to be entertained and having screaming meltdowns for no reason, and I never know what to do with them and am constantly worrying about saying or doing something that will trigger a meltdown. And then when they get bigger than that, they make inappropriate comments in loud voices, like, “Mummy, why has that lady got funny hair?” (Yes, I speak from experience.)
So, no, Nick, I don’t particularly want your nieces and your second cousin twice removed or whatever he is to take centre stage at our wedding, I thought. But it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have – in fact, the subject of children was one I studiously avoided raising with Nick.
I felt a familiar, horrible stab of guilt, and realised that while Nick and Erica had been excitedly making their plans, I’d basically been sitting there sulking. I was worse than a child myself. These were Nick’s family, his only nieces. And Nick doesn’t share my ambivalence about kids – he absolutely adores them. He spends an hour on Skype to Suze every Sunday and most of that is cooing over Bella and Katniss. And besides, he was doing all the organising of the wedding while I buggered off to South Africa. Okay, it was work, but the fact was, I really wanted to go. And Nick and Callie were taking on all this hard work so that I could.
“That’s an absolutely lovely idea,” I said. “Little flower girls, and a pageboy! Cute!”
When Nick got up to clear away the plates, and I noticed that Erica had eaten every bit of her curry, and even cleaned out the little dish of extra chopped chilli I’d put on the table. Frankly, I was impressed. Even Nick, who eats phall without flinching and always asks for extra naga chilli when we get takeaway from the Ivory Arch, had had to wipe his eyes before wading back into my Thai curry that night. Perhaps there’s some genetic factor at play when it comes to heat tolerance, I reflected.
“Thank you, Nicky,” Erica said to Nick as he removed her plate. Then she turned to me. “Pippa, that was delicious. Thank you so much.”
You could have knocked me down with a bird’s-eye chilli. I said it was a pleasure, and we had a quite civilised chat about Liberian cuisine (wall-to-wall cassava and plantain, apparently, and something called ‘beef internal soup’, which Erica actually shuddered when she mentioned). She said she’d got into the habit of buying lethally hot sauce and eating it with pretty much everything.
I resolved there and then to make more of an effort not only to make Erica feel welcome, but actually to get to know her, and even, if such a thing were possible, to learn to like her again.
That night, as we curled up on the sofabed and I writhed around trying to get myself in the only position in which the spring didn’t dig into my back, I said to Nick, “You know, I think your Mum might be warming to me, just a tiny bit.”
Nick looked up from his iPad and said, “Have a look at this. There’s someone on the Inspired Bride forum who’s having a winter wedding, and she’s posted loads of cool ideas. What do you think about painting pinecones white and using them in with the flowers and stuff?”
I said, “Mmm, very pretty,” trying to imagine a world in which I might have the time and inclination to spray gloss enamel on to the reproductive organs of conifers. I put my head on his chest and he squeezed me close.
“Where’s Spanx?” I said sleepily. “He hasn’t come to bed with us.”
Nick said, “I think he’s in with Mum. He really seems to like her.”
And I realised that in my campaign to get on better with Erica, I was going to have to deal not only with my long-standing mistrust of her, but also with being jealous of my own cat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Strict instructions
Hey beautiful
Guess what? Mum’s off to see Deirdre in Norfolk so we have the flat to ourselves tonight. And I’m going to take you out for dinner then take you home and we can take advantage of her absence! I also have a surprise for you. So:
1. Don’t work too hard.
2. Meet me in the Aqua bar in the Shard at half seven.
3. Wear. . . actually, I’ll leave that up to you.
(Do you reckon this counts as one of those date nights you said Katharine was on about? I do.)
N xx
“Hi Florence,” said Eloise. “No, they didn’t have it in a size eight, I’m afraid. They’ve got a ten or a six. Would you still like me to order it for you? Okay, I’ll ring them back and check whether it comes up small. No problem. Just a second, I’ll see if he’s free.”
Guido made furious ‘cut her off’ gestures, then said, “All right, I’ll take it. Thanks Eloise.”
For the next ten minutes he listened with a face like Kevin the Teenager. Then he put the phone down on his desk and went to the fridge and poured a glass of San Pellegrino, then wandered back and picked the phone up again and listened for another few seconds. Then he went outside and had a fag before returning to his desk.
“You’re quite right, darling. It won’t happen again. Of course I was! I listen to everything you say. All right, darling. No, I won’t be late. Nine thirty latest. Ciao ciao.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Right, I’m going to the restaurant for evening service.” I caught Eloise’s eye. We both knew this would mean Guido getting home well after midnight and facing Florence’s fury. “You girls knock off early. You deserve it.” He put on his coat, turned off his mobile and left.
“Great!” said Tamar. “I�
�ll be on time for my yoga class for once.”
“I can meet Dean and go to the pub,” said Eloise. “What about you, Pippa?”
“Nick’s taking me out for dinner,” I said. “But we’re not meeting until half seven, so I may as well stay here and see if I can nail that soup recipe.” I thought for a moment. “Actually, to hell with it. I’m going shopping. There’s no way these jeans are worthy of the Shard.”
So I got the Tube to Stratford and splashed out on a gorgeous, butter-soft leather pencil skirt that was actually the right length for a change, a cranberry-coloured cashmere jumper and a new lipstick that matched, because I’d read on one of the beauty blogs recommended by Katharine that this was currently a Thing. I bought a bra and matching knickers in black satin, trimmed with little frills, shoved my old underwear into the Victoria’s Secret carrier bag and replaced my warm, comfy opaque tights with hold-ups, trusting that they’d do what they said on the tin. And although all that lot made me twenty minutes late to meet Nick, I reckoned he’d probably think it was worth the wait.
The elevator swooshed me up to the thirty-first floor, and I stepped out to see the lights of London spread out beneath me. I felt a huge grin spread over my face, and spotted Nick waiting at a table for two, watching me take it all in. I was glad of my new clothes and make-up; everyone in the room looked impossibly glamorous and even Nick had abandoned his usual leather jacket and was wearing a charcoal blazer over one of his less shabby pairs of jeans and a purple shirt.
“Bit of a step up from the Grope and Wanker,” I said, kissing him.
Nick adopted a cheesy, husky voice. “Because you’re worth it,” he said. “And you are, too. You look bloody gorgeous. Every man in the room was eying up your arse when you walked to the table.”
“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes at him, feeling secretly pleased.
“Now, you need a drink. I’m having a Sazerac, no pints of lager tonight.”
“In that case, I’ll have. . .” I scanned the cocktail menu. “A cucumber martini. No – I want to try the one made with tea. Or the one that’s supposed to taste like scones with jam. Or. . .”
“You can have them all, as far as I’m concerned. We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
“Pip, you’re very beautiful and I love you very much, but sometimes you can be a bit dense. We’re getting married, remember? We’ve booked our venue, you’ve tried on dresses, I’ve appointed a best man. . . But isn’t there something I left out? Something that normally happens quite early on in the process?”
I took a sip of my drink and ate an olive. “The bit where my Dad says you’ll marry me over his dead body?”
“Pippa!” Nick laughed. “No, not that. The bit where I take your hand,” he took it, “and you close your eyes,” I closed them, “and I say something about this being just a small token to express how I feel about you.”
I felt the cool touch of metal on my hand, and opened my eyes. Sparkling on my third finger was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. It was a delicate platinum band, and in the centre were two sparkling diamonds, one on either side of a clear, blue-green stone.
“It’s a tourmaline,” Nick said. He looked down at my hand and smiled. “I took a photo of you to a jeweller and asked for something the same colour as your eyes. I could have used a chart – Pantone 2229 is closest, I reckon. But I thought a photo would be better.”
“Thank you,” my voice came out a bit croaky, so I tried again. “Thank you, Nick. It’s perfect. I love it. I love you.”
“Just as well,” Nick said, “Or I would’ve had to find someone else with the same colour eyes to give it to, and that might have taken me a while.”
All through dinner, I was conscious of the new weight of the ring on my hand, its hardness against my skin. Every now and then I’d catch myself looking down at it, tilting my hand so it caught the light, and smile, and when I looked up I’d see Nick watching me and smiling too. Even though the food was gorgeous, I couldn’t eat very much and nor did he.
“Shall we walk home?” said Nick, when he’d paid the bill.
“Let’s.”
We strolled along the river in the chilly darkness, the lights of Tower Bridge reflecting in the water. We didn’t talk about the wedding. I told Nick about Guido letting Florence complain to an unlistened-to phone for quarter of an hour and he laughed and promised he’d never do that to me. He told me that Spanx had brought him another pair of my pants from the drawer as a present, and we congratulated ourselves on the cuteness and cleverness of our cat.
When we got home, Nick put the kettle on for tea and I took off my makeup and my uncomfortable boots, and we sat on the sofa with my feet in his lap and watched a couple of episodes of EastEnders that I’d missed. Gradually Nick slid down the cushions until he was lying next to me, and I turned away from the screen and kissed him.
His warm hands slid under my jumper and he pulled it over my head, then he unzipped my skirt and eased that off too. I lay back in my new underwear and smiled at him, and saw his face go all sort of still with desire.
“Pippa.” His voice sounded a bit croaky.
“Yes?”
“God, you look. . . you’re amazing.”
I sat up and slowly undid his belt. I ran my hands over his familiar hardness, breathing in the smell of him, the juniper shower gel he likes mixed with something that was just Nick. I took him in my mouth, my eyes never leaving his face, and heard him gasp with pleasure.
Then two things happened at once. Spanx came trotting through from our bedroom, carrying a pair of long thermal knickers in his mouth, which definitely weren’t mine. He dropped them at Nick’s feet and miaowed proudly, just as we heard Erica’s key in the front door.
“So I’ve been making an effort,” I told Mum. She and Dad were in London to see Benedict Cumberbatch do Shakespeare and ‘gain inspiration’, Mum said, or ‘see how it ought to be done’, according to Dad, and we were having lunch at Wagamama, which is Mum’s favourite restaurant in the whole world, bless her. “I thought things were going a bit better but then the last couple of days Erica has been totally off with me again. She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, darling,” Mum loaded her chopsticks with ramen. “She just feels threatened that another woman is taking her son away from her, as she sees it. It’s difficult for mothers, you know. That’s partly why I’m glad we only had you. I would have made a rotten mother-in-law to another woman, although of course we adore Nick.”
“And that’s the other thing,” I said. “I wish he’d stand up to her sometimes. He sees her constantly criticising me and just ignores it.”
“Does she constantly criticise you, or is that just how it feels to you?” Mum asked.
“Yes!” I said. “The other day she asked me, ‘What’s your day for high-level dusting, Pippa?’ I don’t even know what that is! I thought she meant, like, intensive dusting, with Mr Sheen and stuff. I never do that, obviously. But she meant dusting cobwebs off the ceiling. Does anyone actually dust the ceiling? If there’s a cobweb or something up there I make Nick spend two hours searching the flat for spiders, and then maybe a week or so later we’ll get around to hoovering the cobweb. But we don’t do high-level dusting. And then she asked me where I kept my hand tea towels. As opposed to dish tea towels. And when I told her that all tea towels are alike to me she looked at me like I was the scuzziest person ever. And she’s doing a massive charm offensive on Spanx and he won’t sleep on our bed when she’s there. And the way she sneezes is really annoying. She gets this expression on her face like a dying frog for about two minutes and then she just goes ‘tfffp’ through her nose instead of sneezing properly. It drives me mad. And every time she sends a text, she writes it down on paper first before she types it into her phone. Why would you do that?”
Mum had stopped eating her ramen, and she was laughing at me.
“You know, when your father and I were first married, his mother came for tea,” she sai
d. “I’d got everything carefully ready, with a hideous embroidered tray cloth she’d given us as a wedding present out on the table. I even baked a cake. When I poured the tea, I asked her if she wanted milk and sugar, and she peered into my sugar bowl and said, ‘Do you not have sugar cubes, Justine?’ Exactly like that. So the next time she came round, I’d bought sugar cubes. And then she said, ‘Do you not have brown sugar?’ And so it went on. By the time we’d been married a year I had every kind of sugar known to man in my kitchen: cubes, two different kinds of brown, golden caster sugar, those wooden sticks with crystallised sugar on them – everything. And then she announced that she’d stopped taking sugar in her tea.”
When I was growing up, I remember there always being about eight different kinds of sugar in the kitchen, even though Mum and Dad both drink their coffee black and unsweetened. It was great when I was teaching myself to bake. And now I knew why.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Mum shrugged. “I smiled sweetly, and gave her what she wanted. And when she was being really impossible, I used to write ‘fuck you’ on the roof of my mouth with my tongue.”
“Mum!” I burst out laughing.
“I did,” Mum said, a bit smugly. “And after forty years of marriage, I have a good relationship with your grandmother. I just had to pick my battles, and try to find common ground with her. And of course, we had the most important common ground there is: we love your father and we love you. You have that with Erica. So try and find other common ground too, and things will improve. I promise.”
“She does like chillies,” I said grudgingly. It was something. Not enough to make me overlook why I really detested Erica so much, but something.
“There you go then!” Mum said. “It might not feel like much, but it’s a start. ‘O gentle daughter, upon the heat and flame of thy distemper sprinkle cool patience,’” she declaimed to me and the rest of Wagamama.
So I took that as my cue to ask her how the play was going, and she told me about that and the garden.
A Groom With a View Page 8