There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  Polly says nothing. Then, wordlessly, she reaches out her hands for the tray. She starts shoveling down the scrambled eggs as if she hasn’t eaten for a week.

  “As a matter of fact, I called Dev last night,” I tell her. “Just to tell him you’d made a mistake with your flight and you were safe with me. I didn’t mention anything about … well, anything else. But I’m pretty sure he’ll work it out,” I add as her phone suddenly starts to trill on the bedside table, “when you keep ignoring his calls.”

  “That wasn’t Dev,” Polly mumbles, glancing at her phone. “Not that time, anyway. That was Grace.”

  I can’t help the tiny stab of triumph I feel that Polly doesn’t seem to want to talk to Grace at the moment.

  “Of course,” I say craftily, “you wouldn’t have to make any of these awkward calls, least of all the one to Dev, if you’d just rethink this whole notion of calling off the wedding—”

  “It’s not a notion.”

  “But it just seems so sudden!” It’s a rerun of the conversation we had—or rather, I tried to have—last night. “And so unnecessary! I mean, unless Dev’s been cheating on you, or been cruel to you …”

  “He hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.”

  “… then there’s no earthly reason why you need to make such a dramatic decision. I mean, he loves you so much, Polly!”

  “Well, I don’t love him.”

  What?

  Well, this is further than we got last night.

  “You … don’t love him?”

  “No.”

  “But you used to love him.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what, you just … stopped?”

  “Yes.” She isn’t meeting my eye. She’s fiddling with the vintage gold locket she always wears around her neck. She calls it her Bella locket, in the same way that I call the one I always wear my Polly locket; they’re a matching pair that belonged to Brian’s mother and aunt. “I just stopped.”

  “But you can’t just—”

  “And I don’t want to hear about how perfect he is, OK? About how kind and clever and funny and handsome and generous he is. Or what a perfect couple we make,” she adds, rather more venomously. “In fact, I don’t want to hear anything about any of it. I mean it, Bella. All I want to do is get on with my life. Find a new job, and somewhere to live.”

  “But you have somewhere to live,” I say, unable to keep the despairing note out of my voice. “You have a beautiful new house in Wimbledon!”

  “Bella, stop it!” she snaps.

  Which sounds quite peculiar. Because Polly doesn’t snap. Polly is good humor personified, in pretty much any given circumstance. Polly is the one who, when I was stuck in a dismal hospital ward for weeks after I had this horrible car accident ten years ago, used to breeze in with a bright, broad smile and after only a few minutes have me (multiple crush injuries) and my ward-mates (ruptured spleens, punctured lungs, acute kidney failure) laughing at her jokes and feeling—temporarily—fabulous again.

  She takes a deep breath. “Look. I’m sorry. But I’m not going to marry Dev. So I’m not going to live in the house in Wimbledon.”

  “Well, where are you going to live, then?” I demand. I’m sort of hoping that once she starts having to figure out these kinds of practical concerns—not just canceling the wedding but also what she’s going to do with the rest of her life—her essential faffiness might kick in and she’ll change her mind. “I mean, obviously you can stay here as long as you need, but nice flats are hard to come by …”

  “I’ve already sorted a flat, actually. Well, I know one that’s available. My friend Lauren, back in New York, her cousin is staying with her over there while he does some kind of internship, and he’s leaving his flat in Clapham completely empty for three months. I just need to call Lauren and ask if I can rent it from him.”

  Wait—this isn’t dithering. This sounds positively single-minded.

  “But you’ll need a job, ASAP, to pay the rent, and good jobs are hard to come by.” I’m hoping I’ll have more success with the hard to come by line this time. Besides, good jobs in Polly’s field—she’s worked in PR for the past few years, mostly for publishing companies—are hard to come by.

  “I’ll find something. Even if it’s just reception somewhere.”

  I’m about to point out that not only is this a massively retrograde step but also that she’ll actually have a hard time getting something decent if she doesn’t start brushing her hair again, and putting on decent clothes, when suddenly there’s a knock at the open door.

  “Morning, ladies,” says Jamie.

  Well, talking of not brushing your hair, or putting on decent clothes …

  It’s not exactly surprising that he looks such a mess, given that he didn’t get in from the pub until almost three last night, and that he’s only just woken up.

  Still, he grins his devastating grin and waves in Polly’s direction. “Welcome home, Dood,” he says, using the childhood nickname (short for Polly-Wolly-Doodle) that I still occasionally call her.

  “Don’t call me that,” Polly says, grumpily resistant, as ever, to his charm. It’s nothing personal. It’s just her way of protecting me. Besides, compared to the special hatred she still reserves for my Evil Ex, Christian, she’s positively giddy about Jamie. “Late night?” she adds pointedly.

  “Just a bit.” Jamie looks sheepishly in my direction. “I’m really sorry, Bells. Did I wake you when I came in?”

  “No. I was out like a light.” It’s a tiny fib. Actually, a hearing-impaired sloth couldn’t have slept through Jamie’s clattering and banging. Or the mumbled choruses of “Glory Glory Man United.” “There are still some scrambled eggs in the pan, if you want some,” I tell him, keen to get him to move along so I can finish this conversation with Polly.

  But he waves a hand at me. “Thanks, babe. But I’m getting dressed and heading straight out.”

  “To work?” Polly asks, even more pointedly than before.

  “No, to East Sheen. Or was it West Hampstead? Or South Norwood?” Jamie scratches his head, thinking. “I met a guy in the pub last night who can get me a ticket for the United-Chelsea game on Saturday afternoon. I’ve got to go round to his place and pick it up.”

  “OK, but don’t forget we have that meeting with Samantha on Saturday morning,” I say lightly. “Still, you probably won’t need to leave here until about one thirty, will you?”

  “No, no, babe, the game’s in Manchester. I’ll have to leave here at nine in the morning. Latest.”

  OK. I know Polly’s opinion of Jamie is shaky at the best of times. So I really shouldn’t have her privy to this conversation. But I can’t help myself. “Jamie, you can’t. I mean, you just can’t. Samantha is coming at eleven.”

  “Remind me again who Samantha is?”

  I take a very, very deep breath. Count very, very slowly to five. “The … adoption … social … worker.”

  “Ohhhhhh. Course.” Jamie grimaces. “Well, I’m really sorry, babe, but it’s a huge game. Can you hold down the fort by yourself for this one? And I’ll make absolutely dead certain I’m there for the next one.”

  I don’t say anything. I can feel Polly eyeballing me.

  “Anyway, it’s probably better, isn’t it, if you handle her yourself at first? Do all the impressing without me there to muck things up!”

  What can I say? I don’t want to kick up any more of a fuss about this, not with Polly here to witness it. “You’re probably right. OK. Go to the game.”

  “You’re the best, Bells!” He leans through the door and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Isn’t she the best, Dood?”

  “Yes, Jamie. She is.”

  “Right. Well, I’m off to South Norwood. Or—Christ—was it East Finchley? Shit. I’d better call this guy and find out. I’ll see you ladies later.”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Polly as Jamie slopes away.

  “I’m not looking at you like anything.�
�� Polly puts the empty breakfast tray on the bedside table, then gets out of bed and starts to rummage in her still-packed suitcase for her washbag. Then after a moment or two of rummaging, she says, “I don’t know, Bella. I don’t understand.”

  I don’t ask her what she means—I’m just assuming it’s not washbag-related—but as she starts making her way to the bathroom, she turns back to tell me anyway.

  “I mean, you won’t take even the slightest amount of shit from anyone else in your life. But you seem perfectly happy to stand under an entire torrent of it when it comes to Jamie.”

  Jamie has gone (to South Kensington, it eventually turned out) and Polly is still in the shower when my front doorbell rings.

  It’s my friend Anna. We have work to do, finalizing the menu for a regular client’s anniversary party on Saturday, so I’ve been expecting her.

  But I’m not expecting her to be red-eyed and sniffly when I open the door.

  “Vile Debbie just phoned,” is all she says. “She’s pregnant. Again.”

  “Oh, Anna.”

  “I hate her, by the way,” she adds, and bursts into tears.

  Vile Debbie is Anna’s sister-in-law, and to be entirely fair to her, there’s no independent, peer-reviewed evidence to confirm that she’s actually vile. I’ve never met the woman. She may well be a delight. But there’s one thing she certainly is, and that’s superfertile. She has three—three!—children already and now, apparently, another on the way. While Anna, who’s been trying to conceive, with ever-increasing zeal, since the day she got married ten months ago, is still showing no signs of managing to cobble together so much as one.

  “I hung the phone up when she told me.” She’s sobbing now as I lead her gently toward the kitchen, making as many different soothing noises as I know how. “I couldn’t help it, Bella! So now Pete’s furious with me, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say, even though I can’t imagine Anna’s husband, Pete (or Poor Pete, as we both often call him), being furious with her about anything. Mild disapproval is all I think he’s capable of. And certainly all that Anna permits.

  “And it’s not even like we can afford to have a big row about it, because my cervical mucus is thick and stretchy and we need to have truckloads of sex for the next few days.”

  There aren’t many things I won’t do for Anna. But I’m afraid I draw the line at an in-depth discussion of her cervical mucus. Besides, it’s a slippery slope. (No pun intended, I swear.) Anna has lost any boundaries she might once have had on such matters, so give her an inch (of chat about cervical mucus), and before you know it, she’s taken a mile (of endless agonizing about the quality and quantity of Poor Pete’s sperm). She pulled this particular trick over the birthday supper I hosted for her back in October, and in the end her mother had to take her gently aside and tell her that she was putting everyone off their vanilla-bean pannacotta.

  “You know,” I say, sitting her down at the table and popping the kettle on, “you just have to try to relax about all this, Anna. You know what the doctor told you. That chilling out and having proper, relaxed, passionate sex is the best way to conceive.”

  “Yes, well. I don’t feel very passionate right now,” she sniffs. “I’m too angry. With Debbie. With Pete. With myself. With everything.”

  “OK, so why not try to turn some of that anger into passion!” I say, and then regret it as soon as I realize it made me sound exactly like one of those bouffy-haired, rictus-grinning “doctors” who pop up to plug their self-help books on American daily talk shows. Because the point is that I know—I really know—how Anna feels. It may be ten years since my car accident, but I can still remember the particular taste of the toxic bile that would well in my mouth every time I’d hear the pregnancy news of an old friend, or a former colleague—or even, for God’s sake, a Hollywood celebrity. There’s a branch of WHSmith in Victoria Station that I can never go into again, thanks to the meltdown I had at seeing Angelina Jolie’s face beaming smugly out at me from the cover of Grazia after the accidental announcement that she was expecting not just one genetically blessed baby but two.

  I mean, for Christ’s sake, doesn’t the woman already have enough good fortune? Would it kill the powers-that-be to share some of it around a little bit more?

  Anyway, WHSmith meltdowns aside, at least I’ve long had the luxury, strange though it may seem, of certainty. Poor Anna has her hopes raised and her dreams shattered every single month.

  “Look,” I go on, sitting down opposite her and passing her a piece of paper towel to blow her nose on, “what I mean is, there’s honestly nothing to be gained from sitting around hating Vile Debbie, and everything to be gained from remembering why it is you want to have a baby in the first place.”

  Anna blows her nose. “Why is it?”

  “Because you love Poor Pete,” I tell her. “You fancy Poor Pete. You married Poor Pete because you didn’t want to spend a day of your life without him, or a single night apart. Now, if you can’t go home tonight and have proper, recently married, rattling-the-headboard sex with your husband, then …”

  “Polly!” Anna interrupts me, jumping to her feet to greet my sister, who’s just come into the kitchen.

  Well. It’s nice that Anna is fond of Polly, but I wouldn’t have minded a fraction more appreciative consideration of my words of wisdom.

  It makes me a bit envious, watching them hug, and laugh, that I can’t find that kind of ease with Polly’s friends. It’s not only Grace I feel intimidated by. Polly’s friends have always managed to make me feel like the last prize in the jumble sale tombola.

  “How was your flight? Do you miss New York already? How’s Dev?” Anna is demanding, in her usual scattergun way.

  “Oh, I’m sure Bella will fill you in on all that,” Polly expertly dodges the awkward questions. “Anyway, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a lot of important stuff to sort out …”

  “Yes. A lot.” I shoot her A Look. “Are you going to go and see Dev this morning?”

  She avoids the Look. Like awkward-question-dodging, it’s a technique she’s perfected over the years. “No. But I’ll call him and tell him I’ll meet him for dinner.”

  This, at least, is something. And maybe they’ll go to a cozy, romantic restaurant, and their eyes will lock over a candlelit table, and Polly will realize what a silly mistake she’s making …

  “I’ll hold off making those calls for the day, then, shall I?” I say.

  Polly shoots me A Look of her own as she turns to leave the kitchen. She bangs the front door slightly too loudly behind her.

  “What was all that about?” Anna hisses. “Bride drama?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Seeing as the most dramatic thing of all is when the bride doesn’t actually show up to her own wedding.”

  She blinks at me.

  “Polly’s breaking up with Dev.”

  Anna actually laughs. “What do you mean, she’s breaking up with Dev? She can’t break up with Dev! He’s the perfect man. They’re the perfect couple!”

  “Yes, well, that’s not a popular view in Polly-land this morning. And apparently things aren’t so perfect. Not when she doesn’t love him anymore.”

  “Come on, Bella, you don’t just fall out of love with someone a month before you marry them! There must be more to it than that. Ooooh, you know what you should do?” she suddenly adds, banging her fist down on the table. “You should check her phone. That’s how I found out my sister was having an affair with a married man, remember?”

  “I do remember. And I remember the screaming row that took place when she caught you, and the fact that she didn’t speak to you for six months afterwards.”

  “Or you could check her emails instead. That’s a great way to find out what’s been going on!” Anna carries on as though I haven’t even spoken. “You know, if you know her password you can do it from any computer, so you won’t get caught. And even if you do get caught … well, the end justifies the means, doe
sn’t it? I mean, what if Perfect Dr. Dev is secretly a woman-beater, or he’s got a ruinous coke habit … or she’s got a ruinous coke habit …?”

  “Anna, nobody has a ruinous coke habit. And if Dev’s a secret woman-beater, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Yes, but that’s the point, isn’t it?” she says triumphantly. “The secret part. The part you’d only find out from spying on her.”

  For a moment, I think about the way Polly slammed her laptop shut when I went into her room with breakfast this morning, with that furtive, guilty look on her face. OK, so maybe Anna is right. Not about the coke habits or the domestic violence, please, God. But maybe there is something else going on. Still …

  “Anna, I’m not going to spy on my own sister.”

  “Don’t think of it as spying, then! Think of it as … as covert surveillance!”

  I hold up a hand. “OK. Hold it right there, Miss Money-penny. I am not going to covertly surveil my own sister either. Anyway, with any luck, this is all just going to turn out to be one of Polly’s typical attacks of indecision and faffiness.”

  “Faffiness?”

  “Precisely. Faffiness.” I put the fact of Lauren’s cousin’s Clapham flat out of my mind. “OK, that’s quite enough about Polly’s wedding for now.”

  “Her non-wedding, you mean.”

  I ignore this. “You and me have to talk about the Macfarlanes’ anniversary party on Saturday night. Now, I’ll want to get as much preparation done in advance as possible, because I’ve got the adoption social worker coming that morning, so if you could …”

  “Bella! You didn’t tell me! That’s so exciting!”

  “Yes, well, I only found out yesterday. Besides, it’s not a big deal, Anna, just a preliminary chat. The first stage of many. And not even an important stage, really, just the opportunity for her to take a few details. Stuff she could probably do over the phone, in fact.”

  There’s a bit of a silence.

  “Jamie’s wriggled out of it,” she says flatly. “Hasn’t he?”

  “No! Not wriggled out! He has something else to do, that’s all. And anyway, it’s better if it’s just me, this first time, without Jamie around to make a mess of it!”