What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  She looks upset and I search her face for something. Is she still having fun with this? All this competitive wedding fair talk feels very forced and unlike Lauren.

  ‘Are you finding the planning a bit much?’ I say softly across the table, and she looks at me like I’ve slapped her.

  ‘Of course not!’ she snaps. ‘It’s wonderful and I’m on top of it all. I told you six months was plenty of time. I’m fine, it’s fine,’ she falters before speedily adding, ‘I’m just imagining my parents’ face if I said I wanted to do all this over again in a year. They’ve given us so much money, and they’re using it as leverage, demanding we invite some distant cousins to my wedding.’ She tuts and adds loudly – just as the bladder-problem uncle returns from the loos – ‘I’ve barely even met these dick pricks.’

  He looks perturbed by the language, turning on his heel and walking off again. Maybe he just needed another wee. Those infections get you like that.

  Lauren continues, unabashed, ‘I don’t see why they have to be there. Why would they even want to come? Mum says I have to invite them because I went to theirs when I was, like, seven. I hardly remember it, except that the whole day was totally gross. They had a buffet, ugh, and I had to wear a purple flower-girl dress that didn’t even fit me. Everyone kept patting me like I was a dumb dog.’

  Joely snorts. ‘I had to wear the same thing. It wasn’t that bad. And I got petted way more than you because I looked much cuter in purple.’

  They glare affectionately at each other for a second, and then Petra – realising she is no longer the centre of attention – starts screaming about dancing, jumping out of her seat and knocking over the pink taffeta centrepiece.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ignoring the mess and grabbing Lauren’s hand. ‘Let’s get this party started.’

  10

  I’m panting embarrassingly as I arrive at the Fuddy-Duddies United meeting. Two whole minutes of running and look at me. Sweat is pouring down my face and my knees are threatening to buckle – completely pathetic. Forget the sissy yoga, I need to start doing more of those aerobics classes.

  I’m late and I sneak in at the back, knowing I will get told off by at least eight different Category-A grandmas.

  There are three types of old lady who attend the FU (why yes, I do enjoy saying FU every time, thank you for asking). There’s the aforementioned Category A – the really grumpy, angry-at-everything women, who want to tell you specifically and furiously about how many fields this whole area used to be made up of and how everything has been ruined by their disappearance. Category B is a smaller group, comprised of ladies who act bewildered and afraid of everything you say. But they will definitely still ask you about Facebook. Over and over. And it doesn’t matter how many times you explain it to them, they still don’t get it, and will never get it, so stop spending half your evening every single week going through it. And definitely don’t let them look at it on your phone because they will totally ‘like’ photos of your bastard ex-boyfriend from 2010.

  NB: This is more advice for myself.

  Oh, and they also want to talk about the fields this building used to sit on.

  Then there’s Category C: the mischievous grandmas. These women are totally on Snapchat, and like to wind the other two categories up with the tales they bring back from the frontline of ‘young people’ and their ‘filters’. Although, if pressed, Category C do also enjoy talking to you about fields that are long since gone.

  I’m going out on a limb right now and saying fields are a big thing for old ladies.

  Franny rules them all, as a Category A-, B- and C-type grandma, and the smartest of them all.

  Today she is clearly in C – Mischievous Grandma – mode as she smiles widely at my sneaky entrance, pronouncing loudly, ‘Ah, Delilah, you’re here at last! Tell the group about that mad wedding you went to at the weekend.’

  I freeze in the act of sitting quietly down at the back. Catherine’s wedding. She wants me to tell everyone about the wedding. Of course she does. Oh God.

  Obviously, Franny’s already heard about it during our lunches together this week, but these ladies have not. We stare at each other now for a full ten seconds. She knows this story will infuriate and confuse the group – that’s why she wants me to tell it.

  They all turn in their chairs towards me, knitting paused mid-stitch around the room.

  I clear my throat and make eye contact with 84-year-old Molly’s always-watering right eye. She’s a Category A.

  A for Angry.

  ‘Oh, Franny,’ I hedge. ‘They don’t want to hear about yet another one of my weddings! We have much better things to talk about. We have to start preparations for our breast cancer tea party next month. And I haven’t downloaded the sudoku update yet, but I hear really great things.’ I nod encouragingly at the room, waiting for someone to chime in.

  Franny takes a step towards me, menacingly. ‘Tell. Them. About. The. Wedding,’ she repeats, that damned left eyebrow going again. There will be no more debate.

  I swallow. Dammit, this is meant to be my respite from wedding nonsense.

  ‘Right! Well, yes, the wedding. It was lovely . . .’ I say. ‘The bride wore pink, and so did the groom.’

  Molly’s right eye starts watering angrily.

  Franny’s smile gets wider, more wicked. ‘And then later?’

  I hang my head, defeated. ‘Later on, things . . . things got out of hand. It was meant to be a cash bar, but the groom was so drunk by five o’clock that he volunteered his credit card to buy everyone’s drinks for the rest of the night. He then bought seventeen separate rounds of Jägerbombs for the entire room. And for some reason, he insisted that every glass came topped with whipped cream. There was whipped cream everywhere – on the floor, on the walls of the marquee, on the ceiling. Then one of the cousins broke his ankle slipping in the cream and got taken away by ambulance.’

  The group is silent, staring at me.

  ‘Then?’ says Franny merrily.

  I sigh. ‘Then the groomsmen all got into a fight and they knocked down one whole end of the marquee. Unfortunately it was the section where all the parents and grandparents were hiding. The groom tried to help his new mother-in-law out from underneath the tenting and she thought he was attacking her, so she punched him in the groin, which then made him throw up all over her.’ I take a deep breath. ‘So it was around then that the management started going crazy and shouting that the bar bill had hit fifteen thousand pounds and that they’d also have to pay for all the damage. The bride started crying and screaming hysterically, and said the money was meant to be the deposit for their new house. She said she wanted a divorce and then the groom – who was still being sick – also wet himself.’

  There is a long, heavy silence as the ladies in the group process what I’ve said. Franny looks the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time as she surveys the room and waits for reactions from its occupants.

  At last, Molly speaks. She is livid. Her left eye has now joined the right in the angry watering.

  ‘A . . . a . . .’ She can’t even get the words out. She is spitting with the effort. ‘A . . . PINK DRESS?’

  The room erupts in delighted gossip about new fashions and what’s-wrong-with-tradition comments and, of course, some stuff about fields that used to be here.

  Oh God, I wish we didn’t have to talk about this. The FU is meant to be my one escape from wedding chat. I’m here to feel better about my life and hit them with my latest quiz questions. They’re my practice audience and they always get every single question right. They’re amazing.

  One of the Category-C ladies, Annabel, shuffles closer to me. She can barely contain her excitement. ‘Do you have any pictures of these pink wedding outfits?’ she says in a low, conspiratorial voice. She wants to see it first so she can lord it over the others while they’re distracted. I pull out my phone
for her to review Facebook. She flicks expertly but disinterestedly past the carnage shots – kindly uploaded by the best man, who has tagged the mother-in-law in an action shot, dripping with Jägerbomb puke.

  ‘Are you not interested in the boozy, fighty stuff too?’ I ask curiously, as Annabel shrieks with happiness at shots of the pink ceremony.

  ‘Ha!’ she huffs, not looking up. ‘You think we didn’t get up to that kind of nonsense when we were young too? Getting drunk and being sick on each other hasn’t changed much in centuries. That’s not shocking at all, love, but wearing a pink wedding dress . . . now that’s exciting. Look at this poor, silly child!’ She jabs a gnarled finger at my phone screen. ‘She looks like a walking blob of candy floss! Can you even imagine what my mother would’ve said about this? She would’ve sent me to live in a convent just for suggesting such a thing.’ She sighs, adding dreamily, ‘Isn’t the new world we live in just wonderful? What I wouldn’t give to be young now.’

  I give her arm a squeeze. ‘Believe me when I say, Annabel, that it is mostly pretty shit.’

  A furious Molly interrupts (her eyes are both streaming heavily now). ‘And you, Delilah, you. I expected better from you! Attending a wedding where the bride wears pink? It’s unthinkable. You shouldn’t be associating with such nonsense. And isn’t this the sixth wedding you’ve been to this year? It’s only March, young lady. Can’t you save it for the summer, like we used to?’

  ‘It’s July, you stupid old bint,’ snaps Franny, always protecting me, even at twenty-eight.

  ‘How are you affording all this, anyway?’ Molly adds, ignoring Franny and narrowing her eyes at me suspiciously. ‘I expect that stupid job of yours pays stupid money, doesn’t it? I don’t pay my license fee just so you can go off to pink weddings all the time.’

  ‘Actually, Molly, I make very little mon—’ I start but she’s not interested in any facts.

  ‘It’s not like in my day when you had to actually do proper work – intense manual labour – to earn a crust. You lot swan about with your internet and your touch screens, and expect everything to be handed to you on a plate.’

  ‘How much did you pay for your house, Molly?’ Franny says sweetly. ‘About two thousand pounds, was it?’

  Molly shuts up.

  Just then, one of our more recent additions to the group, Ethel, comes running in. She looks distraught and I can see the gleam of her balding head through white, thinning hair as she passes under the light.

  ‘Ethel, what’s wrong?’ I ask, standing up, a little relieved for the distraction. She shakes her head, confused and frightened (Category B). Maybe she accidentally caught a few minutes of Ex on the Beach again. That took three long months to explain.

  ‘I was trying to use the computer in the office . . .’ she begins, stuttering. ‘My grandson keeps sending me emails and I was trying to print them out so I could read them. But the phone in there kept ringing, so I answered it and it was this chap with a foreign-sounding name – I think it was Mussolini . . .’

  I feel confident it was not Mussolini. This feels very racist.

  Ethel keeps going. ‘And he kept talking about the youth club and had we got his messages.’ She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t know what he was talking about and then he said this building has been earmarked for closure. They’re knocking it down. We’re being evicted! No more Fuddy-Duddies United! He said we’re on notice and they’re giving us a couple more months to make alternative arrangements but then they’re shutting down the building either way!’

  Ethel bursts into tears as she finishes her speech and Molly screams at the rest of us, ‘WHAT DID SHE SAY?!’ I don’t know if it’s shock or she really couldn’t hear – Molly only wears her hearing aid about twenty per cent of the time because she says she likes the freedom of not being able to hear people when it suits her.

  I replay Ethel’s words in my head. Evicted? How can that be? Shit. This is awful news. Alternative arrangements? What does that mean? This group has been coming here for years. It’s a second home for many of the ladies. We’ve even converted the loos to be old-lady friendly and there’s nothing else like this anywhere nearby. We can’t afford to rent anything. Alternative arrangements? There is no alternative. For a few of these women, it’s the only time they leave their house. It’s brought the community together. They need this.

  Ethel is still sobbing and starts talking again through her tears. ‘He didn’t even make small talk when I answered the phone. He just asked me who I was, and then started shouting at me. He was horrible. He didn’t mention how sunny it’s been either. What kind of gentleman doesn’t mention the weather when it’s been so very warm? It’s like he didn’t even care. Do you think it’s my fault this is happening? It’s not my fault, is it?’

  Franny puts an arm around her, shushing her kindly. Ethel buries her face in Franny’s shoulder and quietens.

  I look around the room at the shell-shocked faces. No one says anything. Everyone is just looking at each other. Franny and I make eye contact and I see fear.

  Right. No. No, I’m not having that. I’m not having my grandma scared. I’m not letting my grandma and all her friends be thrown out on the street. No, I have to do something to stop this. We need this building, they can’t just knock it down. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding or maybe a mistake – who knows with Ethel. It might seem like a silly little women’s group to outsiders, but it’s much, much more than that from the inside. It matters.

  I feel adrenaline pumping through me and a renewed sense of purpose takes hold.

  I’m not going to let this happen. I’m going to ring this bastard council man and talk some sense into him. They can’t do this. I’m going to find a way to make all this go away so these ladies can stay in the place where they feel safe and happy. I’m going to fix this.

  Wedding Number Seven: Lindy and George, Gregor House, Lancashire

  Theme: Harry Potter – THAT’S RIGHT. All four groomsmen wore different house colours. Bride’s dad grew a Hagrid beard especially. Awful jokes in the best man’s speech about the bride’s ‘wizard sleeve’.

  Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.

  Gift: J.K. Rowling-signed framed pic and photo book with all their Potter convention pictures @ £72.50.

  Gossip: Groom had attempted last-minute platinum hair dye, to look like bride’s fave character Draco Malfoy. Somehow looked exactly like Myra Hindley.

  My bank balance: -£347.12

  11

  ‘And was the pig related at all to the queen?’ Will asks, deadly serious, looking the waiter straight in the eye and holding the menu up. Neither of them blink.

  ‘Aah, I don’t belieeeeve so, sir,’ the man replies at last, carefully. ‘Because . . . it’s a . . . pig. But I do know it was hand-reared by monks off the coast of a Scottish island and fed exclusively plum tomatoes. It is the most tender, beloved pig meat you’ll ever know. It simply melts in your mouth.’

  Will looks disapproving. ‘I’m not sure I want a melting pig in my mouth. I’m not David Cameron.’

  The waiter looks panicked. ‘It’s just a saying, sir. I mean it’s delicious.’

  Will nods excessively. ‘I see, I see. But you’re saying it’s unlikely the pig has any royal connections whatsoever?’

  The waiter pauses. He cannot tell if Will is an inbred moron – like so many of the other guests I can see around us in the room – or if he is being played.

  I take a long sip of my wine to stop me laughing.

  ‘As far as I know, the pig is of noble breeding,’ he says slowly, like he’s talking to a rich, spoilt child. ‘But not, er, royalty.’

  Will tuts loudly, and the waiter adds hastily, ‘But I will double check on that for you.’

  Will nods again and closes his menu. ‘We’ll both have the
fifteen-course disgusting menu please.’

  ‘Um . . .’ The waiter pauses. ‘Do you mean the degustation menu?’

  I can’t help it, I snort, immediately covering my mouth with my napkin and pretending it was a cough.

  ‘That’s the one, my good man,’ Will says jovially. ‘And more wine, if you please.’

  He grins at me and I feel all warm inside. Sure, it might be the wine, or it might be what a great time we’re having, and how much-needed this time away together really, really was.

  We’re in one of those hotel restaurants where you pay an insane amount of money to have a million tiny courses of nonsense food hand-crafted personally by a Michelin-starred chef, and then it comes out and it all basically tastes like watercress. You know the one.

  We decided yesterday – spur of the moment – that we were going to ignore everything and run away for the night to a super posh hotel, thirty minutes away. Will suggested it. He said we both needed a break and that it would be good to finally get some time alone together. There was the tiniest hint of a passive-aggressive tone to his voice, but I chose not to acknowledge it, and immediately went upstairs to pack my one black lacy, frilly thing.

  But then I unpacked it because I was worried Will might take it as a sign that I wanted to have loads and loads of sex, when actually the one time would be perfectly sufficient, and then I mostly wanted to sleep, eat and lie down in the hotel spa.

  I can’t say enough how much Will and I really needed this. We haven’t had a break in ages, and all our money seems to go on family and friend commitments instead of each other. We’ve always talked about travelling together one day, but Mr Barclays and Mr Natwest might have something to say about me deep-diving further into their credit system.

  Genuinely, at this point, I feel like I could singlehandedly bring about another financial crash. Hmm, I wonder if they’d consider giving me a government bailout?