The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I asked what it was like working for Ryan.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah,’ he echoes, with the hint of a smile.

  ‘Well, he’s fine.’ I smile back. ‘Really.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Because some people find him a little difficult.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he continues, ‘but let me tell you this. Ryan is a good guy. The best. Deep down, he’s the most decent, hard-working, loyal person you could ever hope to meet. And he loves his kids. But, recently . . . well, since Amy’s death, he hasn’t been himself.’

  I feel a stab of guilt. ‘It must have been terrible for him.’

  ‘They were great together. To be honest with you, I don’t think he’s ever gotten over her death. He’s always been a strong guy, but it seemed to make him go into meltdown. Privately, I mean. Outwardly, he’s become a real tough nut to crack.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I find myself saying.

  ‘But don’t let his manner fool you,’ Gerald continues. ‘He just needs time. And a little support. That’s why someone like you is so important.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Sure you,’ he says. ‘How long have you worked for him now?’

  ‘Oh, only a couple of months.’

  ‘Well,’ says Gerald, ‘that’s a record. From what I hear, Ryan’s nannies don’t usually last longer than a week. So, ten out of ten to you too.’

  I smile, but I can’t help feeling about as comfortable with this as being told I have a key role to play in the negotiation of the next major international treaty on human rights. I’m here for the kids, not for Ryan. And I’m here for myself. If he needs somebody to get him back on track, I’m the last person qualified to do it.

  I’m just wondering whether or not to break this to Gerald when the band launches into song, indicating it’s time for people to start letting their hair down.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to dance, would you?’ he asks.

  I break into a sweat. I might be well on the way to being slightly, and happily, pissed, but there’s no way I’m getting on the dance floor looking like this. ‘Er, I’d love to but I’m going to nip to the loo first. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No problem.’ He pats my hand. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  I’m on my way to the ladies’ when someone leaps out in front of me. ‘Well, hi, little English girl!’

  It’s one of the men from the group Ryan introduced me to at the start of the evening, a slightly rotund bloke in his early thirties with dark, unruly curls that remind me of my aunty Carol’s old Westmorland terrier. Now, let me think, was it Jim Bishop or Victor Kaplovski?

  ‘Er, hi. It’s Jim, isn’t it?’ I say, confident I’ve plumped for the right name.

  ‘Jack. But I’ll forgive you.’

  To my horror, he slides his arm round my waist with such a degree of familiarity you’d think we were on our fifth date. ‘If you’ll come and dance with me, that is,’ he adds.

  ‘Oh, I don’t dance,’ I tell him, wriggling out of his grip. ‘I’ve got two left feet. There are penguins who can salsa more impressively than I can.’

  ‘Well, that’s okay,’ says Jack, attempting to put his arm back round my waist. ‘Because I’m quite happy to stay here and get to know you better. So, you single?’

  ‘Er . . . um . . . ah . . .’ I’m buying time to think of an intelligent way to avoid the question. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, baby. I ain’t ready for commitment. My middle name is Fun. I’ll have to assume from your answer that the same goes for you, too?’

  ‘Well, that’s a big assumption.’ I frown.

  ‘I’m a big guy,’ he replies.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I mumble, crossing my arms but trying to keep smiling while I plot my escape.

  ‘No matter anyway,’ he continues, ‘because I think you and I are made for each other.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I do,’ I splutter.

  ‘Jeez, you English girls can flirt! The dress is greeeat!’ He’s staring down my top with the sort of expression Scooby Doo wears when he’s about to devour a six-foot-high sandwich. I cross my arms tighter. ‘I just love voluptuous girls. There ain’t nothing worse than a girl who don’t like her food.’

  ‘Thank you. You really know how to sweep someone off their feet,’ I reply, ‘but I must get going now. Sorry. I’m off to the loo.’

  ‘The loo?’ he exclaims, as if I’ve just come out with the funniest line since John Cleese and the Germans. ‘The loo! What a blast! I’ll wait right here for you.’

  I dart towards the toilet. When I get there I decide to delay returning to the table for as long as possible in case I get groped again en route by Jack Whatsisname. I’m touching up my makeup at the mirror when Matilda Levin joins me.

  ‘So, what’s it like working with the Blue-eyed Boy?’ She smiles.

  ‘You’re the second person tonight who’s asked me that,’ I tell her.

  She smirks. ‘People will be wondering which camp you fall into – the he’s-a-complete-bastard-and-has-no-redeeming-features camp or the he’s-a-complete-bastard-and-still-manages-to-be-totally-gorgeous camp.’

  I try not to look shocked.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, honey.’ Matilda laughs. ‘Personally, I think you must be a saint to live with him.’

  ‘Well, he’s not that bad,’ I say, unwilling to give the impression that I can’t stand up to him. ‘I mean, he has his moments but . . . his kids are great. It’s only them I really deal with.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says. ‘Well, just so’s you know, I think Ryan likes you. I can tell from the way he was talking about you earlier.’

  ‘He was talking about me?’ I ask, alarmed.

  ‘Sure. But he doesn’t give much away. Anyway, just take a piece of advice from me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If you do get it together, keep your head screwed on. Ryan is a real ladies’ man, these days, but as far as he’s concerned, women are objects of pleasure to be used and discarded. It’s great while it lasts – but Ryan Miller is trouble with a capital T. Believe me.’

  ‘Oh, really, there’s nothing going on between us – and nothing ever will be going on between Ryan and me and – well, honestly, the very idea is just ridicu—’

  ‘Stop!’ Matilda grins. ‘The lady protests too much! All I’m saying is, watch yourself. And I’m only saying it because I’ve been there. Ryan and I were an item once.’

  ‘Right,’ I mutter. But I can’t stop myself asking the next question: ‘So, which camp do you fall into?’

  ‘Honey,’ she shrugs, ‘I change my mind every day.’

  Chapter 38

  Jack the Westmorland terrier lookalike is still hovering when I leave the ladies’. The second he sees me he pounces, as if I’m a walking tin of Pedigree Chum. ‘So, how about that dance? Come on, I can tell you can’t resist me.’ He’s trying to be clever in a cute, tongue-in-cheek kind of way.

  It isn’t working. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Call it animal magnetism.’ He winks, prompting another visual image of Auntie Carol’s dog. ‘Come on, that’s what you were thinking too, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I mutter. ‘Anyway, must run.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ He grabs my elbow. I wriggle my arm in an attempt to shake him off, and at that moment Ryan appears.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks. He doesn’t seem impressed. ‘You okay, Zoe?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really,’ I insist, sounding as tough and post-feminist as I possibly can.

  ‘She’s fine,’ echoes Jack.

  ‘Good,’ says Ryan. ‘Although I’ll bet she’d be even more fine if you stayed away from her for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘What?’ exclaims Jack. ‘We were just talking, for Chrissake, Miller. What the fuck is wrong with that?’

  There is barely a flicker on Ryan’s face as he steps forward. ‘When a
lady makes her wishes clear,’ he whispers menacingly, ‘my advice to you is that you respect them.’

  ‘What the—’

  ‘Just stay away. That’s all.’

  As Ryan ushers me back to our table, I glare at him. ‘Thank you for that. But, just for the record, I’m not some sort of wimp.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘Oh, so you were happy having Jack Bishop salivating into your breasts, were you?’

  My cheeks redden so rapidly I must look as if someone’s lit a bonfire inside my head. I pretend it isn’t happening. ‘Well, no, but that isn’t the point. In fact—’

  ‘So what’s wrong with me rescuing you?’ he interrupts.

  ‘I didn’t need rescuing,’ I point out.

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  I sit down sulkily and try to look as if I’m not responding with a clever remark because I’m taking the moral high ground rather than because I can’t think of one.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay?’ He sighs. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t handle yourself. But he’s an asshole. Now . . . drink?’

  He fills my glass with wine and I try to stop myself smiling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.

  ‘You’re not an easy person to live with, Ryan,’ I tell him. ‘And you’ve done plenty of insensitive, annoying, irritating things since I got here. Believe me. That wasn’t the worst of them.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ he asks, defensively.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ I continue, ‘that was the first time I’ve ever heard you say sorry.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I like it.’ I smirk.

  He puts down the wine bottle and is about to protest again when I flash him a glance.

  ‘Okay. I’ll shut up, shall I?’ he says.

  Chapter 39

  ‘So, is this evening proving to be as bad as you thought?’ asks Ryan. He’s smiling but I get the impression that for once he cares how I respond.

  ‘I never said it was going to be bad,’ I reply.

  ‘You didn’t need to,’ he says. ‘Your reaction this afternoon was enough to give a guy a complex.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m in any danger of that,’ I can’t resist saying.

  My libido has gone into overdrive as I sit with Ryan, alone at our table, watching people on the dance-floor. The lights have dimmed and the table is a scene of post-dinner dishevelment, the once pristine white tablecloth now covered with red-wine stains and bits of Brie that have fallen off the cheeseboard.

  We’re sitting inches apart and Ryan has discarded his dinner jacket. His bow-tie is still on but he has loosened it, and he’s playing with the label on an empty Chablis bottle. As the lights from the dance-floor skip across his face they reveal features I’ve never noticed before. The shadow of a scar next to his left eye. A faint mole just above his jaw.

  With one too many glasses of wine sloshing around in my bloodstream, my hormones seem to burst into action every time his arm so much as brushes against mine.

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a fish out of water, though,’ I continue. ‘I mean, look at me. I’m not exactly experienced when it comes to events like this.’

  ‘For the record, I don’t think anyone would have guessed,’ he reassures me. ‘And, besides, what does it matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t, I suppose. I still feel an idiot sometimes, though.’

  He shakes his head dismissively. ‘Listen. I remember one of the first dinners I attended when I started out in this business. I was wearing the most ridiculous tux you can imagine – I’d borrowed it from a friend’s dad. It was at least two sizes too small and the trouser legs were halfway up my ankles. I’m convinced Woody Allen would have struggled to fit into it, never mind me.’

  I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘It could have been worse, though. I almost followed my buddy’s advice and wore a carnation in my button-hole.’

  ‘A carnation?’ I giggle.

  He nods. ‘People would have thought I’d got lost from a wedding reception.’

  ‘So your buddy wasn’t an expert, then.’

  ‘He was a mechanic,’ he says, ‘so why I thought I should listen to him I don’t know. Still, we’ve all got to learn somehow. I didn’t grow up in a world of fancy parties and five-star hotels – it was new to me at the time.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘What sort of world did you grow up in?’

  I don’t know why but I’d had Ryan down as someone who’d had a firmly middle-class upbringing. I’d assumed he was a rich kid who’d grown up in exactly the sort of neighbourhood he lives in now. Apparently not.

  ‘Well, I was born and raised in the country,’ he tells me. ‘My dad – when he was still around – was a farm worker and my mom worked in a grocery store.’

  ‘When he was still around?’ I ask.

  ‘They divorced when I was ten. But that was fine because I never got on with my dad – nobody did. He was a bully. And Mom was better off without him.’

  ‘You get on well with her, then?’

  ‘Got,’ he corrects me. ‘She’s no longer with us. But, yeah, in answer to your question, she was kind, loving, desperately hard-working. A great mom in every way.’

  ‘How long ago did she pass away?’ I ask tentatively.

  He studies the Chablis label. ‘She died when I was twenty-one, of lung cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, rather pathetically.

  He shrugs. ‘I just wished she could have seen me graduate from college.’

  It’s no wonder Ryan’s eyes always seem so sad. He’s had more heartbreak in his life than anyone should have to deal with.

  He turns and catches me looking at him. I blush and reach for a bottle of mineral water. As I unscrew the top to pour it into my glass, I realize it’s empty. ‘So . . . how does the son of a farm worker end up going to college?’ I say. ‘From what I hear it’s ridiculously expensive over here.’

  ‘It is, compared with the UK,’ he concedes. ‘Am I right in saying you don’t have to pay over there?’

  ‘You do, these days,’ I tell him, ‘but it’s nothing like as expensive as it is here.’

  ‘Right. Well, I was one of the lucky ones and won a scholarship. I worked hard, got good grades and, hey, the formula’s simple. Here I am.’

  ‘I bet your mum would have been really proud of you,’ I tell him.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, I’m an only child.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ he says, surprised. ‘I don’t know why but I imagined you having brothers and sisters all over the place.’

  ‘All over the place?’ I grin.

  ‘Oh, tons of ’em!’ he replies, smiling. Which starts my stomach fluttering, just as it always does when he smiles. I don’t know why this is – perhaps because his whole face comes to life; perhaps because it happens so rarely.

  ‘Maybe it’s because of what you do for a living,’ he continues. ‘I pictured you as the kind who’d always looked after other kids when you were growing up.’

  ‘Nope. I hate to shatter your illusions,’ I tell him. ‘Besides, it might have put me off.’

  ‘True,’ he concedes. ‘So, if you’re an only child, that means – like me – you’re pampered, socially dominant and spoiled.’

  ‘Intelligent and conscientious is what I read.’

  ‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘I must remember that one.’

  As he pours me another glass of wine, it strikes me how much I’m enjoying talking to him. He’s so much more than a tight bod and a pair of sparkly eyes when he wants to be. He’s likeable. He’s funny. Good looks aside, he’s one of the most charismatic men I’ve ever met. I wonder why he can’t be like this all the time, and stop myself. It’s probably a good thing he isn’t. God knows how I’d handle myself if he was.

 
Then something else occurs to me. I haven’t thought about Jason all night.

  Chapter 40

  About an hour after my chat with Ryan, it occurs to me that, somewhere along the way, the evening has taken a significant turn for the better. My outfit, for a start, has begun to grow on me. In fact, what on earth was I worried about? I look positively – almost certainly – gorgeous.

  So what if I’m showing a bit more flesh than everyone else? They’re all gorgeous in their own way. I’m gorgeous in mine. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous! I can’t put my finger on why I’m feeling so positive, but I’m not complaining about it.

  ‘Now, where’s that bottle of wine gone?’ I wonder.

  ‘Would you like another top-up, young lady?’ asks Gerald.

  ‘Oops!’ I exclaim. ‘Did I say that out loud?’

  ‘You did.’ He smiles. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer some water?’

  ‘Ooooh, nooooo!’ I reply, throwing my head back to emphasize the point. The room goes so wobbly that I almost fall off my chair. ‘How boring would that be?’

  Gerald smiles again. ‘Okay,’ he replies, topping up my glass, but only halfway. ‘You never did give me that dance you promised. Why don’t we go and do that now?’

  It suddenly occurs to me that Gerald might think I’m a bit drunk. I mean, I can’t deny I’ve been enjoying the wine, but I’ve only had three glasses – oh, no, hang on, four . . . or was it five? No, five was what I’d had just after I’d come back from the loo. God, that means I must have had . . .

  The point is, I’ve always prided myself on being able to hold my drink – even if everyone I try to focus on is swaying as if they’re on an Irish Sea ferry.

  ‘All right, Gerald,’ I reply, leaping up and holding out my hand. ‘You’re on.’

  ‘You sure you’re ready for me?’ Gerald grins.

  ‘Let’s knock ’em dead!’ I reply, feeling so confident that if Gerald had asked me to dance in front of a capacity crowd at Shea Stadium I’d reply: ‘Pass me my leotard.’

  I sashay into the centre of the room, my shoulders shimmying like Jennifer Grey’s in Dirty Dancing, even if I have to use some serious imagination to make Gerald morph into Patrick Swayze. Nevertheless, with the band in full swing, before I have a chance to think about it, he’s whisking me round in a waltz so jaunty it causes two of my hair slides to fall out.