“It’s not little! To Noah, it’s huge! It’s— You’re—” I break off, breathing fast. He’ll never get it. There’s no point wasting breath. I’m on my own. “Fine, Daniel. Whatever. I’ll sort it.”
I switch off before he can answer. I’m feeling a red heat of determination. I am not going to let Noah down. He’s going to have his hot-air balloon. I can do this. Come on.
I bleep open the car and snap up the lid of my briefcase. I’ve got a tiny cardboard gift bag in there, from some fancy lunch. That can be the basket. Shoelaces out of my gym crosstrainers will be the ropes. I grab a sheet of paper and pen from my briefcase and beckon Noah over.
“I’m just going to finish off our hot-air balloon,” I say brightly. “Why don’t you draw Batman to put in the basket?”
As Noah starts drawing, leaning on the car seat, I swiftly take out my shoelaces. They’re brown and speckled. They’ll make perfect ropes. I’ve got some Scotch tape in the glove compartment. And for the balloon itself …
Bloody hell. What can I use? It’s not like I travel around with packets of balloons, on the off chance that—
A ridiculous, unspeakable idea grabs me. I could always—
No. No way. I can’t.…
Five minutes later, I approach Mrs. Hocking, nonchalantly holding Noah’s project. The mothers standing around gradually fall silent. In fact, it feels as though the whole playground has fallen silent.
“That’s Batman!” Noah is pointing to the basket proudly. “I drew him.”
All the children are looking at Batman. All the mothers are looking at the balloon. It’s a blown-up Durex Fetherlite Ultra. It inflated to quite an impressive size, and the teat on the end is bobbing in the breeze.
I hear a sudden snort from Anna, but when I look around sharply, all I can see are innocent expressions.
“Goodness, Noah,” says Mrs. Hocking faintly. “What a … big balloon!”
“That’s obscene,” snaps Jane, clutching her boat to her as though for protection. “This is a school, in case you’d forgotten. There are children here.”
“And as far as they’re concerned, this is a perfectly innocent balloon,” I retort. “My husband let me down.” I turn apologetically to Mrs. Hocking. “I didn’t have much time.”
“It’s very good, Mrs. Phipps!” Mrs. Hocking rallies herself. “What a creative use of …”
“What if it bursts?” says Jane.
“I’ve got spares,” I shoot back triumphantly, and proffer the rest of my Durex variety pack, splayed out like a pack of cards.
A moment too late, I realize how this looks. My cheeks flaming, I surreptitiously adjust my hand to cover up the words Ribbed for extra pleasure. And lube. And stimulation. My fingers are doing a starfish impression, trying to censor the condom packets.
“I think we’ll be able to find a balloon for Noah in the classroom, Mrs. Phipps,” Mrs. Hocking says at last. “I’d keep those yourself, for …” She hesitates, clearly searching for a way to finish her sentence.
“Absolutely.” I hastily head her off. “Good idea. I’ll use them for … exactly. That. I mean, not.” I laugh shrilly. “Actually, I probably won’t use them at all. Or at least … I am responsible, obviously.…”
I trail away into silence. I’ve just shared details of my condom use with my son’s teacher. I’m not sure how that happened.
“Anyway!” I add in bright desperation. “So. I’ll take those away now. And use them. For … some purpose or other.”
Hastily, I stuff the condoms back in my bag, dropping a Pleasuremax and diving for it before any of the seven-year-olds can reach it. All the other mothers are staring, jaw-dropped, as though they’ve witnessed a car crash.
“I hope the assembly goes well. Have a lovely day, Noah.” I hand him the hot-air balloon with a kiss, then swivel on my heel and march away, breathing hard. I wait until I’m on the road, then dial Barnaby from the car phone.
“Barnaby.” I launch in. “You will not believe what Daniel just did. Noah had a school project which Daniel didn’t say a single word about—”
“Fliss,” says Barnaby patiently. “Calm down.”
“I had to hand a blown-up condom to Noah’s teacher! It was supposed to be a hot-air balloon!” I can hear Barnaby bursting into laughter down the line. “It wasn’t funny! He’s a shit! He pretends to care, but he’s totally selfish; he lets Noah down—”
“Fliss.” Barnaby’s voice is suddenly harder and stops me in my tracks. “This has to stop.”
“What has to stop?” I stare at the speakerphone.
“The daily rant. I’m going to say something to you now, as an old friend. If you keep going on like this, you’ll drive everyone insane, including yourself. Shit happens, OK?”
“But—”
“It happens, Fliss.” He pauses. “And it doesn’t help to stir it up again and again. You need to move on. Get a life. Go on a date without mentioning your ex-husband’s underpants.”
“What are you talking about?” I say evasively.
“It was a date. A date.” I can hear Barnaby’s frustration bursting through the phone. “You were supposed to flirt with Nathan. Not open up your laptop and read out your entire divorce dossier.”
“I didn’t read out the entire thing!” I finger my memory stick defensively. “We were just talking, and I happened to mention it, and he seemed interested—”
“He wasn’t interested! He was being polite. Apparently you ranted for five solid minutes about Daniel’s underwear.”
“That’s a total exaggeration,” I retort hotly.
But my face has flamed. Maybe it was five minutes. I’d had a bit to drink by that stage. And there’s a lot to say about Daniel’s underwear, none of it good.
“Do you remember our first appointment, Fliss?” Barnaby continues relentlessly. “You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.”
I gasp at his use of the B-word. “I’m not. I’m … angry. Regretful.” I search my mind for further acceptable emotions. “I’m rueful. Sad. Philosophical.”
“The word Nathan used was ‘bitter.’ ”
“I’m not bitter!” I almost yell at him. “I think I would know if I was bitter or not!”
There’s silence at the other end. I’m breathing fast. My hands feel sweaty around the steering wheel. I’m flashing back to my date with Nathan. I thought I was talking about Daniel in an amusing, detached, ironic way. Nathan never said a word to indicate he wasn’t having a good time. Is that what everyone’s been doing? Humoring me?
“OK,” I say at last. “Well, now I know. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Anytime.” Barnaby’s cheerful voice resounds through the car. “Before you say it, I am your friend. And I do love you lots. But this is what you need. Tough love, Fliss. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He rings off, and I signal left, chewing my bottom lip and glaring darkly at the road. It’s all very well. It’s all very well.
When I get to work, I can see my in-box is full, but I sit at my desk, staring blindly at my computer. Barnaby’s words have stung me more than I want to admit to myself. I’m turning into a bitter, twisted hag. I’m going to end up a gnarled old crone in a black hood who scowls at the world and battles her way along the street, hitting people with her stick and refusing to smile at the neighborhood children, who run away, terrified.
Worst-case scenario.
After a bit, I reach for the phone and call Lottie’s office number. Maybe we can buoy each other up.
The girl who answers is Dolly, Lottie’s junior.
“Oh, hi, Dolly,” I say. “Is Lottie about?”
“She’s out. Shopping. Don’t know when she’ll be back.”
Shopping? I blink at the phone in surprise. I know Lottie sometimes gets frustrated with her job, but to go out shopping and blatantly tell your junior is really not the way to go in this economic climate.
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“Dunno. She’s buying stuff f
or her honeymoon.”
I stiffen. Did I hear that right? Honeymoon? As in … honeymoon?
“Did you just say …” I swallow. “Dolly, is Lottie getting married?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I’ve been away! This is … I’ve been …” I can hardly speak. “Oh my God! Please say I rang and congratulations!”
I put down the phone and beam elatedly around the empty office. My gloomy mood has vanished. I want to dance. Lottie’s engaged! It goes to show, some things in the world do go right in the end.
But, how?
How, how, how, how, how?
What happened? Did she fly out to San Francisco after all? Or did he fly back? Or did they call each other? What? I text her:
You’re engaged????????
I’m expecting radio silence again, but a moment later she replies.
Yes!!!! Was waiting to tell u all about it!
OMG! What happened???
All very fast. Still can’t believe it. He came back into my life out of nowhere, asked me in a restaurant, had no idea he would, absolute whirlwind!!!!
I have to talk to her. I call her mobile number, but it’s engaged. Damn. I’ll get myself a coffee, then try again. As I head to our in-house Costa outlet, I can’t stop beaming. In fact, I’m so happy I really want to cry, but editors at Pincher International don’t cry at work, so I’ll settle for hugging myself.
Richard is perfect. He’s everything I could ever have wanted for Lottie. Which sounds motherly—but, then, I do feel motherly toward her. Always have. Our own parents both kind of gave up on the job, what with the divorce and the alcohol and the affairs with loaded businessmen and South African beauty queens.… Put it this way: we were left alone a lot. Lottie is five years younger than me, and, well before our mother died, she started turning to me when things went wrong.
And as mother figure/sister/possible chief bridesmaid (?), I could not be more thrilled that Richard’s joining our strange little family unit. For a start, he’s good-looking but not to-die-for. This is important, I think. You want your sister to land a sex god in her own eyes, but you don’t want to be lusting after him yourself. I mean, how would I feel if Lottie brought Johnny Depp home?
I try to examine my thoughts honestly, in the privacy of my own head. Yes, I would be unable to stay sisterly. I would probably try to steal him. I would feel like all bets were off.
But Richard isn’t Johnny Depp. He’s handsome, don’t get me wrong, but not overly handsome. Not gay handsome, which that awful Jamie was, always preening and competing over carbs. Richard’s a man. To my eye, he sometimes looks like a younger Pierce Brosnan and sometimes like a younger Gordon Brown. (Although I think I’m the only one who can see the Gordon Brown thing. I mentioned the resemblance to Lottie once, and she got quite offended.)
I know he’s good at his job. (Obviously, when he first started dating Lottie I asked around all my City contacts for the lowdown on him.) I also know he can have a short fuse and once bawled out his team so hugely, he had to take them all out to lunch to apologize. But he’s also good-natured. The first time I ever saw him, he was holding an armchair, which Lottie wanted moved in her flat. She was wandering round the sitting room, saying, “There … no, there! Ooh, what about there?” And he just held that big heavy chair patiently while she dithered around, and I caught his eye and he grinned and I knew. This is the right guy for Lottie.
I want to jump up and down, I’m so happy. After all the shit of my divorce, we needed something good to come our way. So, how did it happen? What did he say? I want to know everything. As I head back to my desk, I impatiently dial her number again—and this time she answers.
“Hi, Fliss?”
“Lottie!” I erupt with excitement. “Congratulations! Amazing news! I can’t believe it!”
“I know! I know!” She sounds even more euphoric than I was expecting. Richard must have swept her off her feet.
“So … when?” I sit down at my desk and sip my coffee.
“Two weeks ago. It still hasn’t really sunk in!”
“Details!”
“Well, he just contacted me out of the blue.” Lottie gives an exhilarated laugh. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought I’d never see him again. Let alone this!”
If he proposed two weeks ago, that means he’d been gone for a day, max. He must have landed at San Francisco and turned right around. Good work, Richard!
“And what did he say? Did he get down on one knee?”
“Yes! He said he’d always loved me and he wanted to be with me and then he asked me to marry him about ten times, and at last … I said yes!” Her elation bubbles over again. “Can you believe it?”
I sigh happily and take another sip of coffee. It’s so romantic. It’s so dreamy. I wonder if I could skive my British Airways press conference and take Lottie out for a celebratory lunch.
“So … what else?” I probe for more details. “Did you give him the ring?”
“Well, no.” Lottie sounds drawn up short. “Of course not.”
Thank God for that. I was never into the ring idea.
“You just decided not to in the end?”
“It didn’t even occur to me!” To my surprise, she sounds pained. “I mean, the ring was for Richard.”
“What do you mean?” I blink at the phone, not following.
“Well, I bought the ring for Richard.” She sounds quite put out. “It would be weird, giving it to someone else. Don’t you think?”
I try to answer, but my thoughts have jammed, as though a pencil’s fallen into a smoothly whirring machine. What’s this “someone else”? I open my mouth to reply—then close it again. Did I hear wrong? Is she using some figure of speech?
“So …” I proceed warily, feeling as though I’m speaking a foreign language. “You bought the ring for Richard … but you didn’t give it to him?”
I’m only trying to work out what she meant. I’m not expecting her to flip out on me as though I’ve single-handedly ruined her day.
“Fliss, you know I didn’t! God, you could be a bit more sensitive!” Her voice rises shrilly. “I’m trying to start afresh here! I’m trying to embark on a whole new life with Ben! You don’t have to bring up Richard!”
Ben?
I’m completely confused. I think I’m going mad. Who’s Ben and what does he have to do with this?
“Look, Lottie. Don’t get upset, but I really don’t understand.…”
“I told you just now in my text! Can’t you read?”
“You said you were engaged!” A terrible feeling grips me. Is this all some massive misunderstanding? “Are you not engaged?”
“Yes! Of course I’m engaged! To Ben!”
“Who the fuck is Ben?” I yell, more loudly than I meant to. Elise looks in at the door curiously, and I shoot her an apologetic smile, mouthing, “It’s OK.”
There’s silence at the end of the phone.
“Oh,” says Lottie at last. “Sorry. I just looked back at my text. I thought I’d told you. I’m not marrying Richard; I’m marrying Ben. Remember Ben?”
“No, I do not remember Ben!” I say, feeling increasingly frazzled.
“That’s right, you never met him. Well, he was my gap-year boyfriend in Greece, and he’s come back into my life and we’re getting married.”
I feel as though the ceiling has caved in. She was marrying Richard. It all made sense. Now she’s running off with some guy called Ben? I don’t even know where to start.
“Lotts … But, Lotts, I mean … How can you be getting married to him?” A thought suddenly comes to me. “Is this a visa thing?”
“No, it’s not a visa thing!” She sounds indignant. “It’s love!”
“You love this guy Ben enough to marry him?” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.
“Yes.”
“When exactly did he come back into your life?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks ago,” I repeat c
almly, although I want to burst into hysterical laughter. “After how long?”
“Fifteen years.” She sounds defiant. “And before you ask me, yes, I have thought it through.”
“OK! Well, congratulations. I’m sure Ben’s wonderful.”
“He’s amazing. You’ll love him. He’s good-looking, and he’s fun, and we’re totally connected—”
“Great! Look, let’s meet up for lunch, OK? And we can talk about it.”
I’m overreacting, I tell myself. I simply have to adjust to this new situation. Maybe this guy Ben is perfect for Lottie and it will all work out brilliantly. As long as they have a nice long engagement and don’t rush into anything—
“Shall we meet at Selfridges?” Lottie says. “I’m there now, actually. I’m buying honeymoon underwear!”
“Yes, I heard. So, when were you planning to get married?”
“Tomorrow,” she says happily. “We wanted to do it as soon as possible. Can you take the day off?”
Tomorrow? She’s gone mad.
“Lotts, stay there.” I can hardly get the words out. “I’ll come and meet you. I think we should have a talk.”
I should never have relaxed. I should never have gone on holiday. I should have realized Lottie wouldn’t rest till she’d found something to channel all her hurt energy into. And it’s this. A marriage.
By the time I get to Selfridges, my heart is thumping and I have a head full of questions. Lottie, on the other hand, has a basket full of underwear. No, not underwear, sex kit. She’s standing looking at a transparent basque as I hurtle toward her, almost knocking over a rail of Princesse Tam Tam teddies. As she sees me, she holds it up.
“What do you think?”
I eye the stuff in her basket. She’s clearly been at the Agent Provocateur concession. There’s lots of black see-through lace. And is that an eye mask?
“What do you think?” she says impatiently, and jiggles the basque at me. “It’s quite expensive. Shall I try it on?”
Isn’t there a slightly bigger question we should be discussing? I want to yell. Like: who is this Ben and why are you marrying him? But if I know one thing about Lottie, it’s that I need to play things carefully. I need to talk her down.
Wedding Night Page 10