Friday Night With The Girls: A tale that will make you laugh, cry and call your best friend!

by Shari Low

  ‘I brought you this.’ As he pulled the ring box out of his pocket, twelve Japanese tourists burst into applause and suddenly the clouds were alive with the sound of clicking cameras.

  Dear God, I was hallucinating. I was seeing Marc standing there in front of me and he was holding out a ring. This was how madness started, but I wasn’t sure if it was him or me that had lost the plot.

  I eyed him warily. ‘But haven’t we already done this bit?’

  A small camera-wielding lady who was blatantly invading my personal space took the time to offer life-changing advice. ‘You say yes. It is good ring. You say yes.’

  Marc grabbed my hand and half escorted, half pulled me back inside the building. My heart rate dropped from ‘explosive’ to ‘faintly hysterical’.

  ‘Lou, it’s not an engagement ring.’

  Oh. So it’s just a present. A gift. A little token of his affection for my years of love and devotion.

  ‘It’s a wedding ring.’

  It’s a wedding ring. Right then. A wedding. The heart rate returned to ‘explosive’.

  ‘I thought we could get married while we were here. To be honest, I was going to plan the whole thing as a huge surprise . . .’

  That part of the sentence was contributed by the Fucking Great Big Understatement Association.

  ‘. . . but when I looked into it I discovered that we have to register and then wait twenty-four hours before we actually get hitched. We have to produce birth certificates and passports too.’

  It was a few seconds before I realised that my mouth was opening and closing and words were coming out in a crazed babble. ‘Oh well, it was a nice idea, but I don’t have my birth certificate so we couldn’t possibly get married and it’s just as well really because none of our friends are here so it wouldn’t be the same as getting married at home and it would be quite weird really and . . .’

  The last word just kind of faded into the ether as I ran out of breath.

  Marc was staring at me now, really intensely. Why did I get the feeling that I was saying something wrong? What had I missed? And did that little Japanese woman really think I couldn’t see her loitering behind a sales rack of I Heart NYC T-shirts, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation?

  ‘I brought your birth certificate.’

  How the hell did he get that?

  ‘Josie got it for me.’

  Ah, the kleptomania queen strikes again.

  ‘And I thought that we could go register today, then get married down at the Boathouse in Central Park tomorrow. I’ve booked a slot.’

  He’d booked a slot. Yes, I was aware that I was repeating things while my brain tried desperately to process this.

  ‘Lou, I want to marry you. I know that you’re scared . . .’

  Terrified.

  ‘But I know that you love me and that we’re meant to be together. There’s no reason to keep putting this off. Marry me. Tomorrow. At the Boathouse.’

  Now I knew how people in a siege situation felt right before the cops burst in and wiped out the bad guys. I had a feeling I was about to get taken down by friendly fire.

  He was right of course. For two years he’d been casually suggesting that we name a date and get down to the whole business of planning the nuptials and I’d just as casually been avoiding it.

  The truth was that the whole prospect of a wedding day terrified me almost as much as standing on the eighty-sixth floor of a New York tourist attraction. I loved Marc, I really did. He was funny and smart and not to mention eminently shaggable. The guy was a catch. Yet . . . Yet, what? What the hell was wrong with me? Why did the very thought of marrying him, marrying anyone, fill me with dread? He should have saved the money he’d spent on the wedding ring and bought me therapy sessions instead.

  My gaze shifted from my feet to his face: his gorgeous, hopeful, perfect face.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t do this. It was too soon. I hated surprises. I felt out of my depth. Out of control. I needed time to think this over and consider what he wanted us to do. How could I get married in twenty-four hours? I didn’t have a dress. Or shoes. And my nails! My nails looked like they’d been gnawed by small rodents. I could not get married with gerbil nails. And I definitely couldn’t get married without the people I loved here. There was no way Marc could have told Josie why he wanted my birth certificate because if she knew there was even the slightest possibility of me getting married she’d be standing over behind that T-shirt rack in a frenzied state of anticipation with her new Japanese best friend.

  No, there was no way I could do it. I had to say no. It was going to disappoint him but we’d get over it. Maybe we could start planning it when we got home? Work up to it. Take it step by step. Ease into it gently.

  ‘Lou,’ he started, and I could hear a trace of exasperation creeping into his voice now. He ran one hand through his hair without even realising that he was doing it. It was one of the little quirky mannerisms that I loved. ‘Lou, let’s do this. Let’s just do it.’

  Something in my heart snapped, sending tears shooting to my eyes. He was right. I loved him. He loved me. I didn’t want to be with anyone else. And OK, it might not feel exactly right but I was self-aware enough to realise that was down to my inbred aversion to marriage as opposed to any doubts about Marc. Maybe it was time to get over it and take the plunge. Marriage could work. Some people could do it. Lizzy and Adam were doing great. Ginger and Ike seemed happy.

  Marc and I would be happy too. This meant a lot to him. He was a traditional kind of guy and he wanted a traditional married life. Even if he had to talk his bride-to-be down from a great height on the day before the nuptials.

  Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe it was best to have this sprung upon me because who was I kidding? Ease into it gently? I’d never do it. I’d keep finding excuses to put it off and he would lose patience eventually. A stomach-churning realisation hit me – I would lose him. One day he would have enough of my procrastination and he would leave and I couldn’t blame him. He wanted proof that I was in this for the long haul.

  He wanted commitment.

  I wiped away a tear that was falling down my cheek.

  Commitment.

  I may never parachute out of a plane or abseil down a cliff, but maybe it was time for me to tackle fear head on. Marc was right. I just had to do it. I just had to commit. It would be just like when I decided to take the plunge and open the salon, only without the possibility for action by the fraud squad.

  ‘OK.’ I exhaled and nodded simultaneously. I suspected that wasn’t how most people accepted a marriage proposition but I was taking baby steps. His expression changed; a glimmer of relief lit up his eyes as he realised where I was going with this.

  ‘Right then, Mr. Cheyne, let’s do it.’

  A few moments ago, out there on that ledge, I didn’t think it was possible to be more scared.

  I was wrong.

  Twenty-three

  I woke up thinking about Mrs. Marshall and wondering what time she’d booked in for her shampoo and set and whether she would be channeling Baby Spice, Dolly Parton or the blonde one out of LA Law today. Then I realised that there were a couple of bigger issues requiring some priority attention.

  This was it. The big day. The moment that little girls dream about and practise for and plan down to the last detail.

  ‘Lou, we need to leave in five minutes.’

  ‘Isn’t it unlucky for you to see me in my dress before the ceremony?’ I yelled from the bathroom. He heard me without a problem because the walls in the hotel were paper-thin. We’d ascertained that the night before when the people in the next suite were conversing. Apparently ‘Oh yes, baby, oh yes, baby, oh yes,’ was ‘So big. Oh, so big. Ooooooh, so fucking big.’ It went on. And on. And on. We finally got to sleep at 4 am, safe in the knowledge that we were sleeping only feet away from the biggest penis in the free world.

  I paused in my efforts to pull up the zip on my dress as I wai
ted for his reply.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not taking a separate taxi in case you head straight back to the airport and leave me standing.’ He laughed.

  As if. What a ridiculous notion. That would be entirely crazy. I hadn’t even thought of that . . . OK, I had, but not for at least ten minutes. A final tug got the zip right up to the top and my eyes watered a little when a stray lock of hair was removed from my scalp in the process.

  Standing back, I checked out my reflection in the bathroom mirror, reeling a little as I realised that the woman in the ivory dress was me.

  Marc had chosen well. When we got back to the hotel from the Empire State Building yesterday, he’d called down to reception and asked them to bring up ‘the package’. I just hoped that the FBI weren’t listening in on the call, given that he sounded like a drug dealer.

  Ten minutes later, a concierge appeared at the door carrying a huge box with a Saks Fifth Avenue crest. Marc had scoured the internet for a dress he thought I’d love, bought it and had it sent over to the hotel before we arrived. Now, as I performed a slow, careful turn, I could see why he’d picked it. There were two layers to the off-white shift creation, the inner one a beautifully soft, satin-back crêpe, the outer one made of the most delicate lace. The round neck was caught in the back with tiny crystal buttons, then the fabrics glided downwards, gently curving in at the waist, skimming the hips, before falling to just below the knee. The long fitted sleeves completed the classic cut, giving it a retro 40s feel. It was like something Holly Golightly would wear in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But then Holly Golightly was a size eight, whereas I was a size fourteen with a stomach that had fallen foul of a deep pan Hawaiian from room service the night before.

  I took a deep breath and sucked in my stomach. Mr. Organisation may have thought he’d covered all the bases, but there was a definite deficit in the magic knicker field. The dress was stunning, and I was so touched that he’d gone to all that trouble. Urgh, there’s a ‘but’ coming. It’s just that there was no denying that I’d have chosen something a little less classic and a little more forgiving.

  I reminded myself that this wasn’t what it was all about. We’d just get the vicar (was it a vicar? Or a priest? Or some government chap? Was it weird that I had absolutely no idea who was going to be officiating at my own wedding?) to change the vows.

  ‘Do you Marc, take Lou, in sickness, health and carbohydrate-related bloat . . .’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Almost ready!’ I replied, then clutched on to the vanity unit as a wave of anxiety took hold. For the hundredth time that morning I wished that Josie were here. And Ginger and Lizzy. And Avril – even though she’d say that I looked like I’d dressed for the day by rolling in a set of Josie’s kitchen curtains. She might have a point. I definitely wasn’t sure all this lace was really me.

  But what did that matter? What mattered was that I was marrying Marc and we were going to have an amazing day and then we’d go home and tell everyone and – after Josie had battered Marc around the head with a boot for not inviting her – we’d have a wonderful life together. I had a sudden urge to phone home, to talk to someone I loved, but instead I picked up the posy of white roses that lay on the vanity counter, took one last look in the mirror and unlocked the door.

  ‘God, you look beautiful.’ Marc’s grin made him look like one of those models on the Ralph Lauren posters that we’d seen on the walls of Bloomingdale’s. How had I ever managed to snag a man this gorgeous? His navy suit was impeccably cut, his white shirt was immaculate, right down to the mother of pearl cufflinks at his wrists, and the light-blue tie set off the outfit perfectly. It was all just so . . . Marc. If I’d ever taken the time to imagine what he’d wear on his wedding day, this would be exactly what I’d have come up with. Formal. Smart. Grown-up. In the wardrobe mirror I could see the image of the two of us standing next to each other. Grown-ups. Oh, dear Lord, we were grown-ups. Don’t panic. Do not panic.

  He reached out and took my hand. ‘Ready?’

  I nodded. I was ready. It was time. I just had to remember that this was going to be amazing, that after it I’d spend the rest of my life with the man I loved and . . . breathe. Remember to breathe.

  No one from the reception desk even looked up as we passed. No one in the whole world knew that I was on my way to get married. Not a soul. It suddenly struck me that I could get hit by a bus in two hours time and the name on the death certificate would be Lou Cheyne. Who was that?

  That wasn’t me. And if Marc was killed too then Josie would come looking for me but she’d never track down my body because it would have been given the wrong name and despite the best efforts of a crack team of forensic investigators I’d never be identified so I’d rot in an unmarked grave, never claimed, without a single soul knowing I was there.

  I had a hunch this wasn’t what most brides pondered on the way to their wedding.

  The New York late-afternoon traffic was thick and slow, but of course Marc had anticipated that and left plenty of time to get there. ‘Didn’t want to give you anything to fret about,’ he told me.

  Great. Nothing to fret about then. All I had to do was sit back, relax, enjoy this journey through the most exciting city on earth, and make my way to an oasis in the middle of all the chaos to say my vows. The steady stream of chatter from the cab driver added to the ambience. By the time we turned on to Madison Avenue we had already ascertained that he had two wives, seven children and he sent money back to his family in Turkestan every month.

  I let Marc chat to him as I watched the people go by on the street, an eclectic mix of tourists, suits and the odd female who looked like she’d stepped off the set of that new show about New York women. What was it called? Something and the City, or City Sex or . . . nope, it was gone. Lizzy kept raving about how great it was but it was on when I was working late and since I’d yet to master how to tape anything on Marc’s VHS I hadn’t seen it yet.

  Jesus, this car was taking forever. We stopped at a set of traffic lights and as I listened to the driver fill Marc in on his educational background from the ages of eleven to sixteen, a sudden cacophony of noise made me jump. The bells of St Patrick’s Cathedral. They rang out loud and clear, each one making my nerves in the spinal area tingle. It was so quintessentially New York, so bloody wonderfully atmospheric that a picture of Josie hijacked my brain. She would love this. For years she’d talked about coming here and if she’d made it she would love every glamorous, emotional, crazy minute of this adventure.

  She should be here. She. Should. Be. Here. And so should Lizzy. And Ginger.

  ‘What day is it?’ I blurted out. Since we’d arrived in New York I’d completely lost track of the days.

  ‘Friday,’ the driver replied.

  Friday. I should be with the girls. It was the law.

  I could hear the driver getting more and more animated as he spoke. ‘Lady, what are you doing? Lady, you can’t get . . .’

  Marc joined in now too. ‘Lou, what the hell . . .!’

  I didn’t hear what came next. I was out of the door and I was too busy running, not an easy task in four-inch heels that were a half-size too big, but I was running and nothing was going to stop me.

  Nothing except . . .

  ‘Oh shit, sorry!’

  Several large plastic sauce bottles and a dozen bags of potato chips went crashing to the ground and the vendor at the hot dog stand stood open-mouthed in shock. Normally I’d have been a gibbering mass of apologies, but I just kept on running. Actually I was hobbling now because one of the shoes was back there in a puddle of miscellaneous sausage dressings.

  I limped on, bumping into people, dodging prams, crossing puddles and narrowly missing being lassoed by a large man holding leads attached to a menagerie of dogs.

  I saw a doorway and stumbled inside, ignoring the puzzled glances of the people behind the counter. ‘Slice or full?’ one of them asked, gesturing to the array of pizzas in the glass display shelf in front of him. />
  Did I look like a woman who’d just popped out for a quick bite to eat? It was bloody November in the city centre of New York and I was sweating, my face was a vibrant shade of puce, I was wearing an off-white lace frock and one shoe.

  ‘Erm, just coffee, please,’ I stuttered and slid into the booth right at the very back of the shop. I’m fairly sure it was pay-at-the-counter, but the nice man brought the coffee over to the table, and gently placed it down right next to my forehead before tentatively backing away.

  Eventually, when my breathing returned to somewhere near normal, I lifted up my head, took a slug from the cup and pulled out my mobile phone.

  My thumb had pressed speed-dial 1 before I had a chance to consider the implications. It rang. And rang. And rang. Come on Aunt Josie, pick up. Pick up. Eventually it clicked to answering machine and my favourite voice rang out.

  ‘I’m not here because I’m away doing sordid things to that bloke out of Taggart. Leave a message and I’ll phone when I get the feeling back in my bad hip.’

  I hung up. It was probably just as well. There was nothing that Josie could do and she would just come over all protective, raid the Christmas fund and be on the next flight over to collect me.

  Speed-dial 2. It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lizzy, it’s me.’

  Cue ear-shattering shriek.

  ‘Oh my God! Are you having a great time? Have you done all the sights? Did you go roller-blading in Central Park? And please tell me you’ve seen at least one of the cast of Friends. Matthew Perry! Always liked him the best. Or Joey! How you doing?’

  The last bit was said in the voice of a twenty-something Italian American male.

  ‘Lizzy, Marc planned a wedding.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Here. Today. In Central Park.’