“No, no, Vito. Just having a nice meal with Jamie.”
“This is the same Jamie you were with last time?” Vito looks unimpressed. “He asked you to marry him yet?”
“No. But anyway, who’s even saying I want to get married?”
“All women want to get married,” he says with touching certainty. He disappears behind the bar for a moment to get the bottle of Bacardi and refills my glass. “Hey, you know, Bella, it’s funny you should come in tonight, because I was just talking about you the other day.”
“Oh?” This sounds ominous.
“Yeah, I was chatting to a regular of ours—her daughter-in-law just recently found out she can’t have babies, poor thing—so I was telling her all about my beautiful friend Bella, and how you had that nasty car smash and damaged all your insides, but that even though you can’t have babies, you’re still planning to adopt a few.”
I take a long drink of my Bacardi and Coke. It’s sickly sweet. “Well. I’m sure you made her feel much better, Vito.” Another syrupy sip. “But next time she’s in, you should probably just let her know that it doesn’t happen quite as fast as that. I mean, her daughter probably needs a bit of time to grieve before she starts filling in the adoption applications and stuff.”
“But still, Bella. She should know about success stories, shouldn’t she? Brave ladies like you whose world doesn’t just stop turning because they can’t have a biological baby of their own. Hang on a sec, I’ve got to get that phone …”
Off he goes to answer it, leaving me alone with my drink and the “bruschetta.”
Oh, and my thoughts, of course.
The thing about Vito is, he honestly doesn’t mean to be insensitive. I think because he’s known me for so long, and because he knew me back when I was still struggling to come to terms with the fallout from the accident, he doesn’t tiptoe around the topic like some people do. But he does have a unique way of making it all sound a bit flippant. A bit glib. I mean, that nasty car smash. And how I damaged all my insides. That kind of thing.
For the record, and the sake of accuracy, this is what actually happened.
One night, ten years ago this past summer, my Evil Ex, Christian, came home to our flat in Bristol and told me he was leaving. That our wedding, planned for that coming September, was all off, as far as he was concerned, because he didn’t love me anymore.
I know I’ve already said that this takes a certain kind of brutal honesty. But actually, when I think back to that moment, to the chill in Christian’s voice and the ice in his eyes, I don’t think there’s anything honest about it at all. I think it’s just plain brutal.
There was a huge and terrible row, obviously, and at some point I decided to get in the car and drive the forty-five miles home to my parents’, where at least I could weep into Elvis the dog’s comforting fur and I wouldn’t have to look at Christian’s face another moment longer.
Of course, with hindsight, I now know that it’s not terribly wise to drive along winding country lanes at dusk while sobbing so hard you can barely see the hood of your own car, let alone any cars that might be coming toward you.
I don’t remember very much about the actual moment of the accident, but the police thought I must have drifted to the right of the white line just as a Ford Fiesta was coming around a blind corner in my direction. The Ford Fiesta slammed on its brakes. I made the decision to yank my steering wheel sideways, swerving my car off the road to slam, at fifty miles per hour, into a large and rather beautiful oak tree.
Unsurprisingly, the final score was Oak Tree, one, Bella, nil.
I shattered three ribs. I broke my left femur. There were lots of extremely nasty cuts and lacerations from all the flying glass. But all those things were just cosmetic, really. The main problem was the fact that I slammed with such force into the lower half of the steering wheel that I suffered some extreme pelvic fractures, which did a very nasty thing to my uterus. If you’re a doctor, you’d call it a massive hemoperitoneum due to avulsion of the uterus at the corpocervical junction. If you’re not a doctor, you’d say that I had an extremely scary amount of blood in an extremely important part of my body. Either way, the end result was that the doctors whipped out most of my uterus within an hour of my arriving at the hospital in order to stop me from bleeding to death.
And you certainly don’t need to be a doctor to know that you can’t very well have a baby if you don’t have a uterus to store it in.
Still, Vito is right about one thing. You do get over it. Eventually. And there were some upsides, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. That’s when I first met Dev, for one thing (he was one of the junior doctors treating me, taking an interest in my horrible skin abrasions before he actually became the kind of top plastic surgeon who could treat them), and so, of course, that’s when he first met Polly, even though it took another five years before they finally left the Friend Zone and actually became an item.
And if one upside was that it led Polly to the love of her life (supposed to be, anyway), the other, even bigger upside was that it led me to fall pretty swiftly out of love with the man who was supposed to have been the love of mine. Christian.
Funny, really, that he’s named that when he isn’t. Christian, that is. I don’t mean in the religious sense. I just mean that he’s probably about the most un-Christian person I think I’ve ever known. Not because he dumped me, which of course was entirely his prerogative. But because of the way he behaved after my accident. He didn’t come and see me once—not one single time—while I was in the hospital. Nor, in fact, when I was out of the hospital. He never sent flowers, fruit, or a measly box of chocolates. Oh, there was a cheap, floppy Get Well card, which Polly ripped up and threw in the bin for me. Sorry to hear about the accident, get well soon, Christian.
But nothing else. Nothing, throughout months and months of painful recovery. He just packed up his things, dropped off the keys to our flat, and went away.
I think he’s living in Nottingham now, where he was originally from. At least, that’s where I heard he moved not long after our breakup. His sister and I exchanged Christmas and birthday cards for a couple of years, dwindling to just Christmas cards for a couple of years after that. It’s been at least five years since either of us has sent anything at all.
The door to the restaurant is opening now, and Jamie is walking in.
I practically fall off my chair. And it’s nothing to do with my Bacardi and Coke.
Jamie is washed. He is shaved. He’s combed his hair and he’s wearing proper clothes—clean(ish) blue jeans and an ironed(ish) shirt—in place of his normal khaki cargo trousers and Manchester United T-shirt. Plus, he’s carrying a bunch of flowers. All right, they’re the kind of tired-looking tulips you get from the stall outside the tube station, and not three dozen red roses that he’s had trimmed and hand-tied by an expert florist at Jane Packer. But still. They’re flowers. And this is Jamie we’re talking about. The last time he bought me flowers was … actually, come to think of it, it was never.
My God, I wish Anna and Polly were here to witness this.
And my God, doesn’t my boyfriend scrub up well when he wants to? I can see a gang of women sitting near the front door openly gawking at him. They’re not going to believe it when he comes and sits down opposite me.
Vito has got his hopes up at the sight of the flowers, and now he’s ushering Jamie over to the table, jigging with excitement as he does so.
“You said it wasn’t a special occasion, Bella!” he accuses me before turning to Jamie and wagging his finger at him. “What have you got planned, mister?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t have anything planned,” I say hastily. If I don’t kill this notion stone dead, it’ll only be a matter of moments before Vito has brought champagne, dug out a box of confetti, and summoned a violin player to stand by our table and scrape out “Some Enchanted Evening.” “You don’t have anything planned, do you?” I whisper at Jamie as Vito trips away to fetch us m
enus.
“Depends what you mean by planned.” Jamie shoves the flowers in my direction. “These are for you.”
“They’re really beautiful. And they smell gorgeous,” I fib, because if anything, they smell of exhaust fumes and Glade PlugIn.
Now Vito is back, like a bad penny, with the promised menus and more “bruschetta,” running through the daily specials (chicken tikka linguine; Hawaiian ravioli with ham and pineapple; did I teach him nothing?) until finally he goes away to eavesdrop shamelessly from behind the bar, just a few meters away.
“You look nice tonight, Bells,” Jamie says.
“Thanks.” I do feel like I look nice, for a change, in my tummy-flattering black trousers and cleavage-revealing (not tunicy) top. “So do you.”
“So now I’m here,” he swallows, hard, so that his Adam’s apple visibly lifts and lowers, “I have a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about.”
OK. Now he’s making me really nervous.
“J, it’s all right. It’s forgotten. The trouble with Goril … with Liam and the social worker, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. And you’re an angel, babe, to let Liam stay like this.”
“Oh, that’s fine, Jamie. You know your friends are always welcome.” I take a sip of my drink. “Any idea how much longer it’ll be before he gets a place of his own?” I add casually.
“Christ, I’m not sure. Just as soon as he gets back on his feet.”
Wait—this doesn’t sound promising. I was hoping for an answer like a few more days or only a week longer. “Um. Back on his feet? I thought he was just looking for a job.”
“Yeah, course, but there’s a bit more to it than that. He’ll have to find somewhere that’s big enough so that he can bring his kids over here.”
“He has kids?” This is astonishing news. Liam doesn’t strike me as a man who could bring up anything more than last night’s curry, let alone two children.
“Two of them. Girls. And a wife. Well, an ex-wife. Well, a former wife. What do you say when someone’s died?”
“A late wife.” I put down my drink. “Liam has a late wife?”
“Yeah. Kerry. I didn’t know her well. She died a few years ago.”
“But …” Now I feel terrible for thinking the slightest of bad thoughts about Liam and his ability to bring up his children. And terrible for Liam, too. “Jamie, that’s … God, it’s awful. How did she die?”
“Hit and run. No, wait—a climbing accident. No, wait—it might have been waterskiing … Well, it was definitely an accident. I don’t actually remember what kind.”
“Jamie!”
“Babe, you know I’m never big on detail.”
This much is certainly true. Though whether he’s worse at detail than any other man on the planet, I can’t be sure. The only details most of The Boys ever seem to be certain on, when pressed, are their mothers’ birthdays and the precise timing of the goal Teddy Sheringham scored against Bayern Munich to win the 1999 Champions League Final. Other details—their job descriptions; their girlfriends’ names; what a young wife and mother might have tragically died of—don’t seem to register.
“Anyway, that’s not what I came here to talk to you about tonight,” he carries on, frustrated, I think, that his big topic has been sidelined by talk of horrible misfortune. “Though I suppose in some ways, it is. I mean, things like that get you thinking, don’t they? About what’s really important in your life.”
“And what is really important in your life?” I ask warily. Because honestly, this is just as likely as not to turn out to be about Manchester United’s summer signing strategy. Or the state of his mum’s sciatica.
“Well, you are, Bella.” He looks surprised that I’m even asking, then he takes my hands across the table and looks deep into my eyes.
I’m dimly aware that behind the bar, Vito is about to spontaneously combust.
“Look, I know I’ve taken you for granted a lot recently, Bells. And I suppose I feel like I’ve let you down. You know, with this whole adoption thing and all. I haven’t shown the interest I should have done. No, no, it’s true,” he adds, holding up a hand as though I were about to jump in to protest. “But I want you to know that all that is going to change from here on in. I mean, a man reaches a point in his life, you know? A point where he realizes that he has to step up. Take responsibility.”
“And that point is … er … now?”
“It is.”
“But it wasn’t the point, say, last Wednesday?”
Solemnly, he shakes his head. “It was not. See, the thing is, Bells, I feel bad. I feel bad about you begging me to show some proper signs of commitment …”
“I don’t think I ever actually begged.”
“… and going on at me to work harder. And show more interest in this whole adoption thingie …”
“Jamie, it isn’t a thingie. It’s something I passionately want to do with my life. Something you once told me you wanted to do with your life, too.”
Vito chooses this moment to sidle up with—oh, God—two glasses of sparkling wine and a hopeful expression. He pops the glasses down on the table, ostentatiously discreet, before announcing that he’ll just bring us two daily specials—oh, God—and sidling off again.
Jamie picks up his glass and takes an expansive swig that empties the contents immediately. “Look, Bella, I’m trying to give you what you want here. I’m promising to get on board with the adoption. I’m going to get Keenan Landscapes back up and running. Fuck it, we can even get engaged, if you want us to.”
“Engaged?” I’m gripping the stem of my own wineglass in the hope that this might stop me from collapsing in a shocked heap under the table. “To be married?”
“Yes, Bella. That is what people intend when they get engaged, don’t they? I mean, apart from your crazy sister, that is.” He lets out a loud and ringing laugh, pleased with his joke. “I mean, obviously I don’t want to go setting any dates or anything. Or doing anything mushy like … I don’t know. Any of the girlie stuff people do when they get engaged.”
“Like buying a ring? Throwing a party?”
He pulls a face. “Yeah, that’s not really me, is it, babe? But come on, let’s say we’re engaged anyway. I mean, why the fuck not?”
I’ll be honest, it’s not exactly a dream proposal.
I mean, even my Evil Ex Christian did a lot better than this. A romantic gondola ride around Venice; a vintage sapphire on bended knee, with tears in his eyes, outside the Salute …
But then, Christian turned out to be a cold, unfeeling bastard. And who wants a dream proposal, gondolas, sapphires, and all, when it’s coming from a cold, unfeeling bastard? Wouldn’t everyone prefer a … well, OK, a slightly rubbish proposal, as long as it’s coming from someone who actually seems to care about you?
Because the thing is this. I’m not an idiot. I know why Anna and Polly have their reservations about Jamie. He’s not perfect. But life isn’t perfect. If anyone knows that, it’s me. And if he really is turning over a new leaf, if he really does want to start making a life with me, a proper life, with a proper job, and maybe a nice little house, with two separate bathrooms, and room for our very own child … maybe even more than one … well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Let’s face it, I’m pretty damaged goods. And I’m not all that sure there’s anyone else who’d have me.
“OK. Let’s do it.” I beam at him, feeling my eyes fill up with happy tears. Then I lean across the table and kiss him.
I don’t even care that Vito is watching with bated breath. Or that any minute now, I’m going to have to work my way through an entire plateful of Hawaiian ravioli.
Even though we didn’t tell Vito anything about the sort-of-engagement (there wasn’t really all that much to tell, after all), he still plied us with oodles of free booze in the desperate hope that we might suddenly feel a burning desire just to announce something. So I’m one (refilled) Bacard
i and Coke, two glasses of sparkling wine, and just over an entire bottle of dubious Calabrian red down by the time Jamie and I finally stagger home a couple of hours later.
Jamie heads straight for bed, barely even making it under the duvet before he’s asleep and snoring.
It’s a pity, because I was kind of hoping we might round off the evening with a kiss and a cuddle, see where it might take us. After all, if you can’t have sex on the night you get sort-of-engaged, when can you?
Mind you, I suppose this is just a trial run for the night of our sort-of wedding. When—I can pretty much guarantee—Jamie will get absolutely smashed on champagne and Guinness, half-arsedly attempt to consummate the marriage in the back of the taxi home, throw up in the back of the taxi home, and then pass out on top of the duvet without consummating anything.
Still—and I do know that this is a bit pathetic—it doesn’t stop me from getting excited about arranging our wedding. All the more of a challenge, in many ways, to create a special day without any of the usual girlie frills and extras that Jamie is so vehemently anti.
Because I’m still wide awake—that’ll be the “Coke” part of the Bacardi and Coke, then—I think I might just go and make myself a cup of warm cocoa. Maybe, while the milk is heating, spend a couple of minutes on the Internet having a look around for possible venues. I mean, I know Jamie said he didn’t want to set any dates, or anything, but decent places do get booked up, so it’s just good organization to see what kind of thing might be available. A small, non-flashy venue, preferably within the M25 for minimum hassle, and minimum driving distance from the airport for whichever of Jamie’s relatives he wants to come over from Ireland … or we could always do it in Ireland, I suppose, if that wouldn’t count as too much fuss. Actually, that’s a great idea! There are some lovely venues, the food is good, it would win me much-needed brownie points with his mother, who’s otherwise going to blow a gasket when she finds out Barren Bella is going to become her daughter-in-law …
There Goes the Bride Page 14