One of the particular varieties of Miranda (lucky me!) whose special obsession is their children’s toilet habits.
Within moments she’s demanding to know if Robbie still wets the bed and quizzing me on Hector’s success (or lack thereof) in the potty-training department.
“Oh, well, you’re obviously getting something wrong,” she informs me when I stupidly confess that the closest he gets to his potty is putting it on his head as a “motorbike helmet” when he rides his scooter around the garden. “I had all my three using the big-boy toilet within a month of their second birthdays, and do you know how I did it?”
I mumble something about her probably just being a really brilliant mum, when in fact I’m assuming it was through a combination of extremist scheduling and shameless intimidation. Possibly also a burning desire on her kids’ part to stop their mother from using the phrase “big-boy toilet” any more than absolutely necessary.
Anyway, Miranda Morley starts talking me ad nauseam through her extensive efforts—getting her sons to personalize their potties with creative finger-painting and alphabet stickers; play-acting entire West End shows with their cuddly toys about the pleasures of using the big-boy toilet; placing their favorite books beside the toilet so they could brush up on their Hemingway while squeezing out a Number Two (I exaggerate, but not a lot)—until I feel that I’ve lived through their every dribble and spurt along with her and I’m feeling thoroughly nauseous at the very idea of any champagne and canapés.
“I really treated the whole thing as a special project—you know, the way we used to do at work,” she carries on, happily sipping her own champagne.
“Mmmm,” I mumble.
“What did you work at, then, before you had your boys?”
“Oh, you know … nothing very exciting … I mean, I was very young, of course, when I had them,” I say weakly.
“Yes, I suppose you must have been.” She suddenly seems to notice that I’m well under forty, and she shoots me a disapproving look, as if she’s just seen through my boring, sober, middle-aged outfit and noticed that I’m wearing a peephole bra and split-crotch panties beneath. (I’m not, needless to say.) “So how did you meet your husband, then? Were you his secretary, or something?”
“Um, no, not his secretary.” I don’t want to alienate her by adding His babysitter, actually.
“Because you look like you might have been a secretary.”
I’m not sure whether she means this to be a compliment or an insult. But I’m left in no doubt when she carries on, lowering her voice only a fraction.
“You know, I don’t like the secretaries at MMA, do you? Silly little things, I always think. Hired for the way they look in a short skirt rather than their organizational abilities.”
“I don’t really know any of them, I’m afraid,” I say, which is my way of trying to avoid being dragged into the bad-mouthing.
But Miranda Morley is having none of it. I think, thanks to the champagne, I may be her New Best Friend. “Oh, well, there’s the legal department secretary right over there. Celia, her name is. Malcolm’s a big fan of hers, of course,” she adds scornfully, pulling me sideways so that I can see across the room at her angle. “Little blond thing. Silly-looking. Talking to Saad Amar.”
The girl she’s pointing at, with the neat blond bob—and yes, a rather silly expression—is chattering away to a man I recognize right away.
“Oh, God,” I croak. “The Muffin Man.”
“What?”
“Sorry … I mean … is that Saad Amar? The man she’s talking to, in the white shirt?”
“Sex-on-legs-Saad, you mean?” Miranda Morley lets out a surprisingly dirty cackle that suddenly makes me like her quite a lot more. “I know. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
I can feel the same hot blush spreading over my face as it did earlier, in Starbucks. Because not only is Miranda Morley’s open lust making me more aware of my own than ever, but the Muffin Man’s—sorry, Saad Amar’s—eyes have met mine, and held them across the crowded room.
He smiles, and raises his glass, and does a kind of watch-tapping mime that I think means he’ll come over in a moment.
“I thought you said you didn’t know him,” Miranda Morley says accusingly.
“I don’t! Well, I thought I didn’t …”
She gives a loud harrumph. “I don’t think Saad Amar is the kind of man you could forget you knew … oh, God, look, he’s coming over!”
It’s true; he is. He’s got the most fabulous walk, I notice—a cool, confident stroll, with all the time in the world. It’s the same unhurried, stress-free air I noticed about him back in Starbucks. The kind of aura, probably, that comes from having such extreme wealth that you never really need to worry or flap about anything. Maybe that’s what makes money so incredibly sexy. As if Saad Amar required any extra help in the incredible sexiness department.
“Ladies.” He’s reached us. “Good to see you again, Jennifer.”
I wonder who he’s talking about for a moment, but from the squeak next to me I remember that Miranda Morley isn’t her actual name.
“And the Starbucks One,” he adds, turning to me. “Rather brazen of you to show your face at my party. Are you planning a ram-raid on the crab cakes? Will we next see you squeezed into a Lycra catsuit, attempting to burgle the Dom Perignon?”
Miranda/Jennifer Morley stares back and forth between us, looking confused, and then, suddenly, desperately disappointed, as her husband, a frowning, squat little man, bustles up as if out of nowhere and tells us he’s sorry to interrupt, but his wife really must come and meet Martin and Linda Greenberg.
“It’s not funny,” I tell Saad Amar as we’re left alone. “You’re giving me a bad reputation.”
“I’m sure you could do that all by yourself,” he says lightly. “And anyway, you can hardly blame me for my suspicions. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a delight to have you here. But why are you?”
I take a fortifying sip of champagne. My images of the mini-Morleys’ toilet training have, mercifully, faded. “My husband works for you.”
“Oh?” His left eyebrow hitches upward. “Lucky husband.”
I’m not sure whether he means lucky to work for him, or lucky to be married to me. Either way, he’s making me flustered. I mean, I was uncertain enough about the flirting when I thought he was just a random hunk back in Starbucks. Now that I know he’s Charlie’s boss, I obviously shouldn’t even be on the fringes of flirtation at all.
“Yes, he’s Charlie Costello,” I say, in as brisk a voice as possible. “He’s in the legal department. He’s been working for you for a few months now.”
“Yeah, I know Charlie.” His eyebrow hitches up slightly farther. “You’re married to him?”
I’m not quite sure how to take this question. Or the tone he’s asked it in. (You’re married to him?)
“And we have two lovely boys together,” I add, warming to my happily-married-woman theme. “Robbie and Hector … Actually, that reminds me.” Chief Miranda’s mission for the fund-raising committee! Yes—it’s the perfect way to forestall any flirting he might be doing. (And any flirting that I might accidentally take part in if I don’t watch myself.) “I’ve gathered you’re looking for a school for your younger brother.”
“Oh, you’ve gathered that, have you?” He grins that sexy grin again.
“So I was wondering whether or not you’d thought about St. Martin’s at all? On Fulham Road? My oldest goes there and he’s really ever so happy. I’m sure your little brother would love it there …”
“Mrs. Costello!” His sexy grin has turned into a mock-shocked face. Actually, this is pretty sexy, too. “Are you trying to engineer it so you can jump on me at the nativity play?”
I want to die. I can feel blood rushing to my head. “No! I didn’t mean …”
“Or the school sports day, perhaps? Luring me in to be your three-legged race partner, just so you can have your wicked way with me round the back of the bike sheds?
”
“There are no bike sheds at St. Martin’s,” I blurt miserably. I know he might be enjoying this banter, but I’m rubbish at it, and I’m certainly not enjoying it. “And I’m married.”
He stops smiling. He ducks his head down so he’s closer to me, instantly solicitous. “I’m sorry. I was joking. Or trying to. I’m an idiot.”
I don’t say anything.
“Maybe if I’d had the benefits of a fabulous St. Martin’s education, I wouldn’t be such an idiot. But that’s not something I’m going to deny my little brother.” He reaches into his pocket for a small white card, and then produces a pen from the breast pocket of his suit. “Here. Write your mobile number down and I can call you to talk some more about the school.” He presses pen and card into my hand. “Perhaps I even could take you out to lunch to discuss it. If you don’t think Charlie would mind, that is.”
I know he’s being nice, but he’s making me feel ridiculous. “Why should he mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. If I was married to you, I’m not sure I’d be too thrilled with you going out to lunch with a scoundrel like me.” He smiles, but not the sexy grin this time. Just a friendly smile, to show he’s taking the piss out of himself. “I promise I’ll behave myself. If you promise you won’t try to fleece me out of my post-lunch cappuccino.”
“I promise,” I say, writing down my name and mobile number on the card and handing it back to him.
“Grace,” he says. “What a lovely name. And very fitting.” He glances up to give me the merest of smoldering glances before placing a hand lightly on my shoulder and steering me toward the center of the room. “Now. Who else do you know here?”
“Nobody, really,” I say, before realizing that I sound like the saddest sack on the planet. “I mean, I know of people. Like, um, Celia …”
“Oh, I think I can find you some marginally more entertaining conversation than Celia’s. Come and meet George, my right-hand man in HR. In fact, I think he may have been directly responsible for hiring your husband.”
He leaves me with plump, cheerful George, who immediately starts talking at me nineteen to the dozen about how he’s just got back from a week in the Maldives, and how—despite having only just met me—he’s sure I’d love it.
Next time I see Saad, he’s deep in conversation with Charlie.
Bella
Saturday, November 21
So here we are. D-day.
It’s Saturday morning, and the adoption social worker is on her way. Which is why I’ve just spent the last few hours doing the following:
1. practicing my opening-the-front-door face in the mirror. Too serious (I’ve discovered) and I look like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca; too smiley and I look like Tom Cruise en route to the nearest sofa;
2. cleaning the bathroom twice, vacuuming the living room three times, and scrubbing the grouting between the worktop tiles in the kitchen;
3. artfully creating light toothpaste stains in the bathroom sink, dropping a couple of bits of fluff on the living room carpet, and scrubbing a few realistic stains back into the grouting between the worktop tiles in the kitchen, just in case Samantha blacklists me on the grounds of suspected OCD;
4. sticking photos of my family and friends on the fridge door to demonstrate closeness to all-important Support Network, plus leaving three messages for Brian to CALL ME during Samantha’s visit so I can casually drop in the fact I have previous experience of a “blended family”;
5. rehearsing statements of my child-rearing views out loud, to be sure that saying the most important thing is lots and lots of love doesn’t sound like I’ve lifted it straight out of a bad Disney movie; and
6. re-scrubbing the grouting in the kitchen. Because on second thought my carefully applied stains didn’t look like an indicator of a relaxed, child-friendly lifestyle. They looked like the work of a maniac who’d just spent forty minutes artistically daubing the place with freshly made espresso, French onion soup, and tomato puree.
Still, at least it’s kept me busy. Because I’ve been up since six thirty—nerves, partly. Also the fact that Jamie hauled himself out of bed at the crack of dawn, finding the incredible ability to skip the usual lie-in when he hears the siren song of Old Trafford. All the more amazing given that he had a big night out last night, celebrating one of The Boys’ birthdays at The Pub. I know, I know, I probably should have read him the riot act, given that it’s the third Big Night he’s had this week. But then he did spend almost all day yesterday helping Polly move into the flat in Clapham, so it was sort of my way of thanking him.
Oh, and I also wanted to thank him for keeping me chilled out about Polly’s whole flat-in-Clapham thing. Well, chilled out–ish. More openly chilled out than I actually feel about the whole thing, at any rate.
I mean, quite apart from the fact that I’m somewhat offended that Polly stayed at mine for barely three nights, upping and leaving for the Clapham flat the moment she knew for sure it was available (am I that much of a nightmare to live with?), the bigger issue is that, having moved to her own flat, doesn’t she have even less incentive to get things sorted out with Dev? Come to think of it, isn’t moving to her own flat a pretty big sign she’s no intention of getting things sorted out with Dev? I mean, as if it wasn’t a big enough sign that she’s come clean to Mum and Brian, and made all those cancellation calls, without me having to do it, to the tent rental people and the jazz band, and sent out a mass apologetic email to all one hundred and thirty wedding guests.
But then all those things could just be a sign she doesn’t want a big, formal wedding.
Moving into her own flat is a sign she’s not up for the actual marriage part after all.
And I’ve still got no idea what she’s said to Dev. Or even how he’s coping. I’ve called him a couple of times, but he’s not getting back to me. So I’ll just have to keep trying. No matter how much Jamie’s encouraged me to chill out about the whole thing, the one thing I can’t chill out about is poor, abandoned Dev. Because I really do know how that kind of rejection feels.
Anyway, Jamie is long on his way now, bombing up the M1 to Manchester in my van, which (another result of my gratitude) I’ve let him borrow for the occasion. Well, I don’t need it for the Macfarlanes’ dinner party; Anna will drive around the supplies we need, and it’ll save Jamie spending sixty quid—sixty quid he doesn’t have—on the train fare.
Anyway, the other thing that’s kept me busy since six thirty this morning is assembling the symphony of cakes. The lemon drizzle is fresh out of the oven, Brian’s coffee-and-walnut is newly iced, and Anna, bless her, dropped off one of her incredible flourless chocolate cakes late last night. So every base (and, I hope, food intolerance) is covered. After all, it’s almost eleven already …
… and I’m still in my pajamas and dressing gown.
Shit. How did I not remember I was still in my pajamas and dressing gown?
I run for the bathroom, splash some water on my face, then hurry for the wardrobe in my bedroom. I fling it open and have just started pulling down my neatly ironed top when my mobile starts ringing.
“Hey, it’s me,” says Anna’s voice. “I’m just calling to wish you luck!”
“That’s great, Anna, but I can’t talk now. I’ve forgotten to get dressed.”
“Nudity. That’s an interesting approach. Are you thinking of adopting a Swedish baby?”
“Child,” I say automatically, because the last thing you must do is let your social worker think you’re a baby-obsessed loon. You’re supposed to want a child, of any age, not just a pink, plump, talc-fresh baby. “And don’t joke, Anna. This is serious. I have five minutes till she gets here.”
“OK, stay calm,” she says bossily, even though if it were her in this position she’d be shrieking from the rafters by now. “What are you planning to wear?”
“Black trousers,” I pant, hauling them on. “Tunicy top. My Polly locket. Boots.”
“Tunicy top? Oh, Bella.”
&nb
sp; Anna has this ongoing mission to get me out of the clothes I prefer to wear—actually, she doesn’t call them clothes, she calls them garb—and into … well, I don’t know what into. Low-cut tops, I suppose. Tight jeans. Bright colors. All these things Anna wears, and though she’s a long way from supermodel proportions, she looks rather fetching in them. But I’m even further away from supermodel proportions than she is. And I don’t have one-tenth of her chutzpah.
“It’s what I’ve planned, Anna. It’s what I’ve ironed.”
“OK, then, can you belt it around the waist?”
“I don’t have a belt.”
“You must have a belt.”
“Well, I don’t have a waist.”
“Everyone has a waist.”
“Then mine is missing in action. Presumed dead. And this is not the time to start searching for it. I have to get myself sorted out here!”
“OK. Just remember to keep chucking in all those social-worker buzzwords we’ve discussed.”
“Diversity,” I parrot obediently. “Community. Challenges.”
“And you’ll phone me right after? I mean, I know you’re all by yourself, without Jamie, and I just want to know that you’re …”
“I’ll phone you right after. Thanks again for the cake.”
I hang up, do a quick glance around the bedroom to check it’s how it should be, an even quicker glance in the mirror to check I’m how I should be—well, it’s tough when you’ve not got great material to be working with in the first place—and then I head out into the hallway just as the front doorbell rings.
She’s bang on the dot of eleven. This impresses me.
I open the door with a broad smile (not Tom Cruise, Bella, not Tom Cruise) and find myself eye-to-eye with Samantha.
Literally eye-to-eye—she’s almost exactly the same height as me; actually, given that she’s wearing heels and I’m in my flat boots, she might even be closer to five foot two than my lofty five foot three. Even though I know I shouldn’t judge short people (I mean, who am I?) I’m a bit thrown by her smallness. An inconsequential little person, she looks, to wield so much power. I’m not exactly sure what I’d been expecting—some kind of hybrid of Hillary Clinton and Xena the Warrior Princess, perhaps—but certainly not this squirrelly woman in a faded black trouser suit and sensible courts. And there’s one other worrying thing about her.
There Goes the Bride Page 7