The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit)

by James, Margaret

  ‘Excuse me?’ said the sixty-something woman.

  ‘Yes?’ said Cat.

  ‘There is another way, you know.’ The woman offered her a brightly-coloured leaflet. ‘If you’re troubled in your mind, that devil’s brew will only make things worse. But if you let the good—’

  Cat tuned out and, when the trolley next came down the aisle, she bought another shot of devil’s brew. She stared out of the window. Somebody or something was messing with her mind. But it wasn’t Jack. It wasn’t Fanny. It wasn’t Rosie, Caspar or the boy photographer.

  Who was it then, she asked herself, as she drank her vodka and wondered why she felt so very strange.

  Sunday, 15 May

  ‘Okay, what’s the problem?’ Jules enquired.

  ‘Why does there need to be a problem?’ Adam shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I get drunk with an old mate?’

  ‘Your oldest, dearest mate,’ corrected Jules.

  ‘Yes,’ said Adam, nodding. ‘You’re absolutely right, and it’s your round. I’ll have a black and tan and a Macallan chaser, if it’s all right with you.’

  But this had been at ten o’clock, and now it was gone midnight. Adam had passed the awkward stage of being an uptight, stiff-necked Anglo-Saxon. He wanted to confide, have therapeutic, meaningful discussion, man to man. He wanted to be in a Cheyenne sweat lodge or a Californian man cave, not in a crowded London pub with an extended licence and a football-pitch-sized pull-down screen.

  Jules must have felt the same.

  Or, at any rate, he put his arm round Adam’s shoulders and gave him a big hug. ‘What’s bothering you?’ he asked, as he picked up his own Macallan chaser from yet another round. ‘It’s not that bird again?’

  ‘It isn’t Maddy, if that’s who you mean.’

  ‘You’ve got yourself a different bird?’ Jules grinned. ‘Well, nice work, my friend! What’s this one like?’

  ‘It’s not a girl, exactly.’ Adam was now light-headed with fatigue and fumes of single malt. ‘It’s more about what girls can do to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jules switched his grin off and put on his family doctor face. ‘Some trouble in the trouser region, right?’

  ‘No.’ Adam thought about it for a moment, wondering if he should tell his friend about the girl from Chapman’s yard, the one who was engaged, but who had somehow got inside his head and made herself at home there?

  But in the end he found he couldn’t do it. He’d sound so pathetic, such a loser, such a fool. There’s this girl, she’s in my mind, he’d say, and Jules would laugh and say I can’t believe I’m hearing this, why isn’t she in your bed?

  ‘If it’s not a bird, and if it’s not trouser trouble, it can’t be too bad,’ said Jules. ‘Mate, I said—’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘You’re overworking, though – bombing up and down the motorways, Cornwall one day, Dorset, Middlesex and bloody Gloucestershire the next. You don’t know if you’re coming or going. You need to take time out.’

  ‘You could be right,’ admitted Adam.

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ said Jules. ‘You need to chill a bit. You need to have a little holiday.’ He looked down at his empty glass. ‘You need to buy a round, as well.’

  This is wrong, thought Cat. It’s more than wrong, it’s totally insane.

  Since meeting Adam Lawley once again so unexpectedly, she’d thought about him all the time. On the train while coming home from Dorset, while she ate a takeaway in front of the TV, while she took a shower, then dried her hair, then went to bed – he wouldn’t go away.

  She spent the whole night dreaming about Jack. But Jack was somehow all mixed up with Adam. Now the dawn was breaking, all the street lights had gone out, and she was still confused.

  Why should she obsess about this man? She hardly knew him, after all. She didn’t fancy him. She didn’t even like him.

  So why did she remember he was tall, and – if he’d been her type, which of course he wasn’t – reasonably good-looking, albeit in a gloomy sort of way?

  What did it matter if he had broad shoulders, if his waist was neat and well-defined, if he had dark, Spanish-looking eyes with long, black lashes – lashes which were wasted on a man?

  Why had she noticed that in the bright spring sunshine his poker-straight dark hair was streaked with red, as if it had been stroked by fire? What was it Fanny Gregory had said, something about red hair being delicious on the right sort of man? She could have had a point.

  Adam might be solemn, but he didn’t look mean or cruel or spiteful – just serious, in fact, and surely being serious was no crime? She was always being told that she was much too serious herself.

  As she mixed some muesli, adding seeds and raisins and banana slices – I must eat healthily, she told herself. I can’t afford to pile on pounds. I still might need to fit into a wedding gown – she was wondering if he had a girlfriend. How did solemn, serious men find girlfriends? Did they advertise on dating sites?

  If they did, how did they sell themselves?

  Almost every man you saw on dating sites made a point of saying he had a sense of humour. But Adam seemed to have no sense of humour. Perhaps he said as much, and added that he didn’t want a sense of humour in his girlfriends either, and serious women only need apply?

  Oh, shut up, you idiot, she thought.

  She was broken-hearted. Surely it had to be obscene, to take an interest in another man while she was broken-hearted? She must forget him and she had to do it now. She had to concentrate on finding Jack and getting him to talk about their future as a couple – that’s if they had a future.

  This Adam Lawley, he was just a sudden crush, a wild infatuation. It often happened, she was sure, especially when a girl had been just been dumped. She’d read about it in a magazine, about the need within us all to fill up psychic voids.

  She must talk to somebody.

  Tess would fit the bill.

  But Tess was worse than useless.

  ‘Of course he isn’t dead, you muppet,’ she retorted, when Cat rang and got her out of bed, wondering aloud if Jack might be in serious trouble, adding what if he hadn’t rung because he’d had a breakdown or a psychological collapse? If he’d been in an accident and was lying unconscious somewhere in intensive care, unclaimed, unknown, unloved, like in that storyline in Holby City or was it in ER?

  Or if he might be dead?

  ‘Well, he could be,’ Cat said, stung.

  ‘We’d have heard,’ said Tess. ‘It would have been the headlines on the BBC and on Sky News – unknown alternative comedian kicks the bucket. Only the good die young, in any case. So Jack the lad will live to be a hundred.’

  ‘But listen, Tess! What if—’

  ‘Cat, it’s half past six on Sunday morning! Please can we do this some other time?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Why don’t you buy a clock?’

  ‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay, apology accepted, now I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Why, have you got company?’

  ‘Yeah, I might have, Mrs Nosy Parker.’

  ‘Who is it, someone nice?’

  ‘I haven’t quite decided yet,’ said Tess. ‘By the way, what happened when you went to Dorset? I assume that’s where you must have gone? I tried to call you but your phone was off. So did you see the place?’

  ‘Yes, and it was fabulous! The hotel was gorgeous. The gardens were amazing. There was this fantastic marble fountain. It needs a lot of work done on it, but it could be wonderful. Then there’s going to be this awesome health club with saunas, tanning salons, plunge pools – Tess, I’ve got so much to tell you! I—’

  ‘Tell me tomorrow, eh? At this very moment, I have a pot to watch, a fish to fry.’

 
‘A pig who needs a poke?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tess, then giggled and hung up.

  Monday, 16 May

  Tess was very keen to hear about the trip to Dorset, which Cat described in detail.

  Well, maybe not in detail.

  Okay, leaving out a lot of things, including everything to do with meeting Adam Lawley.

  When Cat had finally run out of steam and Tess had had enough of wedding stuff – or temporarily, at any rate – she nodded at Cat’s mobile, which was lying on her desk. ‘If you’re still hot and bothered about Whatsisface, why don’t you try ringing him?’ she asked. ‘You never know your luck. He might be taking calls today.’

  ‘What?’ said Cat, who couldn’t believe Tess was suggesting this, that Tess had read her mind.

  ‘I said, why don’t you phone him?’

  ‘But I hardly know him!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Oh – you mean phone Jack.’

  ‘Who else would I mean, you numpty?’

  ‘No one else, of course. I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’ Snap out of this, Cat told herself. You’re going round the twist. You need some psychiatric help. ‘I – um – I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’ll call him, then.’

  ‘You dare!’

  ‘Okay, okay, calm down.’ Tess glanced at the phone again, her fingers twitching dangerously, or so it seemed to Cat. ‘Do you, by the remotest chance, happen to have a number for his mother? Or for a relation? Does he have relations?’

  ‘He told me he was brought up in an orphanage in Surrey. He never knew his parents because he was abandoned as a baby in a carrier bag outside a hospital near Waterloo.’

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t in a handbag in the cloakroom at Victoria?’

  ‘What?’ Cat frowned at Tess. ‘Oh, don’t be so mean,’ she snapped. ‘I think it explains a lot about him – his need for unconditional affection, his need to test his friends—’

  ‘His need to be a big fat liar, his need to be a git.’

  ‘Jack’s not a git, he’s insecure.’

  ‘You’re in denial. So maybe he was left outside a hospital, and maybe it was in a grocery bag. Or maybe he’s not human? Maybe he was beamed from outer space? Maybe he’s an alien, and maybe he’s gone home to Planet Weird? Why haven’t we considered that?’

  ‘Why don’t we change the subject?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’ Tess grinned. ‘We had a great time at the Abba tribute gig. You really should have come. It was a groovy scene, as I believe our mothers used to say. I met a man.’

  ‘You always do,’ said Cat. ‘What’s this one like?’

  ‘Nice smile, cute arse, but brain dead. Good sex, no conversation, and I won’t be seeing him again. A shame, because he’s into stock car racing and I’d quite like to have a go at that. So come on, tell me more about what happened down in Dorset.’

  ‘Like I said, the place is beautiful, the gardens are spectacular, and later on today I’m going to ring the woman at Supadoop Promotions and tell her that I won’t be getting married after all.’

  ‘You don’t mean it, Cat.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Tess. ‘Look, I tell you what – why don’t you give that tosser two or three more days? I’d put serious money on him turning up again.’

  ‘But do I really want to marry a man who comes and goes to suit himself?’

  ‘You want a wedding at the Melbury Court Hotel, especially if that woman’s going to get you in Hello.’

  ‘Tess, I wish to God you’d make your mind up! First you’re telling me to find myself another man. Then you and Bex say I should call it off. But now you reckon Jack will soon turn up.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll spell it out. Bex and I are dying to be your bridesmaids. We want to be part of your luxurious dream wedding at the Melbury Court Hotel. But sadly we’re not very keen on Jack.’

  ‘So you still think I should find myself another man?’

  ‘Yeah, that would be good. But in the meantime, maybe keep your options open and don’t close any doors?’

  Cat was working on a database when Tess came up and dumped the office phone down on her desk. ‘It’s for you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Cat, assuming it was Fanny – had she given Fanny the number of the office? ‘Wh-who did you say—’

  ‘I didn’t, but it’s a guy called Adam something, whoever he might be? He says he bought some roof tiles here a week or two ago, and you did the paperwork for him.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cat and breathed again, relieved it wasn’t Fanny, but also hoping there weren’t any problems with the tiles, that they weren’t made of concrete after all. She was aware that she was colouring up. ‘He’s—’

  ‘He’s waiting, dummy.’

  So Cat picked up the phone. She knew her face was pink, that Tess would notice, and she told herself to get a grip. ‘Good morning, Mr Lawley,’ she began. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I noticed some Elizabethan chimneys in a corner of your yard,’ said Adam Lawley. He clearly didn’t believe in bothering with superfluous stuff like hi-Miss-Aston-how-are-you, or what-a-strange-coincidence-meeting-you-in-Dorset. ‘I don’t know if they’re genuine? I didn’t get a proper look at them. They might be garden ornaments from Homebase or from B&Q.’

  ‘They’re genuine Tudor terracotta, Mr Lawley,’ Cat replied, as she clicked through the database. ‘Barry got them from a place in Lewes. They’re signed with somebody’s initials, it looks like ATD, and they’re dated 1565. Do you want to come and see them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adam Lawley. ‘May I come today?’

  ‘Of course you may,’ said Cat. ‘The yard is open until three.’

  ‘I’m in Gloucestershire right now and I won’t be back in London until after four.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, Mr Lawley. I’m here until half five. So just ring the bell, then I can come and let you in.’

  ‘Ooh, Mr Lawley,’ simpered Tess, as Cat put down the phone. ‘Do you want to come and see my genuine Tudor chimneys, and would you like an after-hours appointment? What’s with all the smarm and charm, then – are you trying to pull?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘What’s he like, this Adam Lawley geezer, is he fit?’

  ‘I really couldn’t tell you. I’ve only met him once, and that was in the pouring rain.’

  ‘Then why’ve you gone all red?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, you have – you’re blushing like a poppy. Go and look in a mirror, and you’ll see.’

  ‘Tess, I’m not remotely interested in Adam Lawley. When he comes, or if he comes, why don’t you take him round the yard yourself? I’ll get on with this database. Barry’s messed it up. He’s been putting stuff in the wrong columns and it will take a while to sort it out.’

  ‘Sorry, but tempting though you make it sound, I can’t do anything with Mr Lawley.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Cat.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘I’ve only just remembered.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever put things in the diary?’

  ‘I’m a dealer, buyer and negotiator, not an office manager. I don’t write in the diary, that’s what you’re supposed to do. I’m almost sure I told you, anyway.’

  Tess stood up and shrugged into her coat. ‘I’ll be out all day, in fact,’ she added. ‘I have an appointment with a lady who’s demolishing an outhouse. She wants to know how much we’ll give her for a ton of blue Victorian slates. She asked if we’d consider taking them in part exchange for a new bathroom suite – like as if we’re Homebase? I explained this is a salvage yard.’

  ‘What about this afternoon?’

 
; ‘I’m calling on a man in Hillingdon. He’s got some genuine Arts and Crafts stained glass. Or so he says. All studio of Rennie Mackintosh, all signed and dated. I’ll believe it when I see it. So you’ll have to deal with Mr Lawley all by your little self.’

  ‘I dare say I can manage.’

  ‘You’ll have to, won’t you, love?’ said Tess. ‘Barry’s gone to Chesterfield to fetch those Georgian spindles and a big Victorian cast iron fireplace I don’t think he’ll ever sell. It’s all in the diary, if you want to have a look. He won’t be back until tonight.’

  ‘I’ll lock up, don’t worry.’

  ‘I wasn’t worrying, just telling you.’ Tess wound her fake Armani scarf around her neck. ‘But let me give you some advice?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They’re all hunters, men. They know by instinct when a woman’s wounded. They know when they’ll be able to make an easy kill. So you watch yourself with Mr Adam Lawley, right?’

  I’m only going to sell him chimneys, Cat thought crossly, as she heard Tess start the flatbed truck belonging to the yard and drive away. I’m not going to offer him my body.

  Now you come to mention it, that might be a plan, observed a little voice inside her head. You’d like to get his shirt off, wouldn’t you?

  Oh, don’t be ridiculous, she muttered to herself.

  She went into the cloakroom and splashed lots of cold water on her face. ‘I am so not interested in Mr Adam Lawley,’ she told her reflection in the glass.

  ‘Ha, we’ll wait and see,’ the glass replied.

  Obviously, Adam had thought while he was shaving earlier that morning, it really didn’t matter if he was attracted to a girl who was engaged to someone else.

  She was out of reach, he told himself and his reflection. So talking to this girl would be like talking to his granny, not that Cat looked anything like his granny, and not that he was actually attracted.

  Or not very seriously attracted, anyway.

  After all, his heart was broken, wasn’t it? So how could he feel anything at all?