to catch up with old school friends, something I never usually get a chance to do in my flying visits home. Walk over the footsteps of old childhood trails, along the beach, out to the cliffs and Auchmithie, a tiny, but beautiful fishing village. I trail for miles with Bobby, Bert’s son’s Jack Russell. It clears even the most stubborn cobwebs from the recesses of my head. Mike and I keep in touch, but the trip to Aberdeen never materialises. I don’t mention it again and neither does he. Then just before March, I receive a phone call from him. He has received a wedding invite from Becky.
‘Are you going to go?’ I ask, waiting on edge for a barrage of abuse.
‘I might do. Be nice to go with you though.’
‘Why don’t you ask Mary?’ I play devil’s advocate. Mary hasn’t mentioned Mike again, but it won’t end there. I’ll keep trying.
‘Mary? Your sister, Mary?’
‘Yes. Why not? I thought there was a bit of a spark between you two,’ I answer.
‘Nah, she’s sweet and all, but no, I don’t really see her in that way.’
Oh. I’m quite surprised by this. My beautiful, bubbly sister is not fancied by Mike.
‘OK, well I’ll call you in a couple of days and we’ll discuss flights and stuff then.’
Maybe Mike is planning to be the one at the wedding who stands up to challenge the vicar when he asks should there be any reason the couple shouldn’t get married. I have waited with baited breath at every wedding I have ever attended for this bit. How exciting to have someone stand up and declare that, actually, he did have a problem, he wanted to marry the girl in question himself. But I guess that kind of stuff only happens in books or movies. It has no place in real life.
I walk back along the Vicky Park to Mum’s. On the horizon I see a frantically waving Mary, rushing towards me. She picks up speed as she gets closer. Bobby strains at his lead in recognition, ready for one of his renowned sniff-fests. Mary reaches me, panting and brushing off Bobby’s attempts to slobber all over her.
‘Bert’s son is at Mum’s. He is gorgeous!’ she wheezes at me.
‘No he’s not,’ I look at Mary in alarm. Jeez, is she that desperate for a man?’
‘No-ooo,’ she replies impatiently, ‘not Jim, Bobby’s Dad, the other one. You’ve got to see this.’ Mary grabs me by the arm and pulls me along towards Mum’s house, adopting a simpering manner before my eyes as we open the gate.
Bloody hell, she’s right. What a fox! He’s as pathetic over her as she is over him. I drag her to the kitchen on the pretext of helping me refill the wine glasses.
‘You can’t do anything, what if he becomes our stepbrother? That’s sick,’ I shake my head at her, the second we close the kitchen door.
‘No, actually you’re the weird one. We have no blood ties at all, and I will happily race Mum to the altar if it comes down to it.’
‘But, Mike?’ I raise an eyebrow questionably at her.
‘Mike? What your Mike?’ I nod. ‘No, Euw! Don’t want your sloppy seconds, thanks,’ and with that, she flounces out of the kitchen with two glasses, back to Drew the screw, as she’s named him.
A few days on, and I’m packing up my things for my flight to Ireland the next day. I have had a great time with my family and friends but feel quite content to be moving on. Mum is settled and happier than I’ve ever known. Drew seems to be reciprocating Mary’s intentions for him. Well, if the fact I haven’t seen them for a couple of days is anything to go by. Still, Kasia will be bringing the kids back tonight, that’ll put a stop to it all. At least I’ll get to see my niece and nephew before I head off again, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. All the Ramseys will be congregating at Mary’s in an hour for the big send off. Mum books a taxi and Bert helps her load all the drink and foodstuffs into a carrier bag. Well, all the non-perishables that is, the other things will be packed into freezer bags, military style as the taxi honks its horn outside. Contrary to what Mary said, Mum and Bert are in fact a risk assessment made in Heaven – and just adorable to watch. We arrive at Mary’s flat to the usual noise. Many hugs and comments on how they can’t wait ‘til July for the grand Ramsey piss-up. I am so looking forward to it – it will see me through the first half of the summer season. The doorbell goes and I head down to answer. A very tearful-looking Kasia stands there. Josh and Jess shove around her, ignoring me in their quest to find Craig and hear his attempts to burp the alphabet. He made it to N last time, apparently.
‘Kasia, are you OK?’ I ask with concern. Mary appears behind me.
‘He is dick! Mary, how you put up with it so long? I hate him and I leave tonight,’ she nods her confirmation.
‘Oh Kasia,’ Mary gives her an awkward hug. ‘What has he done?’
‘Kasia sighs, ‘I pay all rent, I loan him money for his sick mother.’ Mary and I exchange a look; Joan has never been better. ‘If it wasn’t for these children, I would have gone, long ago!’
‘Kasia, come in and have a drink,’ Mary ushers her upstairs and into the flat. Craig looks up in awe, halting on L of the burp alphabet and smiles at the beautiful Kasia. She laughs delightedly, wiping her eyes.
‘Continue, please! My Papa, he can do most of alphabet, but not all.’
Chapter Twenty-five
I arrive in Ireland for Becky’s wedding. Mike has yet to decide whether he will attend or not. He has told Becky to keep his invite open until he can see if he can get a flight. Load of crap, of course, and she knows that, but can’t really do anything else about it. So I arrive on my own. Becky picks me up from the airport, despite my insistence that I could take a taxi; she has enough to deal with. Becky looks gorgeous! She has lost around a stone since I saw her last – not that she needed to – and has had her dark blonde hair highlighted and cut into a face framing style. That alone makes a huge difference, and softens her pretty features even more. Part of me kind of hopes Mike won’t turn up. It may just remind him of what he’s missing.
Bob has gone to stay at his parent’s house for the night so that Becky and I can have a girly evening, but also to avoid him seeing the bride before the ceremony. We kick off by ordering out for pizza, and then watching a movie aptly titled My Best Friend’s Wedding with diet cokes and face packs on. This is followed by the arrival of a beautician friend of Becky’s to give us both a French manicure. Both of us have our hair set in bendy rollers and are informed that hair always sits better the day after it’s washed. Urg! I need to wash my hair every day. It feels like an oil slick if I don’t. But Becky will follow the advice to the word. We eventually head to bed, unable to get comfortable due to a combination of rollers and excitement. We share the same Kingsize double bed, as we occasionally did when we lived together. It reminds us both of growing up, sharing a room with our sisters and giggling late into the night.
Morning comes. I don’t actually remember falling asleep, simply finishing my hot chocolate, switching off the TV and listening to the gentle sound of Becky’s snoring. I awaken around eight o’clock to the sound of an over-enthusiastic bird outside the window. Early Spring, such a nice time of the year, with all the new baby things. Chicks, I hear at the moment. Mum always tells me it reminds her of me. I was a Spring baby too, and woke her every morning with an internal kick. Her very own dawn chorus. Becky stirs and rolls over, slumping an arm across my chest. Nose inches from mine. I try not to laugh at her close proximity, but my shaking shoulders rouse her. She opens her eyes and, seeing me out of context, is momentarily disorientated. Then, gathering her senses, she smiles widely at me and announces:
‘I’m getting married today!’
‘You sure are honey, but best you do something about your breath first.’
The next few hours fly by in a flurry of appointments: first, the beautician to finish off the manicure polish and apply the make-up, then the hairdresser to style our hair and fix our hairpieces. I am separated from Becky for well over an hour while the stylist helps her to dress. I am just having the orchid placed in my new curls whe
n Becky walks in.
She is stunning!
‘Bob is the luckiest guy in the world,’ I give her a proud smile. She hugs me and then holds me out at arm’s length to view my ensemble.
‘Gorgeous,’ she exhales, and we crack open some champagne to celebrate. Becky’s little nieces arrive in full flower girl regalia – how cute. Not at all what I would have said only a year ago when I was off kids. Becky anticipates motherhood greatly. She can’t wait to have one and is already off the pill to try for a honeymoon baby. The little girls are in violet, a couple of shades deeper than my dress and, at Niamh’s request, wearing floral head-dresses and fairy wings. Becky, ever indulgent, gave in. I love this look on me. Empire line really disguises the fact that my hips are a bit bigger than my chest. I make a mental note to make sure I buy similar styles in the future.
The cars arrive. Becky, her Mum, the little nieces, Emer and Niamh, and I, all pile in. As ladylike as we can, which isn’t ladylike at all, really. Arms, legs and lopsided head-dresses everywhere. The little ones chat excitedly, but Becky looks nervous.
‘You OK?’ I ask her. She exhales loudly.
‘I am so excited Lucy,’ she shakes her head, looking dangerously tearful.
‘Don’t smudge! shouts Emer. ‘Mummy warned me not to let you,’ and she pulls a fairy embroidered tissue from her little bag and shakes it towards Becky. This small gesture diffuses the situation and Becky laughs. Back to her usual self. We arrive and walk to the door of the church. Becky’s Mum is giving her away. I organise the small ones behind me and instruct them to keep a few paces back to prevent treading on the fishtail of my dress. We hear whispered chatter from inside the church. People are twisting round in their seats to get the first glimpse. The organ begins to play the opening bars of Ave Maria and we begin to walk down the aisle. I hear giggles as we pass by, and turn to see Emer cross-eyed and poking her tongue out as she passes everyone.
‘No! Emer,’ I hiss, trying hard not to laugh and turn back before I fall headfirst into Becky and cause a pile up. On the seventh aisle from the front I see Mike. He turns around to look at us and Becky reaches out to give his hand a squeeze on the way past, smiling broadly and mouthing ‘thanks’ to him. Mike catches my eye. He looks me up and down, raising his eyebrows in approval. I smile and give him a sidelong look. He’s looking quite buff. Still a hint of a tan and has obviously been at the gym. Bob’s face is one of rapt joy – he cannot believe his eyes. Two rows back I see a red-faced, slightly swaying, bald man. He leans out and smacks Becky on the bottom as she passes. She turns and glowers at him. He winks and clicks his tongue twice. His wife elbows him roughly. I accidentally kick his ankle on the way past. Oops, clumsy old me! He yelps and clutches his ankle. Emer and Niamh giggle.
The ceremony is lovely. I don’t attend church regularly but do enjoy a good Christmas Mass or wedding. Oh, and nativity plays of course. Jess was the cutest sheep ever at hers. I saw the video. Shame she wee’d on the stage, but I guess sheep do that sometimes. The time comes to take the vows and the priest asks if we know of any reason why this couple should not be joined in matrimony. A couple of years ago I could have written a speech on the subject, but not now. I hear a throat clearing behind me.
‘Actually, yes, I do.’
No way! Mike? We all swing round in shock. Not Mike. Drunken bloke struggles to his feet.
‘Yes?’ The priest removes his glasses and looks stunned. I’m betting this has never happened to him before in his entire career, but he’ll have to take it seriously.
‘See, Father, she secretly fancies me, got the wrong brother didn’t ye, love.’
Hushed whispers and quite a few shouts echo around the church.
‘Oi, shurrup!’
‘Drunken erse!’
‘Sit down, ya fecking eedjit! Sorry Father.’
Bob laughs, Becky joins in and the brother is dragged by his collar out of the church by his rather large wife. Panic over, we continue and everything else, thankfully, goes without a hitch.
Outside, the sun is shining brightly. Becks has the best day for her wedding. We do the obligatory line-up for the photographs. Drunken George has been allowed back, on the condition that he shuts the feck up and has no more to drink ‘til the dancing begins. The photographer, who appears to have a lifetime ambition to become the next Gok Wan, takes an age to position us perfectly. Amazing how a foot at the wrong angle will ruin the picture. If I ever marry, I would much prefer paparazzi-style shots. They’re much more natural and spontaneous. Also means you don’t spend hours blistering in the sun with Emer and Niamh, who are the world’s biggest fidgets. We almost had a perfect shot till Gok-alike realised Niamh was scratching her bum in it. Her excuse, a leftover chicken pock from two weeks ago. Elderly relatives recoil to a safe distance from the threat of shingles.
‘Gok-alike’ has lined us up again for a final reel of film.
‘Make me look thinner,’ Becky shouts.
‘It’s a fecking camera, Becky, not a magic wand.’ George could contain himself no more. When it is developed the photo shows four severely pissed-off faces and Emer picking her nose.
It isn’t until after the speeches and meal that I finally get a chance to speak to Mike. He looks relieved to see me, as he has been seated next to Becky’s elderly aunt. He has had to take her to the toilet three times already and, due to her incontinence problem, he twice had to rummage through her bag to find clean drawers and a fresh pad. I drag him off to an empty table so we can have a catch up.
‘You look good Lucy. Scrub up not too bad at all.’
‘Thanks,’ I brush off his compliment, ‘so what made you decide to come to the wedding?’ I have to know.
‘Just decided that it was silly not to, really. I’m over Becky and wish her well. Besides, I have my eye on someone else now.’
‘Oh, from Aberdeen?’
‘No, not from Aberdeen,’ he laughs and gives me a knowing look. Shit! Mary. I must have put the suggestion in his head. She’s happily hooked up with Drew now.
‘Oh Mike,’ I cover his hand with mine. ‘The object of your affections loves another. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh!’ Mike looks shocked. ‘That was quick, she was single last I checked.’
‘I know, it happened really unexpectedly, my Mum’s boyfriend’s son of all people.’
‘I see,’ Mike shrugs dismissively, but I can tell it’s bothered him. ‘Oh well, never mind. Fancy a dance?’
‘Sure,’ I smile, apologetically. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he needs to know. It couldn’t work anyway, unless he was to move to Arbroath, and I really can’t have him do that. I can’t run the restaurant on my own. I know it crossed my mind before, but with hindsight, I doubt I could. From four of us to one in a year – I shudder at the thought.
The evening passes too quickly. George is being an arse and groping anything in a skirt – his poor wife, I really feel for her. Becky has a ball, but I barely get to speak to her. Everyone seems to have had a good day. And Becky is married. I can hardly believe that this sparkling, happy girl is the same one I knew a year ago. Mike and I head back to our hotel, preparing to turn in for the night. I can’t stay at Becky’s as it is all locked up for honeymoon. She did offer, but it was going to be complicated with keys and stuff. Also, the flight is for nine in the morning and her house is a fair bit away from the airport. On arriving back at the hotel, we notice the bar is still open. Great rules in Ireland and Scotland for opening times; if people still want to drink, the bars will stay open.
We order a couple of vodka and cokes, rather generously-sized ones, and flop onto a squashy sofa in front of the log fire, me still in my dress and Mike in his kilt. The change of drinks, from champagne to wine and then vodka makes me feel fuzzy-headed and there appears to be two Mikes. I put my hand out in front of Mike’s face and grab thin air. Nope, not that one, I laugh. I reach for the other one, and catch his stubbly cheek. He smiles and covers my hand with his. Holding it against his face
. I take a wobbly sip of my drink, peering curiously at him over the rim of my glass and snort an unattractive laugh.
‘Michael Johnston, if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d be flirting with me,’ I say in a Dublin accent. It’s hard to shake off after being surrounded by them for days.
‘Maybe I am, to be sure,’ he replies, with a lopsided smirk.
‘Woah! I’m drunker than I thunk.’ I lean away from him, slopping vodka down my pretty bodice. ‘I mean, I’m sorry about Mary an’ all, but I am not the consolation prize.’
Mike looks confused.
‘It’s got bugger all to do with Mary? But I’m not going there with you, dating a man who’s practically your brother,’ Mike laughs. ‘Only you would dare do something so… out there. One of the many amazing things about you.’
My mind is fuddled by alcohol. Not Mary? Hmmm.
‘Ha! I am so not wonderful. OK, go on then, tell me why I am so great.’ I am at the drunken stage of attempting to be self-deprecating, but actually desperate to hear lovely things.
‘OK, where do I start?’ Mike places my hand down gently and leans back on the sofa, eyeing me like a specimen over his vodka glass. ‘I like the fact that you stopped smoking, even though you loved it, ‘cos you don’t like anything being in control of you.’
‘Booo-oooooring,’ I announce, with a dramatic sigh, but secretly feeling like Scarlett O’Hara. Must be the dress.
‘Right… er… I like the way you have ambition, drive and aren’t scared to go for what you want.’
‘Mmmm-hmmm, better.’
‘And how you would rather have no man than the wrong man.’
‘You know what, Michael, you are correct on that one. Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all, I say. Here’s to being single.’ I toast myself. Mike doesn’t seem to want to. ‘More please.’
Ooh, Mike’s getting closer, no longer two Mikes, but three, no wait, four. I can feel his breath on my face.
Crappily Ever After Page 22