Seduce Me

by Georgia Le Carre

  ‘You can do that when you get married,’ Lana retorts.

  ‘I’m never getting married. I need the government to charge me to say I do like I need a fucking hole in the head.’

  ‘Really? You never want to get married?’ I ask.

  ‘If I do marry it’ll be barefoot on a beach with not a single official ‘vested’ with the authority to marry people in sight. No wedding dress, no cake, no guests. Just the sun, the sea, the sand, the coconut trees and an obliging bartender.’

  Lana laughs.

  ‘So how are the wedding plans coming along?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Blake has forbidden me to do anything. He says it’s only six hours of our life, and no way is he going to let me ruin four months of our life getting stressed out with preparations. So, I have been confined to choosing the venue, contributing to the guest list, and everything to do with my dress.’

  She beams at us, totally unaware of my animosity towards her.

  ‘Ah, so it was you who picked a small church in Woburn and the reception at Wardown Towers.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles softly.

  ‘Why? Why not somewhere glamorous like the Savoy or the Ritz?’

  Lana touches her son’s cheek and smiles at him before turning to me. ‘Wardown Towers is an amazing place. It is surrounded by a hundred and ninety acre park teaming with deer, forests, lakes and meadows.’ She stops and looks again at Sorab. ‘But the real reason is that I wanted Blake’s sister to be not only present but comfortable. She is in her twenties, but she has the mental age of a child. Since Wardown is where she lives it seemed the perfect location. Besides, I always dreamed of a reception in a beautiful spring garden.’

  I wonder about this spastic sister that my search on the Internet did not uncover. Who is she? And why is Lana bending backwards to accommodate her? But all I say is. ‘That’s nice of you.’

  On the other side of the table Billie is waving to a waitress. I know what she wants. The waitress comes and Billie points to her empty glass.

  ‘So,’ I say casually. ‘Who do we know that are coming for the wedding?’

  ‘Well, a few of our school friends, Amanda, Nina, Sylvia, Jodie—’

  ‘No, what I meant is who is coming from our neighborhood?’

  ‘Oh! Uh… Mary—’

  ‘Fat Mary?’ interjects Billie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You invited Fat Mary?’ Billie repeats, shocked.

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  ‘Why?’ both Billie and I ask in unison.

  Lana takes a sip of tea and looks at Billie. ‘Sometimes on my way to visit you, I’d take the way past the flats where we used to live so I could look at our old homes. That one time Mary was coming up the street. I crossed the road to avoid her, but she then crossed the road to join me. She took my hand and said she’d heard that mother had died. “Sorrow is how we learn to love,” she told me.

  ‘I was shocked. Is this really the woman who tanks up on a bottle of Cava, squeezes into a Lycra dress every Saturday night and goes up the road to look for a stranger to have sex with? “I know what you’re thinking, but it is just something to do in this sad world,” she said. I realized that I had misjudged her. She was so much more. We became friends.’

  I look at Lana and suppress the annoyance I feel. This conversation has gone askew. ‘So Fat Mary is coming. Who else from our neighborhood?’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Billie cries suddenly. She looks totally revolted.

  ‘What?’ Lana asks.

  ‘Is that woman eating a chicken foot?’

  Lana and I turn in the direction of her gaze. Indeed something resembling a dark brown chicken foot with the claws still attached is dangling from the woman’s chopsticks. Sickened, I watch her delicately nibble at one end. What can be in a chicken foot? Skin, gristle, and in the pads—fat. Uh! yuck. The thought turns my stomach and I turn away.

  ‘For God’s sake don’t stare,’ Lana whispers.

  ‘I’d rather starve than eat one of those,’ Billie declares.

  ‘It’s meant to be a delicacy,’ Lana informs.

  I feel like screaming with frustration. Once again the conversation is drifting away from what I want to talk about. I realize I have no choice but to reveal my hand. ‘What about Jack? Is he coming?’ I ask as casually as I can.

  Both Lana and Billie look at each other.

  ‘Jack has been invited, but I don’t know if he will come.’

  That look they exchanged. There is more to this and I know exactly what to do to find out. When at an impasse, leave.

  ‘I need to go to the toilet. Be back soon,’ I say, and smoothly slide off the chair. I make it around the wall, behind where our table is, and drop my purse. Then I crouch down and pretend to be picking up stuff that has rolled to the floor while I hear every word of their conversation.

  ‘Has he not been in touch then?’ Billie asks.

  ‘No. I really hoped he would come.’

  ‘He’s hurting, babe.’

  ‘I guess I always thought he would give me away at my wedding.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. You’re marrying the man of your dreams.’

  ‘I know, I know. I don’t want to be selfish, but I love him so much and I really thought he’d be there, forever. To be honest I even find it hard to imagine getting married without him. And… He promised he’d give me away.’ Her voice breaks, and she says something else, but I am interrupted by a stupid woman who has squatted down beside me.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ the do-gooder says cheerfully, picking up my mobile phone and lipstick. I could have hit her. Because of her meddling I didn’t hear the rest of Lana’s words or Billie’s reply. I snatch my phone and lipstick out of her hand and she shakes her head, surprised and disgusted by my rude behavior.

  She stands up in a huff. ‘Whatever,’ she says, and marches away.

  Two more women talking loudly in Chinese come towards me, and I have no choice but to stuff my things into my bag and stand. Irritated that I missed the most important part of the conversation, I head in the direction of the Ladies. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my reflection for a minute, my brain working frantically. Have Lana and Jack fallen out? My heart bursts with joy at the thought. I check my teeth for lipstick and then I go back to the table.

  Both of them turn smiling faces towards me.

  ‘We were just reminiscing about the past. About that time Billie didn’t want to do PE and she told her teacher that she didn’t want to change into her shorts because her legs were full of bruises where her mother had beat her.’

  ‘How was I to know that Social Services would turn up at my door that evening?’

  ‘Her mother made her take her trousers off and show the two women her legs.’

  Billie makes a face. ‘They should have seen the backs of my legs after they left! Crimson and purple.’

  ‘We could hear the slaps and wallops from our flat,’ Lana adds, laughing gleefully with the memory.

  I titter politely to show interest.

  ‘At least I wasn’t a vain crybaby like you.’ Billie looks at me. ‘Once she took a pair of scissors to her own hair, made a total mess, and her mother had to cut what was left real close to her head. That afternoon she goes to buy an ice cream and the ice cream van guy says to her, “Here you go, sonny.” What does madam do? She throws the ice cream on the ground in a hissy fit and runs home bawling, “He thought I was a boy.”’

  ‘I was only six then,’ Lana defends, and then… They both look at me. Obviously wanting me to share the highlights of my childhood with them. I blink. My stories. Oh no! Under no circumstances am I returning to my friendless state or the horror that my despicable fat self endured. I cover the fact that my lips are quivering by taking a drink. A question pops into my head.

  ‘You were in Iran for a year. What was it like?’

  That sobers Lana up plenty.

  ‘Iran is very beautifu
l, but when I first went there I was very sad. At that time it felt like my life was ruined. I was crazy about a man I could never have and I was pregnant with his child. I hardly went out and I never mixed with our neighbors. I couldn’t speak Farsi anyway, so there was no real interaction, but they were always smiling at me, always nice—’

  ‘Nice! Aren’t they mostly terrorists?’

  Lana’s eyes flash. ‘When you read the papers and listen to the news have a care. You are listening to that particular piece of news above all else that is happening in the world because somebody wants you to hear that. Have you ever wondered, Julie why we need to hear that Justin Bieber has been arrested for some minor infringement twenty times a day? Did nothing else important happen that day?’

  I frown. Justin Bieber being arrested is important news—well, I want to know about it, anyway. And they repeat the news so that all his millions of fans get to hear about it. I glance quickly at Billie, but she is nodding in agreement. Seems I am the odd one out.

  ‘After my mother died,’ Lana continues, ‘I saw my neighbors, the ordinary Iranians, for what they really are. I thought I was sad before, but when she was suddenly taken away from me I became lost. I couldn’t do anything. I sat staring at a wall all day.

  ‘I know you won’t understand, but over the years our roles had changed. I was no longer the child, but the caregiver, the mother. I cried for her as a mother cries for her child. I could not bear to see her broken body, but neighbors, they were amazing. Though it was not their way—they are Muslims—they cleaned off the red polish on her toenails and painted them pale pink, powdered her face, colored her lips with her favorite lipstick, and placed her favorite rosary in her hand.’

  The memory must still be very painful, because Lana’s eyes glisten with tears. She bends her head and stares at the tablecloth.

  ‘They shined my shoes for me, Julie! And the men, they arranged everything. The coffin—it had a brass nameplate and a satin and lace interior, the funeral in a sunny chapel, the Christian cemetery plot across town. Everything was done properly, with the greatest respect. They even laid one of Sorab’s toys inside the coffin.’

  She shakes her head in admiration for the people that I had been persuaded to believe should have glass and sand pancakes for breakfast.

  ‘In the days after the funeral the women brought food three times a day, they took care of Sorab, they found a nurse to breast-feed him because my milk had dried up, they cleaned the house, they shopped, they cooked. They are the kindest, most beautiful people I have ever met and if ever you have the chance, you must go there and decide for you for yourself if they are terrorists or they are simply like you and me.’

  The food arrives. There is too much, but nobody else seems to think so. Billie and Lana both know how to eat with chopsticks. I ask for a fork and spoon. I watch Billie dip her dim sum into soy sauce and put it whole into her mouth. I pick up a shiny white dumpling. Under its transparent skin I can see…stuff, well pork, prawns and crab to be precise, and I put it into my bowl. I am so hungry my mouth is running with saliva, but I cut a tiny piece and slip it between my lips. It is so delicious my eyes actually widen.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Lana asks.

  I nod and cut another tiny piece.

  I chew slowly and watch Lana reach for the small plastic container and spoon she had taken out of her bag earlier.

  ‘Shall we have some lunch?’ she says, in that high sing-song voice that people put on when they are talking to babies and animals and ties a bib around her baby’s neck. He smiles up at her and she begins to spoon food into his face. ‘If you finish all your food you can have some of Auntie Billie’s fried ice cream.’

  The rest of the lunch is a stressful, exhausting ordeal with me pretending to eat the same amount as them. Believe me, it is a feat considering the little baskets of dim sum arrive with exactly three pieces in them. Two I palm and they end up inside my handbag. Despite all their attempts to include and pull me into the conversation I feel excluded and jealous of their obviously tight bond. When the fried ice cream arrives I sigh with relief. From my seat I smell it, though. Freshly fried batter and vanilla. A tantalizing combination that makes me twitch in my seat. The baby gets some too. He seems to love it. As soon as it is all gone, Billie stands up.

  ‘I’m off to suck a fag,’ she says, picking up her box of cigarettes.

  I kind of panic at the thought of being left alone with Lana. ‘Smoking will give you cancer.’

  ‘Great, that’ll save me from dying of boredom,’ she quips and then she is gone.

  I look at Lana and she is pulling a wet-wipe out of its box and cleaning her baby’s hands. Terrified that an uncomfortable silence will descend upon us I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind.

  ‘How old is he now?’ As if I’m interested.

  ‘Fourteen months tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s a very quiet baby, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is like his father. Blake’s first language is silence.’ She glances at me with a smile. ‘When he was young his capacity for silence was such that his parents thought there was something wrong with him.’

  ‘Do you think you will have more kids?’

  Lana glows. ‘For sure. At least two, but most probably three.’

  ‘Oh.’ Does she not care that having so many kids will ruin her body? I suppose now she has the money she can go and remodel her body in any way she wants.

  ‘There you go. All done,’ she tells her son and turning to me says, ‘He hates it when any part of him gets dirty.’ She puts the soiled wipe on the table. ‘I got a little gift for you to say thank you for being my bridesmaid, but I was in such a rush this morning, thanks to him,’ she rolls her eyes in the direction of the child, ‘I forgot to bring it. If you don’t have anything planned for this evening perhaps you’d like to come home with me after the fitting? We can have tea together.’

  I can barely believe it. I am dying to see where Lana lives now. I school my voice so I don’t sound too eager. ‘That would be nice, thanks.’

  Lana pays the bill and we are thankfully out of the restaurant. I take a deep breath of the cool air. That is the last time I go to a restaurant with them.

  The Bentley arrives and we all climb into it. Inside it is the byword in comfort. I settle in and we are borne towards that girlie ceremony called a dress fitting.

  Five

  I am the thief of secrets. For I have learned the ritual of being quiet. I can become so still, it is as if I become invisible, and people forget I am there and begin to take me into their labyrinth of secrets.

  —Julie Sugar

  Lana disappears behind the curtain with a seamstress called Rosie and her assistant, whose name I didn’t catch. Strange, but I must admit I feel a surge of excitement. What is it about wedding dresses? Most of them are like meringues and yet… Perhaps it is the idea of a bride. I try to imagine what Lana’s dress might be like. Obviously floor length. But I have never seen a custom-made dress that has been flown across half the world twice and requires four fittings. As Lana explained in the car the first fitting was for when the dress was skeletal, the second when it was half complete, the third when it was almost compete, and this fourth and last fitting when it needs only to be zipped up.

  Five minutes pass.

  Sorab has fallen asleep in his pushchair and Billie is lounging on one of the long sofas playing with her phone. I walk around the large space. It belongs to some other designer, but Lana’s designers, two Australian men, have rented it for the afternoon. The late afternoon sun is low in the sky and soft silver light is filtering through. I go to the window and look at the street below.

  I have only the view of the back of another gray building, but I love London. Every time I come to London I start to feel alive. On the street below two men are standing by a lamp post casually looking around them. I recognize them. They were at the restaurant too. From behind me comes the soft rustle of Billie’s trouser legs brushing agai
nst each other as she crosses and uncrosses her legs.

  I turn back and glance at her. She is still messing about with her phone. I leave the window and go to the long table pushed up against one end of the room and glance at the stuff on it. Dressmaker’s chalk, sketches, fabric samples, a curved ruler, a pair of scissors, a length of lace.

  And I think of the two men outside.

  ‘Out she comes,’ Rosie calls in her strong Australian accent and starts pulling the curtain aside.

  Billie springs up and comically starts singing, ‘Here comes the bride.’ But she stops mid-sentence, gasping, her hands flying to her cheeks when all of Lana, head dipped to avoid the hanging material, comes out from behind the curtain. Even my mouth falls open. The dress is breathtakingly exquisite—couture at its best—and Lana—Lana is unimaginably, impossibly beautiful.

  I have literally never seen anything so lovely in my life.

  Rosie describes the dress. I hear snatches. French lace, Italian silk, antique seed pearls, Swarovski crystals, mounted on Italian silk.

  So let me describe it to you. It has a halter neck. The bodice is made from French lace that has been intricately embroidered and embellished with antique seed pearls and Swarovski crystals, and mounted onto Italian silk. The way the material molds to her body so seamlessly without even the tiniest puckering, sagging or bulging anywhere is truly amazing. Somewhere about the tops of her thighs it trumpets out into a ball gown—all tulle and layers and layers of organza, probably hundreds. The craftsmanship is astonishing. No wonder they needed four fittings.

  ‘Oh, Lana, you look so beautiful,’ cries Billie. Her voice sounds choked.

  Lana grins happily and then looks to me.

  ‘It’s fantastic. You look…regal,’ I enthuse, genuinely impressed and awed by the sight of Lana in her dress. And at that moment I don’t feel like an outsider. We are joined in a beautiful ritual. Three friends who went to try out Lana’s wedding dress. It connects us. I actually feel tears prickling the backs of my own eyes. No one has ever included me in their plans like this before.

  ‘Turn,’ commands Billie. Lana turns.