There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  Oh, God, Liam’s room. Sorry—I mean the spare room, with Liam’s stuff in it. I’d planned to erase all trace of Liam from it before Mum showed up.

  I don’t really know why—I mean, it’s not as private as my plans for Dev and Polly tonight, or the adoption, or anything—but I’m not inclined to endure her nosiness on this front. She’ll be intrigued if she knows we’ve got someone staying here, and she’ll start circling like some kind of emotional hyena around Liam’s private tragedies if anybody (aka Anna) happens to mention to her that he’s single, widowed, and extremely attractive.

  That Anna thinks he’s extremely attractive, I mean. I’m not saying I think he’s extremely attractive. Obviously.

  I head out of my bedroom—jolly noises of Jamie holding forth and Mum giggling convince me it’s not only OK but actually essential that I stay away for another few minutes—and head for the spare room.

  I go in without knocking and immediately head to open the curtains so that I can see what I need to do in here. Strip the bed, probably, unless Liam’s continued to be the perfect houseguest and has stripped it himself. Put away any clothes he might have left waiting around to be folded. Open the windows—not that I’m saying he’s smelly, or anything, because in actual fact he’s supremely fresh, but there is a distinctly masculine scent in here that will only have Mum assuming Jamie has been banished to the spare room if she snoops around and gets a whiff of it. You know the kind of smell I mean: pine-scented shower gel, and zingy deodorant, and that nice ginger-nut smell, and … well, right now I’m getting a distinctly beery, boozy aroma as well. Which is odd. And which is really going to have Mum thinking that Jamie has been banished to the spare room.

  The other thing that’s odd, I notice the moment I open the curtains, is that there isn’t only a smell of booze but also actual evidence of recent boozing as well. Eight … nine … ten … almost a dozen empty beer bottles. Plus, lying next to the empties, a small stash of Tesco’s bags that, when I look inside them, show the paraphernalia of some kind of Instant Christmas-for-One: a box of Quality Street candy; a thawed-out bag of frozen Brussels sprouts; a mini plum pudding; a single breaded turkey escalope in a plastic packet.

  “Hnnggh?”

  The noise takes me so much by surprise that I actually let out an embarrassing girlie shriek and drop the Tesco’s bag I’m holding. When I spin around I realize that it’s come from the bed, and that it’s Liam.

  “Wha … hnnng … light …” he’s saying, covering his eyes as he half sits up in bed. His chest is bare, and—wait a minute, has he had it waxed?

  Why would he have had it waxed? Is he seeing a woman or something? Is there someone in bed with him right now?

  No, no, thank God, no. It’s just a large lump created by what appears to be, from a set of pink plush ears, a giant toy pig.

  Though obviously the fact that Liam apparently sleeps with a giant toy pig ought to be far more disturbing than the possibility that he was sleeping with a woman.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I demand when I realize that I’m not supposed to be staring at the toy pig, or at his newly smooth chest, and find my voice. “Weren’t you supposed to be on a flight to Cork at six fifteen this morning? Because if you’ve overslept”—I gesture at the alarm clock beside the bed—“you’ve managed to break even Jamie’s record.”

  “What time …?”

  “Almost five o’clock. In the afternoon.” I throw open the window because the beery, boozy smell isn’t getting any better. Then I stare down at him. Studiously avoiding that smooth, firm expanse of bare chest. “Liam, what on earth have you done? It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Your daughters … won’t they have been waiting for you? At the airport?”

  “No.” He slumps backwards against the cuddly pig. It’s hard to tell if it’s because of a hangover or misery. “My mother-in-law phoned me yesterday afternoon. Sally’s come down with chicken pox. And I’ve never had it, and what with the third-round interview I’ve got at Google on the twenty-ninth, I can’t afford to catch it.”

  “Oh, Liam. I’m so sorry. I know how much you wanted to be with them.”

  “Yeah, well. What can you do? Anyway, I Googled it last night, and apparently Sal won’t be contagious anymore in five or six days’ time. So I can go back for New Year, I guess. It’s no biggie.”

  I’m not fooled by his faux geniality. If it really were no biggie, he wouldn’t have gotten as absurdly drunk as he obviously did last night. And fallen asleep clutching what must be one of the girls’ Christmas presents.

  “Anyway, I promise I won’t get in the way of your Christmas plans. I’ll just keep to myself in here from now onwards. Though if you don’t mind me using the kitchen for about half an hour or so tomorrow lunchtime …”

  “To cook this?” I hold up the Tesco’s bag.

  Which, now that I realize really is the paraphernalia of some kind of Instant Christmas-for-One, may well be the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. If I didn’t have a party to throw tonight, and Polly and Dev to get back together, I might hurl myself out the window right now.

  “Oh.” Liam looks embarrassed. No—mortified. “Oh, bollocks. I must have forgotten to put that in the fridge. I got a bit … well, I got a bit drunk last night.” He takes a very deep breath. He isn’t looking at me. “I’m not very good at Christmas, to be honest with you. Never have been. All the details, I mean. I can just about manage to sort out the presents, and I’m always up for the traditional Dempsey walk on the freezing beach … But all the other stuff. The food. The decorations. The festivity. That was always kind of Kerry’s thing.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “I mean, I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing, to be honest.”

  “That’s not completely true. I mean, OK, leaving the frozen Brussels and the turkey out overnight is a bit of a rookie mistake. But you were on the right track with the Quality Street candy. And you’ll be on even more of the right track if you get up, get dressed, and come and endure my family over a couple of my stepdad’s lethal White Christmas cocktails. Trust me, you’ll have to develop a taste for them if you’re going to survive lunch with my mother tomorrow.”

  “Bella, I …” He looks at me now, a strangulated kind of expression on his face. “I really don’t want to intrude. I mean, I’ve already massively outstayed my welcome here …”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “… and now you’re having me lurk about the edges of your family’s Christmas.”

  “So don’t lurk. Throw yourself into it.” I don’t know if I should say what I’m about to say next, but I feel like I have to. “Kerry would kill you if she knew you were hiding away from the real world, with a turkey escalope and a plum pudding for one.”

  There’s a silence. A long one. Far too long for my liking. Then, just as I’m about to start profusely apologizing, he says, “You’re right. You’re … an angel, Bella.”

  I snort. It’s not a terribly angelic thing to do. But then, nobody has ever accidentally mistaken me for an angel before. I’m not used to acting like one. “You won’t be saying that after I’ve made you peel three kilos of chestnuts for the stuffing tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Or after I’ve made you play Trivial Pursuit for three hours, or sent you off to the supermarket to get fresh stocks of crème de menthe …” I’m babbling. It’s what I always do when people stare at me the way Liam is staring at me right now. “In fact, I’d really appreciate it if you could head down to the supermarket right now, actually. Brian really will want to make his White Christmas cocktails, and I’d forgotten we’ll need crème de menthe, and single cream …”

  “They sound revolting.”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “I’d love to try one.” He pushes back the duvet before letting out an embarrassed yelp and pulling it back over himself again. “God, sorry.”

  “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
I don’t know why I’m feeling myself turn pink. I mean, he had a pair of jeans on under there, for heaven’s sake.

  “No, I meant Peppa.” He pulls the cuddly pig out from under the duvet and shoves her, with a rueful expression, back into a Toys R Us bag he’s got squashed up at the other end of the bed. “Sally’s favorite TV character. I don’t usually sleep with pigs, I’ll have you know.”

  “Right.”

  “No, wait, that sounded wrong! I didn’t mean sleep with in that sense. I meant, actually sleeping with, not having sex with.” He’s turning pretty violently pink himself, now. “Not that I was even thinking about sex when I said that! I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be some sleazy double entendre … I’m not one of those people who get turned on by the idea of cuddly toys! Don’t they call them Plushies, or something? I wouldn’t want you to think that, Bella …”

  I think it’s probably best to leave him now, before he can get himself into any more of a pickle.

  Besides, I’ve left Jamie alone with Mum and Brian for far too long. Not to mention the fact that I have half a dozen guests arriving three hours from now, my sister’s happiness to salvage, and two trays of high-cholesterol mini sausage rolls cooking in the oven.

  Bella

  Thursday, December 24

  By half past eight, the party is in full swing. Polly is here, thank God, seeing as she’s the whole point of this party in the first place. Anna and Poor Pete have arrived, bearing wholly unnecessary amounts of homemade stollen, a vast Yule log, and enough mince pies to feed every elf at the North Pole. Brian has mixed up a big jug of White Christmases, and even though, if you ask me, his hand accidentally slipped when he was adding the brandy, at least it’s taking the edge off Mum a bit. Having spent the last two hours dolling herself up in her full Christmas finery (scarlet cocktail dress and glittery accessories) and the last fifteen minutes trapping Liam in a corner and attempting to break the Guinness World Record for Inappropriate Flirting, she’s just now come over all woozy and sleepy and is currently slumped in blissful peace and quiet in the corner of the sofa. (Come to think of it, maybe Brian’s hand slipped deliberately …)

  Grace turned up a few minutes ago, for which I was really grateful, given the tsunami that’s just hit her personal life. Though I’ve been just a tiny bit less grateful ever since, because even in the midst of crisis, she’s managing to look just as stunning as ever—more stunning, in fact, in tragic black and with dramatic rings around her weepy eyes. Naturally it’s a look that appeals to the protective side in most men, so naturally both Jamie and Liam have been hovering solicitously around her, offering drinks and titbits of food and, probably, shoulders to cry on.

  Naturally, I’m a little bit pissed off about this.

  I mean, Jamie is not a single man. And it’s his own girlfriend’s bloody Christmas party, so he really shouldn’t be hovering around a newly dumped woman. Offering drinks or shoulders or anything at all.

  And Liam … well, I suppose it’s up to him who he hovers around. Bit disappointed in him, I can’t deny, that he’s the kind of man to go for so … obvious a type as Grace. You know: tall, slim, blond, beautiful.

  But then, that’s entirely up to him, of course. And at least he seems to be enjoying himself. The turkey escalope and the frozen Brussels are long forgotten.

  So, the only person we’re still waiting for is my Surprise Guest. Dev. Which isn’t exactly surprising, given that I told him it was starting at nine. I wanted to get Polly settled in with a couple of drinks before her big surprise shows up—just enough so that she relaxes, not so much that she starts teetering on the edge of aggression—and so far, at least, this part of the plan is working pretty well.

  She’s a large White Christmas cocktail and a glass of white wine down by the time I finally get the chance to catch up with her, properly, in the kitchen.

  “It was so nice of you, Bells, to invite Grace,” she says in a low voice as she starts to help me fill nibbles bowls with top-ups of my spice-roasted almonds and arrange my cheesy puffs on a baking tray to go into the oven. “I really think it’s good for her, getting out like this. You know, under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, that’s OK. I thought it would be good for her, too.” I quickly suppress my pang of guilt at the little fib. “She looks exhausted. How is she coping, do you know?”

  Polly shrugs. She’s looking pretty exhausted herself, and I can’t help wishing she’d made a bit more effort for the party tonight, instead of just turning up in baggy jeans and a cardie. Probably an external symptom of this unworthiness she’s feeling. Still, she isn’t to know that Dev will be arriving at any minute. And I hardly think he’s going to feel any differently about her, even if she is looking a bit ropy.

  “I don’t know. She won’t really talk about it. I think there’s …” She bites her lip. “It’s complicated.”

  “There’s someone else, you mean?”

  She stares at me. “What? What do you know?”

  “Well, obviously I was there, at the school, the night it all kicked off, wasn’t I?” I don’t know if it’s OK to go down this route, because Polly has always had the tendency to clam up about the secrets she and Grace keep from the rest of the world. But then, I’m getting the impression that maybe I know more about this particular secret of Grace’s than Polly does. “I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but it looked a lot like there was something going on between Grace and some Middle Eastern–looking guy. He looked like a dad at the school. Inasmuch as he looked like a dad at all, that is.”

  Polly’s mouth has fallen open. “She hasn’t said … I mean, I knew she liked him, but …”

  OK, this is interesting. “Look, maybe I’m wrong.”

  “No, I don’t think you are wrong. I think she’s just decided not to say anything to me about it.” Polly is turning pink, the way she always does when she’s very upset about something.

  No, no, no. I can’t have her very upset about something. About anything. I need her in a good mood, in a good, festive, Christmasy mood, for the moment when Dev knocks at the front door.

  “Look, it’s basically great news!” I beam at her brightly, then tone it down a watt or two when I remember that, after all, this is the breakup of a young family we’re talking about. “I mean, obviously it’ll be terrible for Grace while she’s actually going through a divorce. But when it’s over, she’ll finally be free of that horrible husband of hers. Which is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Poll! This is me you’re talking to! I know why you ran off to New York in the first place, remember? Because of horrible Charlie coming on to you? Only a couple of months after Grace married him?”

  Given that this is absolutely, 100 percent true—I mean, I can even recall the tinny taste of the Merlot we were drinking when Polly told me about it in the airport bar before she caught the flight that took her away to New York for all these years—I can’t really understand why Polly is looking at me as though I’ve just falsely accused her of some terrible crime. Or why she’s looking at me like I’m accusing her of any crime at all, falsely or otherwise. But when she opens her mouth, she’s gone a bit Gollum-y again.

  “I’ve told you never to mention that, Bella! Why the fuck would you do it now? With Grace in the other room! When her entire fucking life has just gone up in smoke!”

  “Poll, calm down, I didn’t mean …”

  “Need any help in here, ladies?” comes Anna’s singsong voice as she sashays into the kitchen. She’s gone the Mum route, not the Polly route, on the dressing-up front and is wearing a rather fabulous silvery dress that clings to every curve because, as she told me gleefully when she arrived earlier, “in a month or so my bump will start growing, and then it’ll be kaftans and trackie bottoms all the way!”

  “No, we’re fine.” Polly composes herself with startling speed, though she does head straight to the fridge to get out the bottle of white wine and refill her glass, almost all
the way to the brim. “Anna, can I get you a top-up?”

  “Oooooh, no, only soft drinks for me, Polly. And a few more of these amazing sausage rolls,” she adds, scooping some up from the plate I’ve just refilled. “Now that I’m eating for two! I assume Bella’s told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  The entirely delusional idea that she’s pregnant. “Actually, Anna, I haven’t said anything to Polly yet. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be saying anything until you were, you know, sure.”

  “Bella!” Anna rolls her eyes, pops in a sausage roll, and turns back to Polly. “Honestly, your sister! She seems to want assurance from the Vatican, the Pentagon, and half a dozen separate spy satellites before she’ll believe that I’m pregnant!”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Mm-hmm. And I know it’s a bit too early to be certain of this, but I have the strongest suspicion that it’s multiple babies. Twins, at least. I’m hoping even triplets.”

  Polly looks from Anna to me, and back again. “Wow … Anna … that’s … it’s great news. For you.” She swallows, very hard. “Are you OK about this, Bella?”

  “Polly!” Anna’s pregnancy may be totally fictional, but until she accepts this herself, we still need to go by the usual rules of polite behavior. And polite behavior is not greeting the announcement of a pregnancy with a stricken inquiry as to whether somebody else is OK about it. “That’s rude!”