There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  Though I didn’t say anything about the irritable husband to Polly, of course.

  I haven’t ever talked much to her about Charlie, as it happens; I suppose I used to think it might be disloyal, and now I can’t break the habit. And anyway, it might have been insensitive to talk about my husband when Polly is still in the throes of her breakup with her own almost-husband. A subject we didn’t quite get around to before Charlie interrupted yesterday, but which I intend to pin her down on today. In the context of a fun, girlie brunch, of course. Because I want today to be the full Sex and the City experience I’ve been so desperate for: great clothes, swingy hair, a good friend, and a proper conversation.

  Well, the swingy hair has got off to a good start, at least. I found the time to pop in some heated rollers this morning, after asking Charlie to do the school run for a change. Actually, let me rephrase that: after begging Charlie to do the school run for the first time in eighteen months. And what a song and dance he made about it, too. You’d have thought he’d never even met his children before—never met any child before—from the way he was trying irritably to cram Robbie into Hector’s anorak, and leaving the lunchboxes on the hall table so that I had to dash out after them still in my pajamas. It didn’t help that Robbie was practically apoplectic with excitement about this one-off event, running around like a demented bumper car from the moment he finished his eggs Benedict, announcing every stage of his getting-ready protocol to Charlie. (“This is my backpack, Daddy, have you seen my backpack, Daddy?”; “These are my new school shoes, Daddy, have you seen my new school shoes, Daddy?”) While Hector, who’s never been taken to nursery by Charlie before and so has no dim and distant memory to get overexcited by, suddenly went inexplicably quiet and coy, staring at Charlie with big eyes and completely forgetting to have a last-minute nappy accident.

  It was a little bit heartbreaking, actually.

  Anyway, broken heart or not, at least I had the chance to get my hair into decent shape, and now I’m proudly sitting at a prime window table in Café on the Green! Outfit-wise, I was torn between wearing my usual yummy-mummy stripes or sporting something insanely stylish and avant-garde that even SJP might approve of: an outfit consisting entirely, say, of fisherman’s netting, rubber fetish-wear, and a dash of vintage Dior. But when I realized I don’t actually own anything of the sort, I reached a happy compromise by pulling on a silk Issa dress that I bought in a fit of optimism at the January sales after reading in a magazine that it was “perfect for brunch with the girls.” It’s navy and ivory, dotted with a beautiful star pattern, and I’m wearing it with the coolest footwear I currently own—ash-colored high-heel knee boots from Topshop that I love with all my heart, mostly because Charlie thinks they’re “unsuitable for a wife and mother”—and a dash of the Russian Red Lipglass I ordered from the MAC website. Equally unsuitable for a wife and mother, I have no doubt. I feel thrillingly like Louboutin Lexie, and as if I could be tripping off to my very own fabulous creative career just as soon as I’ve finished my girlie, gossipy brunch!

  Now all I need is a large mug of caffè latte so I have something to do with my hands.

  Not that I’m nervous, or anything, you understand. Polly’s my best friend; she couldn’t make me nervous if she tried. It’s just that I’d kind of like to … well, impress her, I suppose. With the quality of the brunch … tough, with someone who’s just left Manhattan. With my swingy hair and my Issa dress. With me. Trying to impress Polly is just a default mode for me, from the very first days of our friendship, formed when she kept rescuing me from mean older girls in the school playground. This is typical Polly, by the way. She may be a bit of a ditz in many ways, but she’s always been ferociously loyal when it comes to people she cares about.

  Well, almost always.

  Oooh, my phone has just started ringing, hurray! Answering it will be even better than keeping busy with a mug of coffee.

  As I grab it from my bag, I allow myself the split-second hope that it might be Saad Amar calling, to carry on our discussion about St. Martin’s. He didn’t call over the weekend, which I know is hardly surprising. I mean, he was probably busy doing international billionaire playboy kind of things like … actually, like what? Gambling in Monte Carlo? Purchasing an entire hotel complex in Abu Dhabi with a bit of the loose change he found down the back of the seats of his Ferrari? Snorting a mixture of cocaine and powdered gold from the perfect nipples of Victoria’s Secret models?

  But it isn’t him calling, of course. It’s Polly, calling from the tube station to ask for directions to “this green café place.” I give them to her, as carefully as possible; I’d forgotten that Polly has no sense of direction and couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag—and then manage to get hold of the nice waitress for that caffè latte.

  It arrives five minutes later, at exactly the same time as Polly.

  My first feeling is disappointment. And not in my caffè latte, which is perfect and creamy looking. But in Polly.

  I suppose, given all my efforts, I thought she’d show up looking fabulously brunch-worthy. In an Issa-type dress herself, perhaps, accessorized Polly-style with oodles of jewelry and a sexy strut. But she’s wearing ancient-looking jeans and a baggy sweater, her hair in a lank ponytail and her face entirely untouched by makeup. Possibly also by soap. It makes me, in my Russian Red Lipglass, feel like a cross between Katie Price and a Barbie doll.

  But then, she has just canceled her dream wedding to her dream man. I suppose it was unrealistic of me to think she’d turn up looking her usual fabulous self.

  “Oh, Gracie,” she says the moment she sees me. “I’m so sorry! I thought we were just meeting in a caff.” She gazes around, taking in our surroundings. “I didn’t realize it was posh!”

  “Polly, don’t be silly!” I give her a huge hug. “You look great!”

  “No, you look great. I look like I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. Repeatedly. By an escaped lunatic. On an out-of-control tractor mower.” She sits down opposite me and reaches for my coffee to take a sip. “God, I need one of these.”

  “Well, let’s get you one!” I say, in an insanely bright-and-breezy voice that reminds me, for a frightening moment, of Chief Miranda. “And we should probably have a look at the menu, too. The French toast is fabulous …” I stop myself, but too late to erase the sheer ghastliness of what I’ve just said. (I mean, The French toast is fabulous? Who do I think I am, Blair Waldorf?) “Or,” I mumble, as the waitress comes to the table to take our order, “you could just get a fruit salad or something. I’m sure that’s nice, too.”

  “Actually, I’ll just have a coffee,” Polly tells the waitress. “Black, no sugar, please.”

  “Good idea.” I disguise my disappointment that our girlie brunch is now merely a girlie coffee. “So!” I try again, perkily, just as Polly says, “So …” herself. “Sorry,” I carry on. “You go ahead.”

  “No, no, you go ahead.”

  “Well, I was only going to ask about you, actually. I mean, how you’re doing, and everything.”

  “I’m OK.”

  I bite back the words You don’t look OK. “No one expects you to be OK, Poll. Calling off a wedding is a huge deal.”

  She lets out an odd laugh. “Make me feel even more shit about it, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t mean to. I just want to know how it all happened. I mean, what made you decide to suddenly …”

  “Gracie, please. I’ve had quite enough of this from Bella.”

  This I can certainly imagine. Bella is one of life’s natural big sisters—a haranguer and a poker-of-nose. It can’t have been much fun for Polly, staying with Bella these past few days. “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” I say, as something suddenly occurs to me. Something actually, practically helpful that I could do for Polly. “Why don’t you come and stay with me for a bit? I mean, stay with us.” Charlie’s at home so infrequently that I do sometimes forget that I actually live with him. “Just to get a break from Bella’s
questions, I mean. You could spend a bit of time with the boys, and you and me would have the chance to hang out …”

  “Oh, Gracie, I’m grateful. But I’ve already got somewhere else to stay. It’s a friend’s flat. In Clapham.”

  “Are you sure?” I don’t want to let this chance go. “I mean, living by yourself isn’t the easiest thing in the world, especially when you’ve just split up with someone …”

  “Which I don’t want to talk about.”

  “I didn’t say you had to talk about it!” I have to say, this isn’t going quite as well as I’d hoped. Polly seems pricklish, and uptight, and not at all like anyone ever behaves in an episode of Sex and the City. Not even prissy old Charlotte. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Polly breaks off as the coffee arrives. “But, look,” she says, picking up her mug and looking pretty grateful for something to do with her hands herself, “we’re not just here to talk about me, for heaven’s sake! I want to hear all about you. And my lovely godsons, of course. How are they?”

  “They’re great. Exhausting but great.”

  “And Charlie?”

  “And Charlie’s … Well, Charlie is Charlie.”

  “Oh. Right.” She sips her coffee. “Well, I’m glad he’s OK.”

  “No, that’s not the point! I mean, it’s not OK. Charlie being Charlie isn’t a good thing.” I know I said I don’t usually talk to Polly about my marriage, but it’s been such a long time since I spoke to her properly at all—such a long time since I spoke to anyone properly—that I can feel it all simmering up under the surface. “Charlie being Charlie is Charlie being distant and patronizing. And never making it home from the office earlier than nine o’clock at night. And banging on at me about low-fat hummus and yellow shower gel.”

  “Wait. Hold on a minute.” Polly’s face is creased with confusion, but at least she’s starting to listen. “He’s eating shower gel?”

  “No, he’s not eating shower gel! Shower gel is just one of his many little obsessions! Shower gel is just a … a metaphor for the disaster zone that is my marriage.”

  Polly puts down her mug. “Since when is your marriage a disaster zone?”

  “Since he started working at MMA Capital. No, since he lost his job at Farrell Christie Dench. No …” Now I’m actually thinking about it, it probably goes further back still. “Since Hector was born. Or Robbie, perhaps. I don’t know.” I can feel my words starting to come in a rush. “Since he stopped talking to me, and since he stopped listening to me, and since he stopped fancying me … I mean, for Christ’s sake, Polly, do you know we haven’t had sex in six and a half months?” I add, just at the moment that a shadow falls across our table.

  It’s a shadow that belongs to Chief Miranda.

  “Well!” she says, barely managing to hide the smile that flickers across her face. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything, ladies.”

  “Miranda! How lovely to see you!” Miserably, I plaster on a smile. “Um, this is my friend Polly. She’s just got back from New York,” I feel the need to add, because I don’t want Chief Miranda judging Polly on her current state of shabbiness, and just got back could mean she stepped right off the plane an hour ago.

  “How wonderful. I adore New York.” But Chief Miranda barely even gives her a second glance, which is a sign of how far from her usual knockout self Polly is at the moment. “So, I didn’t see you at the school today, Grace. What’s the news on the Amar family? Have you managed to speak to your husband about it?”

  “Actually, Miranda, I spoke to Saad Amar myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Do not blush, Grace. “I met him at the company party I told you about. We had a quick chat about St. Martin’s, and he’s going to give me a call to talk further some time soon.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how soon, Grace, is soon?”

  “Well … I suppose … soon?” The word soon is starting to sound ridiculous.

  “You’ll have to call him yourself, then. This is too important to wait.”

  “Look, I don’t know if I can actually call him myself, Miranda, I mean, he’s a very busy man …”

  “Yes. That’s precisely why I wanted to ask you to ask your husband to do it.” She rolls her eyes. “You know what, don’t worry about it, Grace. I probably shouldn’t have even asked you in the first place. It’s too important a job to leave it up to you.”

  Before I can say anything—before I’ve even worked out what to say in the face of such astonishing rudeness—Polly has leaned forward.

  “Sorry,” she’s saying to Miranda, “I’m not trying to eavesdrop. But this is a phone call to a man about a school, yes?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Well, I’m not a mother, unfortunately.” She makes unfortunately sound like Thank Christ for that. “So for all I know, the sheer complexity of making a phone call to a man about a school is right up there with brokering world peace in Gaza or discovering a cure for male-pattern baldness. But either way, don’t you think it might be sensible for Grace to finish the job she’s already started, and that she’s already put considerable time and effort into?”

  Miranda’s eyebrows have shot up so far they’ve practically disappeared into her hairline. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just that it seems like Grace already has an ‘in’ with this man, and I’m sure if he’s said he’ll call, he’ll call. I don’t think there’s any need for anyone to go getting their panties in a bunch about whether he calls today, tomorrow, or the day after that.”

  Polly finishes her statement with a pleasant—indeed, a rather dazzling—smile. But her eyes are fixed on Chief Miranda like a mother lioness’s on a prowling hyena.

  And for me, it’s twenty years ago in the playground all over again, and Polly is hurtling to my defense when one of the older girls is trying to pull my skirt up so her friends can all laugh at my strawberry-print knickers.

  “Well!” says Miranda after a long moment, during which I’m quite sure global warming has been reversed and several ice caps have refrozen. “Far be it from me to stand in your way, Grace, if you really want to see this project through.”

  I mumble a string of vaguely appropriate words, like yes and absolutely and get back to you ASAP, and then, thank God, Chief Miranda’s Miranda cohorts arrive and start shrieking at her from across the café, and she walks away to rejoin her species.

  “Oh, Gracie, I’m really sorry.” As soon as she’s gone, Polly reaches over the table and grabs one of my hands. “But she was just such a bitch, I couldn’t help it!”

  “No, it’s all right. And she is. Such a bitch, I mean …” I take a deep breath. “Look, Polly, I’m sorry I brought you here. It’s not … it’s not us, is it? Can we just go and get a crappy Starbucks or something?”

  “Oh, thank God, Gracie. Yes, let’s escape to Starbucks! Though I’m not sure if their French toast will be quite so fabulous.”

  I laugh, which makes her laugh, and when the bill has been paid and we’re on our way to Starbucks, we’re still faintly chuckling. Polly links her arm through mine as we march along the street, and I feel an instant warm glow inside. This is what I had in mind when I planned my morning with Polly.

  “So, Gracie,” she says after a moment or two. “Tell me again what you were saying earlier. About things not being great with Charlie.”

  Out in the cold, crisp air, freshly triumphant from The Great Defeat of Chief Miranda, it suddenly seems a lot less important to talk about Charlie. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just being silly, really. We’re just going through a bit of a bad patch right now.”

  “It sounds like more than that. It sounds like you’ve been going through a bad patch for the last seven years.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Gracie, if you’re really unhappy with Charlie, you can leave him, you know.”

  I let out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, right.”

  �
��People do leave their husbands, Grace! It’s not the fifties anymore.”

  “It’s not because of that! It’s … well, it’s because of the boys. I don’t want them to grow up without their father. You know, Percy has all kinds of problems, and I’m quite sure they’re because Charlie left when Percy was so young.”

  “Percy has all kinds of problems because his mother is Vanessa.”

  I can’t argue too hard with this.

  “Anyway, don’t you deserve to be happy, Grace? Don’t the boys deserve a mother who’s happy?”

  I can’t argue too hard against this either. “Polly, please. I’m not even thinking about leaving Charlie. It’s a rocky patch. I should never even have said anything. And that’s an end to it … Hang on, I’d better get this,” I say as my phone starts to ring. I fumble for it in my bag, fail to recognize the mobile number that’s flashing on the screen, and answer. “Hello, Grace Costello’s phone?”

  “Hello, Grace Costello’s phone. This is Saad Amar’s phone.”

  My heart does a little backflip. I take a deep breath. “Oh, hello, Mr. Amar. Thank you for calling.”

  “It’s Saad, please. Look, I meant to try you over the weekend, but I assumed you’d be busy.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” After all, he doesn’t have to know that in my world, busy means endless cooking of eggs Benedict, watching the same Fireman Sam DVD fourteen times in one day, and running around the garden with Hector looking for giants. “Very busy indeed.”

  “Ah. Then maybe it’s the wrong time to ask if you could spare an hour or so for a quick lunch today?”

  “Lunch? Today? With you?”

  “With who?” Polly is mouthing at me.

  “Yes,” says Saad. “With me. I’ve been thinking up all the questions I wanted to ask you about St. Martin’s, and I think it’s most efficient if we do it while we eat, don’t you?”