by Jenny Colgan
‘Have you told Mum yet?’
Posy sighed. ‘What do you think?’
Posy and Fleur’s mother was a psychotherapist. She was constantly exhorting them to tell her about their childhood. Because of her extreme nosiness and occasional experimental techniques (such as starting each day when they were younger with dream dissection, as a result of which Posy and Fleur pretended to dream about nice friendly butterflies and rainbows for about four years apiece), the girls elected to tell her as little as possible about their lives.
Posy screwed up her eyes and pretended to take off imaginary glasses.
‘It seems to me that the loss of a father figure at a young age has led to trust issues with the masculine species, compounded by a particularly difficult break-up in the subject’s late twenties, thus leading me to conclude that . . .’
Fleur continued, ‘. . . her desperate hunt for commitment from any source has led her to accept a life of rape-filled slavery from a human male masquerading as a P.E. teacher.’
‘OK, that’s enough,’ said Posy, throwing a cushion at her head. ‘And he’s a personal trainer.’
‘These feelings of inadequacy and social pressure as she approaches her middle thirties . . .’
Posy kicked her firmly on the leg. The girls had mostly grown out of their belief, as know-it-all teenagers, that their mother’s clients, some of whom came for years to the rambling clinic at the top of the house, were just losers, and their mother should inform them of this fact. But a certain distrust of their mother, who was frequently so deep in her clients’ problems she would forget to put supper on the table, who believed doing housework was a sign of slavery and/or anxiety, and who clearly loved them but only in quite an abstract fashion, ran deep.
‘Want to know what I really love about Matt?’ she asked her sister suddenly.
‘I don’t know . . . it’s that you want to be taken care of combined with a horror of your biological clock running out? A horror of getting your heart broken again? A fear of being alone at thirty-two and possessing a deeply conventional nature?’
‘He is uncomplicated. Jeez. I’m off to phone Leah. You’re turning into Mum, by the way. The imitation is absolutely spot-on.’
Fifteen minutes after the phone call, Leah turned up on the doorstep bearing a bottle of gift-wrapped champagne and four editions of bridal magazines.
‘EEEEK!’ she shrieked, the second Posy opened the door.
‘That’s more like it,’ said Posy, gratefully accepting her best friend’s hug.
‘EEEEK!’ said Leah again. ‘You’re getting married!’
‘I know!’
‘Did you buy all those magazines?’ said Fleur. ‘Wow, that was quick.’
‘Uh, no, I had them lying around,’ said Leah, trying to look nonchalant at this fact. Fleur rolled her eyes.
‘Fleur, you are not too old for me to send you out of the room,’ said Posy.
‘This is my flat!’ said Fleur, looking stung. She had always been the younger sister when Posy and Leah were dressing up and going out, and had never quite got over her feelings of resentment.
‘Let me see, let me see!’ clamoured Leah, going for Posy’s hand.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, “Oh”? I love it,’ said Posy.
‘I know, I just wondered if he’d let you choose it.’ She turned to Fleur. ‘I’m going to have emerald-cut rose diamonds on a rose-gold band.’
Fleur heaved a sigh. ‘I’m going to have blah blah blah, waste of head space. I’m going to make tea. Do you want some?’
‘Is it still that stuff that tastes of toe jam?’ said Posy.
‘I roll my own tea. What’s wrong with that?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Leah and Posy simultaneously.
‘Well, I love it,’ said Posy determinedly, gazing at her ring.
‘Posy,’ said Fleur maddeningly from the corner of the room, kettle in hand. ‘How does Leah know what kind of ring she wants when she hasn’t got a boyfriend?’
‘Shut up, Fleur,’ Posy said.
Leah stretched out. ‘Are you the happiest girl in the world?’
Posy smiled. ‘I suppose.’
‘What do you mean, you suppose? Aren’t you delirious? Don’t you keep bursting into song, like Amy Adams?’
‘Yeah,’ said Fleur from her corner. ‘“The Drugs Don’t Work”.’
‘SHUT UP, FLEUR.’
‘No, I’m really chuffed, I really am,’ Posy said. ‘Honestly. It just took me a bit by surprise, that’s all.’
‘I really thought Robert was going to propose,’ said Leah. ‘I walked really slowly past jewellery shops and everything.’
‘You went out with Robert for two weeks,’ Posy said, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. She knew Leah was pretty keen on finding a man, but she’d never suspected the depths of it.
‘Yes, but I just thought he might be The One. I thought we might get caught up in a whirlwind and he might fly me to Vegas and just whisk me off. It could happen.’
‘It could happen,’ Posy agreed. ‘To crazy people. You didn’t mention this to him?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Leah. ‘Well. Maybe I just said it one night for a joke.’
‘We’re over thirty! How could that be a joke?’ Something dawned on her. ‘I always wondered why you two broke up so quickly.’
‘Well, he wasn’t ready for a commitment,’ said Leah sulkily.
‘After eight days.’ Posy shook her head. ‘Fleur, stop boiling that kettle. Instead, I think we need booze.’
‘Anyway,’ said Leah, ‘I’ve highlighted some really lovely venues in here but there’s a few I wouldn’t want you to use because I’d like them.’
‘Lots of booze,’ Posy said.
Several hours later they were all lying on the floor of the bedsit. Dirty Dancing was playing on the DVD. Posy didn’t think it was the first time it had been on. Leah had a pair of black tights tied round her arm in memoriam.
‘You,’ Leah was saying loudly, ‘are the luckiest girl in the world.’
Posy stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Was that one spider’s web or two?
‘Course I’m not,’ she said. ‘People get engaged every day.’
That wasn’t the right answer. There was a loud sniff. Posy felt terrible.
‘Come on, Leah, that’s not what I mean.’
But it was too late. She’d started sobbing.
‘What is it?’
‘Everyone’s going to get married! Except me! And I’ll be left behind and then I’ll have to have a donor baby only it will turn out to be sperm donated by a prisoner and it will grow up and hate me and turn evil and do mass murder and I’ll be in all the papers.’
Posy propped herself up on one arm.
‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve kind of been married,’ said Fleur.
‘You have not!’
‘I have! I got married to that drummer I met at Glastonbury. A tree married us. In a field. It was gorgeous.’
‘I am not lending you the money to go to Glastonbury any more.’
‘I wonder where he is,’ mused Fleur. ‘I think he wanted us to have a threesome with that tree.’
‘See! What’s wrong with me?’ sniffed Leah.
Posy sat up. ‘Nothing is wrong with you.’
Posy meant this sincerely. Leah had been her best friend since she’d been cutting out wedding gown dress-up doll patterns in Miss Wheeler’s Year Four. ‘Look at you! You’re supercool. You have a great flat and a really great job.’
Leah did PR for a fashion company. Not much money in it, but she always got to go to cool things and she got free clothes. Frankly, sometimes Posy thought the clothes were a bit odd - today she was wearing gigantic parachute pants and a silver Star Trek T-shirt - but she did love it.
‘So it’s just going to take you a bit longer.’
Leah rested her chin on one hand.
‘I
t’s not fair. You work for the most boring company on earth and all you do is meet hot men in suits and ties all day long and get to slip off and have sex in the toilets with them.’
‘That was one time Matt came over and—’
‘Meanwhile I, who have a fabulous job lots of people would kill for, spend all day with really really thin women deliberately not eating lunch, and gay men complaining about how fat everyone is these days. Next to nine-foot-tall sixteen-year-old Croatian girls. It’s totally not fair. And I haven’t got long!’
Fleur looked up to where she was mimicking Baby’s dance moves on the screen, but using her fingers. ‘What about men who come up to you on the street and in bars and give you flowers and stuff?’
Posy and Leah both rolled their eyes at her.
‘We don’t look that available,’ Posy said.
‘Or that hot,’ said Fleur quietly.
‘Well, whatever,’ said Leah. ‘It’s still not fair. Especially when you’re not really cut out for marriage.’
‘What?’ Posy said. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so drunk.
‘Well, you know. To Matt. You’re just not that fussed.’
‘That’s not true!’ Posy said. ‘I’m . . . quite fussed.’
‘Oh, I understand. After everything that happened before with—’
‘Don’t say his name,’ said Fleur.
Leah rolled her eyes. ‘OK. Lord Voldemort.’
Posy tutted. ‘You can say his name.’
‘I can,’ said Leah. ‘Can you?’
Posy could see what they were driving at. She could. One moment she was whirling in shock, recovering from the love of her life, her heart ripped out, stamped on, rolled in the dust and ground into the floor. The next she was dating big bluff handsome Matt, straightforward, plain speaking and not particularly exceptional in any way. She understood that it looked weird to them. She did. But she just didn’t . . . she didn’t feel like talking about it. It was three years ago, it was all in the past. She hardly gave . . . him . . . she hardly gave him a second thought these days. Hardly at all.
Leah was still talking.
‘And of course,’ she was saying, ‘with your dad and everything. ’
‘Bollocks. It’s nothing to do with my dad.’ Posy sat up. ‘Hang on. How come we’re meant to be celebrating my engagement and we’re all lying on the floor nearly in tears?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Fleur. ‘Except that Leah’s right about everything.’
‘Shut up!’
Chapter Three
Posy is not opning hereyes justyet.
‘How was it?’ said Matt. He’d brought bagels in bed and a very large coffee to soothe Posy’s aching head.
‘Yeah, great,’ said Posy crossly.
‘Really?’
‘No, it was terrible. I need to change my best friend and my sister. But apart from that, fine.’
Matt sat on the edge of the bed. They were kind of over the stage now of Posy wanting to put lipstick on before he saw her, but she kept her post-wine breath away from him in any case.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Aren’t they happy for you?’
‘Yes, of course they are,’ Posy said reassuringly. ‘They’re wildly jealous.’
‘Even Fleur?’
‘Apart from Fleur.’
‘So, just the scary one.’
‘Leah isn’t scary! She’s just fashionable.’
‘She looks like an emaciated crow.’
‘That was just her emaciated crow period. Now she’s much more . . .’
‘Japanese vampire.’
‘She just wants to meet a nice guy and settle down.’
‘Then she should stop dressing like she’s in the mood to suck blood. It’s not rocket science. You’re going to be late for work.’
‘I don’t want to go to work. Can’t I stop working now and just stay at home and float about in a floral pinny and you can support us both?’
For a second Posy saw a momentary stab of panic cross his face.
‘I’m kidding. Kidding!’
‘Oh, OK. Yeah, I knew that.’
‘So what are you up to today?’
‘I was going to think about talking to my backer.’
Matt looked a little awkward. He’d been thinking about setting up his own practice for a while - he had plenty of clients - but was nervous about leaving his imposing boss, and a little unsure as to whether he wanted to be self-employed. Posy thought he’d be absolutely fantastic: he was so calm and well-organised. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t think that too. He had a nice down-to-earth sensibility that she thought would see him well, and was naturally cautious; he already worried about the mortgage more than they needed to.
Posy was absolutely, definitely going to stop buying coffee in a paper cup to keep her hands warm while she got to her office opposite Victoria Station. It was ridiculously expensive, she told herself, they had a perfectly good coffee maker at home from which she could easily fill up a flask, and it was just so self-indulgent, like, ‘I am so special and precious I must have an overpriced cup of froth every day to make me feel fulfilled.’
But of course she still did it. Commuter’s compensation.
As she left the station, head down, clutching her hands around it to keep them warm and deeply regretting her sore head and scratchy tongue, she heard a voice say her name.
‘Posy?’
Posy glanced up. It could be a bit of a problem, having to cross a major London terminal twice a day. Statistically, everyone you’ve ever met in your life is going to pass through there sooner or later. Posy tried not to sound unsurprised when someone remarked on what an amazing coincidence it was to run into her when 300,000 people pass through every week.
Sure enough, her heart sank. It would always, always be on the days when she was feeling really cruddy and a bit grubby, when she wasn’t quite sure she’d rubbed the last bits of the previous night’s mascara from under her eyes. The glamorous ones. And this girl - what was her name again? Anyway, she was certainly glamorous. Posy reminded herself that brides-to-be were meant to be on diets, not chowing down gigantic full-fat lattes. Under her sleeve, Posy found her thumb rubbing up against her new, unfamiliar-feeling ring. It felt comforting, like a magical talisman. Sasha. That was it.
‘Oh. Hello, Sasha,’ Posy said, smiling as nicely as she could. Which wasn’t very, and wasn’t fair under the circumstances - it wasn’t Sasha’s fault that she was five-foot-ten, all of it legs and lips and long glossy hair. It wasn’t her fault that she was a friend of Adam, after all, and that when they broke up she had naturally taken his side. It wasn’t even her fault that throughout their six-month relationship she had treated Posy as some kind of temporary distraction, unworthy of attention, because, as it turned out, that’s exactly what she was.
None of this useful, mature, grown-up reflection, however, made Posy’s first instinct - to shout, ‘Go away, ho!’ and run for her life - any less strong. But she swallowed it down.
‘Hello!’ Sasha gushed, as if they were great friends. ‘How are you? It’s been ages.’
Well, yes, it had. Nine years. She looked the same as ever - no, she didn’t, she looked more expensive. She worked in the City so had probably stashed away some cash in the big melt-down. Posy was surprised she’d remembered her name. Then she realised she hadn’t actually said it, and probably didn’t.
‘I’m engaged!’ Posy announced, before she could help herself. Instantly she cringed. It sounded like the most crass naff thing ever.
Sasha’s eyes didn’t widen. ‘Oh, lovely, how gorgeous. Can I see the ring?’
Posy showed her and she glanced it over quickly, as if just checking it wasn’t too big or anything.
‘Lovely. So who is he?’
‘You don’t know him,’ Posy said. ‘But he’s great.’
‘Of course he is!’ She patted Posy on the arm, as if she’d been defensive, which she had been. They stood there another second.
‘So
. . .’ Posy said finally. Sasha seemed to be waiting for her to ask. ‘How’s Adam?’
Sasha’s voice took on a serious tone. ‘Oh, same as ever, you know Adam.’
‘Cars, money, booze . . .’
‘Yes, well, it starts to look less appealing at his age.’ Sasha eyed her closely. ‘It’s a shame he didn’t end up with someone like you, you know.’
‘No, it’s not!’ Posy said scornfully. The sting of it came back to her again. Adam, his eyes slightly red-rimmed from late nights and long days staring at the bank’s computers; his pure white collar skew-whiff and his expensive suit rumpled. How funny to be thinking of Adam, after a weekend when it should be all about Matt.
It’s just, babe - Adam always called her babe. Sometimes Posy wondered if maybe remembering her name was too much trouble - I just can’t be tied down, you know? With everything that’s going on? It’s not you, babe, I’m just . . .
Now Posy was older, she did understand what he was saying. He was too young to get tied down. Somehow Posy thought he might always be too young to get tied down; inside he would for ever be a twenty-three-year-old with a Ferrari and a cool job who simply could not believe his luck.
She smiled at the memory. ‘He’s such a doof. Say hi from me.’
‘Will do,’ said Sasha. Posy wondered if she’d ever married that gorgeous Syrian derivatives expert she used to see.
‘Well, nice to talk,’ Posy said, and watched as Sasha moved elegantly - she always moved elegantly - towards the cab rank.
How strange, she mused, arriving at the reception of her office. Just as I get engaged, I suddenly have to think about Adam, who really hasn’t crossed my mind in years. Posy remembered how glamorous and fun he’d been, with his mad car, glamorous friends, late nights and endless yabbering about money.
And it had been fun - and money was important. But the young guys who make it and move it about . . . they seemed to be a law and a world unto themselves. One into which Posy didn’t quite fit.
Deep in thought, she muttered a hello to the receptionist and clicked her ID pass through the doors to get to the lift.
‘Hold it!’ shouted a voice as she went to press floor nine. ‘Hello, Posy! You are absolutely miles away. What happened to you, dream of marshmallows and wake up eating your pillow?’ Gavin smiled.