‘It’s her!’ she screeched at Eva when the hen party had dispersed. Rachel still sat glued to her seat.
‘Who?’
Rachel was mesmerised as her gaze followed Amelia-Rose’s confidently receding figure.
‘Who?’ Eva repeated.
Rachel was having a hard time concentrating on both the conversation in hand and the calculations in her head. She was distracted by thoughts of Amelia-Rose’s rosebud mouth and cute-as-a-button nose.
‘Her! Her, her, her … She … It’s her!’
‘This is getting difficult to follow, do you need some water?’
Rachel pointed in the direction of the bride-to-be and her wing-woman. ‘She’s David’s girlfriend.’
‘The redhead over there?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Did you see her perfect breasts?’ she said aloud.
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘What? But look at her. How can I compete with …
that? With those?’ Rachel shielded her own breasts as if to protect them. ‘And did you see her neck?’
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘That I’m a self-obsessed crazy lady who should adopt twelve cats and be done with it?’
‘No, that’s not what I was thinking. But now that you mention it, you have two cats and a philandering husband. You already have the cat-lady starter kit.’
Rachel shot her a faux-hurt look.
Eva continued, ‘I was thinking that your husband is a dick. Look at it a different way and it makes sense. Not to me. But it makes sense because he is a man: he’s forty-five, right? In my experience, men go a bit cray-cray after any birthday with a zero or a five in it. My ex-husband, number three …’ she clarified. Rachel wasn’t sure she wanted to hear an anecdote that involved ex-husbands enjoying life after divorce ‘… he went mental when he hit the big four-O and was never the same since. And as for your one – dick-for-brains – he’s had a life-changing few years. Now he’s selling his business, so asset-rich but meaningful-life poor. This was never about your marriage; it’s all about him.’
‘It’s not my fault?’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault,’ Eva repeated.
‘Are you trying the Good Will Hunting technique on me?’ Rachel asked in a small voice.
‘No. But glad to know you wouldn’t fall for it if I tried.’
The remembrance of the pain and hurt she’d been through pushed Rachel to the brink of losing it.
‘Do you want to leave?’ Eva asked.
Rachel took a deep breath.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not yet. Call me nuts, but I want to get another look at her.’
Eva nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.
After thirty minutes of breathing exercises Rachel was calm enough to leave the tranquillity of the spa, and Eva walked her to the restaurant protectively. Still in their robes and slippers, they ordered their Prosecco afternoon tea. The majority of tables and chairs were filled with people, women mainly, also dressed in soft white towelling robes, expressing their inner-calmness in hushed tones.
The next table had a Reserved sign and within minutes team #BettyBride arrived and sat mere metres from Rachel and Eva. Amelia-Rose and Betty both showed the after-effects of their massage.
Betty’s treatment had left her euphoric; she told the other girls she had reached a higher plane, as if she was looking at her own life from the outside.
‘Deep,’ one responded.
Eva urged Rachel to leave.
Betty went on to complain that she was having second thoughts. Wait, shit just got interesting.
Amelia-Rose chimed in with light-hearted complaints about her own boyfriend. He was a pretentious music snob, obsessed with chicken dinners, and she hated his hair – it was so old-fashioned. Betty’s fiancé wasn’t that bad, she added. And then, something terrifying happened. Betty the bride invited Eva and Rachel to join in the conversation. Rachel shouldn’t have been surprised. She would have done the same in her position, in such relaxing all-female quarters. What was perhaps more horrifying, though, was the bride’s opening gambit. She began by asking their opinion on marriage. Rachel froze, but Eva joined the discussion. She lifted her left hand to display an empty ring finger. ‘Married three times, divorced three times. Broke up with my boyfriend this week.’
Rachel turned to her. ‘I didn’t know that. What happened to Terry the Fireman?’
‘You’ve been a bit busy, shall we say?’
‘What about you?’ Betty asked Rachel. ‘You’re married?’
Rachel nodded.
‘How did you know he was The One?’
‘She didn’t. And you won’t. You have to trust your heart,’ Eva cut in, ‘and be prepared to have it broken!’.
The hens cooed at the advice, despite the fact that it came from someone who had moments before self-declared as a terrible source when it came to matrimonial guidance. They muttered support for Betty and her frankly foolish-sounding fiancé.
Rachel couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘And hopefully, after fifteen happy years, you won’t catch your husband kissing another woman!’
The hens gasped and giggled, and Rachel caught one of them whispering ‘She’s mental’ from behind her flute of Prosecco.
That flipped Rachel’s switch.
‘My advice? What I wish someone had told me before I was stupid enough to get married to some waste-of-space cheating lowlife?’ Rachel got to her feet.
‘Men are the worst – don’t waste your time on them. In fact, ditch the wedding. Save yourself a lot of heartache. Take your stunning maid of honour, and I mean stunning – Red over there – on the honeymoon instead. Thelma and Louise the shit out of your lives. Be happy. Otherwise you’ll end up like me. I can see how you’re looking at me with your woe-is-you eyes. I used to be like you and now I’m so self-centred and obsessed with the end of my marriage that my best friend – here – didn’t even tell me she’d broken up with her gorgeous fireman boyfriend.’
‘You need to chill out, lady,’ said the girl who had whispered about her. ‘Not everyone is as bitter as you.’
‘Yeah,’ added Amelia-Rose, ‘you’re spoiling my friend’s special day.’
Rachel turned to face this woman who’d ruined her life and realised from the expression on her face that Amelia-Rose had no idea who she was.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Rachel, shaking with emotion. She and Eva scurried out of the restaurant and went straight to the outside pool where Rachel allowed the water jets to massage her taut muscles.
‘You broke up with Terry, what happened?’
Eva ignored her question. ‘That was incredible. I reckon you should give motivational speeches to women. It was truly empowering.’
Rachel covered her cheeks with her hands. ‘What is wrong with me? I might have ruined that poor girl’s life.’
‘Fuck it. She was already having doubts. She’ll think twice, that’s for sure. And give yourself a break. You’ve had a shock.’
‘Did you see her? Amelia-Rose?’
Eva nodded in agreement.
‘She’s beautiful.’
Eva nodded.
‘And so young.’
Eva nodded again. There was nothing she could say that could or would placate Rachel.
‘Tell me about Terry.’
There was a minute of silence.
‘I’m sorry. I liked Terry,’ Rachel added.
‘I liked Terry, but it wasn’t going anywhere. And you were right – I need to find someone more age appropriate.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You had a lot on your plate and, honestly, there’s no drama. Nothing to talk about, no revenge to take. I’m a bit sad, but I’ll be okay.’
Eva’s supreme grasp on reality helped Rachel come to terms with meeting the young, pretty girl who had stolen her husband’s heart. She felt defeated though. How could she compete? She obviously knew nothing about her husband if t
hat was who he wanted to be with.
Eva reminded Rachel it was time for their next treatment. The hot stone massage promised to rub all the stress from Rachel’s body. Good luck with that! Surprisingly though, it did help, albeit temporarily.
A feeling of calm stayed with her for the journey home but evaporated the moment she opened the front door. David wasn’t in. The fridge was empty; there wasn’t even enough milk for a cup of tea. The house was silent and she was alone. Rachel sat in her armchair, stared out of the window at the quiet cul-de-sac and sobbed. This was a taste of the Davidless future she had to look forward to.
‘Alexa, play songs for the broken-hearted.’
The first song on the playlist was Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Go Your Own Way’.
Rachel hadn’t seen the point of streaming music. Why pay for things she already owned in other formats? But here she sat, listening to the magic that was Fleetwood Mac without having to turn CDs to MP3s, and transfer them from laptop to phone. She had a deep feeling of FOMO as her nephews would say. Her fear of missing out wasn’t about being away from David but the fear of missing out on another life entirely. A better life; one without a cheating husband in it. Then she could spread her wings and fly. ‘Alexa, play Wind Beneath My Wings.’
The breeze outside caused the trees to dance – they too seemed to be admiring the timeless song. The branches of the hundred-year-old oak moved in time with the music. What was the point in having this garden, this house, without having David to share it with? Say he had died, she couldn’t have stayed in the house without him. She’d loved their first place together. As newlyweds, they moved to a small flat in Tufnell Park. The eight-foot patch of grass that justified its description as a garden flat was just big enough for a table and two chairs plus a mini-barbecue. It was David who later on wanted a garden the size of a small park. He wanted to recreate his childhood. Heavily influenced by his grandmother’s green fingers, he wanted somewhere to grow roses for Rachel.
She watched a ring-necked parakeet hopping in the garden outside – these exotic wild birds were common in the area though not originally a native species. Rumour had it that they originally escaped from Heathrow airport, or Ealing Studios, or that an aviary had collapsed during the big storm of 1987 and allowed its exotic inhabitants to fly free. Nonetheless, she enjoyed their visits. With their pleasing bright green plumage and often a ring of red around the neck, they looked rather distinguished – as if they were wearing ties. They were sexually dimorphic, she remembered reading, and the necktie was how you could tell them apart – the males wore the ties, or maybe it was the other way around?
Neville and Oscar were primed for attack, like little lions on the plains of their own private savannah. They worked as a tag team – Neville was the distraction, herding the unwitting bird towards the cherry tree in which Oscar sat waiting. Rachel raised her hand as if to warn the bird but it was too late. At the last second, she looked away, unable to watch the cats play with their prey.
Her thoughts returned to David, and Rachel was suffocated anew by the feelings of betrayal.
‘Cheat on me once, shame on you. Cheat on me again and again, shame on me,’ she told herself. She would have to get the slogan printed on a t-shirt to warn other wives of wayward husbands.
Still, she missed her never-husband. She missed the friendship, the partnership, their intimacy and their stupid in-jokes. She missed the feeling of being in love. Then the thought hit her, like a lightning bolt or a fast train: she couldn’t trust a word David said. She had overheard Amelia-Rose tell her friends she was planning to move in with her boyfriend. Rachel couldn’t believe she was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to tell him all of this. She wanted to scream and shout at him.
She missed everything they used to have but it was time to accept it was never coming back.
30
Eva opened the door to Rachel’s office. As she did she called out to their PA, ‘Lydia, could you join us for a second?’
Lydia was printing out tasting sheets and asked for a couple of minutes to finish. Eva said to take her time and closed the office door again.
‘What about Kegels?’
‘Who …?’ Was he a footballer? Rachel thought.
‘Kegels … pelvic floor muscles. Are you exercising them? They’re the first thing to go.’
Go where? ‘Oh! Ke-gels! All the time.’ Rachel fibbed.
‘Does wee ever escape when you sneeze?
‘Uhm, no. I don’t think—’
‘Can you trust yourself on a trampoline?’
‘I think so …’ Rachel couldn’t recall when she was last on one and doubted it would have been to test her pelvic floor.
‘That’s great. But you must add them to your daily routine. I’m doing mine now.’
Lydia came bumbling into the office, struggling with a heavy cardboard box marked DELICATE on each side. Rachel thanked God when Lydia interrupted them and the conversation ended, hopefully never to be revisited again. Rachel tried to tighten her pelvic floor and was worried that Eva would read the activity on her face, so stopped.
‘What have we got here?’ Rachel asked. She hadn’t wanted to bid for the VD Vodka launch. Apparently it was the best British vodka since sliced bread, yet the packaging was tacky, there were endless spelling mistakes in the social media, none of the images on Instagram made sense – it was a mess of an account. Rachel had initially dismissed it as being too much work for very little reward. Not to mention that the brand name was an abbreviation for VENEREAL DISEASE! It was Lydia who’d pushed for the pitch and made the initial assessment of the brand. She seemed sure they could turn it around as the name was apparently so hipster.
Rachel rolled her eyes. She increasingly felt she had lost touch with the younger generation. She had been married to David before she graduated. All her uni friends, apart from Jojo, soon stopped inviting her to do normal young people stuff as, to them, being married at nineteen was frankly a little dull.
Lydia wanted vodka to be the new gin. The recent ginaissance had done wonders for the drinks industry. She was sure that if crafted and marketed in the correct way, vodka could easily overtake gin in sales and popularity. Lydia spent the whole weekend before the pitch getting it perfect. She had identified forty-two key dates of the year for a social media calendar and designed ten working partnerships in and around the capital to boost the new brand. When they finally won the account it was thanks to her great work – Rachel was super proud of her progress. Lydia was definitely ready to manage her own accounts.
The box contained six large bottles of high-end vodka. VD Original came in three strengths (39%, 45% and 52% – or God help us as Rachel privately referred to it) and there were three VD Flavours (pineapple, vanilla, cherry). Rachel touched the packaging. It really was bad. When competing against no-frills suppliers such as supermarket own-brands, which already undercut craft alcohol on price and quantity, she was going to have to face the owner head on with a difficult conversation about branding. Eva had three mugs ready for the tasting but Lydia would have none of it. She produced small shot glasses, seemingly from nowhere.
‘Ready?’ She gave them her widest smile.
First up, VD Original 39%. At half-past four in the afternoon, it really was too early for them to be drinking. But what the heck? They needed to know their product. They each took small sips and marked the liquid on the nose, taste, after-taste, taking into consideration depth and complexity of the spirit.
Rachel commended Lydia for a thorough marking sheet, and asked where the mixers were?
Lydia laughed nervously. ‘All vodka tastes the same with Coke and bitter lemon. We have to taste the true flavour.’
Rachel nodded, as if she had only been joking about the mixers. She wasn’t great with neat spirits, and was very much, 1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila, floor!
‘Lydia, I was wondering if you could help me with something …’ Eva asked.
‘Of course.’ The girl w
as always so eager to please.
‘How do you track someone down on social media?’
‘It depends … it’s harder if they have a name like Laura Smith because there are a gazillion of them. Who do you need to find?’
‘A girl.’ Eva was being elaborately casual about it. ‘Her name is Amelia-Rose, she might live near here, she’s about twenty-five?’
‘Ooooooh!’ Rachel was intrigued by this idea.
Lydia said she’d have a go but a few further details would be useful. ‘Write down everything you know about her.’
She prepared the second tasting: VD Original 45%. They all took larger sips this time and scribbled down their scores.
Rachel could tell the difference. This stronger one was much nicer. ‘What’s the price point on this, Lyds?’
‘It’s twenty-seven pounds a litre.’
As Lydia tapped away furiously into her phone, researching anyone with the name Amelia-Rose, she said casually, ‘You say she was at the spa last week, on a hen weekend. And the hen weekend was called …?’
‘Hashtag-Betty-Bride,’ Rachel and Eva sang in unison.
Lydia spent a few minutes more on her phone, her thumbs a blur of scrolling, flicking and typing. She squinted at the screen, finally selected a profile and showed the picture to Rachel.
‘It’s her!’ she squealed. ‘How did you find her?’ Rachel took Lydia’s phone to examine further.
‘Easy-peasy. If she’s local, there’s a good chance she’d complain about South West Trains on Twitter, add that with the first name and hen party hashtag – and voilà!’
Eva looked at Lydia with newfound respect.
‘Her full name is Amelia-Rose Springer,’ Rachel read aloud. ‘According to her social media, she is twenty-two years old. TWENTY-TWO!’ Amelia-Rose’s Facebook account was public (average two posts a day), and so Rachel was able to scroll through hundreds of posts. She next searched for her Twitter account (average eight tweets per day), and then found her Instagram (average four photos per day).
How to Marry Your Husband Page 20