There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  I suppose I’m pretty old-fashioned, too. And I’m certainly not a home wrecker.

  But like I say, I can see how it looks.

  “Grace Costello! Just the woman I wanted to see!” Chief Miranda says. She nods in the direction of Café on the Green. “On your way for a coffee with some of the others?”

  “Um …”

  “Excellent. I’ll come with you. Would you take Jasper for a moment, please, while I get my bag?”

  “Jasper?”

  She shoves the Labradoodle’s leash at me, which I take, only for Jasper to immediately bury his nose deep into my crotch and start whimpering excitedly.

  Well, it’s nice to know someone around here likes me.

  “Actually, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you for a little while,” Miranda says, taking back Jasper’s leash as we start on our way toward the café. “Your husband … Charlie, isn’t it?”

  She knows full well that it’s Charlie. She knew him when he and Vanessa were still married, long before I, Shameless Grace the Husband-Snatcher, came onto the scene.

  “Yes, it’s Charlie.”

  “He works for the Amar family, doesn’t he? The owners of MMA Capital? Since he was made redundant from Farrell Christie Dench, I mean. Or maybe I shouldn’t say made redundant. I mean, it was more like being managed out, wasn’t it? Because he was pushing forty-five, and they were never going to make him a partner?”

  Amazing that, despite being apparently unable to remember Charlie’s name, Miranda nevertheless has an extensive—and scarily accurate—knowledge of his recent employment history. Thanks, I have no doubt, to Vanessa.

  “Anyway,” she carries on, “we on the fund-raising committee have recently got wind of a very interesting rumor about Saad Amar—you know, the oldest son, the one in charge at MMA—and I thought you might be just the person to help us out.” She starts tying Jasper up outside the café, an agonizingly long process. “Louisa McCormack—do you know her?—she’s my vice-chair on the fund-raising committee, and she works with a family friend of the Amars at Goldman Sachs …”

  I have the time, briefly, to feel deeply inadequate in comparison with Louisa McCormack—a top-ranked Miranda who manages to hold down a high-flying job and take a leading role on the all-important St. Martin’s fund-raising committee. Oh, and no doubt makes a cracking shepherd’s pie, too.

  “… and she’s heard that this Saad guy is looking at schools in London for his youngest brother. Ahmed? Mohammed?” She flaps a hand, as if dismissing silent accusations of institutional racial prejudice that might be coming from either myself or, perhaps, from Jasper. “I don’t remember the details. But Louisa says that St. Martin’s is absolutely definitely in the frame!”

  I really have no idea how I’m supposed to react to this. “Right. Um. Well, that’s. Um. Great?”

  “Grace, don’t be thick!” She pulls the door to the café open and marches through without holding it open for me. “Don’t you realize what an amazing coup it would be for St. Martin’s to have little Ahmed Amar as a pupil? When you think of the kind of welly the Amars could put into the fund-raising for the new science block, or the expansion to the art department … I mean, they’re billionaires, you know!”

  I cringe, inwardly, as my nice Croatian waitress comes up to lead us to a table and gives Chief Miranda an astonished stare.

  You know, it’s a pity I can’t come and sit at a table here every morning, because it’s one of the nicest cafés I’ve ever known, with squashy sofas and newspapers all along one wall for people who are just having coffee, and cute little wrought-iron tables for people who are having their delicious-looking brunch dishes. At this time of the morning, though, the wrought-iron tables are full to bursting with mere coffee drinkers—the Mirandas, who are regarding me now with their usual polite but frosty suspicion as I take my seat among them. There’s a lot of chat about upcoming Christmas holiday plans that I don’t feel quite able to join in with—most of their kids seem to be enrolled in judo camp, or performing arts courses, so I think it’s unlikely the Mirandas will be impressed with my intentions to build a den in the spare room and keep the boys supplied up there with a constant stream of sugary snacks—until Chief Miranda finally turns back to restart her conversation with me.

  “Honestly, the last thing we want is the Amars deciding to send little Mohammed to St. Thomas’s or Arnold House. As if either of those needs the kind of financial boost we do! So if there’s any way you could get your husband to bring any influence to bear … well, it goes without saying how grateful we’d be. And there’d certainly be a place on the fund-raising committee in it for you, if you wanted?”

  I realize, in this instant, that yes, I do want a place on the fund-raising committee. I want the Mirandas to include me. I’m being allowed to peek through this tiny chink in the doorway into their world, and the sight of it is whetting my appetite for more. Not just a position on the fund-raising committee but inclusion in one of the Mirandas’ book groups, or an invitation to the Sports Day committee lunch …

  And Charlie would like it if I were more involved at St. Martin’s. He’s told me so often enough.

  I furnish Chief Miranda with my brightest, most can-do smile. “Well, of course I’ll ask Charlie to see what he can do! Or maybe I could approach Mr. Amar himself. We do have a company drinks party at MMA tomorrow evening,” I add, only slightly inwardly cringing at how Stepford Wife-y this makes me sound, and secretly hoping Chief Miranda will be rather impressed.

  “Oh, God, no, Grace, don’t do that.” Miranda either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care about her astonishing bluntness. “You don’t know how to talk to these kind of people. I mean, you’ve never worked with people like that. Or am I wrong? I thought Vanessa told me you’d never really had a proper job.”

  I can feel my cheeks start to tingle with embarrassment. “Right. Of course.”

  “Golly, Grace, don’t take offense! It’s not a criticism. I’m sure you would have had a terribly interesting career if you hadn’t married and had children so young.” She sips her coffee, enjoying this. And, I’m sure, taking as many mental pictures as possible so she can re-enjoy it with Vanessa on a later occasion.

  Only a few minutes into my excursion into Miranda-land, and I’m already starting to wonder if I should return my visa and flee for the border. But I’m not going to let her put me off that easily.

  I plaster a pleasant smile over my burning face. “Well, it’s been really nice having coffee with you, Miranda,” I say, starting to gather my things and get to my feet. “I’ll get Charlie to do what he can.”

  “Oh, you’re leaving already?”

  “I’m afraid so. My best friend has just got back from New York, and she’s getting married at New Year, so I’ve tons of arrangements to help her with. And I’ve a million things to do in the house,” I say, brilliantly making it sound as though I’m due to spend all day gainfully employed at the organic vegetable patch and Rayburn stove, rustling up tasty shepherd’s pies by the half dozen.

  Well, maybe not that brilliantly. Miranda doesn’t look all that convinced.

  “So you’ll get back to me about the Abdul Amar matter?”

  “I’ll get back to you about the … er … Amar matter. Bye, Miranda!”

  As I leave, I can see through the side window that she’s already upped and joined the Mirandas at the table next to ours, and I can tell from the angle of their heads and the light in their eyes that they’re talking about me. No matter how hard I try, I know I’ll always be a tourist in Miranda-land.

  Ten minutes later and I’m on my way to the supermarket, in pursuit of yellow shower gel, when my mobile rings.

  BELLA, the screen flashes at me.

  It’s Polly’s sister. The one I’m supposed to have called about the bridesmaid dresses.

  “Bella!” I say, with as much jollity in my voice as I can possibly muster.

  Look, it’s not that I don’t like Bella. It’s just that she’
s incredibly hard work. And that no matter how much hard work I do put in with her, she never really seems to give anything back. I think she’s always been jealous of my closeness to Polly. Either that or she’s just one of those people who mistake my particular brand of shyness for standoffishness instead.

  “I’m so sorry,” I carry on, “I’ve been meaning to call you for the past couple of weeks! But I’ve been so busy …”

  “Right. With the school run and stuff.”

  After Charlie’s casual dismissal of me already this morning, not to mention Chief Miranda’s open disdain, I can feel myself bristle for the third time today. This is one of my other problems with Bella. Rather, one of the other problems I think Bella has with me. She’s concluded (entirely inaccurately, as it happens) that Charlie is loaded, therefore I must exist in a world of manicures, blow-dries, and sprees at Harvey Nichols. As if I’d actually want to live in a world of manicures, blow-dries, and sprees at Harvey Nichols. Because to be honest, from where I’m standing, Bella is the one with the great-looking life. She runs her own small catering business, which is something I’d give my eyeteeth to do. I mean, not the catering part, obviously, not with my failings in the shepherd’s pie department. But running your own small business … a little art shop, actually, is what I sometimes dream of, selling artist’s supplies, and gifty prints and cards … and maybe bits and bobs of pretty jewelry if I could find a local designer … even the occasional watercolor by yours truly, if I could pluck up the courage to start painting again …

  Bella doesn’t know how lucky she is, that’s all.

  “Actually, Bella, I have a little bit more to do with my day than the school run!” I say, and promptly panic that she’s going to ask me exactly what this is. I do realize how unimpressive my day of coffee shop, supermarket, and ironing in front of This Morning will sound to her. “Now, we need to have a chat, don’t we, about these bridesmaid dresses?”

  “Yes, well, it’s too late for that now.”

  This is typical Bella Atkins. She could be making a joke. She could be having a dig. You’re just not quite sure.

  I give a weak laugh, to cover my bases. “Well, anyway, I really am sorry. Perhaps we could find time for a coffee, have a chat about colors and things? I mean, obviously we might want rather different styles, because we’re such different shapes …” I realize, too late, that this sounds as though I’m saying that Bella is fat. Which she isn’t, as it happens. She’s just an entirely different shape from me. “I’ve seen some pretty dove gray ones in Coast,” I go on hastily, “that I’m sure Polly would like. Actually, I’m sure she’d be pretty relaxed about whatever we choose.”

  Bella lets out a snort. “Oh, yes. Really relaxed.”

  There we are again. A joke? A dig? Who can tell? “Um, I could give her a call later, maybe, to see what she thinks? I assume she got in OK to Heathrow last night? I just wanted to give her a chance to sleep off the jet l—”

  “So she hasn’t said anything to you, then.”

  “Anything about what?”

  “About calling off the wedding. About leaving Dev.”

  I stop dead, right outside the swing doors of Sainsbury’s. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But … I don’t understand …” I step out of the way of an irate woman with a stroller, into the path of an even more irate man on a mobility scooter. “This is kind of out of the blue, isn’t it?” I carry on when I’ve stopped apologizing. “I was talking to her about her wedding dress only a few weeks ago! I mean, not that she seemed all that keen to discuss it, but … I thought that was just Polly. Being Polly.”

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  “Oh, my God, I should phone her. Try to find out what’s happened …”

  “She won’t tell you.” Bella’s tone is defensive. “She told me last night that she won’t talk about it. I just wondered if she’d given you any hints that anything was wrong.”

  “No, nothing …”

  “All right. Well, that was all I wanted to know. I won’t keep you, then. Bye, Grace. I’ll tell Polly you’ll call her.”

  “But wait! Where is she?”

  “She’s with me, of course.”

  And Bella hangs up.

  Bella

  Wednesday, November 18

  I shouldn’t have bothered phoning Grace just now. I should have known she’d only find a way to get right up my nose. This time it was the tiniest but most ruthless of comments about my weight, and how I’d never manage to wear the same style of bridesmaid dress as her. To be entirely fair to her, I’m not absolutely certain she meant it to be quite as brutal as it sounded. But then that’s Grace all over. Inadvertently, but quite definitely, making me feel like the knockabout Labrador puppy to her sleek Italian greyhound.

  The thing is, I’m not a jealous person in general, but there’s just something about Grace that makes my stomach lurch with envy. And it’s always something new. When she first befriended Polly, it was her closeness to my precious little sister that made me a bit green. As she got older and blossomed into a perfect blond princess … well, I’m only human. Grace’s looks would get anybody’s goat. The rich husband never really bothered me—not after the deeply unflattering things I’ve heard from Polly about him—but because of putting up with him, of course, she got the top prize. The treasure at the end of the rainbow. She got children.

  Anyway, there’s no earthly point in being jealous. Jealousy is counterproductive. And it saps energy, which is something I’m going to need a lot of in the coming days. I mean, if Polly really is serious about canceling this wedding, there are a hell of a lot of phone calls to make. To the tent rental place, to the jazz trio, to the on-hold caterers, to tell them they needn’t be on hold anymore … to a hundred and thirty guests …

  To Dev. Who, I assume, she hasn’t told yet. And who, I also assume, is going to be devastated.

  Bloody hell, Polly. What on earth are you playing at?

  You know, maybe it’s a good idea for me to cook her up a nice fortifying breakfast. And then take it into the guest room, perch on the edge of her bed, and, what with the distraction of the food and a nice cup of tea, just ask one or two oh-so-casual questions about what’s been going on … not pry, or anything …

  A few minutes later, I’m already starting to feel less agitated. Because I absolutely love my kitchen. I love it at all times, but especially at this hour of the morning, with the late autumn sunlight streaming in through the big windows, and my ancient Roberts radio burbling away in the background. (And before Jamie’s had a chance to go in and muck the place up.)

  It’s not just my kitchen, to be fair. It’s any kitchen. Cooking—any time, anywhere—always calms me down, whether it’s a simple breakfast like the one I’m rustling up at the moment, or a full-blown dinner party for sixteen in the kitchen of one of my clients. I know there are some cooks—chefs, mostly; men, practically always—who feel compelled to do a lot of pan-banging and swearing. But for me, there’s nothing more soothing than calmly, quietly, preparing a meal. It’s Brian’s doing. He’s the most unruffled cook in the world, and he’s the one who first taught me to cook, pretty much from the first day Mum married him, when I was three years old. Until then, the only foods I could even identify were either breadcrumbed in violent shades of orange or deep-frozen (or both), so it was both a shock and a pleasure to realize that there were other things to eat out there, too. Deep-dish lasagnes, made in the traditional (British) way with heaps of dried oregano and sweet tomato puree. Thick, comforting stews of beef and lamb, served with dreamy mashed potatoes and buttery peas from Brian’s own vegetable garden. More soups than you could shake a stick at, from recipes that I’ve never bettered and still use myself to this day, from a velvety Jerusalem artichoke to a truly addictive minestrone.

  But this morning, it’s Brian’s patented perfect scrambled eggs I’m re-creating, adding just a dash of double cream and a smidgen of Tabasco sauce to the mix. Then I
pile the fluffy, barely set eggs onto a piece of crunchy toast, load up a tray with the food and a pot of properly made Darjeeling, and take it to the guest bedroom.

  Thanks to the tray, I’ve no hands free, so I knock on the door with the toe of my shoe; then, when there’s no answer, I decide to go in anyway. Well, it’s gone half past nine, and Polly will want to get onto British time as soon as possible, won’t she? Besides, it’s my flat, my rules.

  But when I go in, she’s already awake and sitting up in bed. Her mile-long legs are crossed beneath her, her computer balanced on her knees.

  She slams her laptop shut as though we’re both characters in a spy movie and I’ve just caught her hacking into the Pentagon’s mainframe.

  “Bel-la! Privacy!”

  “I knocked,” I say briskly. “Anyway, I’ve brought you breakfast.”

  “I can see that.” She eyes the tray with the expression of someone who’s about to say something annoying like Couldn’t I just have a piece of toast or something? “Couldn’t I just have a piece of toast or something?”

  “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “Bella, I’ve called off a wedding. Not been stricken with a major illness.”

  “Oh, you have, have you?” I say, trying not to hop for joy that she was the first one to mention the wedding, not me, and so that therefore I can legitimately mention it without being accused of prying. “You’ve called off all the arrangements, and told Mum and Brian, and contacted all the guests?”

  “Well, no, not yet, but I was hoping you …”

  “And you’ve told Dev, have you, that you’re safely back in England, but that you have no intention of marrying him?”