Jude’s father, Sir Ralph Russell, a booming “don’t worry, everyone, I’m a fantastically rich and successful businessman,” was shaking Sharon’s hand in the line.
“Ah, Sarah,” he roared. “Feeling better?”
“Sharon,” corrected Jude, radiantly.
“Oh yes, thank you,” said Shaz, a hand delicately fluttering to her throat. “It was just the heat . . .”
Nearly spurted out laughing considering it was so fridgelike that everyone was wearing thermal underwear.
“Are you sure it wasn’t the tightness of your stays against the Chardonnay, Shaz?” said Mark, at which she stuck a finger up at him, laughing.
Jude’s mother smiled icily. She was stick-thin in some sort of encrusted Escada nightmare with unexplained fins sticking out around the hips, presumably to make it look as if she had some. (Oh joyous deception to be in need of !)
“Giles, don’t put your wallet in your trouser pocket, darling, it makes your thighs look big,” snapped Rebecca.
“Now you’re being co-dependent, darling,” said Giles, putting his hand towards her waist.
“I’m not!” said Rebecca, brushing his hand away crossly, then putting back the smile. “Mark!” she cried. She looked at him as if she thought the crowd had parted, time had stopped still and the Glenn Miller Band was going to strike up with “It Had to Be You.”
“Oh hi,” said Mark, casually. “Giles, old boy! Never thought I’d see you in a waistcoat!”
“Hello, Bridget,” said Giles, giving me a smacking kiss. “Lovely dress.”
“Apart from the hole,” said Rebecca.
I looked away in exasperation and spotted Magda at the edge of the room looking agonized, obsessively pushing a nonexistent strand of hair from her face.
“Oh that’s part of the design,” Mark was saying, smiling proudly. “It’s a Yurdish fertility symbol.”
“Excuse me,” I said. Then reached up and whispered in Mark’s ear, “There’s something wrong with Magda.”
Found Magda so upset she could hardly speak. “Stop it, darling, stop it,” she was saying vaguely as Constance tried messily to push a chocolate lolly into the pocket of her pistachio suit.
“What’s wrong?”
“That . . . that . . . witch who had the affair with Jeremy last year. She’s here! If he so much as dares fucking speak to her . . .”
“Hey, Constance? Did you enjoy the wedding?” It was Mark, holding out a glass of champagne for Magda.
“What?” said Constance, looking up at Mark with round eyes.
“The wedding? In the church?”
“The parpy?”
“Yes,” he said laughing, “the party in the church.”
“Well, Mummy took me out,” she said, looking at him as if he were an imbecile.
“Fucking bitch!” said Magda.
“It was supposed to be a parpy,” Constance said darkly.
“Can you take her away?” I whispered to Mark.
“Come on, Constance, let’s go find the football.”
To my surprise, Constance took his hand and happily pottered off with him.
“Fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill ’er, I’m gonna . . .”
I followed Magda’s gaze to where a young girl, dressed in pink, was in animated conversation with Jude. It was the same girl I’d seen Jeremy with last year in a restaurant in Portobello and again outside The Ivy one night, getting into a taxi.
“What’s Jude doing inviting her?” said Magda, furiously.
“Well, how would Jude know it was her?” I said, watching them. “Maybe she works with her or something.”
“Weddings! Keep you only to her! Oh God, Bridge.” Magda started crying and trying to fumble for a tissue. “I’m sorry.”
Saw Shaz spot the crisis and start hurrying towards us.
“Come on, girls, come on!” Jude, oblivious, surrounded by enraptured friends of her parents, was about to chuck the bouquet. She started ploughing her way loudly towards us, followed by the entourage. “Here we go. Ready now, Bridget.”
As if in slow motion, I saw the bouquet fly through the air towards me, half caught it, took one look at Magda’s tear-stained face and chucked it at Shazzer, who dropped it on the floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” A ludicrous be-knickerbockered butler was banging a cherub-shaped hammer on a bronze flower-decked lectern. “Will you please be silent and upstanding as the wedding party makes its way to the top table.”
Fuck! Top table! Where was my bouquet? I bent down, picked up Jude’s from Shazzer’s feet and, with a gay fixed grin, held it up in front of the hole in my dress.
“It was when we moved to Great Missenden that Judith’s outstanding gifts in the freestyle and butterfly strokes . . .”
By five o’clock Sir Ralph had already been talking for twenty-five minutes.
“. . . Became strongly apparent not only to us, her admittedly biased”—he looked up to elicit a dutiful faint ripple of pretend laughter—“parents, but to the entire South Buckinghamshire region. It was a year in which Judith not only attained first place for the butterfly and freestyle sections in three consecutive tournaments in the South Buckinghamshire Under-Twelves Dolphin League but obtained her Gold Personal Survival Medal just three weeks before her first-year exams! . . .”
“What’s going on with you and Simon?” I hissed to Shaz.
“Nothing,” she hissed back, staring straight ahead at the audience.
“. . . In that same very busy year Judith obtained a distinction in her Grade II Associated Board Examinations on the clarinet—an early indication of the rounded ‘Famma Universale’ she was to become . . .”
“But he must have been watching you in church otherwise he wouldn’t have rushed up in time to catch you.”
“I know, but I was sick in his hand in the vestry.”
“. . . Keen and accomplished swimmer, deputy head girl—and frankly this, as the headmistress privately admitted to me, was an error of judgment since Karen Jenkins’s performance as head girl was . . . well. This is a day for celebration, not for regret, and I know Karen’s, er, father is with us today . . .”
Caught Mark’s eye and thought was going to explode. Jude was a model of detachment, beaming at everyone, stroking Vile Richard’s knee and giving him little kisses for all the world as if the cauchemarish cacophony were not happening and she had not, on so many occasions, slumped drunkenly on my floor incanting “Commitment-phobic bastard. Vile by name, and Vile by nature, ’ere, ’ave we run out of wine?”
“. . . Second lead clarinetist in the school orchestra, keen trapezer, Judith was and is a prize beyond rubies . . .”
Could see where all this was leading. Unfortunately it took a further thirty-five-minute trawl through Jude’s year off, Cambridge triumph, and meteoric rise through the corridors of the financial world to get there.
“. . . And finally, it only remains for me to hope that, er . . .”
Everyone held their breath as Sir Ralph looked down at his notes for really beyond all sense, beyond all reason, beyond all decorum and good English manners, too long.
“Richard!” he said finally, “is suitably grateful for this priceless gift, this jewel, which has today been so graciously bestowed upon him.”
Richard, rather wittily, rolled his eyes, and the room broke into relieved applause. Sir Ralph seemed inclined to continue with another forty pages, but mercifully gave up when the applause didn’t.
Vile Richard then gave a short and rather endearing speech, and read out a selection of telegrams, which were all as dull as bricks apart from one from Tom in San Francisco, which unfortunately read: “CONGRATULATIONS: MAY IT BE THE FIRST OF MANY.”
Then Jude got to her feet. She said a few very nice words of thanks and then—hurrah!—started reading out the bit that me and Shaz had done with her last night. This is what she said. As follows. Hurrah.
“Today I bade farewell to being a Singleton. But although I am now a Married
I promise not to be a Smug one. I promise never to torment any Singletons in the world by asking them why they’re still not married, or ever say ‘How’s your love life?’ Instead, I will always respect that that is as much their private business as whether I am still having sex with my husband.”
“I promise she will still be having sex with her husband,” said Vile Richard and everyone laughed.
“I promise never to suggest that Singletondom is a mistake, or that because someone is a Singleton there is anything wrong with them. For, as we all know, Singletondom is a normal state in the modern world, all of us are single at different times in our lives and the state is every bit as worthy of respect as Holy Wedlock.”
There was a ripple of appreciation. (At least I think that’s what it was.)
“I promise also to keep in constant contact with my best friends, Bridget and Sharon, who are living proof that the Urban Singleton Family is just as strong and supportive, just as there for you, as anyone’s blood family.”
I grinned sheepishly as Shazzer dug her toe into mine under the table. Jude looked round at us and raised her glass.
“And now I’d like to raise a toast to Bridget and Shazzer: the best friends a girl could have in the whole world.”
(I wrote that bit.)
“Ladies and gentlemen—the bridesmaids.”
There was a huge roar of applause. Love Jude, love Shaz, I thought as everyone rose to their feet.
“The bridesmaids,” said everyone. Was marvelous having all the attention. Saw Simon beaming at Shaz and looked across at Mark to see him beaming at me too.
Was all a bit hazy after that, but remember seeing Magda and Jeremy laughing together in a corner and catching her afterwards.
“What’s going on?”
Turned out the trollop works in Jude’s company. Jude told Magda all she knew was that the girl had had this distraught affair with a man who was still in love with his wife. She nearly died when Magda told her it was Jeremy, but all agreed we should not be horrible to the girl because it was really Jeremy who had been the fuckwit.
“Bloody old bugger. Anyway, he’s learned his lesson now. Nobody’s perfect and I love the old fart really.”
“Well, look at Jackie Onassis,” I said encouragingly.
“Well, exactly,” said Magda.
“Or Hillary Clinton.”
We both looked at each other uncertainly then started laughing.
Best bit was when I went out to the loo. Simon was snogging Shazzer with his hand up her bridesmaid dress!
There are sometimes those relationships that once you see them starting you just know, click: that’s it, it’s perfect, it’s going to work, they’ll go for the long haul—usually the sort of relationships you see starting between your immediate ex, who you were hoping to get back with, and somebody else.
I slipped back into the reception before Sharon and Simon saw me, and smiled. Good old Shaz. She deserves it, I thought, then stopped in my tracks. Rebecca was clutching Mark’s lapel, talking passionately to him. I darted behind a pillar and listened.
“Don’t you think,” she was saying. “Don’t you think it’s perfectly possible for two people who ought to be together, a perfect match in every way—in intellect, in physique, in education, in position—to be kept apart, through misunderstanding, through defensiveness, through pride, through . . .” She paused, then rasped darkly, “the interference of others and end up with the wrong partners. Don’t you?”
“Well yes,” murmured Mark. “Though I’m not quite sure about your list of . . .”
“Do you? Do you?” She sounded drunk.
“It so nearly happened with Bridget and me.”
“I know! I know. She’s wrong for you, darling, as Giles is for me. . . . Oh, Mark. I only went to Giles to make you realize what you feel for me. Perhaps it was wrong but . . . they’re not our equals!”
“Um . . .” said Mark.
“I know, I know. I can sense how trapped you feel. But it’s your life! You can’t live it with someone who thinks Rimbaud was played by Sylvester Stallone, you need stimulus, you need—”
“Rebecca,” said Mark quietly, “I need Bridget.”
At this, Rebecca let out a horrifying noise, which was something between a pissed wail and an angry bellow.
Gently determined not to feel any shallow sense of triumph, nor gloating, unspiritual glee that the two-faced, stick-insect-legged snooty bitch from Bogoffland had got her comeuppance, I glided away, beaming smugly all over my face.
Ended up leaning against a pillar by the dance floor, watching Magda and Jeremy locked in an embrace, bodies moving together in a ten-year-old practiced dance, Magda’s head on Jeremy’s shoulder, eyes closed, peaceful, Jeremy’s hand roaming idly over her bottom. He whispered something to her and she laughed without opening her eyes.
Felt a hand slip round my waist. It was Mark, looking at Magda and Jeremy too. “Want to dance?” he said.
* * *
15
Excess Christmas Spirit
MONDAY 15 DECEMBER
129 lbs. (seems, alas to be true that weight finds own level), cards sent 0, presents purchased 0, improvement in hole in wall since originally made: single holly sprig.
6:30 p.m. Everything is lovely. Usually, week before Christmas, am hung over and hysterical, furious with self for not escaping to tiny woodman’s cottage deep in forest to sit quietly by fire; instead of waking up in huge, throbbing, mountingly hysterical city with population gnawing off entire fists at thought of work/cards/present deadlines, getting trussed up like chickens in order to sit in grid-locked streets bellowing like bears at newly employed minicab drivers for trying to locate Soho Square using a map of central Addis Ababa, then arrive at parties to be greeted by same group of people have seen for last three nights only three times more drunk and hung over and want to shout “WILL YOU ALL JUST SOD OFF!” and go home.
That attitude is both negative and wrong. At last have found way to live peaceful, pure and good life, hardly smoking at all and only a bit pissed once at Jude’s wedding. Even drunk man at party on Friday did not really disturb equilibrium when called me and Sharon “glib media whores.”
Also got brilliant mail today, including postcard from Mum and Dad in Kenya saying Dad has been having a whale of a time on Wellington’s jet ski and did the limbo with a Masai girl on buffet night and they hoped Mark and I won’t be too lonely without them at Christmas. Then a PS from Dad saying, “We haven’t got twins (beds, not gigolos), it’s well over six foot and more than satisfactory on the bouncy front! Hakuna Matata.”
Hurrah! Everyone is happy and at peace. Tonight, for example, am going to write Christmas cards not with reluctance but with joy!—for as it says in Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk, the secret of spiritual happiness is not doing the washing up in order to get the washing up done but to do the washing up. Is exactly the same with Christmas cards.
6:40 p.m. Bit of a boring idea though, just sitting in all evening writing Christmas cards when is Christmas.
6:45 p.m. Maybe will have one of chocolate tree decorations.
6:46 p.m. Maybe—too—will just have little festive glass of wine to celebrate Christmas.
6:50 p.m. Mmm. Wine is delicious. Maybe will have one cigarette also. Just one.
6:51 p.m. Mmm. Cigarette is lovely. I mean self-discipline isn’t everything. Look at Pol Pot.
6:55 p.m. Will start cards in a minute when have finished wine. Maybe will just read letter again.
* * *
• CINNAMON PRODUCTIONS •
Sit Up Britain FiveAlive Blind Snog
* * *
FROM THE DESK OF GRANT D. PIKE, CHIEF EXECUTIVE
Dear Bridget,
As you may have been aware, a Staf-trak program has been under way during the last year monitoring staff performance and the flow of ideas throughout Cinnamon Productions.
You will be delighted to hear that 68 percent of the fun “And finally” end of p
rogram items on Sit Up Britain have originated with you. Congratulations!
We understand that your resignation in September arose through disagreements with Sit Up Britain’s executive producer Richard Finch. Richard, as I’m sure you have heard, was suspended from his position in October due to “personal difficulties.”
We are currently reorganizing the staffing on the show and would like to invite you to rejoin the team, either promoted to assistant producer or in consultatory capacity, providing a flow of ideas on a freelance basis. The period since your resignation would be considered as paid leave.
We believe that—injected with new positive energy and get up and go—Sit Up, as the flagship of Cinnamon Productions, has a great future in the twenty-first century. We hope that you will be a major creative force in our new revamped team. If you will telephone my secretary to arrange an appointment I will be delighted to discuss revised terms and conditions with you.
Yours,
Grant D. Pike
Chief Executive, Cinnamon Productions
You see! You see! Also Michael from the Independent says I can have another go at a celebrity interview as they got quite a few letters after the Mr. Darcy interview. As he said, anything that gets letters is good no matter how bad it is. So I can be a freelance. Hurrah! And then I never have to be late. Think will have a top up to celebrate. Ooh goody, doorbell!
Goody, goody. Is arrival of Christmas tree. You see! Really on top of Christmas. Mark is coming round tomorrow and will find Christmas Casbah!
8 p.m. As tree men staggered upstairs, grunting and gasping, feared may have underestimated largeness of tree, especially when terrifyingly filled entire doorway then burst through, branches flapping like invasion of Macduff in woods of Dunsinane. A spray of soil and two youths followed going, “It’s a fucking big ’un, where do you wan’ it?”
“By the fire,” I said. Unfortunately, however, tree would no way fit, some branches poking into flames, others forced up vertically by sofa and rest burgeoning into middle of room while top of tree bent at odd angle against ceiling.
The Edge of Reason Page 29