“Bella, you can’t keep making excuses for …”
I silence her by banging down the teapot so hard that for a moment I think the spout has fallen off. Which would be a real catastrophe. This teapot is one of the first things I bought when I first moved to London eight years ago, and I’m oddly sentimental about stuff like that. Plus it makes a really excellent cup of tea, keeps it nice and hot, and never once has it leaked or dribbled.
Sometimes I think this teapot is just about the only reliable thing I’ve got in my life.
“Anna, I am not making excuses,” I tell her, in a weird, tight voice that doesn’t sound anything at all like my own. “I know what you and Polly think about Jamie. But you’re both wrong. He wants this adoption as much as I do. He’s just not quite as focused as I am, yet. That’s all.”
Anna doesn’t say anything.
“Now, back to the Macfarlanes. Charlotte Macfarlane is asking for individual beef Wellingtons, but I’ve been trying to tell her there’s no way we can cook them medium-rare for thirty-five people …”
See, this is what I mean about cooking. Even talking about it makes me feel better, more in control. Even thinking about it. If Anna stays for lunch, I might even whiz up a nice fresh pesto sauce to slather over delicate ribbons of tagliatelle, possibly even blanch a few crunchy green beans to go in with it, and toast some pine nuts to sprinkle over the top …
OK, so things might be a bit wobbly right now. With Jamie. With Polly. With the non-wedding. But in all these situations, you just have to stay in control. That way everything works itself out. Eventually.
Grace
Thursday, November 19
It’s the usual 6:00 a.m. start for Charlie, who’s throwing back his side of the duvet and leaping out of bed for his workout.
“Hey, honey,” he puffs as I get out of bed myself a few minutes later. His legs and arms are splaying forwards and backwards in an unnatural way that makes him look faintly like a puppet. “Did you pick up that shower gel I asked you about yesterday? The yellow kind?”
“Yes. The yellow kind.”
“Did you put it in the shower?”
“No. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.”
“Well, I’ll never find it in there!” he says, as though the bathroom cabinet leads to a Narnia-like other world, complete with the Shuddering Wood and Wild Lands of the North. “Can’t you get it out and put it in the shower for me?”
“I was just about to go and start the boys’ breakfast.”
“It’ll take you five seconds!”
“It’d take you five seconds.”
“Not when I don’t know exactly where to find it. And don’t be so unreasonable, Grace. I have a job to get to, you know.”
It’s the trump card. His favorite one, in fact.
I go into the bathroom, grab the shower gel from where it’s sitting, in full visibility, on the second shelf down, and put it just inside the shower door.
“Done,” I tell Charlie as I head back out into the bedroom.
“Good job, honey,” he says, giving me an encouraging thumbs-up. “Oh, and you know the function starts at seven o’clock tonight, don’t you?”
“You told me it was at eight.”
“Honey! I said seven.”
“Fine. I’ll be there at seven.”
“Please, hon, don’t be late. And don’t forget, it’s a very select private members’ club, so don’t wear anything too, you know, flamboyant.”
“I won’t waste time picking my Mata Hari costume up from the dry cleaners, then.”
“Great.” He’s too distracted to realize I’m joking. “You’ll look terrific. Oh, hey, talking of looking terrific, how’s Lady Muck been since she got home to Blighty?”
He’s talking about Polly. He always calls her Lady Muck. Usually with a bit of a sneer. He’s not a huge fan of Polly. Or maybe he’s just not a huge fan of my friendship with her. It’s not something I’ve ever particularly cared to sit down and talk to him about, resulting as I’m sure it would in a character assassination of my best friend, and all the things she does to irritate him. Still, on the rare occasions when he does ask about her, he always manages to slip in a little comment about her looks, which (of course, he’s a man) he seems to appreciate a lot more than her personality.
Sometimes I think it’s just one of his attempts to keep me on my toes.
“She’s fine. I mean, I haven’t managed to actually speak to her yet. Oh, and the wedding’s off,” I announce, as casually as I can. I mean, I have to let Charlie know we won’t be attending a wedding in Wiltshire on New Year’s Eve. I’m just hoping he won’t use it as an opportunity to bitch about Polly.
“The wedding’s off?”
“Yes.”
“Well, lo and behold. Isn’t that just typical of Lady Muck?”
“Actually, Charlie, it’s absurd to say that it’s typical. It’s not like Polly has ever run out on a wedding before.”
“Potato, pot-ah-to,” he says. “She may not have run out on a wedding, but she ran off to New York, didn’t she? And you’ve always implied the only reason she came with you to university in London rather than sticking closer to home in Bristol was because she was running away from something back home.”
“I don’t think I ever implied that.” At least, not deliberately, I didn’t. It’s a secret of ours—mine and Polly’s—and I don’t divulge those to Charlie. I don’t divulge them to anyone.
“Well, she’s a flake. Dan is well shot of her.”
I’m confused, for a moment, about the identity of this imaginary Dan. Then I realize that Charlie is talking about Dev, whose name he can never be bothered to remember.
Not that it makes what he’s just said any less offensive.
“Actually, Charlie, Polly is still my best friend, and I happen to be extremely concerned about her.” My voice is high, and slightly wobbly. “You don’t have to be so rude.”
“Oh, sure, honey!” He switches up a level on his cross-trainer, which also ups his level of puffs. “Of course. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
Which mollifies my anger somewhat.
It’s only as I’m starting to poach the eggs for Robbie’s eggs Benedict that it occurs to me that what Charlie said, and the tone in which he said it, wasn’t so much an apology as a pacifier. Kind of the same thing as me buying chocolate buttons for Hector when he’s having a bit of a whine about his beanie hat being too tight and scratchy. Or having to wear his robot pajamas because his favorite dinosaur ones are in the wash. Or anything else that a three-year-old gets upset about.
One of the major problems in our marriage—and believe me, there are too many to list right now—is that we have almost no social life. In fact, we have nothing resembling a social life at all. I suppose it’s nothing new, really. When we first got together, most of his and Vanessa’s friends (not having death wishes) chose her over him, and Charlie never really got along with my friends, thanks to the yawning generation gap. So all we ever really do—and even these are rare—are deal-celebrating dinners or drinks parties with Charlie’s work colleagues, where I’ve had to drink my own body weight in booze just to get through the evening without developing a nasty case of narcolepsy.
Tonight is just such an event.
At twenty-five to seven, dressed MMA-appropriately in boring black, I’m kicking my heels outside the private members’ club where this evening’s drinks party is going to take place. I was so worried about being late, knowing what a flap Charlie would get into, that I flew out of the house three minutes after Kitty-next-door arrived to babysit, guiltily placating Robbie and Hector as I went with handouts of chocolate.
Anyway, now I’m ridiculously early, and I’m too scared to barge up the steps of the club and talk my way in there by myself. So I have a choice—slowly freeze to death on Berkeley Square, with the whipping wind mucking up my hair for my own imminent funeral, or track down a branch of Starbucks to warm my cockles over a soothing caramel macchiato and a
sneaky banana muffin.
Starbucks wins. And there’s a cozy-looking one just the other side of the square.
I know there are people who live by the tenet that nothing bad can possibly happen in John Lewis, but for me, nothing bad could ever happen at Starbucks. Sometimes I think it’s because Starbucks is where I used to drag myself out to, daily, in those blurry, sepia-tinged weeks after I had both of the boys. Where the baristas would help me as I struggled in through the doors with the stroller or the Maxi-Cosi, kindly suggest that I take a seat so they could bring over my coffee, then take a couple of minutes out of their day to express an interest in my views on the weather or my plans for the morning.
Or maybe it’s just because I really, really like the caramel macchiatos and the banana muffins. There is a danger of reading far too much into these things.
While I’m waiting for said macchiato and muffin, I get my phone out of my clutch bag and start composing a text to send to Polly.
I’m trying not to feel offended by the fact that she’s been back for two full days now and we’ve still not managed to speak, let alone fix up a time and place to meet. I’ve called a few times and left her one message—I didn’t want to seem too needy, or hassle her too much. And to be fair to her, she has called back, it’s just that it happened to be while I was talking to Hector’s nursery teacher about his interaction with the other children (I think they’re getting concerned that he’s establishing a cult of personality) and I couldn’t get to the phone. She didn’t leave a message. But then I suppose she doesn’t know Bella’s already blabbed her big news, and she might be struggling to work out what to say. Calling off a wedding is a big deal, after all. And I’m desperate to find out what it is that’s made her do it.
How r u holding up? I text her now, as the friendly barista steams my milk in the background and pours it into my cardboard cup. Bella told me abt wedding. Want to meet 4 a drink 2 talk abt it?
“Excuse me?” There’s a voice right behind me. “I think you’ve stolen my coffee.”
It’s the man behind me in the queue. He’s probably about thirty-five, and he’s—I notice with a jolt—quite extraordinarily good looking. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes, and he’s wearing a fine wool charcoal suit with an open-necked white shirt that sets off his lightly tanned skin to perfection. He looks amused and, contrary to most of the men you see around here, unhurried. He nods down at the coffee cup in my hand.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to hand that over,” he says. “Unless you want me to call the police.”
Stupidly, I just blink at him.
“They take cappuccino theft very seriously around these parts, I gather. I expect you’ll get five years. Though you might be out in three on good behavior.”
There’s something about the way he’s just said good behavior that makes my insides do a backflip.
“God, I’m joking!” he says, stepping forward solicitously. Can it be that he’s so unaware of the effect he has on women that he thought my pathetic lust was some kind of attack of the vapors? “If you want my extra-shot cappuccino that badly, it’s all yours.”
“But this isn’t your extra-shot cappuccino.” I find my voice. “It’s my caramel macchiato. With vanilla syrup.”
“It’s my cappuccino.”
“It’s my macchiato.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes,” I say, with heartfelt conviction, “it is.”
“One caramel macchiato!” calls the friendly barista, putting down a new cup of coffee on the counter next to the other one. “With vanilla syrup!”
The man’s grin spreads from ear to ear, and he holds out his hand for the coffee I’m holding. “I think this is what the legal profession would call bang to rights.”
“I’m really sorry …” Flustered, I turn around to get the correct coffee, just as he steps past me to reach for it so he can pass it to me himself. Our arms collide, and my banana muffin tumbles to the floor.
“This isn’t going well, is it?” he observes as we both stare down at the muffin. “Still, at least now we’re even. You stole my coffee, I destroyed your muffin. It’s a pity,” he adds, with a long sigh and a glint in his dark brown eyes, “because I was rather looking forward to thinking of some way you could make it up to me.”
I’m dumbfounded again, and thank God he’s moved away to go back to the cash register, jangling in his pocket for the change to buy another muffin. Because I’ve no idea how to handle this. If I’m right—and I’ve never been remotely good at telling this kind of thing—this astonishingly attractive man is flirting with me.
I mean, is that what this is? Or is he just taking pity on me because I look so obviously out of place in this sea of busy working people, dashing away from their days of gainful employment with pride and purpose?
“Here you are,” he’s saying now with a mock bow as he hands me a plate. “I hope this will make up for my mistake.”
On the plate, piled precariously, is not one, not two, but … hang on … six assorted muffins.
“And if you work your way through those, just pop back to the counter and get the girl to give you some more,” he says. “Or whatever else takes your fancy. I’ve bought the lot.”
Before I can say anything, he’s shot me that wide, wicked grin again, then turned toward the door and headed outside.
I look around at the friendly barista, who’s looking as taken aback as I am. There are three salmony-pink notes in her hand that, though I don’t see them too often, I know are fifties.
“Wow. He likes you,” she says, opening up her register and putting the money into it. “He comes in here all the time, and I’ve never seen him hit on a woman quite like that before.”
It’s only three minutes to seven by the time I hurry back to the door of the club, but Charlie is pacing up and down outside as though it’s been six weeks without any news and hope is fading fast.
“Honey, where’ve you been?”
“I needed a coffee. And something to eat.” A dozen muffins, eight caramel shortbreads, myriad Very Berry scones and Fairtrade chocolate brownies, and an entire lemon swirl cheesecake—this is what I could have eaten if I’d wanted to. As it was, I asked the nice barista to pack them all up for me, and then I took them to the homeless man I saw earlier when I came out of Green Park tube. Which might have been a really heartwarming moment if he hadn’t scowled down at them and asked why I hadn’t brought any Marshmallow Twizzles.
“Grace, for crying out loud! There’ll be canapés and champagne at the party! There was no need to get refreshments beforehand.”
“I wasn’t even late, Charlie. I don’t see why it matters.”
“Well, everyone else has already started to arrive! Still, better late than never, I guess. Now, I’m pretty sure Malcolm Morley’s wife is already here, so you might like to chat to her. She’s a stay-at-home mom, too.”
Normally I’d feel insulted—is this how children feel when they’re shoved in with a bunch of strangers and told to play nicely together?—but I’m still feeling buoyed up by my flattering encounter with the Muffin Man.
“Actually, Charlie, I was wondering if you’d introduce me to Saad Amar. One of the Mirandas has asked me to have a word with him about sending his little brother to St. Martin’s.”
Charlie blinks at me, as though I’ve just said those last couple of sentences in Serbo-Croat. “What do you mean?”
“What I said! One of the Mirandas has specially commissioned me to do some stealth work on behalf of the fund-raising committee. You know,” I add pointedly, “one of the school committees you’ve been telling me I should get involved in.”
Nope; from the expression on his face, apparently I’m still speaking in Serbo-Croat. “I don’t understand. Who are the Mirandas?”
The profound sense of sadness that floods over me almost—but not entirely—washes away my muffin high. “Charlie, it was you who came up with the nickname, remember? What we ca
ll the mums at Robbie’s school?”
“Oh, right …” Plainly he doesn’t remember. “But honey, you can’t just accost Saad Amar, you know. He’s an important guy. This is an important party. He’s not going to want to spend it being press-ganged by the St. Martin’s fund-raising committee!”
I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t planning to accost him, Charlie. I just thought you could introduce me, if he was passing by, and I could drop it into the conversation.”
“Well, best not, I think. Maybe I can find the occasion to mention it to him one day at work, or something.” He’s started hustling me up the steps and into the club, where a supercilious doorman directs us toward the private room MMA has hired for the event.
It’s not a huge room—MMA Capital only employs thirty or forty people, so there’s no need to hire an entire ballroom—but it’s grand and high-ceilinged, and already starting to fill up with people. They’re obviously MMA colleagues, plus husbands and wives, though it’s hard to tell which. Everyone is dressed the same—pinstripes for the men and sharp skirt suits for the women—which means that although I thought I’d got it right with my (boring) black jersey cowl-neck dress and (boring) kitten heels, I now feel simultaneously under- and overdressed. As well as boring. Which is quite an achievement. There are waiters circulating with trays of the promised canapés, there are other waiters topping up glasses of champagne, and there’s a string duo of a cello and violin scraping out light classical melodies in the corner. There is a buzz of light chatter above the sound of the music.
It’s all terribly civilized and sophisticated, and perhaps because I’m also, as usual, the youngest person in the room by at least a decade, it makes me want to neck a bottle of champagne and find a table to dance on.
Perhaps that Mata Hari costume wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
Charlie practically shoves me in the direction of an uptight woman in navy, who, it immediately transpires, is this Malcolm Morley’s wife he was talking about outside. And who also, it immediately transpires, is a full-fledged Miranda.
There Goes the Bride Page 6