by Jenny Colgan
Posy briefly thought about her wild Viking hooley and blushed somewhat.
‘Whereas she’s still ditzing about here and there, dating boys who pretend to be in bands, hanging out in Camden, for goodness’ sake - she’s not a teenager any more, but she could earn more from a paper round.’
‘Hmm,’ said Posy again. ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’
‘Plus, she enjoys being really really really annoying.’
‘And that’s the other.’
‘So was it worthwhile?’ asked Leah. ‘Did you discover what you were looking for?’
‘You know,’ said Posy, ‘I really didn’t think I would. At first I thought it was just gruesome and horrible and that Chris needed rescuing and it was all awful.’
‘Yes, all that horrible countryside and wildlife and fresh air . . . how could that possibly compare with the overpriced craziness of SW1?’ said Leah.
‘But then, I kind of figured out . . . well, it suited him. His girlfriend is, like, really bossy, but he likes that. And he tinkers a bit here and there and has an oil stove and lots of time to read books, and it was a really nice kind of life.’
‘Just not the one for you.’
‘No. But, yes, I do feel better. No hard feelings, no regrets . . . it was a long time ago.’
‘Good,’ said Leah. ‘I’m glad it went so well.’
‘He hasn’t changed a bit, not really,’ said Posy.
‘Did he think you had?’
‘Yes,’ said Posy.
‘For the better?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm,’ echoed Leah. ‘Did you fancy him?’
‘No,’ said Posy. ‘Well, about as much as I did when we broke up. We were like siblings by then.’
‘OK, good,’ said Leah. ‘Well, I’m glad it all worked out.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to tell me who gave you that stubble rash on your chin then?’
‘No!’ said Posy firmly. The Viking had slightly left his mark when he’d swept in. ‘Let’s talk about our engagement party.’
Margie looked sniffy when she got into the office the following morning. She never, Posy reflected, skipped an opportunity to get at her. Today she was wearing a tightly fitted short jacket over unflattering trousers, with a large cat brooch with spooky amethyst eyes winking at everyone.
‘Enjoy your holidays, did you?’
‘I took two days off,’ said Posy. ‘I cleared it with Gavin.’
‘Yes, well, I set up holiday rotas every year in January, and it’s not appropriate for people to take leave at such short notice. It’s very unfair to the rest of the staff and . . .’
Posy tuned Margie out while endeavouring to still look attentive. Sometimes it was the only way. She liked the office, even more since Gavin had started working there, but Margie had never ever forgiven her for him, even though it was years ago now. She thought about Chris, being his own boss and working his own hours, answerable to nobody. Her job had a lot going for it, but yes, sometimes that would be nice. Of course, that was a lot easier to do if you could grow your own turnips in the back garden and didn’t mind living off them for most of the winter, but still it seemed, when Margie started having a go, an enviable existence.
Gavin bounced in. ‘How goes it then, Posette?’ he breezed. ‘Tell me your mystery mission put you off the whole ridiculous idea for life. Well worth two days out of anyone’s schedule.’
Margie retreated, looking wounded.
‘It was nice, actually,’ said Posy. ‘Useful to see that domestic harmony can be achieved under almost any circumstances.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Gavin. ‘You know what the witch has done now? She changed the password on all my bank accounts and bills. So now I can’t get anything done.’
‘Ooh, that is harsh,’ said Posy, taken aback.
‘I know. I’ve already lost the internet service and the satellite telly. Probably be the water next.’
‘Mightn’t she just have changed the password to something? Something you can guess?’
Gavin frowned. ‘What, like “Gavin is an arsehole”?’
Posy shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
‘“I hate Gavin”?’ mused Gavin.
‘Could be.’
‘And that, Posette,’ said Gavin, pointing at her in front of the whole office, ‘is why we hired you. Smart thinking like that. I’ll be in my office.’
‘I thought you’d come round to the idea of this party,’ said Matt that evening. ‘Something in London. Nice. For us and our friends and families.’
Posy snuggled up to him, enjoying being home and cosy and familiar, as outside, against the seventh-floor window, rain hurled itself incessantly. ‘I’m glad we’re not on a boat,’ she murmured, half asleep.
‘Uh, me too,’ said Matt. ‘Although rowing is a great cardiovascular . . .’
‘Ssh, Ssh,’ said Posy. ‘Stop it. Shall we book a room above a pub?’
‘And tell the world.’
‘And tell the world.’
And she turned her face to his on the sofa, and, feeling calm, kissed him full on the mouth.
Chapter Eleven
Posy hopes everyone is coming to the party!
Comment: 17 people like.
Comment, Annie: See you there!
Comment, Pete B: Wouldn’t miss it.
Comment, Margie: I wasn’t informed of any party, but obviously wish you well.
‘What are you wearing?’ Posy entered the tiny bedroom, putting on her fail-safe purple party frock that made Leah sigh with resignation every time she saw it, but made Posy feel confident and small(ish) of waist.
Matt looked up from where he was practising a new stretch. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For the party that you wanted. What are you wearing? Maybe you should get a purple tie and we could be like Posh and Becks.’
Matt looked at her. ‘Is that what you would like?’
‘No! Apart from the expensive watches and stuff.’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it. My dress trainers maybe? Something boxfresh?’
‘Matt. You’re thirty-four. Soon to have a wife. Boxfresh is no longer an adjective you need.’
‘OK, smarty pants. Tell me how it is in London again. Us Blackpool idiots know nothing. Do I need a top hat? I don’t even know where to buy a monocle.’
‘What about a shirt?’
Matt shrugged his shoulders. ‘My mates will tease me.’
‘What are you all, nine?’
Matt’s friends from the gym were quite tribal: they liked football, body building magazines and trying to pull the more attractive of the gym bunnies under the nose of Mr Headingly, their boss. Posy found them a bit intimidating in a group - all her friends went on about how fit they were all the time.
‘Well, who’s coming then? The Lord Mayor to do an inspection?’
Posy shrugged. ‘The usual, really. The uni lot, the girls from the office.’
Matt looked perturbed. ‘Are they all going to get pissed up again and launch themselves at the guys? It’s a bit embarrassing. ’
‘Why?’
Matt shrugged. ‘’Cause some of your friends are . . . you know.’
Posy did and she hated him saying it. ‘You mean they’re not twenty-five years old with the BMI of a hamster? And the brain of a hamster?’
‘Well, they spend all night saying they reckon my friends are thick, then they get totally pished up, show off their gigantic knockers and launch themselves at them.’
‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’
‘OK. I suppose as long as they’re warned. Who else is coming? Your mum?’
Posy nodded. ‘Probably. With her lemon face on.’
‘Aren’t parties good for the psyche?’
‘Not when you’re propelling your eldest daughter into a life of slavery and misery.’
‘Oh, yes. Will you make me a cup of tea?’
‘No.’
‘OK. What about your dad?’
&
nbsp; Posy shrugged, applying her make-up in the mirror over the chest of drawers. ‘I asked Mum to tell him about it.’
It was all right for Matt, he had two nice parents who loved him dearly. Wasn’t the same thing at all.
‘So don’t you care if he comes or not? He is your dad, Posy. You are a bit—’
‘He won’t.’ Posy shut her eye shadow with a snap. Matt would never understand. His dad had never walked out on his wife and family. He’d never had to watch his own mother crumple and fall apart.
They’d met, in fact; she and Matt had run into them on Oxford Street one day. Her dad’s second wife Marian was there, with their overgrown son Jason, and they were walking into Garfunkel’s. Posy and Matt were on their way to Niketown.
‘Oh Christ! It’s my dad!’ Posy had said, to Matt’s surprise, trying to push them into the store.
‘Posy!’ Marian had always tried to be warm towards both of the girls, which, as a heavily dyed, large-bosomed blonde who’d stolen their dad, they treated as ridiculous. ‘How lovely to see you here!’
‘We live in London,’ said Posy. ‘Hi . . .’ She didn’t really like to say Dad. ‘Hi, Jason.’
Jason grunted. ‘I want chips. Real chips.’
‘I’m sure they’ll have real chips,’ said Marian, stroking the back of Jason’s beefy shoulders. Jason was twenty then. She turned to Posy, looking worried. ‘Do you think Garfunkel’s does real chips?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Posy stiffly. She knew she was being rude, but she found it hard when her whole body went rigid inside. What he had done to them and her mother.
‘Hello,’ said Matt, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Matt.’
Posy’s dad, Ray, had shaken it. ‘Hello,’ he’d said with a smile. ‘Are you . . .?’
‘I’m Posy’s boyfriend.’
Later, Posy was so proud of Matt for the calm way he’d dealt with the situation. At the time, however, she was mortified. Her father was just so obviously pleased.
‘Oh, hello! How nice to meet you! We never get to meet any of Posy’s young men, uh, not that . . . anyway. We’re in town to take Jason to the football.’
‘Oh yes? Arsenal?’
‘Of course!’
‘I like Gallas,’ said Jason, launching into an incomprehensible (to Posy) discussion of tactics. Her father and Matt joined in, all gesticulating excitedly.
‘What are they like, those men of ours?’ said Marian, affectionately. ‘It’s good for Jason to get out and about. He’s so sensitive, you know.’
Posy thought Jason was possibly the least sensitive example of humanity outside of Simon Cowell, but didn’t mention it.
‘Hmm,’ she said.
‘He’s lovely-looking, your bloke,’ said Marian. ‘Seems nice, too.’ She studied him a bit longer. ‘You know, it’s funny,’ she said. ‘He reminds me a bit of your dad when he was younger.’
‘You are joking,’ said Posy.
‘Oh no. He had hair once, you know.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Posy sourly.
‘We’d . . . we’d love you both to come out to Essex sometime, ’ said Marian. ‘Anytime. You don’t have to ask, just pop in.’
Posy’s dad overheard. ‘Yes, we would. Plus I have to explain a few simple rules of football to this young man here.’
‘Ah, no, I don’t think so,’ said Matt, smiling. ‘Your father, Posy, appears to be labouring under several terrible miscomprehensions. ’
Jason snorted. Ray smiled.
‘Listen,’ Matt added, ‘don’t suppose you’d like to join us for lunch?’
Marian nodded excitedly.
‘We have to get on,’ Posy had said.
Matt looked disappointed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. We have to get those trainers.’
‘I have forty-five pairs of trainers. It’s not that urgent, surely?’
But Posy had been adamant. Matt hadn’t understood at all when she wouldn’t speak to him all the way home.
‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘He seems nice. They all did.’
‘Well, he isn’t,’ Posy had said. ‘He left me when I was eight years old. And Fleur was four. For her. So no. He’s not that nice.’
And after that, the conversation was closed.
So Matt knew when to leave it alone. He’d tried to prod her about her father before, and got absolutely nowhere. He bent to his trainers, the Converse that Posy liked because they reminded her of her favourite Doctor Who.
‘You’re not really sure about this party, are you?’ asked Matt.
‘Yes, I am, I’m fine!’ said Posy.
‘What’s up? Don’t your mates approve of me?’ He pulled her to him.
‘They think you’re far too good for me . . . I’m joking.’
‘You look nice.’
‘Thank you.’ Posy stroked his handsome face. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing. He wasn’t like her dad. Nothing like him.
‘How bad can it be?’ said Matt.
The party, given that she wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, turned out busier than Posy had expected. Well, obviously there were a clutch of gym bunnies from Matt’s work, whom Posy had always made a point of avoiding. They were standing around the bar dressed in Adidas - Posy often wondered what the point was of all that incredibly painful working out and starving yourself if you were going to cover yourself up with trackie bottoms like Kerry Katona on a bender. If she was a hard-bodied size six she would wear Herve Leger and a ball-gown to pop down to the shops. They stood together drinking smoothies and looking faintly contemptuous, eyeing up the bodies of the other girls. Well, excuse me for people trying to have fun at a party, thought Posy crossly.
Although was that Joyce from her office getting the punch funnelled down her neck? Good! It was only seven-thirty. Posy put on her best smile and decided to be nice to everyone, as she was princess of this party. And to think she hadn’t even been sure about Matt, or getting engaged . . .
‘Hello, Kaylee, Staycee, Haylee and Cayree,’ she said, smiling. How did they even get their ponytails to swing in unison like that? Had they had a meeting? ‘Thanks for coming!’
‘Congratulations,’ said one of them - it could have been Kaylee, Staycee, Haylee or Cayree - without really allowing a smile to crack across her orange face.
‘So you got Matt,’ said another. ‘Well, he’s always been popular.’
Posy wondered what that was supposed to mean.
‘Yes, what was your secret?’ said another, in a slightly snarky tone. As always when she went near a gym, Posy was instantly aware of every tiny piece of cellulite on her body. She realised her ambitions to be a delightful princess to everyone all night were perhaps a tad unrealistic, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. Focus. What Posy really wanted to say was, Oh, didn’t he tell you? He hates that over-worked-out look. Thinks it’s a bit desperate. Likes something a bit more self-confident and feminine . After all, they were asking such rude questions. Instead, she smiled politely and muttered, ‘Oh, it’s a really filthy trick I picked up in Bangkok,’ and started to back away, scouting for the tray of mini-sausages. They were watching her strangely regardless. Well, it didn’t matter now, did it? Matt was hers, hahahaha, and she didn’t have to have those snot-faces looking down their noses at her. So there.
She headed back into the main body of the room, feeling wicked and excited. Matt was across the other side, talking to someone else in a tracksuit. She sighed. Maybe she could ban tracksuits from their marriage. Perhaps unlikely with a personal trainer . . . She went over to him and gently pinched his bum.
‘Ow!’ yelled Matt.
‘Hey, it’s my bum now,’ said Posy. Matt looked a trifle embarrassed, but put his arm round her. ‘Uhm, sweetheart, this is the boss of my gym, Mr Headingly.’
Mr Headingly was so well-preserved he looked absolutely dreadful. Between the carefully dyed hair, the eye lift, the ingrained tan, the too-white teeth, the honed figure and the manicure
, he could have been any age from forty to a hundred and five.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Posy. ‘Do you run that whole gym?’
Mr Headingly let out a loud laugh, showing off his stupidly white teeth. ‘Do I run that whole gym?’
Matt laughed, too. Posy shot him a look to ask him what the hell he was laughing at, but he couldn’t return her gaze.
‘So, is that a no?’ she ventured.
‘Lady . . .’ He seemed quite overcome with fake mirth. Posy wanted to glance at her watch. ‘You tell her, Matt,’ he managed eventually.
‘Uhm, Mr Headingly has five gyms,’ said Matt. Posy couldn’t quite see why that was so funny. If he’d said, ‘Mr Headingly owns every gym from here to Sydney, Australia and also the Olympics,’ well, that might have been something strange, but . . .
‘Wow,’ said Posy. ‘Five gyms. That’s amazing.’
‘So, what do you do to manage to tempt my top personal trainer here?’
Matt looked at her, grinning. Posy felt a little flicker run across her.
‘You know, I wish everyone would stop asking me that! I don’t have any special tricks. Except for, you know, all the filthy ones.’
Mr Headingly laughed again. ‘Oh yes, you chunky girls are always right goers.’
Posy froze. Matt did too, right between his boss and his new fiancée. Thankfully Leah came bouncing up, wearing a top that appeared to be made out of Licorice Allsorts. She had the kind of body mass index Mr Headingly would approve of (it was the law for working in fashion), which meant two glasses of the fake champagne in her empty stomach and she was on the point of falling over.
‘Matt! Matt!’ she yelled, slurring slightly. She caught sight of Mr Headingly and tried fitfully to focus. ‘How old are you?’ she blurted, before Posy grabbed her arm.
‘Now, that’s a good question,’ said Mr Headingly, puffing out his chest, clearly waxed, through the hippy Indian cotton shirt he was wearing. ‘What would you reckon?’
‘Sixty-one,’ said Leah.
Mr Headingly took a step back. All the jocularity had gone out of him and he looked winded. ‘Uh, yes. Sixty-one,’ he muttered. ‘Exactly. Uhm. Well done.’