by Mike Gayle
‘No, it’s not,’ I snap. ‘I’m sorry. Look what I’m doing. I’m sniping at you when you’re only trying to be nice. Why would you want to marry someone like me?’
‘Because I love you. I love everything about you. I especially love the fact that you call me and wake me up to tell me you can’t sleep. That’s what I’ve always looked for in a woman.’
‘Why are you so reasonable?’
‘I don’t know. It just comes naturally to me I suppose.’
‘But you’re always reasonable, aren’t you? You’re never in a bad mood or miserable for no reason. You never yell or moan or do any of the things normal people do. You’re just nice. Nice all the time and I don’t deserve someone like you.’
‘Come on now, Ally, you know I can be quite stroppy when I want to be.’
‘No, never. You’re never stroppy. You are always lovely. You know in the Walt Disney version of Snow White, when all the animals help her do the washing-up? Snow White is so radiantly wonderful that she almost seems to glow and all the animals are practically falling over themselves to help her out. Well, that’s you, that is. Me? I’m the evil queen lurking about in the background with a poisoned apple.’
‘The good news for you is that I find evil queens very, very sexy.’
‘So you’re not going to come over?’ I say, trying make my voice stay on just the right side of pathetic.
‘Isn’t it meant to be bad luck to see the bride the night before the wedding?’
‘Do you think we’ll have bad luck, then?’
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ he says quickly. ‘I said it’s supposed to be bad luck if we see each other the night before the wedding. But you know that’s just an old wives’ tale.’
‘I’ll be an old wife one day.’
‘And I’ll still love you because I’ll be your old husband.’
‘You will, won’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you do love me, don’t you?’
‘One hundred and ten per cent and then some.’
‘And I love you too. I love you so much that I don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘If you want me to come over I will. It won’t take me twenty minutes to get there.’
‘No,’ I say resignedly. ‘You’re right. I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit tipsy and feeling sorry for myself and nervous about the morning . . . I just wanted to talk to someone, really.’
‘You can talk to me all night if you need to but I get the feeling this might be one for a lady in your life. Why don’t you try your mum? She’s in the room next door, isn’t she?’
I try to imagine myself talking to my mum about what’s on my mind. I can’t picture it at all. My mum would never get it in a million years.
‘Mum’s asleep,’ I say, after a moment, ‘and I’d only wake Dad.’
‘What about your sisters?’
I try to imagine waking Emma for a late-night chat. I can’t see that either. When we were kids Emma was never much of a night person and now that she’s got kids of her own keeping her up at night she craves sleep more than anything. As for my baby sister, I can’t imagine she’d be much help. What I need is a good listener and Caroline has always been better at talking than listening.
‘I don’t think any of my family are the right people for the job.’
‘What about Jane?’
‘She’s still in London and won’t be here until the morning.’
‘Well, if they’re no good,’ says Marcus, ‘I’ll come round right now and you can talk to me.’
‘You’re such a sweetheart,’ I reply, ‘but I promise I’ll be okay. I just need to get to sleep . . . I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late, will you?’
‘I’ll be there on time. You just worry about yourself. The last thing I need is for people to think I’ve been stood up by my bride.’
I let out a small laugh as tears roll down my cheeks. ‘I love you,’ I say, trying to mean it with my whole heart. ‘I love you more than anything. Sleep tight.’
I put down the phone, lean across to the bedside table, grab a few tissues, wipe my eyes and give my nose a good blow. With the tissue now balled tightly in my fist, I try to work out what I’m going to do. I’m supposed to be having breakfast with all my family at nine o’clock. The hairdresser’s booked for eleven. Jane’s friend Jo, who’s a bit of an amateur whiz with makeup, is coming at midday and the wedding itself is booked for two o’clock. Time. I haven’t got enough of it. I need more. I want more. Because in just a few hours time I’m going to be a married woman.
7.22 p.m. (US time)
1.22 a.m. (Friday, 14 February, UK time)
It’s a couple of hours into the flight. The peanuts have been distributed and the miniature cans of soft drinks and alcohol have been passed around. The resultant rubbish has been collected and the lull that normally falls over a fully booked flight travelling from one time zone to another has filled the cabin. The majority of passengers are, like me, sitting in darkness with blankets across their knees and plasticky headphones on their ears, watching the in-flight entertainment, which consists of a CNN news round-up bulletin. War. Death. Presidential walkabouts. And the odd celebrity gala.
I haven’t even closed my eyes, let alone fallen asleep. I know there’s no point in trying when there’s so much on my mind. In a way I’m glad Helen’s sitting so far from me. If she was next to me right now there would be no hiding anything from her.
I’m sitting between two people. On my left, in the window-seat, there is a young Englishman in his twenties, wearing a baseball cap and a thick padded shirt. The moment he sat down he’d plugged himself into his portable CD player, delved into his rucksack and produced a handheld computer game. On the other side of me, in the aisle seat I craved for its extra leg room, is a friendly looking middle-aged woman with light brown hair. She’s wearing jeans, a mohair jumper and Scholl sandals. When she sat down she’d smiled at me warmly and said hello. I thought for a moment I might have a talker sitting next to me, but then she took out a thick paperback from a carrier-bag under the seat in front of her, switched on the light above her head and began to read. From that moment on she was silent.
Until now.
‘Pauly the Talking Parrot.’
I hear the words quite clearly through my headphones. I take them off and turn to her. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean for that to come out like that. I was just taking a break from reading and I was looking at everyone watching the screen over there.’ She points to the in-flight entertainment. ‘And I was trying to remember the name of the last film that I watched all of the way through on a plane.’
‘And it was Pauly the Talking Parrot?’
‘I know it’s ridiculous, really, but once I started watching it I couldn’t stop.’
I smile politely and put my headphones back on, only to see out of the corner of my eye that the woman is still looking at me. I take them off again.
‘Business or pleasure?’ she asks.
‘The trip? Pleasure.’
‘Me too. My oldest friend moved to Chicago in 1974 and we take it in turns to see each other.’
I knew it. A talker. I consider putting my headphones on again but there’s no way I can do it without being rude. Out of politeness I ask her why her friend moved to Chicago, which leads to a long monologue on the pros and cons of moving around the world for the sake of work. This leads to a conversation about the news in the UK, which leads to an even longer one about the book she’s reading, then to why discipline in schools isn’t as good as it used to be.
During all of these conversations, however, I find myself warming to her. I’d known women like her at school. They were the cool mums who were invariably the mums of the cool kids. They were the mums so unlike your own as to be almost completely unmum-like – Kate Raddick’s mum in junior school, for instance, who, when I’d gone to her house for dinner one evening, allowed us to eat our dessert befor
e the main course, which would never have happened in the Owen household. Or Nigel Ross’s mum, in secondary school, who managed to combine being just that little bit too good-looking to be a proper mum with the fact that she let Nigel take girls up to his bedroom and close the door. Those were things you can only truly appreciate if you had a mum like mine.
1.55 a.m. (UK time)
7.55 p.m. (US time)
I’ve decided to turn on the main bedroom light now as if to usher away any pretence that I might miraculously fall asleep. I pick up the book on my bedside table, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, open it where it has been bookmarked and begin reading. Within minutes my mind is wandering. I’m not getting into this one as I did the last one. This thought leads me to work. I wonder who’ll be looking after my authors when I’m on my honeymoon, which reminds me that I’m getting married in the morning, which reminds me again of the reason I can’t sleep.
I look around my room for a diversion. It’s an ordinary hotel room that has probably been slept in by thousands of businessmen and women. On the wall near the door is the infamous Corby trouser press. I wonder if anyone has ever pressed their trousers in it. To the right is a small dressing-table and mirror, then a red armchair, and a table with a little kettle and some cups and saucers. That’s it. I’ll make myself a nice cup of tea and everything will feel better.
I swivel out of bed and, on my way to the table, put on my dressing-gown. I grab the kettle, head to the bathroom to fill it, then return to the room. I set the kettle on its stand, press the button and listen as it begins to hiss and bubble. I set out a cup and saucer and grab a packet of sugar. There’s a problem, though. I check through all the sachets on the tray. There’s coffee, hot chocolate, brown sugar, white sugar and even artificial sweeteners but no teabags. Under normal circumstances I would’ve taken this omission in my stride. It’s only some missing teabags, I tell myself, not the end of the world. But for some reason this is the last straw. I’m never going to get to sleep now. Never. And it’s not my fault. It’s the hotel’s fault. Specifically that of the person who has neglected to replenish the stock of teabags in my room.
I dial room service but no one answers. Now I really am annoyed. Is it too much to expect to be able to make a cup of tea in the middle of the night? I ask myself, as I climb out of my pyjamas and begin pulling on my clothes. Who did the Great Eagle Hotel think they were, charging a fortune for a room with no tea in it? And then having no one answering the room-service calls. If they can’t get the teabags right what will they do to my wedding reception? Will the starters be missing? Will guests who ordered the fish get vegetarian moussaka? Will meat-eaters get the steamed turbot? Will the vegetarians be served a whole leg of lamb? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Fully dressed in jeans, trainers (without socks), a T-shirt I’d borrowed from Marcus and a thick brown jumper, I pause to tie my hair away from my face with a scrunchie and storm out of the room in search of someone to shout at.
8.01 p.m. (US time)
2.01 a.m. (UK time)
‘My name’s Jim,’ I say to the woman sitting next to me. ‘Jim Owen.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Marian. Marian McCarthy.’ She picks up the book from her lap, closes it and puts it back into the plastic carrier-bag, as if signalling that she’s going to give me her full attention. ‘Was it your first time in Chicago?’
‘Yes, it was a surprise for my girlfriend.’
‘Really? That’s nice. Why did you choose Chicago?’
‘My girlfriend spent a year at the University when she was twenty and had a great time but hadn’t been back since she left. She was always telling me how she’d love to go back some day so I thought I’d make it happen. We’ve spent the week sightseeing and meeting up with her old friends.’
‘That’s lovely,’ says Marian. ‘Where’s your girlfriend right now?’
I point to the front of the plane. ‘Up there. We couldn’t get seats together.’
‘Oh, that’s such a shame. I’m quite prepared to swap, if you’d like.’
‘It’s a middle seat,’ I explain. ‘You wouldn’t want a middle seat . . . Anyway, she said she was going to try to sleep, which is more than I’ll achieve on this flight.’
‘Oh?’
‘I haven’t been sleeping very well.’
‘Jet-lag?’
‘I think it started before we arrived in the States.’
‘Hmm,’ says Marian. ‘Can I ask what you do for a living?’
‘I’m an accountant.’
‘Is it a very stressful job?’
‘Aren’t they all?’
She smiles. ‘What else is going on in your life at the moment?’ I look at her, puzzled. ‘I’m not being nosy – I read in a magazine once that stress is the main cause of sleeplessness.’
‘It’s probably work,’ I reply.
‘You don’t seem so sure. Could it be anything else?’
I laugh nervously. ‘This is very strange, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she acknowledges. ‘But strange is good, isn’t it? Who wants life to be safe and straightforward all the time? Do you? I doubt it. Now, this not sleeping business . . . what’s on your mind?’
2.05 a.m. (UK time)
8.05 p.m. (US time)
‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ I say firmly.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ says the man standing behind the hotel reception desk. ‘I’m the night porter. The manager doesn’t arrive here until seven a.m. She’s very nice, though, and she’ll be quite happy to talk to you.’
‘Well, that’s not good enough,’ I reply, without thinking. I’m annoyed now, and when I get this way I don’t think straight at all. A normal me under normal conditions is far more civilised. ‘It’s absolutely outrageous the way this hotel is being run,’ I continue. ‘Absolutely outrageous. I demand to talk to someone in authority now.’
‘I see,’ says the night porter. ‘You seem very . . . upset, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I snap, and then, as if suddenly awakening from a dream, I feel awful about shouting at this middle-aged man with the friendly face and freckles and once red hair that’s now fading to white. Did I detect an accent too? Polish, possibly. Or Russian? Slovak? Something like that, perhaps. This makes me feel even worse. Here he is, away from his homeland, and I’m behaving little better than a British lager lout or soccer hooligan. There’s no reason at all to shout at this poor man, who, chances are, had little to do with putting teabags in rooms.
‘Can I ask what the problem is? I might be able to help.’
‘Look, I’m really, really sorry.’
The night porter looks puzzled. ‘Why are you sorry?’
‘For being rude to you. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was awful of me.’
‘But you seem upset.’
‘A little bit.’
‘What is the problem?’
‘My . . . er . . . my room has no teabags.’
He nods understandingly. ‘I have noticed that tea is very important to the British . . . So, you are unhappy because there are no teabags?’
‘Well . . . not really.’
‘So, you’re not upset because you have no teabags?’
‘I wanted the teabags to make a cup of tea because I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Tea will keep you awake, though – the caffeine.’
‘Is there much in it?’
‘I read it in a magazine once.’
I laugh. ‘You sound like my fiancé. He’s just been telling me that anything I drink to get me off to sleep will keep me awake.’
The night porter smiles. ‘You’re getting married?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And you’re getting married here?’
‘In the Hampton Suite.’
‘Congratulations,’ he replies, and offers me his hand. Although I feel odd doing it, I shake it. His hands are huge, frec
kled, slightly clammy, yet reassuringly strong. ‘You will be very happy,’ he says warmly.
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know these things. Don’t you think you will be?’
It’s a simple question. Certainly not worthy of tears. And yet here they are again for the second time in less than an hour. One after another, they roll from the corners of my eyes, down my cheeks into the crevice by my nose and along the edge of my mouth so that when I lick my lips I can taste salt. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, turning away from him.
‘Have I upset you?’
‘No, it’s just me. I’m being silly.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just making pleasant talk about your wedding.’ At the very mention of the word ‘wedding’ the tears increase tenfold. ‘I make things worse.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ I say, trying to sniff away the tears. ‘It’s just me. Please ignore me. If you could just find me a couple of teabags I’ll be out of your way.’
‘No, no, no. I can’t give you teabags when you are this upset. I must make you the tea.’
‘No, really. Honestly I’ll be fine. I don’t want to bother you.’
‘Please, it’s no bother at all.’
For a moment I stare at the night porter looking at me so kindly that I just want to cry even more. ‘I’d love to have a cup of tea with you,’ I tell him, between sobs.
‘You wait here,’ he says, ‘and I’ll be back in several moments.’
8.10 p.m. (US time)
2.10 a.m. (UK time)
I check my watch and calculate the time in England. I’m not feeling the slightest bit tired and, despite the distraction of Marian, my mind is still churning away at the problem in hand. ‘It’s a woman,’ I say to her. ‘It’s a woman on my mind.’
‘But not your girlfriend?’
I lower my voice. ‘No, not my girlfriend.’
‘Is this a woman you’re currently seeing?’
Instinctively I look up the plane towards Helen’s seat. ‘No . . . but it’s complicated. I used to be married to her. It was the longest relationship I’ve ever had. But it didn’t work out.’
‘So why is she on your mind now?’
‘If I told you she was getting married again tomorrow you’d think that that was the reason, wouldn’t you? But you’d be wrong, because a couple of months ago if I’d found out she was getting married it wouldn’t have bothered me in the slightest. Not for a second.’