by Jessie Jones
She passes it to me and I see their smiling faces on the front cover. It isn’t the biggest picture on the page, but it shines out like a beacon.
Chris and Gwyneth at the premiere of her new film.
‘Who could have seen that one coming?’ I say. ‘You know, in effect, I introduced them. Remember, it was me who wanted to see Sliding Doors,’ I tell her – not for the first time.
‘Mmm, the original matchmaker. Hey, I know you’re still mates, but imagine what you’d get for a kiss-and-tell,’ Emily says – also not for the first time.
‘Never. And besides, they’re only interested if you’ve got something nasty to say and he’s never been anything but sweet to me. Even when I was dumping him, poor bloke.’
She gives me a sideways look. ‘And don’t you regret that now. You must feel like that record-company bloke who turned down The Beatles.’
‘God, it wasn’t a business deal, Emily.’
‘No, of course it wasn’t, sweetheart … But it could have been.’
‘You are so mercenary. Is that how you see Max? Is he a big fat contract?’
‘That’s totally different. It’s true love.’ She gives me her trademark smirk. ‘With a generous shopping allowance.’
‘Well, Chris and I were never true love. I might have been a bit hasty in finishing with him … But, no, it would definitely never have worked.’ I shift uncomfortably on the bed. I might be numb from the waist down, but the heaviness around my middle remains.
‘So, no regrets, then?’ Emily asks.
‘None at all,’ I tell her, my hand on my stomach.
And I totally mean it.
I think.
The trill of her mobile cuts me off mid-thought. Emily grabs it from her bag and checks the screen, then she lets out a little yelp and gabbles, ‘Max! I’ll take it outside. Back in a mo.’
And with that, she’s gone, leaving me alone with my now troubled thoughts.
Do I have any regrets? Maybe a few. But, hey, too few to mention really.
No. 3
I started my second job a few days before Dad and Mitzy’s wedding. This was a good thing, I suppose. Every time I found myself freaking out at the thought of the marriage made in hell (as far as I was concerned), I could take my mind off it by stressing about my new job.
Things between Dad and me had been awkward since I’d stormed out of his place after I found the wedding invitations. I’d tried to patch things up, act as if I was pleased for him and Mitzy, but we still had a way to go. I don’t think he’d have responded enthusiastically if I’d asked him to hold my hand on my first day at work. I was on my own.
I’d managed to get a job at NaturElle, a new chain of beauty salons. All their products were made from herbs or seaweed or organic mud and everything about the place was green, including the décor. Frankly, I couldn’t see how waxes and facials were going to save the planet – I’d had that debate with Emily a couple of years before – but I was prepared to do my bit in return for a monthly wage cheque.
Which was slightly bigger than the one I’d been getting at The Hotel – well, I was experienced by then. And, being experienced, NaturElle gave me my very own junior. How about that? I had staff!
Actually, that was the thing I was panicking about the most as I caught the tube to Holborn on day one. What if she was totally clueless and skinned a client alive and I was held responsible because I was in charge? Or what if the junior knew more than I did? It was a nightmare whichever way I looked at it.
Only it wasn’t. By lunchtime on that first day I realised I was going to love it there. By the end of the second day I felt I’d been truly blessed with my career choice. The salon was just off High Holborn and most of our clients were on R&R from office life. Office life, according to every girl I had on my treatment couch, was the absolute pits. Who’d want to be confined to a cubicle staring at a computer screen being treated like shit by insecure bullying bosses while drinking tasteless coffee from plastic cups, blah, blah, blah …? That’s what they all said it was like, anyway. And amazingly, the fact that they were moaning about it as they lay on the couch in my windowless cubicle didn’t take away from the fact that I loved my job.
If I’d thought about it, I’d have realised that all jobs were pretty mundane and repetitive. Nursing, cab driving, bricklaying, news reading … Today’s headlines must blend into yesterday’s and the day before’s after the novelty of being on the telly has worn off. Name me just one career where drudgery never comes into it and where the variety and rewards are limitless.
Actually, there was one, at least according to the guy who never tired of telling me all about it.
For the 0.01 per cent of blokes who made it through the gruelling Royal Marine selection process, Simon told me repeatedly, life became an endless adventure consisting mostly of jumping out of helicopters and saving people.
When it was finally time for him to go for his PRMC (Potential Royal Marine Course – how could you forget?), I think I was more thrilled than he was. It meant that at last he’d have to stop going on and on and on about becoming a Marine and go off and actually be one … and I’d have a moment’s peace.
As arranged, he dropped his car off at my flat on the morning he left. I greeted him by yelling, ‘Ten-hut!’ which I’d once heard a scary sergeant scream in some war movie or other.
‘You what?’ he said, giving me his blank look.
‘You know … Like they yell on the parade ground.’
‘It’s ’ten-shun!’ he bellowed, nearly taking my eyebrows off. ‘Ten-hut’s an American thing. The US Marines are a completely different set-up. Did you know they –’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, cutting him off before he started on a lecture I was sure I’d heard a thousand times already. ‘Time for a coffee before you go?’
‘Er … yeah … I suppose.’
He looked torn. Desperate to leave and get stuck into whatever he was going to get stuck into and also desperately nervous. I have to say he also looked fantastic. So muscled up he looked practically bulletproof, which I imagined would be a handy thing where he was going.
‘Good luck, Simon,’ I said as I handed him his coffee, ‘though I don’t think you’ll need it. All the training’s paid off. You’re looking great.’
‘Yeah, but it isn’t just about physical fitness, Dayna.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve told you?’
Of course not, I thought. ‘Of course I have,’ I said. ‘But you can tell me again if you like.’ I was feeling charitable, having found my dream job.
He hardly needed the invitation. He was off on Royal Marine lecture no. 37, the one that covered such topics as mental stamina, psychological preparedness and ‘bottle’ – a technical term, I think. As I listened (sort of) intently, I studied him carefully. He was definitely different. He’d lost his usual cockiness and he seemed agitated.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked. ‘You just seem a little edgy.’
He slumped into the sofa. ‘I am a bit. This is a fuck of a big deal, you know.’
‘I know, but you’ll be great, I’m sure of it,’ I assured him.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course I am. This is the moment your whole life’s been leading up to. You told me that yourself.’ About fifty thousand times, I didn’t add. ‘What does Joanne say? I bet she’s excited for you.’
I wondered what his girlfriend thought about losing her bloke to Her Majesty’s elite fighting force.
‘Who?’ he asked, giving me his blank look again. ‘Oh, her … Nothing. I’m not seeing her any more.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Why’s that?’
‘She found out I’d been shagging whatsit at the gym.’
‘Hazel?’ I asked, keeping track of the names better than he seemed to be doing. ‘What about Georgina?’
‘I told you, she’s history … you know … after the Victoria thing.’ He gave me a helpless little shrug.
Ah, yes, I’
d forgotten about that. My God, did this mean Simon was actually girlfriend-less? ‘So … No one to cry for her soldier boy?’ I asked.
‘Only Hannah …’
Ah yes, Hannah.
‘You still seeing her?’ I asked, wondering when I’d last seen her.
‘Well, when I’m not seeing Danielle.’
‘Who?’
‘My hairdresser.’
‘Your hairdresser? But you’ve got a number-two cut.’
He gave me another shrug, though this one was accompanied by a smug grin. He was getting on my nerves now. ‘Look at the time,’ I said. ‘Your train.’
He drained his coffee and stood up. But he didn’t move.
‘C’mon, Simon,’ I reassured, ‘you are so ready for this.’
‘Am I?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘Look at you. You’re a wall of muscle. And your blood must be pure testosterone by now.’
‘Yeah … But the Marines … Is it really me?’
‘Absolutely. And think of all the birds you’re gonna pull in that uniform.’
That got him going. I bundled him out of the door and, once he’d left, I grabbed his car keys. I hadn’t driven since my Hyundai expired and I had places to go. For the next four days I intended to live in Simon’s car.
When I got home with a boot full of shopping two hours later, the last person I expected to see was Simon, but there he was on my doorstep, his rucksack beside him.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Couldn’t go through with it,’ he mumbled by way of confirmation.
I couldn’t believe it. OK, given how nervous he’d been when he’d left, I shouldn’t have been that surprised, but even so … He hadn’t even made it onto the train. I could have sneered at him, but I so knew where he was coming from. After all, I was the girl who had sleepless nights at the prospect of my first day in a beauty salon. How could I blame him for having second thoughts about a career that involved being sent to extremely dangerous places where very bad people with very real guns were waiting to kill him? The manageress at NaturElle might have been a bit scary at times, but, as far as I knew, she wasn’t armed.
‘Come on in, Simon,’ I said. ‘I’ll make you a sarnie.’
He slumped back down onto my sofa and I went to the kitchen and prepared him one of my triple-decker specials, calling out some consoling words as I smeared mayo onto chicken, bacon and lettuce. ‘You mustn’t beat yourself up about it, Simon. Your nerves are completely understandable. You need to spend a couple of days getting your head together, then you can call them and tell them you came down with something. They don’t need to know you bottled it. You’ve invested too much in this to give up now.’
I put his sandwich on a plate and took it into the living room, where he was flipping his phone shut. He seemed to perk up a bit when I put his lunch in front of him. ‘I knew one of my specials would cheer you up,’ I said.
‘What? Oh, that. Yeah, thanks, I do feel better …’
I glowed inwardly.
‘… That was Danielle on the phone.’
‘Your hairdresser,’ I deadpanned, feeling the glow fizzle out.
‘She really gave me a lift.’
Oh, I thought.
‘She said my nerves were completely understandable. Said they never have to know I bottled it. I can phone them tonight and tell them I’ve come down with a lethal stomach bug. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m not giving up now. I’ve worked too hard to blow it. She’s great is Danny. Always says the right thing when I’m down. Right, where’s that sarnie?’
As he stuffed his face, I set mine to neutral. Or as neutral as I could manage, given that I wanted to shove the sandwich down his throat until he choked on it.
* * *
Mitzy had asked me to be her chief (actually, her only) bridesmaid. She could have asked her sister, Stella, or any combination of best friends, but, no, she asked me. And how could I say no without looking like a total bitch? So I did what I had to do. I put on my I’m-so-happy-for-you smile (which I’d been practising ever since I’d found the invitations) and gave her the most insincere yes of my life.
That’s how I found myself at Dad’s house on the morning of the wedding, helping a woman I didn’t much care for get ready to take my dad even further away from me than she’d already managed.
‘Will you do my eyebrows?’ she asked as I mascara-ed her lashes. ‘If your dad’s going to be gazing into my eyes today I can’t have them looking like a pair of hairy caterpillars.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me to do that before I did your make-up?’ I asked, irritated.
‘Sorry! Didn’t think,’ she blustered as she looked for her tweezers.
God, I thought, glaring pointedly at my watch, this woman is stupid. She was taking an age to get ready while I was still in my jeans. It didn’t look as if I was going to have any time to sort myself out.
But which one of us was the trained beauty expert? Yep, that would have been me. I should have asked her if she wanted me to pluck her eyebrows before slapping on the make-up. But I didn’t mention that at the time. No, instead, I gritted my teeth and set about trying to sort out her brows without smudging her eye makeup. Of course I failed dismally, so I had to remove the lot and start all over again. Then she decided her hair needed glitter, which, naturally, I’d forgotten to bring, which meant I had to rush to the chemist. By the time I was done we were running seriously late and all the make-up in the world couldn’t hide the fact that she was seriously flustered.
Yes, yes, it was all my fault. I was not only the professional, but I was also her bridesmaid, there to soothe, calm and sort out any last-minute hitches with quiet good humour. But would you admit all that? Well, maybe you would and maybe you’re a better and more mature person than I was back then.
Outside, the limo driver was tooting impatiently – like it was his wedding we were in danger of missing. Dad had hired a Daimler to take Mitzy to the registry office and then on to the reception. Well, if you can’t drive in style to the biggest event of your life, when can you? he’d reasoned. I inwardly thanked God that at least he hadn’t booked a horse and carriage or something equally Lady Di/Jordan-ish.
I quickly threw on my trouser suit and ran to the bathroom where I slapped on my make-up like I was Rolf Harris on a deadline. Then I bent over, hung my head upside down and gave my hair a vigorous shake, the way they do in the adverts. I lifted my head back up and looked at myself expectantly in the mirror …
Now, when they do this in the ads, the model’s hair seems to fall quite naturally into a gorgeous, messy-yet-still-sexy shape. Me? I looked as if I’d held my head upside down and dragged it across a tangle of barbed wire. I put on my hat – yes, I had a hat – and resolved to leave it there for the rest of the day.
I returned to Mitzy’s bedroom and tapped on the door. When she opened it, I couldn’t help but stare …
When I’d left her a few minutes before, she’d still been in her dressing gown. Now, her ivory silk dress hugged her body all the way down to her ankles. Tiny flowers were appliquéd to the spaghetti straps, the only detail. It was elegant, understated and utterly gorgeous. She was utterly gorgeous.
I looked down at my navy-blue trouser suit and felt about a hundred years old.
‘You look stunning,’ I told her and truly meant it.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked nervously. ‘I so wanted to get it right. I want this to be the best day of Michael’s life.’
‘Oh, I think it will be,’ I said, biting hard on my bottom lip.
A memory; one that had spent years buried in the depths of my subconscious, had chosen that moment to pop to the surface. A roundabout in the park, my mum spinning me, three-year-old me squealing with joy. I was wearing a white wedding dress, one of those kids’ dressing-up ones. According to my dad, I wore it everywhere until it was black with dirt and hanging from my body in shreds. And there I was on the roundabout, Mum hugging me to her, telling me I was
the most beautiful bride in the world, me telling her that when I grew up I was going to marry her.
I had precious few proper memories of Mum. But this one was in my head now and it was as vibrant and real as if it were on a cinema screen. I wanted to run to my old bedroom, slam the door behind me and sob. But now wasn’t the time, was it? I was supposed to be riding to the registry office with my stepmother-to-be. Whether I liked it or not, this was Mitzy’s moment.
That was when I had my moment of clarity, my turning point. This was Mitzy’s moment and I wasn’t going to do a thing to spoil it for her. In fact, I decided there and then, I was going to bend over backwards to make everything perfect for her and my dad. As I’d spent the early days doing anything I could to spite the pair of them, I figured I had a bit of catching up to do.
I made a start by attempting to choke back the tears that were welling up. It didn’t really work and, not being one to miss anything, Mitzy filled up too. ‘We’re going to be so happy and that means all three of us,’ she blubbed.
You know what? I knew she was right. We were going to be happy and finally I was glad she was in our lives. But I couldn’t tell her that, could I? I couldn’t say a thing because I was sobbing too. So I made do with hugging her really, really tightly.
And when we finally pulled apart I took one look at her and screamed. Well, her make-up was ruined.
‘What the hell’s been going on?’ Dad hissed at me outside the registry office. ‘Jesus, I knew it was a mistake leaving you alone with Mitzy.’
We were horribly late and I could understand him thinking the worst.
‘It was nothing like that, Dad,’ I explained. ‘It was actually really …’
I was going to say ‘special’, but he wasn’t sticking around to hear it. He was grabbing his gorgeous bride by the hand and whisking her inside. I followed them through the door and stood with the ten other guests as the registrar flashed the happy couple an irritated look and tutted audibly.