There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  “Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be here to give me moral support about the adoption visit,” I carry on. “Not covering my kitchen table with bondage accessories and slagging off my boyfriend.”

  As usual, once you’ve pointed out that she’s being difficult and a little bit selfish, Anna is overcome with remorse. She spends the rest of the time she’s here trying to big me up—everything from my dormant mothering skills to the genius way I make an omelette—so that by the time I walk with her back in the direction of her place (I have to go to the corner shop and pick up fresh milk for the tea that Samantha almost certainly won’t drink), I’m feeling utterly dependent on her and don’t want to let her out of my sight.

  “You’ll be fine,” she tells me, with the kind of total conviction that I love her for, as she gives me a hug outside the corner shop. “Honestly, Bella, there’s a child already waiting for you somewhere out there. And they might have been pretty unlucky up until now, but they’ll be the luckiest kid in Christendom if they get to have you as their mother.”

  Which is, I think, just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

  So I’m feeling OK as I head into the corner shop and make my way to the dairy section for the pint of milk. I mean, I’m still nervous about Samantha’s visit, obviously. But at least this time there isn’t going to be a naked man roaming my hallways. (Lightning can’t possibly strike twice. Can it?) Plus I’ve also got a wonderful addition to my Samantha-impressing arsenal—Jamie. Jamie, who can charm the birds from the trees when he wants to. Jamie, who, now that he’s sharpened up his act a bit, is going to be able to convince even the most dubious of doubters that he and I would make great adoptive parents. Jamie, whose name, in bold black print on emerald-green paper, is staring me right in the face now, on the notice board right behind the counter, as I approach it to pay for my milk.

  JAMIE KEENAN LANDSCAPES, says the flyer that he’s evidently dropped off in here on his rounds earlier. NO JOB TOO SMALL OR LARGE FOR OUR CHEERFUL, HARDWORKING GARDEN TEAM.

  That was my idea, by the way—Garden Team. Even if it is just going to be Jamie working on his own. It just sounds more official, doesn’t it, and professional? I’m about to proudly announce to the young man behind the counter that it was my boyfriend who came in here earlier and put that up when the middle-aged woman in front of me, who’s just paid for her Good Housekeeping magazine and bottle of orange juice, says to him, “Hardworking? Lazy sod, more like.”

  The young man looks confused. “Sorry?”

  “Up there.” The woman jabs her orange juice bottle in the direction of Jamie’s flyer. “Jamie Keenan Landscapes. I’m not trying to be funny, but I really don’t think you should be giving him advertising space. He did some work for us last summer, and he just wreaked utter havoc. He was always late, he trod mud all over the house and didn’t clear it up, and as for the mess he made of the garden …”

  “You know, you’re the second person to come in today who’s said something similar about him.” The young man is looking worried that he’s going to get in trouble for allowing the flyer to be put up in the first place.

  “Yes, well, I’m not surprised. Do you know, he caused fertilizer burn on my camellias and destroyed six French lavender bushes with waterlogging! My husband wanted to report him to Trading Standards, but in the end we decided it was more hassle than it was worth …”

  I clear my throat—not deliberately, but because it suddenly feels like there’s something very sharp and dry stuck in there—and the woman makes an apologetic gesture as she pockets the change from her twenty.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she says. “Holding up the queue! But I’d take that flyer down if I were you. Either that, or stick a great big warning sign on the front saying Khan’s Convenience Stores don’t authorize it. Word of mouth, you know, that’s the thing that will scupper someone like him. There’s not a person on our street that would let him near their garden after they saw what he did to ours.”

  My hands are wobbling, a moment or so later, as I hand over the money for the milk. “Have you really had someone else in complaining about that guy?” I ask, nodding up at the flyer.

  “Oh, yeah, only an hour or so ago. Some woman who said this Keenan guy had ruined her lawn with too much weedkiller. Cost her a grand to get it fixed, apparently.” He hands me back my change before turning around to the notice board and unceremoniously pulling down the emerald-green piece of paper. “Anything else I can get for you?”

  “No, no, just the milk, thanks,” I mumble. Whatever that sharp, dry thing is, the one that I noticed in my throat a few moments ago, it’s getting worse. I need to get home and wash it away with an ice-cold glass of water before Samantha arrives.

  When I get back to my flat, I think for a horrible moment that Samantha’s pulled a surprise early arrival on me—trying to catch me out smoking my crack pipe, or entertaining deviant chief executives in a Nazi-themed orgy?—because when I put my key into the lock, I realize it’s not double-locked.

  But obviously that’s stupid, because Samantha doesn’t have a key.

  And I’m not sure why I assumed that, when the obvious explanation is that Jamie must be here. As he said he would be. I haven’t been doubting that he’ll show up, or anything. If he said he’d be here, then he’ll be here.

  But he isn’t. Here, I mean. When I open the front door into the hallway, Liam is the sight that greets me.

  Actually, he’s half in the hallway and half in the kitchen, kind of backing out of the kitchen door into the hall with an extremely disconcerted expression on his face. When he sees it’s me coming through the front door, he looks even more disconcerted.

  “I was just popping in for a glass of water,” he mumbles hastily, as though I’ve caught him in the act of fiddling with the gas meter or something.

  “No, no, that’s fine. But weren’t you out at a job interview?”

  “No. That’s later this afternoon.”

  “Right. OK.” We both just stand there, staring awkwardly at each other. Then, because it’s been on my mind for the last week or so, I say, “Actually, Liam, while I’ve got you here, I just wanted to say sorry about the other night.”

  He blinks at me.

  “Blithering on about my accident, and your … um … late wife’s.”

  “Kerry.”

  “Yes. Kerry. I’m sorry, Liam, if I said anything that upset or offended you.”

  “Oh, sure, whatever.” He seems distracted. Actually, he seems as if he just wants to get out of my way. “Honestly, no offense taken.”

  “OK, good. I’m glad.” I clear my throat. I’m not a skilled conversationalist at the best of times, and Liam is making me feel like I’m dragging my words out of a base of toffee and black treacle. Whatever brief camaraderie we might have found the other night is long gone. “Um, so, I really don’t want to be rude or anything, but my social worker is arriving any minute now.”

  “And you don’t want me scaring her off again,” he says, sounding—why?—mildly astonished.

  “Well …”

  “Of course. It’s your home. ’Sup to you.” He shrugs and starts toward me and the front door. It’s only as he passes me that I see the flash of green paper in his back pocket.

  “Liam,” I suddenly blurt. “Are you … are those some of Jamie’s gardening flyers?”

  “Oh … yeah.” He reaches up past me to grab his jacket from the coat-stand. “I offered to help him out. He’s got a lot to deliver. Two sets of feet are better than one.”

  There’s something about the way he’s not meeting my eyes that makes me say the next thing I say.

  “He’s in the pub. Isn’t he?”

  Liam doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he says, “Look, I don’t know exactly where he is. Might be the pub. Might have gone for a kickabout with some of the boys.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam, does it really matter?” I snap. “Either way, he’s getting you to deliver his flyers i
nstead of him?”

  He says nothing and just gives the briefest of nods.

  “And either way, he’s not going to be here for the social worker visit?”

  “Did he tell you he would be?” Liam looks surprised for a moment, before covering it up and carrying on. “Well, I couldn’t honestly say if he’s going to make it back here in time …”

  “Right. Fine.” I’m pulling off my own coat and scarf, which isn’t easy to do when your hands are shaking with barely repressed fury. “You don’t need to say anything of the sort, Liam, thank you.”

  “Hey,” he says, after a moment. “You don’t need to take it out on me, you know. If you’re stressed about this adoption visit …”

  “I’m stressed,” I begin, in a high-pitched, Valkyrie screech, “because Jamie promised he was going to be here, and he isn’t. I’m stressed because he promised he was going to work his arse off to get his business back up and running, and at the first opportunity, he’s talked his mate into carrying out the easiest fucking job of the lot, wandering the streets for a few hours pushing flyers through letter boxes. I’m stressed because he wrecks lawns, and poisons innocent French lavender bushes, and treads mud all over carpets …”

  The doorbell rings. I can see Samantha’s squirrelly form on the other side of the stained glass, so I stop screeching at once. I just have time for a glance in the mirror—red cheeks, but hey, I could have just been for a jog; slightly frizzed hair, but ditto—before I take a deep breath and prepare to let Samantha in.

  It’s only as I pull open the front door that I realize Liam has darted back into the kitchen.

  Well, fuck him. As long as he’s not gone in there to take his clothes off—he wouldn’t, would he?—I’m beyond caring. I just want to get this visit over and done with, impress Samantha as best I can (all by myself), then open a bottle of wine, drink the entire lot (all by myself), and work out what in God’s name I’m going to do about my sort-of-fiancé. And the father of my future adoptive child.

  “Samantha! Great to see you!” I sing, fixing that well-practiced beam to my face and hoping, once again, that it hasn’t got a Sofa-Leaping Scientologist glint to it. “Won’t you come on in? I’ve just popped out for milk, so if you come through to the kitchen I’ll get the kettle on for a nice cup of tea.”

  “There’s no need to go to any trouble,” she says in her flat monotone. Then, “Oh!” she suddenly says, in much less of a monotone. Actually more of a squeak. “Him again.”

  I spin around, fearing the worst, but thank God, Liam is fully clothed. He’s striding purposefully from the kitchen toward us, and there’s an unusually steely look in his eye, which is belied by the fact that he’s quite clearly, and shiftily, trying to hide something behind his back.

  It’s Anna’s black leather bondage belt. Paddle, blindfold, suspected manacle, and all.

  She must have left it lying on the kitchen table by accident. And Liam must have seen it there, which is why he was looking so thoroughly disconcerted when I walked in on him a few minutes ago.

  The first thing I think is how badly I want to curl up and die. I mean, if Naked Hairy Man–gate wasn’t embarrassing enough, if Jolen-gate wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fact that Liam now thinks I’ve carelessly left my favorite bondage accessory lying about the place—the fact that Liam now thinks I have a favorite bondage accessory—is almost too appalling to stomach.

  The second thing I think is how essential it is that Samantha doesn’t realize that the bondage belt is a bondage belt. Because though Liam is clearly trying, he’s not doing the world’s most brilliant job of concealing it behind his person; I mean, it’s extremely big, and extremely black, and very, very leathery—not the easiest thing to conceal even when you’re built of gorilla proportions. Besides, I can see Samantha’s beady, watchful eyes being drawn, as well they might after the sight she saw on their last encounter, in the direction of Liam’s crotch area. Unfortunately this means she’s also staring directly in the general region of the bondage belt.

  “Oh, yes, you two have already met, haven’t you?” I say breezily, as though Samantha and Liam are nodding acquaintances from a rush-hour commuter train or walking their dogs in the park. “Liam, this is Samantha, from the council. Samantha, this is Liam, my temporary lodger and … er … odd-job man.”

  “Odd-job man?” Liam raises his bushy eyebrows in confusion.

  “Well, I’m sorry if the title offends you, Liam!” I want to reach out to draw Samantha toward the kitchen, but I have a suspicion she’s not the kind of person that reacts well to being manhandled by relative strangers. “Watch out!” I suddenly squeak, as one of the manacles slips into view and I see Samantha crane her neck to peer at it. “Mind where you’re going, Liam, with that … that tool belt!”

  “Ohhh, it’s a tool belt,” Samantha says, sounding rather relieved.

  “Yes, it’s absolutely a tool belt. Now would you mind, Liam, going and fixing that leaky drainpipe while I go and have a chat and a cup of tea with Samantha here?”

  “Sure thing. It probably just needs sealing with a bit of putty,” says Liam, suddenly up for giving an Oscar-worthy performance as Odd-Job Man now that he’s cottoned on to what I’m trying to do. “But it might be a buildup of condensation, of course. I’ll have a good old look, see what I can do.”

  “Right. Good. Well, thank you, Liam.” I give up on my concerns about manhandling Samantha and start leading her toward the kitchen, babbling all the while about tea and cake in a way that must make her think I’ve got some kind of snack-related OCD. But I don’t care about any of that, because we’ve dodged the bullet of the bondage belt. And I’d rather she thought I was borderline obsessive compulsive than full-throttle sadomasochistic.

  As I shepherd her through the door, I glance back over my shoulder to shoot Liam a look of gratitude, even to mouth a heartfelt thank you at him. But he’s already disappeared out of the flat, taking Anna’s bondage belt and Jamie’s emerald-green leaflets with him.

  When Samantha leaves an hour or so later, I open my bottle of wine as planned, take it into the sitting room, slump onto the sofa, drink swiftly from the first glass, and then pour myself another.

  The thing is, it went well with Samantha. Really well.

  Once I’d relaxed about the possibility of her accidentally sitting down on The Seductive Art of Japanese Bondage, or spotting a roll of PVC body wrap under the table, we actually had a pretty decent conversation. She didn’t ask too many intrusive questions—in fact, I did most of the asking this time—and at the end of it she started writing down the details of the Preparation for Adoption course, where you go and discuss the whole adoption process with other prospective adopters. On top of that, she even started looking for suitable dates in her diary to start the first of the in-depth home study sessions a couple of months from now.

  But what in God’s name am I going to do about Jamie?

  It’s not just the fact that he didn’t show up for Samantha’s visit. Or the fact that he isn’t even sufficiently motivated to get his own business back up and running to pound the pavements with a few leaflets. Or the fact that it sounds pretty much like getting his own business back up and running is a nonstarter anyway, given that he is to gardens, apparently, what Hurricane Katrina was to New Orleans.

  It’s the fact that he said he was going to change. And the fact that I, like an idiot, believed him.

  Maybe it’s because I can’t do it as easily as other people can, but I happen to believe that becoming a parent is an overwhelming responsibility. You don’t get to pick and choose the fun parts, or the easy parts; if you’re lucky enough to get the chance to bring up a child of your own, you’re in it up to the eyeballs. And if Jamie, before we’ve even got to the difficult parts, isn’t even in it up to the toenails, then it looks like I have a really serious problem.

  When my phone rings, just as I’m pouring my fourth glass of wine, I immediately assume it’s Jamie and don’t even look at the caller
ID before I snatch it up.

  “Where the fuck were you?”

  “What?” says Polly’s voice. “Was I meant to be seeing you this evening, or something?”

  “Oh. It’s you. Sorry. I thought it was …” I don’t want to say Jamie. “… someone else.”

  “I see.” There’s the briefest of silences. “Look, Bells, I was just calling to see how it went today. You did say the social worker was coming, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, she did. It went fine. I mean, it went great, actually!” I make the effort to inject more enthusiasm into my voice. It’d be easier if the wine weren’t dampening my abilities. “She’s fixing up dates to begin the home study, and she’s putting me up for a Preparation for Adoption course, and …”

  “And Jamie.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said, she’s putting you up for a course. Don’t you mean, you and Jamie?”

  “Oh. Yes. Obviously. Me and Jamie.”

  It’s just occurring to me that I haven’t the faintest clue how I’m going to get Jamie to show up for the Preparation for Adoption course—tell him Ryan Giggs might put in a surprise appearance? Drug his food and carry him there, like BA Baracus in the A Team?—when I realize that Polly is talking again.

  “You sound weird, Bella. Are you OK?”

  “Yes.” I let out an inadvertent hiccup. “Just a little bit drunk.”

  “What? You don’t get drunk! Why are you drunk?”

  “Because that’s what happens when you drink half … no, wait, two-thirds … of a bottle of wine in less than half an hour.”

  She takes the kind of give-me-strength breath that it’s usually me using with her. “That’s not what I meant.”