Crappily Ever After

by Louise Burness

‘Of course, I can’t wait,’ I say. It’s my mum’s youngest brother’s 40th birthday. Guaranteed piss-up from start to finish.

  ‘Grand. We’ve done a poster, it’s the most horrific yet,’ she states proudly. The ‘poster’ basically involves any horrendous photos from the past of the person in question, accompanied by text as horrid as possible.

  My last, on my 30th was a faded black and white photograph of the fattest baby ever born and carried the thoughtful caption, ‘I ate my twin.’

  The poster is never pretty. It’s never complimentary, but always hugely funny at the expense of the recipient.

  The week passes quickly and, before I know it, I am boarding the train at King’s Cross. James smugly informs me that he won’t notice I’m gone, he has such a ‘mental’ weekend lined up. Great, I think with relief. I can let my hair down and be myself.

  I arrive at Arbroath station and take a cab up to the ‘Cliffy’ – our local hotel and party venue. It’s seen many an occasion from us; parties, weddings and, sadly, funerals. I can’t wait to see everyone. It feels so long since I saw them all. I walk to the door of the function room and observe for a moment what my family does when I can’t see them. I gaze through a gap in the frosted glass doors, picking out the familiar shapes of my loved ones. They laugh and they hug. Life goes on without me. I ponder for a moment on how much of their lives remain unseen to me. Yet it happens. Like my life does too, and they don’t see. Some things we will never experience about each other. I have a pang of wishing I could do this every day. Not to miss a moment. Funny statements made by my auntie, my mum’s smile, my niece’s silly dancing surrounded by clapping relatives. It all occurs, funny at the time, but not funny enough for them to remember and tell me later. A million moments we miss in each other’s lives. I walk in and break the spell.

  ‘Auntie Lucy,’ Josh gasps, as he sees me first. He runs over and I pick him up, wrapping myself in his baby hug. Suddenly, I am surrounded by warmth. Hugs, kisses so fast on my cheek that I can’t see the person who delivered it. My hand being squeezed by another unseen loved one. Then my mum’s smiling face.

  ‘Hiya, my girl, I have so missed you,’ she says, enveloping me in Chanel and baby powder. I feel safe and warm, surrounded by my family, all chatting ten to the dozen, telling me of new boyfriends, exam passes and, in the case of Jessie, the littlest girl of the family, a brand new tutu for ballet class. I try my hardest to answer everyone and keep up. Mary pulls away from hugging me and gives me an excited smile.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says, ‘we have a total surprise for you.’

  My family step aside to reveal… James.

  ‘I just couldn’t miss this,’ he smirks. ‘Hope you don’t mind, Luce.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Oh my God! This is a surprise,’ I exclaim. ‘I didn’t even know you had any way of getting in touch with my family.’

  ‘Password, Lucy. Every phone needs one,’ James whispers patronisingly, then laughs loudly. So that everyone around us thinks we are sharing a private joke, and laugh along. ‘I see.’

  My tone makes several of the female family members straighten up like meerkats sensing danger.

  ‘Bar?’ suggests my cousin, Jo.

  ‘Back in a moment.’ I aim a sickly sweet smile at James.

  Mary, Jo, Claire and I head towards the bar. We buy four vodka and Diet Cokes and I’m quickly pulled into the ladies. Mary sparks up two cigarettes and passes one to me. ‘I don’t smoke any more.’ I stub it out quickly and hand it back to her, before I’m tempted to take a puff.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ Jo asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I explain. ‘I’m just not comfortable with this. He’s obviously been looking through my phone and one of my friends seems to think he’s following me.’

  A knowing nod passes around all three.

  ‘He does seem a bit like he’s trying too hard. OK, we have to make out we suspect nothing,’ conspires Claire. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Let’s befriend him. It’s the only way.’ A dramatic hush ensues.

  ‘Let’s go,’ orders Mary.

  We walk over to the crowd around James, who is clearly loving an audience.

  ‘So, by then she’s looking through my video collection and she shouts through, “what’s Head Cleaner about?”’

  Everyone laughs along at the latest ‘blonde moment’ of mine that James is describing.

  ‘You’ve done well this time, Luce,’ says my Uncle Jim, with a nod to James.

  I watch as a worried glance pass around the girls in the know. The evening continues and, much to my disappointment, I’m not enjoying it. James follows me around incessantly. When I spot someone I haven’t seen for ages on the other side of the room, he’s there. ’Just want to meet all the family.’ And when I go to the bar: ‘I’ll just help you carry the tray of drinks.’

  ‘He’s very attentive,’ says Mum. ‘Seems really keen.’

  ‘Too keen,’ I mutter.

  The final straw is when I find him waiting for me outside the bathroom. The girls and I have met for an update. They too can see how irritating he can be, and have given up the befriending mission.

  ‘For goodness sake, can I not even have a pee without you hovering around?’ I snap.

  He looks hurt.

  ‘Sorry, Lucy. It’s just that you keep going to the one place I can’t come with you. I miss you,’ he whines.

  James begins sinking his pints faster, now that we’ve had words. He takes my aunties up to all the Scottish reels, looking over at me for approval at how much part of the family he is. He pulls my small niece, Jessica, onto his lap. She squirms to get away, a look of disgust on her face. Sensible girl, I think – another one immune to his charms. James sits and looks sullenly into the bottom of his pint glass. Several family members ask if he’s all right. He smiles wanly at them and nods. The music starts for Strip the Willow, my favourite Scottish reel and very important to get right. Many a person attempting it for the first time has been shouted down. Scots take their reels very seriously indeed. My cousin, Craig, and I look over at each other and immediately make our way to the dance floor. We stand in line ready to go. James appears behind Craig.

  ‘Would you mind if I dance with my girlfriend, please?’ he simpers, holding his hand out toward me. Craig shrugs and looks at me.

  ‘Sorry James,’ I say dismissively. ‘Craig and I always do this one.’

  Mary is swiftly by James’s side.

  ‘This one’s mine, I think,’ she announces, giving me a wink. As the first couple start to spin each other around, James looks at me as if he’s a puppy I’ve just kicked, and continues to do so for the rest of the dance. Afterwards, he comes over to speak to me. ‘Bugger off!’ I say angrily, and storm back to my only sanctuary – the ladies loo – with an unlit cigarette and lighter in my hand that I had grabbed from the table on my way past. Mary bursts in.

  ‘Come quickly!’ She grabs my arm, disposing of my cigarette down the toilet. ‘And don’t you dare smoke because of him.’

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, we have a young man here who wants to make an announcement,’ yells the bandleader over the mic in the manner of a game show host. ‘Oh sweet Jesus, no,’ I hear Claire mutter.

  ‘Hi everyone. I’m James. Some of you know me already.’ He clears his throat awkwardly, and looks around the hushed room with an adoring smile.

  ‘I would just like to say how happy I am to be here and how welcome you’ve all made me.’ He chokes emotionally over the last few words.

  ‘What an arse!’ booms a male voice behind me.

  ‘I’d also like to say that, although Lucy and I have only been together a few months, she is undoubtedly the most wonderful thing that has happened in my life.’

  ‘No way, man,’ snorts Craig behind me.

  ‘So, it’s on this note,’ continues James, ‘that it gives me great pleasure to ask Lucy to be my wife.’ James gets down on one knee to a now horrified throng. ‘Luc
y, will you marry me?’ James gives me a watery smile.

  ‘No!’ I shake my head violently. ‘James, come down please, so we can talk about this.’ Several people laugh uproariously.

  ‘Lucy, please,’ implores James.

  ‘It’s been two months James – I can’t marry you! Don’t do this.’

  ‘And, you’re a knob,’ mutters Jo, just loud enough for me to hear. I walk over to the stage.

  ‘Come down James,’ I urge. ’We can carry on having a nice evening. But I’m sorry, I’m not going to say yes just because it’s in front of all these people.’

  I gesture to the crowd behind me. Some open-mouthed with shocked amusement, others looking away in embarrassment. The compere gently prises the mic from James’s clenched fist.

  ‘Take your partners for the Eightsome reel,’ he bellows jovially.

  James runs from the stage and doesn’t stop until he’s outside.

  ‘Craig, go and see if he’s all right,’ orders Auntie Betty, giving him a shove and making him spill some of his pint down his shirt.

  ‘You’re shitting me, right?’ exclaims Craig in disbelief. ‘He’s bats! He’ll murder me.’ ‘Do it!’ demands Betty and cuffs his ear. Craig wipes his shirt with his mother’s cardigan, which is hanging on the back of his chair, and saunters reluctantly outside. Uncle Robert throws his arm around my shoulder.

  ‘You have made my birthday!’ he laughs. ‘I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.’ He wipes a hand across his eyes. A small crowd has gathered at each window overlooking the gardens. Three valiant couples are attempting an Eightsome reel with a meagre six. James is hunched over on a bench whilst Craig rubs his back and looks around uncomfortably. He spots us looking out, smirks and flicks the V-sign at us. They speak for a few minutes and then I see Craig talking on his phone. Five minutes later we hear the screech of tyres and James is gone. Craig walks back in and announces that James is going to get the sleeper back to London. The room exhales as one.

  Back at mum’s for an after-party party. We dissect the evening with great mirth.

  ‘What’s the deal with all these failed relationships?’ Mum asks through a mouthful of crisps.

  ‘Obviously an invisible tattoo on my head that says “all nutters stop here,”’ I suggest. ‘Ah well. Like the Foo Fighters say: “Done! Done! On to the next one,”’ Mary laughs. ‘Hey, lyrics you actually got right for once,’ says Robert. He picks up the pickled onion Mary has thrown at his head from the floor, examines it for fluff – and eats it.

  ‘Yep, get back on the horse,’ says Jo. ‘Preferably a rather large muscley one to scare off James. You’ve not seen the last of him I’m guessing.’ And I hadn’t.

  I arrive back to London to find six missed calls, twelve pleading text messages and a massive bunch of roses in the front room. All flatmates are instructed to, under no circumstances, let James in or pass on any information about me. One week on, I buy a new sim card. Poor Jill, with no way of contacting me, he starts on her. Well, until Mark, her boyfriend of the week, phones and tells him to piss off or he’ll phone the police. One evening our landline rings. We look at each other nervously. With a tut, I announce that this is getting ridiculous. We shouldn’t be worried to answer our own phone. But I click on the loudspeaker, just in case I need witnesses to this call.

  ‘Hello?’ I say tentatively.

  ‘May I speak with the man of the house, please?’

  Open-mouthed with shock, we all stifle a giggle. We love these calls; never stop until the telesales person either hangs up or cries.

  ‘Ooh, hello. Are you calling from the 1950s?’ I ask.

  ‘Er… No, I…’

  ‘Well, I do apologise,’ I interrupt. The only people here are me, my lesbian lover and our two adopted daughters.’ The room erupts. ‘So, to whom would you like to talk to now?’ Click.

  It’s been a while since we had a ‘man of the house’ call. It’s our favourite!

  Amy announces the next day that she’s trying a ‘Millionaires Looking for Love’ website. ‘That is so mercenary,’ I announce.

  ‘They all seem to turn out to be arseholes,’ she explains defensively. ‘May as well have a rich arsehole than a poor one.’ She spends all evening tapping away on the computer, putting in comments and uploading photographs. She adds the message:

  ‘No photo, no chat. You are obviously either married or ugly. Either way, I don’t want to know you!’ She clicks ‘add profile‘and waits.

  ‘It’s going to take at least 24 hours for the site to check you’re not a bunny boiler,’ says Emily. ‘Why not do a search now and find all the gorgeous ones?’ We group around her and wait expectantly. A romance novel hero appears on the screen. Swept back, black hair and an enigmatic smile.

  Miles: Owner/ Managing Director of I.T. chain. Thirty seven-years-old, likes classical music, fine wine and dining out. Twice divorced, four children from two marriages, wltm…

  ‘Christ, no!’ I exclaim. ‘Miles has more baggage than Heathrow.’

  We search again. Anthony: sole inheritor of father’s satellite installation company. Hoping to meet kind, attractive woman for no-strings fun.

  We observe his photo.

  ‘Eeuww! Fugly,’ exclaims Jill. We look at her confused. ‘Short for fucking ugly,’ she rolls her eyes at our ignorance. ‘I mean, look at the beak on him! Funny how he mentions no-strings – he looks just like Pinocchio,’ she giggles.

  ‘Here’s one,’ says Amy. We all read his profile.

  Justin, a DJ in a London club, tours twice a year to Ayia Napa and Faliraki. Didn’t want to follow his brothers into the family business. Used his trust fund to buy decks and take a Sound Engineering degree. Gorgeous to boot!

  ‘Email him,’ I demand. Amy sends him a short, sassy message.

  ‘Hi Justin, like your profile. Living in London and would love to meet up. Email back if you like the sound of me. Not a gold digger, I have my own fortune. Sick of blokes only wanting me for my money, so thought I’d try a financially independent catch.’

  We search for another hour and Amy sends out two more messages. For the most part, it’s fairly obvious why a lot of them are single. We switch off and send for a takeout. Watching a movie an hour later, Amy’s eyes keep wandering back to the computer. ‘Leave it ‘til tomorrow,’ says Jill. ‘You don’t want to seem too keen.’ At 9pm – and bored – we decide to make a round of hot chocolates and head up to our respective beds for an early night.

  Chapter Eight

  My alarm goes off at 6.40am. I hit the snooze button unnecessarily hard and roll over. My nap is short-lived, however. I hear a ‘Woo-hoo!’ from the living room. I pull on my dressing gown and make my way along the hall.

  ‘What’s so good about a Monday morning that could possibly warrant such celebration?’ I blink as the sunlight streams in through the blinds.

  ‘Two replies,’ says Amy dismissively, focusing on the screen. I hover behind her, reading over her shoulder.

  ‘Justin wants to meet, says he likes my pics, my profile is up now. Says I sound “cool.”’

  She flicks to a new message from Alex.

  ‘Hi Amy,’ she speed reads aloud, ‘Thanks for your email, you do sound great. I am actually currently seeing a girl from the site and feel it would be unfair to meet up with you. However, my friend Alfie (and I am aware this sounds juvenile) does like the look of your friend in the pic entitled ‘Me and Luce’ and wonders if she’s single and would like to meet up? He’s a widower, his wife died three years ago in a yachting accident. Please don’t quote me on this though as he is very private about it. He has come to terms with it, but I’d prefer it if Luce didn’t mention this part of his life should she decide to meet up, but I do think it’s important to mention up front as he’s quite nervous about getting back “out there”. I’m sure it will all come out in due course from Alfie anyway.

  Kind regards,

  Alex.’

  ‘Shit!’ I say. ‘Poor guy, how cou
ld I say no? OK, email back and say I’ll go along and meet Alfie. Even if I don’t fancy him, I’m not going to refuse to go. That’s awful…’ I shake my head at the unfairness of the world at times.

  It’s a fairly uneventful week of crash dieting, face packs in the bath and early nights. All in preparation for the weekend. Before I know it, Friday comes along and, thanks to a combination of Amy and Alex, I now have a date for this evening at 7pm with Alfie.

  The girls and I trawl through my wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

  No black. Too funereal.

  No red. Reminiscent of blood.

  We settle on a modest pastel blue top and jeans.

  I have a quick glass of wine to settle my nerves as Amy and Em tease my hair straight and touch up my make-up. By ten minutes to seven, I am waiting in the bar of our local on Upper Street. I’m on my second glass of wine and my nerves are beginning to fuzz at the edges. I take out my phone and send a few random text messages to pass the time.

  To Em: ‘Shitting a brick.’

  To Amy: ‘If he’s ugly, you are so a dead woman!’

  To Mary: ‘New date! Urgh! I hate this.’

  Mary texts back immediately: ‘Is this one an alien, perchance? Nothing you brought home would surprise me any more. Good luck! PS don’t shag him!’

  ‘Lucy…?’ a kindly, well-spoken voice enquires.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I answer. Woah! Cute. Alfie smiles and asks if he can buy me a drink. I nod politely and say a white wine would be lovely. He heads off to the bar, giving me a great rear view. I may have struck lucky this time I think.

  We have several drinks and the conversation flows easily. He tells me how he has worked for his father’s textiles company since he left school.

  ‘Nepotism – a game the whole family can play,’ I state.

  He bursts out laughing.

  ‘That’s quality,’ says Alfie. ’Not quite true, though. The company was in serious trouble and I was cheap – no, make that free – labour for Dad. Well, for the first year anyway, but we managed to turn it around and it’s doing great now.’