by Jane Green
Her plan is this: I phone Andrew and tell him I need to talk, the theory being that he already feels so guilty that he won’t question what about, he’ll assume it’s about Adam.
I tell him that I want to meet somewhere where we don’t know anyone, somewhere where there’s no chance of bumping into anyone we know.
We’ll both um and ah for a while and then I’ll say, what about X hotel, they have a bar there and it’s so out of the way we would never be spotted.
I will reassure him that I have no ulterior motive, that this is purely a need to talk, and the secrecy is just in case anyone sees us and gets the wrong idea, someone who might tell Adam.
He will come to the bar, and it will be awkward in the beginning. I will tell him that I am worried about Adam. That there is no future between Adam and me. That I am far happier being single.
I will perhaps remind him of the occasions we have met, of the conversations we have had, and perhaps, if I am very lucky, he will draw out a cigar from his top pocket.
We will have a few drinks, and he will light his cigar. I will take the cigar and tell him I have forgotten how to smoke it. I will ask him to teach me again. He may or may not demonstrate once more by sucking my fingers, but this is not important, for by this time our tongues will be loosened by alcohol and I will have no qualms in taking his finger in my mouth and asking him, “How does this feel? Is this right?”
He will be sitting there overtaken with lust. He will cross his legs to hide an almighty erection, and he will feel as guilty as hell.
But. He also fancies me, and men, as we know, perhaps with a few exceptions, are ruled by their pricks, so it will only take a little gentle encouragement to whisk him up the stairs to the room I will have booked earlier.
He may show a few reservations, but in the elevator, traveling up to the room, I will unbutton my shirt and I will be wearing nothing underneath. That will put paid to his reservations.
And once in the room with the door safely locked we will tear each other’s clothes off, we will not think of the consequences.
There. She has got it. The perfect seduction. He brings the animal lust, I bring the condoms.
Was ever a seduction as methodical as this?
21
You’d never believe Emma’s wedding is nine months away and of course I’ll go and look at wedding dresses with her. Just look though, I won’t be trying any on. Not now.
Do I still think of getting married? Sure, of course I do, but not with quite the same desperation as I used to. I probably could have married Adam, sorry, could marry Adam, but I’m not one of those women who is so desperate they’ll settle for second best.
I suppose on the odd occasion I thought about it when I was with Adam. Not so much what married life would be like as the big day itself. To be completely frank I’ve spent years dreaming of my wedding day. I’ve got it all planned, except every few months, every few men, I change the dress a bit, the guests at the reception, the going away outfit.
So what’s the latest look? It’s not something I’ve thought of for a few weeks, but the latest design came to me a few months ago.
And no, I won’t be getting married in a meringue, despite what you may think. My wedding dress will be understated, stunning in its simplicity.
My current favorite is white chiffon. An empire line, beaded bodice with layers and layers of floaty ivory chiffon. A headdress of flowers, or maybe not, maybe an ivory silk headband. Then again it could be a tiara. Nah, too over the top, I’ll stick with the flowers.
My flowers will be lilies, sprays of lilies cascading down, and my bridesmaids will be . . . well, I haven’t really planned it but the last time the girls and I discussed our wedding days Emma said if we put her in anything frilled, pastel-colored or made of shot silk, she’d never forgive us.
And Andy agreed, so the four of us made a pact. Whoever is the first to get married has to dress the bridesmaids in Armani. And if they can’t afford Armani then it has to be Armaniesque.
Even Mel agreed, and she wouldn’t know an Armaniesque outfit if she fell over it. But she knew we knew what we were talking about so she agreed anyway.
My designer of choice for my wedding dress would be Catherine Walker, but Emma’s gotten there first, except she insists on having a look around, just to get a few ideas.
So here we are, three out of four on a Saturday morning. Emma did ask Mel, but she couldn’t make it and I’m pretty damned relieved. I still call her, we still chat, it’s still fine, but there’s something about our conversations together now that makes me think there’s still a problem.
I don’t think Mel can forgive me. Not just at the moment, and I understand that, I understand it and I accept it because I know our friendship is ultimately strong enough to withstand this.
But it might not be if she knew I was planning to seduce Andrew. So in some ways it’s easier that she’s not here today, easier because I won’t have to lie to her, or withhold the truth.
So we bundle into Emma’s BMW and zoom off to a bridal shop, a small designer boutique which Emma won’t be using because the designer isn’t nearly well known enough, but she’s happy to plagiarize. Aren’t we all?
But it is exclusive, you can always tell it’s exclusive—or at least it thinks it’s exclusive—when you can’t go into a shop until you ring a doorbell and a salesperson answers. And here you even have to make a bloody appointment.
So we stand outside and a worried-looking woman comes to the door and opens it just a fraction. “Yes?” she says uncertainly, doubtless wondering what four women are doing on her doorstep, they can’t all be getting married . . . surely.
Chance would be a fine thing.
“I’m Emma Morris, I’ve got an appointment?” Why do we always turn this into a question. I do it myself, I go to the hairdresser’s and say, “I’m seeing Keith?” as if there’s any doubt.
And the other habit I still have, which I hate, is that I’m always apologizing. I’ll be standing in the supermarket and someone will step on my foot. “Sorry,” I say. Or someone’s blocking my way walking down the street, and sure enough, that bloody word comes out again.
Am I really so pathetic? Please tell me I’m not the only one who does this.
So Emma poses the question, the woman checks her appointment book, and, as if by magic, she opens the door and lets us all in.
“My my,” she says, looking at all of us. “How many here are brides to be?”
I smile back. “Emma’s the only one getting married. The rest of us are aspiring.”
“Gosh, well. I’m sure it will be your turn next,” she looks vaguely at each of us and Andy looks at me and raises her eyes to heaven.
The door closes behind us and suddenly I feel quite awestruck. It’s like being in an Aladdin’s cave of romance, walls and walls of shiny white silk, tiny little pearl beads, layers and layers of tulle.
And in a glass cabinet in the center are veils, short veils, long veils, veils on combs. Headdresses, crystal tiaras (Andy nudges me and gestures toward the tiaras whispering, “Mmm, smart.”), and spun silk hairbands.
“Oh God,” says Andy, heading straight for a dress that looks like once upon a time it might have been worn by Scarlett O’Hara, “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
I’ve never been in a bridal shop before, and I can’t believe the urge to try everything on. No, I tell myself, I can’t do this. What, after all, would be the point?
So I sit on the sofa while Emma collects a handful of dresses and whisks them into the dressing room. Andy sits next to me, but after a few minutes she stands up with a smile. “What the hell,” she grins, lifting the Scarlett O’Hara dress off the hanger. “Doesn’t look as if I’ll even be getting married so I may as well know what it feels like now. Are you coming?”
“What the hell,” I grin back, walking over to a dress that caught my eye, a chiffon, empire-line dress that’s remarkably similar to the one I’d created in my imagination,
the only addition being tiny pink roses all over the bodice.
Andy and I push back the curtain to the dressing room and Emma, standing there in a perfectly matching set of what looks like cream silk underwear, starts to laugh.
“I knew it,” she says. “I knew the two of you wouldn’t be able to resist it!”
“Just don’t comment on my underwear,” says Andy. “It’s the old gray favorites today, and I think there may even be holes in them somewhere.”
I start to unbutton my clothes, and just as I’m about to step into my dress I turn to Andy and say, “Are you sure it’s not bad luck to try on a wedding dress if you’re not getting married?”
Andy rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “My luck couldn’t be worse, I don’t think this is going to make any difference.”
“I know what you mean,” I mutter back.
Emma is struggling with the dress, layers and layers of stiff white tulle, a proper ballerina skirt, down to the floor, with a plain satin bodice, studded with tiny seed pearls, and Andy and I help her get it over her head, lifting the layers until we find a gap for her head.
I do up the tiny row of buttons on the back and Emma turns to face us as we both gasp. She looks absolutely beautiful, like the fairy on top of the Christmas tree.
She walks into the shop and I can hear the sales assistant oohing and aahing as she walks around and admires her reflection in the mirror.
My turn, my turn. I step in the chiffon number and Andy does up the back. “Hang on,” she says, “if you’re going to do it, do it properly.” She walks back into the shop and I can hear her whispering to the saleswoman. What is she doing?
Moments later she comes back with a floor length veil, a silk headband and medium-heeled satin pumps.
“You are a size six, aren’t you?” I nod as I put the whole ensemble together, and I refuse to look at myself in the cramped space of the dressing room, this is a moment I want to savor, I want to keep in my memory forever. Just in case.
I walk into the shop and the amazing thing is my walk changes. I don’t stride as I normally do, I take slow, measured steps, steps that you would make walking down the aisle. Steps that hopefully I will make walking down the aisle.
And Emma, bless her, wipes a tear from her eye. “You look beautiful,” she whispers in amazement. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
I look in the mirror and a huge smile spreads across my face. She’s absolutely right. I do look beautiful. Even with my everyday hair and makeup, I look beautiful, wonderful, glowing, the best I’ve ever looked.
“God,” I whisper, “I never realized white was so flattering.”
I don’t want to take this dress off. Ever. I want to live in this dress for the rest of my life. Hell, I even want to sleep in this dress. I don’t even think that I recently blew the biggest chance at marriage I’d ever had, I just gaze at my reflection in awe.
Andy comes out next, in her Scarlett O’Hara dress, and Emma and I fall about laughing.
“You look incredible,” I say. “Just a bit . . .”
“Over the top,” says Emma.
“I know,” coos Andy in a deep Southern accent, twirling and looking in the mirror, “but frankly my dears, I don’t give a damn.
“Hang on a minute,” she says, “I’ve got an idea.” She pulls the saleswoman aside and whispers something to her. The woman looks doubtful, but eventually smiles and nods her agreement. “Back in a minute,” says Andy, gathering her layers and layers around her and dashing out the door with a smile on her face. She turns round just before the door closes, saying, “Don’t move a muscle, either of you.”
Emma and I swish around the shop, and then Andy runs back in, pulling something out of a white paper bag. “Tah dah,” she says, brandishing a disposable camera. “Can’t let the biggest day of your lives go unrecorded.”
She insists on first posing Emma and me at the side of the sofa, hand resting regally on the arm, and then, just in case the light isn’t good enough, taking us outside.
The saleswoman doesn’t mind, this is probably the most fun she’s ever had, and she rushes around finding veils and shoes for Andy and Emma.
Finally, when everything’s perfect, the three of us troop outside. Andy playing wedding photographer, crouching and leaping around snapping the camera, and the rest of us laughing self-consciously as she tells us where to stand. We take turns, Emma and I, in shooting pictures of Andy, who has sent the saleswoman back inside to see if she has any garters lying around.
God what a sight we make, three brides in full bridal regalia in the middle of the West End. The traffic slows down to look at us and I can see the smile on people’s faces.
“When’s the big day?” shouts a bloke in a Ford Cortina.
“There isn’t one!” Andy and I shout back in unison, watching as he tips his head back and laughs.
“Ought to be, darling, shame to let that go to waste.”
We giggle like schoolchildren, lapping up the attention, the admiring glances, the occasional comments on how beautiful we look, and then we troop back inside.
What is this aura around marriage? Why is it still, even in these days of equality, the pinnacle of a woman’s achievement? Of course I agree with you, it shouldn’t be like this, but somehow as long as you’re single, you’re not quite good enough, you haven’t quite made the grade.
You go to parties, or meet strangers and they ask you, “Are you married?” and when you shake your head they never know quite what to say.
But a girl can pretend, which is precisely what I’m doing, and as I slip out of the dress I feel an incredible disappointment, but I can’t let it show as Emma’s getting married for real and Andy, well, everything’s a big laugh to Andy.
“Well?” Andy’s dragged me to one side of the shop while Emma tries on a few more dresses.
“Well what?”
“Have you called him yet?”
I wince. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I will, OK? I just have to wait until the right time.”
“Now’s the right time,” she says, brandishing her mobile phone like some magic potion.
“Go outside and call him now. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, it’s OK.” Reluctantly I take the phone and stand outside the shop. Digging out my address book I punch his number into the phone.
“Hello?” Shit! I don’t know what to say, so I press the red end call button on the phone and hang up.
“That was quick,” says Andy as I hand her back the phone. “What did he say?”
“Hello.”
“And then what?”
“I hung up.”
“Oh Tasha,” she moans, “ring him again.”
“I can’t. I’ll do it when I get home.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I bloody promise. Shit, I just remembered. What network is your phone on?”
“Network? I don’t know. It’s a Nokia Orange.”
“Shit, shit, shit! That means that if he presses 1471 the number will come up and he may . . .” Before I even finished talking the phone started ringing.
“What should I do?” Andy’s looking panicked.
“Tell him you misdialed and you’re sorry to have troubled him.”
She does this, but even these few nondescript words are turned into seduction as Andy smiles into the phone and lowers her voice. “I’m so very sorry,” she purrs, before cutting the call and saying, “phwooargh, he has got a sexy voice, hasn’t he?”
I don’t bother saying anything. What the hell could I say? It’s just Andy being Andy.
But at home, after lots of deep breaths, I pick up the phone and with pounding heart dial his number.
“Andrew? It’s Tasha.”
“Hello.” His voice is uncertain. “How are you?”
“Fine. Well, not so fine really. A bit confused.”
“Look,” he says, “I know about Adam and I’m really sorry. I feel terrible, I don�
��t know how it happened and I tried to explain that it didn’t mean anything, but Adam wasn’t interested. I’m so sorry.” His voice tails off lamely as my heart jumps. Andrew the heartbreaker is apologizing to me! Maybe he is a nice guy. Maybe he’s not a bastard. Maybe he could be relationship material.
NO! Tasha, stop it. You don’t want a relationship with anyone, least of all him. He’s a fuck. He’s the result of your quest for passion. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I know, Andrew,” I say calmly. “It’s not your fault, but I really need to talk to someone about it.”
“You want to talk to me?” He sounds, unsurprisingly, surprised.
“It’s just that you know Adam, I need to talk to someone who knows Adam.”
“But I’m the last person you need to talk to right now.”
“No, you’re the best person I need to talk to.”
He sounds suspicious, as well he might. Jesus, why are men so stupid sometimes?
“Look, it won’t take long, but could you meet me for a coffee?”
“I suppose so.” He sounds reluctant, he sounds like a completely different Andrew from the one who wanted to make love to me, the one who held my face and kissed me passionately. But I keep going. I’ve made a deal with myself and I have to.
We arrange to meet, and I suggest the hotel, explaining that no one could spot us, that I wouldn’t want Adam to know, to jump to the wrong conclusion, and we say good-bye, as I pray that he doesn’t ring me back to cancel, he doesn’t have second thoughts.
I don’t want to tell Louise what I’m doing. Even now, even though you’re supposed to be completely honest in therapy, I don’t want her to raise an eyebrow, to question what I’m doing, to question why I’m doing it.
I don’t want her to know because perhaps, deep down, at some level, I know that sleeping with Andrew is the wrong thing to do. I know it won’t solve anything, but I also know that I’m going to do it anyway.