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The Nearly-Weds

Page 21

by Jane Costello


  Trudie rubs her eyes as we stand up and the livingroom door flies open. It’s Barbara King, with Ryan behind her. She looks as if she’s spent all day at a wine-tasting session and forgotten to spit.

  ‘Tshhrudie,’ she slurs, leaning on Ryan’s shoulder. Her eyes are so crossed you’d think they’d fallen out with each other. ‘Tshhrudie, you and I need to have a talk.’

  ‘I know, Barbara, I know. I’m so sorry. I really am sorry. It was all my fault and you were right to throw me out. But I love my job. And I love Andrew and Eamonn. And I love being here next to my mate Zoe. And I love this country. And, and—’

  ‘Sssssh!’ instructs Barbara, attempting to press her finger to her lips but prodding it up her nose. ‘We’ll go through all this tomorrow. The point is I’ve had a shange of heart. You can come back.’ She throws her arms open and leans in to hug Trudie, who catches her before her face becomes acquainted with the living-room carpet. ‘Shall we go home, Tshhrudie?’

  Trudie beams and squeezes her arm round her. ‘Let’s do that, Mrs K.’

  Ryan and I watch as Trudie and Barbara weave their way back to the house, where Mr King is waiting at the door to greet them. He waves to Ryan and Ryan waves back. I turn to him, my mouth ajar. ‘What happened over there?’

  ‘I made friends with my neighbours, that’s all. And I just pointed out what a great nanny Trudie is and how much their kids love her. And, well, that was it.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say sceptically. ‘There must have been more to it than that. How did you get so friendly?’

  He says nothing.

  ‘You must have flirted with her?’ I ask, trying to look unbothered by this scenario.

  ‘Maybe.’ He smirks. ‘But it wasn’t that either.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve promised to mow my lawn.’

  ‘No!’

  He nods. ‘Every goddamn week.’

  Chapter 63

  Ruby and Samuel used to watch so many cartoons on TV that they were in danger of growing up believing the world was populated with little yellow people like the Simpsons. Not any more. Life is no longer dictated by the whims of the programme schedulers. SpongeBob SquarePants, is no longer a powerful, omnipresent force in our lives. And they no longer sit and stare at the screen for hours, as if they’ve been put under a spell. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got more interesting things to do.

  By the way, I don’t say this to be smug. I’m not saying I’m Jo Frost. And I should confess that something more interesting recently involved giving Barbie’s hair a funky new look with a pair of craft scissors (Samuel) and painting Spiderman’s head with my Tropical Sunset nail polish (Ruby). But, still, we’ve come a long way.

  However, that’s not to say both children don’t still enjoy the odd bit of television. And, with the weather having turned so wet and cold it has felt like Skegness in November recently, we’re in the mood for getting cosy and doing nothing more energetic than a rigorous session of channel-hopping.

  Ruby has taken control of the remote and landed on something that caught her attention immediately: James Bond. ‘Does everyone in Britain dress like him, Zoe?’ she asks, staring in wonder at Roger Moore’s tuxedo. It’s The Spy Who Loved Me – made in the late seventies, which means everyone’s lapels are so wide you could park a Volvo on them.

  ‘Not all the time, sweetheart.’

  She turns back to the television, where Barbara Bach is on screen in a dress like something you’d find hanging over the windows of a bungalow. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ muses Ruby.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I agree, glancing to Ryan at the other end of the couch.

  His face breaks into one of his heart-stopping smiles and my neck flushes. Which still strikes me as weird, and not just because of my lingering heartbreak over Jason. It’s weird because Ryan and I have done things together that are significantly more intimate than a coy smile. Yet such a simple expression – which isn’t suggestive, or racy – has a physical effect on me that is nothing less than profound.

  My train of thought is broken as the famous 007 theme tune crashes out of the TV speakers and both kids lean forward in anticipation.

  ‘Now, that’s a real man,’ I declare, as Roger Moore scoops Barbara Bach into his arms having rescued her from super-baddie Jaws. ‘Despite the dodgy hairdo and mahogany complexion.’

  Ryan chuckles and – with the children clearly not about to be distracted by anything short of a seismic wave – leans over to me. ‘I’d do that for you,’ he teases, kissing my ear.

  I pull back. ‘No way.’

  ‘Way,’ he insists. ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘given we’re unlikely to find ourselves in the sea off Sardinia any time soon, fortunately for you you’re not going to be forced to prove yourself.’

  He’s about to protest again when my phone rings.

  ‘Give your mom my love,’ says Ryan, sitting upright again.

  With Christmas rapidly approaching, she has been phoning me so often her next quarterly bill is set to rival that of a FTSE 100 company. I’m about to answer my mobile when I glance at the screen. The blood drains from my face. The number is as instantly recognizable now as it was when he last tried to contact me.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Ryan.

  ‘Oh, um, nothing,’ I mumble. ‘Just my mum, like you said. I’m going to take this outside so I don’t disturb you.’

  When I’m out of the living room, I stumble up the stairs with all the grace of an inebriated donkey. I reach my room, my finger hovering over the answer button. It keeps hovering. And hovering. Chewing my lip, I pray for strength – but end up taking a chunk out of my tongue. Finally, I answer. ‘Hello?’ I croak. ‘Jason? Hello?’

  Chapter 64

  I’m too late. He’s rung off. I slump on to the bed, my mind reeling so wildly I can barely focus on my light shade.

  I know I should be relieved, and part of me is. I think.

  Coming out to the States was supposed to represent a clean break with my past and talking to Jason won’t help in that respect.

  The sensible part of me also knows that he should have phoned me back on one of the countless occasions I tried to contact him immediately after the non-wedding. He had his chance. Chances,.

  I’ve promised myself I’ll be a strong, focused, independent woman, who doesn’t dwell on her past. And I know, having come this far, that the worst thing I could do would be to indulge Jason – or myself – in a long conversation that reopens old wounds.

  Yet part of me is desperate to do just that.

  I have so many questions to ask him I could out-interrogate Jeremy Paxman. Like, what happened to him that day? And was there really no one else involved? When did he decide he wasn’t going through with it? And, more to the point, why did he decide he wasn’t going through with it?

  But the thought that I could just pick up my phone and hear his lovely, familiar voice saying my name is too much to bear.

  My eyes bore into my mobile as I pull up the last number dialled. I’m going to do it. I know I shouldn’t but I am.

  I’m milliseconds from pressing call when there’s a knock on my door.

  Panicking, I shove my mobile under my pillow and lean back against my headboard as if I’m on a sun-lounger waiting for someone to come and rub in some factor fifteen.

  I must look ridiculously shifty.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Ryan is mildly concerned.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ I declare. ‘I just came up here to have a chat.’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘With . . . my auntie,’ I add.

  He still doesn’t say anything. My eyes dart round the room for inspiration and land on the mountain of toiletries on my dressing-table.

  ‘My auntie . . . Lil-let.’ Oh, Christ. I’ve named my imaginary aunt after a tampon.

  Ryan frowns. Then smiles.

  He walks over to the bed, puts his hand behind my neck and kisses me, making my
pulse thump with desire.

  ‘You’re so beautiful today,’ he whispers, running his fingertips across my cheek.

  ‘Am I?’ I ask, bewildered. I have no makeup on and a spot is developing on the side of my nose.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He smiles. Then turns to leave, and hesitates.

  ‘I didn’t know you had an aunt – what? Lil-let?’ he says.

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply.

  ‘She . . . French?’

  ‘No . . . er, yes. No.’

  Ryan raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I mean . . . she’s Belgian,’ I bluster.

  ‘You got family in Belgium?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I wish my mouth would close and not open again until I’ve managed to cultivate a brain. ‘Tons of them. Big beer-drinkers. And chocoholics.’

  Shut up, Zoe.

  ‘Anyway . . . I thought I’d come up here to take the call because Auntie Lil-let doesn’t half go on sometimes,’ I add, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I continue. ‘She’s going through the menopause and is having terrible hot flushes. That was what she phoned about – so, obviously, I didn’t want to have that talk with Ruby and Samuel in the room.’

  There’s another pause.

  ‘Apparently it’s the chocolate,’ I add, cursing myself.

  ‘What’s the chocolate?’

  ‘The hot flushes. The chocolate sets them off something rotten.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mmm, oh, yes, she—’

  I stop. Ryan is staring at me, clearly not believing a word of this rubbish.

  ‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘pass on my regards next time you speak to her. I’m going down now. I just wanted to check you’re okay.’

  ‘Me? Ha! Fine. Absolutely fine and dandy. Couldn’t be better.’

  He smiles. I try to smile.

  And when he shuts the door behind him, I stare at the phone. What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking? I wipe off the last received-call number – Jason’s phone number – and turn it off.

  ‘Ryan,’ I shout, opening the door. ‘Hang on a sec. I’m coming too.’

  Chapter 65

  Nights out on the town with a priest are not something I’ve had many of before now – and I suspect the same goes for Trudie, Amber and Felicity. But Paul is unlike previous churchmen I’ve encountered. At least, he’s nothing like the Reverend Derek Crapper, who was at St Michael’s, Woolton, in the days when I last attended regularly. He was a lovely man who had sideburns you could have scrubbed a step with and a gentle, caring manner. Lord knows, that was a miracle, given the stick he must have received growing up with that name.

  Looking back, he also had a body odour so potent that one whiff almost took the lining off your nasal passages, but he was so nice it didn’t matter.

  For the Reverend Paul Richardson, however, this isn’t an issue. He’s lovely too, but he smells of Hugo Boss and tonight he’s wearing his dog collar over a stylish black shirt and a pair of jeans that flatter his backside in a manner some might think shouldn’t be allowed for a man of God.

  ‘So, um, what do you think of Paul?’ Amber asks, as she helps me carry the drinks back to our table. She’s trying so hard to make the question appear idle that she sounds as though she’s been brushing her teeth with turps.

  ‘I think he’s fantastic. Kind, intelligent, great fun to be around. Why do you ask?’ I add, as if I didn’t know.

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ she says.

  I smile.

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ she adds, blushing. ‘I know you all think I’m attracted to him, but I’m not, I promise you.’

  ‘Course,’ I say.

  ‘Apart from anything else, our moons are mismatched.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Moons. I’m a great believer in Vedic astrology, after all the time I spent in India. Under the Kuta system, you can measure the flow of consciousness between two people and how this energy harmonizes in the relationship.’

  ‘And your energy isn’t in harmony with Paul’s?’

  ‘Our lunar mansions are all over the place.’ She sighs. ‘Of course, it’s not meant to be an indicator of complete karmic compatibility . . .’

  ‘Oh, well, then.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says doubtfully.

  ‘Of course, if you did like him, none of that stuff would matter, would it?’ I point out.

  ‘Of course it would, Zoe,’ she tells me pityingly. ‘Two people getting together whose moons aren’t aligned would be like trying to mix . . . I don’t know . . . something really oily with something really watery.’

  ‘Oil and water?’ I suggest.

  ‘Well, exactly. It wouldn’t work.’

  I’m grinning inwardly about this conversation until I sit down. Trudie and Felicity both look utterly miserable.

  ‘You okay?’ I whisper to Trudie.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She nods – but it couldn’t be clearer that she’s not. ‘Why didn’t you bring Ryan out with us tonight?’

  ‘Oh, because someone’s got to babysit. Anyway, it’s nice just being out with friends.’

  Between you and me, I’m fibbing so outrageously I’m surprised my nose isn’t a foot long. Ryan did toy with the idea of getting someone in, but as soon as he found out that this was largely a girls’ night out he seemed to go off the idea.

  I’m not concerned about this, especially since nobody – Trudie aside – knows about our fling. So it makes sense to avoid doing anything as suspicious as inviting Ryan out with us.

  ‘How’s Tallulah, these days?’ I ask Felicity. ‘Ruby’s missing her – we haven’t seen you for a week.’ I’m attempting to spark her into conversation, but she’s been so uncharacteristically low-key tonight that I suspect nothing short of jump leads would work.

  ‘Oh? Ah, fine,’ she replies, with a flicker of her usual smile.

  ‘Is it right you’re teaching her French?’ asks Trudie.

  ‘Yes,’ says Felicity, clearly trying to brighten up. ‘She’s very good, actually. And her mother’s picking up the odd word. I fear we won’t get very far, though, given that Nancy has only just stopped pronouncing the z in chez. But she is trying.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ I exclaim, glad she’s warming up a bit. ‘I hope you’re bringing them to Ryan’s Christmas party.’

  This is a venture Ryan only announced last week. It was Ruby’s idea initially, but Ryan has embraced it wholeheartedly, which I can only take as proof that he’s enjoying being able to talk to his neighbours without teetering on the edge of Armageddon.

  For my part, I can’t wait, not least because Ryan’s got somebody in to do the catering. I already have my outfit planned. Flattering wide-leg trousers and black cashmere top with plunging neckline. It’s chic in an effortless way, although it took a day-long intensive search of every retail outlet in Boston to find it.

  ‘Christmas party?’ asks Felicity, her fragile smile disappearing. ‘Ryan’s having a Christmas party?’

  ‘Well, yes. Um, you’ve got your invitation, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, Zoe. We haven’t.’ Felicity makes an attempt to look cheerful while she delivers her reply, but it doesn’t work.

  ‘Oh. Well, maybe they haven’t gone out yet.’

  ‘We got ours,’ Trudie points out unhelpfully.

  ‘And us,’ Amber pipes up.

  I look over to the Reverend Paul for help. He nods. My eyes widen.

  ‘Oh, God, sorry, Felicity,’ I say, suddenly flustered. ‘It must have been an oversight, it really must. I know we put you on the list. Ryan must have forgotten to send you an email. But, please, consider yourself invited. Really.’

  ‘No, no!’ she declares, holding up her hand like a traffic warden and grinning widely as if that was the last thought on her mind. ‘Really, don’t you worry about me, Zoe!’

  ‘But, Felicity, I—’

  ‘No! We won’t come! Don’t worry!’

  ‘Honestly, Felicity,’ I attempt to butt
in, ‘you were invited. You are invited!’

  She pauses for a second. ‘I wouldn’t want to come if I wasn’t welcome.’ She’s smiling in a wobbly, wounded way.

  ‘You are welcome,’ I insist.

  She pauses. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful.’ She beams. ‘I’ll have to check my diary, of course, but you can pencil me in.’

  The subject comes up twenty minutes later when Trudie co-ordinates a trip to the ladies’ with me so she can touch up her makeup – which she likes to do with as much regularity as a toddler undergoing training visits the potty.

  ‘Christ, it’s a good job you discovered Felicity’d been left off the invite list to Ryan’s party,’ she tells me. ‘She would have never forgiven him.’

  ‘I know. I just hope it really was an accident and Ryan didn’t leave them off on purpose. Maybe he doesn’t get on with Nancy and Ash.’

  ‘They get on with everyone,’ says Trudie, dismissively. ‘Besides, Ryan’s making an effort to be the world’s perfect neighbour at the moment, from what Barbara tells me, so he would never have not invited them deliberately. Anyway, I’m just glad it’s sorted. Felicity’s been in a funny mood all night.’

  It’s typical of Trudie to be thinking of others when her own life isn’t exactly a bed of roses. ‘And how are things with you?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘Oh, you know – so-so. I mean, things with Barbara are great, don’t get me wrong. Ryan worked a miracle there.’

  ‘You and Ritchie?’

  ‘There is no me and Ritchie. We haven’t spoken since the other day.’ I wonder what to say next – but Trudie gets there before me. ‘He won’t return my calls.’ Her face crumples.

  ‘Oh, Trudie.’ I put my arm round her. I’m fully aware that my response is as woefully inadequate as attempting to put out a house fire with a water pistol, but it’s difficult to know what more to do.

  We spend the next ten minutes in the loo, sobbing and hugging, sobbing and hugging. When she decides she’s ready to go back into the bar her skin is so blotchy she looks like she’s had an allergic reaction to her face powder.

 

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