Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

by Jenny Colgan

  There were lots and lots of women with fragile ankles and wrists, wearing tiny buttoned jackets over their delicate bodies and sporting elaborate fascinators and discreetly expensive earrings. They greeted each other with a kind of exhausted delight, remarking upon the last time they’d been there. All the women were blonde, different shades of blonde but all had poker straight, perfectly styled hair.

  The men, red-faced and choleric, hung around chatting about money and grumbling about not being able to smoke cigars. ‘She’s a pretty filly all right,’ I heard one of them say.

  ‘Yes, lucky bastard,’ said another.

  ‘Oh, had one wife, had them all,’ said the first, and they all guffawed in unpleasant tones. I searched the crowd for Julius. He was at the very front, walking backwards in the best tradition of the paparazzi. The wedding party was arriving. I went back to take my place at the grotto room, but couldn’t resist stopping to stare. Then the orchestra - none of your string quartet low-key nonsense here - struck up a wedding march and they walked in.

  Carena looked exquisite. A proper queen. Her dress was a shimmering fall of palest cream satin, a little exquisite beading on the bust and straps; a huge diamond necklace and tiara the real glowing stars of the outfit. Her arms looked like two sticks down her sides holding the elegant black lilies of her bouquet; but very much from the Angelina Jolie school of beautiful stick arms and legs so it didn’t matter.

  Behind her Philly and Carena’s cousin Samantha were radiant in Schiaparelli pink prom dresses, showing off vertiginous heels. Philly had a smaller version of Carena’s tiara. I wondered whose idea that was. They were carrying lilies of the palest pink, and they glowed like princesses from a fairy tale. The throng parted and Carena gave a smile designed to make her look beautiful and modest. I sighed. It was working. Behind her, reaching for her hand, was Rufus, as wolfish and roguish-looking as ever in his grey morning suit. He was being mobbed by a gang of his school friends. They were all laughing uproariously and passing a hip flask, and they all seemed pretty drunk already. The whole tableau looked beautiful and care-free and joyous, and even this jaded crowd clapped as they passed into the room; the couple’s happiness was palpable. Yep, OK. I had to admit it. I was jealous. I was so jealous I wanted to explode. I was so jealous I wanted to take my backup camera and hurl it at them. Throw tomato juice all over the tulle layers of that beautiful dress. Scream ‘IT’S NOT FAIR!’ over and over again to the ceiling. Yes, things were getting a little better for me. I had a nice boyfriend and something approaching a future was beginning to take shape. I wasn’t trailing in the gutter.

  Yet somehow that was worse. When everything is as bad as it can possibly be at least you stand out for being a complete disaster. You’re still special, just special for being such an unbelievable fuck up. People speak about you in vaguely hushed tones all the time. Whereas when everything is patently going to be average and you’re just going to have to get through it - that, in a funny way, is much harder. I couldn’t throw my hands up in the air and go to bed for a week. I had to soldier on. I raised my camera like a gun and sidled back to my room, just as I heard Rufus announce, ‘My wife and I . . .’

  A great cheer went up, and the waiters and waitresses converged, like a swarm of petite wasps, dispensing champagne and canapés. The sound of laughter loudened as the orchestra launched into something light and lovely. It was gorgeous. I wanted to cry.

  ‘Sophie? ’

  Of course. It was Philly, bearing down on me like a glamorous pink truck.

  ‘You got Julius! What’s up with your hair? You look like a golden—’

  ‘Labrador, I know.’

  ‘I was going to say retriever.’

  ‘Oh.’ I stood there.

  ‘So are you working here?’

  ‘Of course.’ I’d never been to a party where I hadn’t seen Philly hand out business cards, but I didn’t mention it.

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a shame the fame thing didn’t work out.’

  ‘I’m over it.’

  ‘Well, Good For You!’ she said as if talking to a slow child. ‘That’s brilliant! Does Carena not mind you coming here? I thought, you know, it was insensitive . . .’

  ‘I’m Julius’s assistant,’ I said. ‘It’s up to her to object.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t have you thrown out,’ said Philly in a way that suggested she wasn’t sure at all.

  ‘Well, that’s what friends are for,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, you know, I do have a lot of duties to do . . .’

  ‘Off you go,’ I said as cheerily as I could muster.

  The dinner seemed interminable, course after course of tiny things with sauce smeared on the plates. Nobody would want their pics taken till later, till they were a bit pissed. I amused myself by watching the amazingly fluid choreography of those manning the tables; the way they whizzed in and out of the huge kitchens bearing dozens of plates and mountains of dirty crockery, re-emerging seconds later with a whole new tray. The level of chatter in the room was high and spirited, rising to a crescendo by the time Rufus rose to his feet, tapping a glass sharply.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said in that ridiculously posh baritone I’d once known so well. There he was. Rufus the doofus.

  ‘I just wanted to say how delighted I am that you’re all here today - and how thrilled I am to have my beautiful bride seated beside me.’

  A huge roar went up. He thanked his parents, his friends, his farm manager, his relatives and his dog. I waited patiently, but he didn’t thank me for so gracefully stepping aside the second he met someone he liked a bit better. My mature tolerance could only take so much backslapping, and I retired to my grotto and sat there on my own. Oh well. All the cameras were ready and set up. There was absolutely nothing to do. I wandered about and finally turned off the main lights, sat down in a corner (the chaise longue was wildly uncomfortable) under a table and, like a bored dog, sleepy after sharing Eck’s bed for a fortnight, simply dozed off.

  I wasn’t sure how long I was there before I came to and realised there was someone else in the room. They couldn’t have seen me, I was tucked away in the corner. And they were sobbing. I rubbed my eyes and got up slowly and quietly, worrying about startling whoever it was by appearing out of the half-light.

  ‘Hello?’ I said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Came a startled voice I knew very well.

  ‘Carena?’

  ‘Sophie?’

  My eyes adjusted to the light. There she was on the chaise longue, the beautiful dress spread out behind her like a queen’s train.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hiccupped, rubbing at her eyes.

  ‘I’m helping the photographer. I texted you.’

  ‘Yeah, I change my number once a fortnight!’

  ‘OK, good for you,’ I said. ‘Well, I didn’t sneak in, if that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, it doesn’t matter,’ said Carena savagely. I looked at her more closely.

  ‘Are you . . . are you all right . . .?’

  That’s when I realised. Honestly, I’d never seen her cry, not even when she broke her shoulder the year we skied at Vail. You could say what you liked about her, but she was incredibly brave. I think the long years of parental neglect had taught her that crying didn’t help anything terribly much.

  She looked at me for a moment, as if about to dismiss me once more. Then her face wobbled and crashed.

  ‘Oh, Sophs,’ she said, which she hadn’t called me for years. ‘It’s just so much crap.’

  ‘What? How?’ I said, going over and sitting down next to her. I patted her shoulder ineffectually, and she leaned in and started to seriously cry; my chiffon top was getting wet.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’

  I glanced nervously at the door.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, stuttering. ‘I’ve locked it. So none
of them can get in. They’ll think I’m doing my face. They think that’s all I do.’

  She stuttered and coughed a little more, and I gave her the clean dusters from the camera box to wipe her face with.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. She pulled a bottle of champagne from under her skirt.

  ‘I liberated it,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d drink it quickly by myself and then things wouldn’t seem so bad.’

  ‘But . . . it’s gorgeous,’ I said. ‘You look so beautiful, and you all seem so happy, and you’ve got this big posh wedding, and everyone’s so pleased, and you’re going to live in his beautiful house . . .’

  Carena uncorked the bottle and took a huge long swig. Then she passed it to me.

  ‘He’s an idiot, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Well . . .’ I didn’t know what to say about that, so I took the bottle and took a long swig myself, which gave me enough time.

  ‘He’s so handsome,’ I said. ‘And so successful - he’s the one everyone wanted. Everyone envies you. I wanted him so much.’

  ‘Who cares about that?’ she said. ‘And he’s getting stuck in to the other women already and we’re not even married - I’m sure he’s slept with Philly.’

  ‘Oh, God, there’s about two people in SW3 who haven’t slept with Philly,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t let that worry you.’

  She half-smiled. ‘They do say fidelity is a terribly middle-class concept.’

  I thought about Eck, who would never cheat on me. And then, strangely, I thought about Cal, who would never do anything else.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said.

  In the early days of scrubbing the floorboards, I had often fantasised about a time when Carena would have nothing and I’d have everything and the tables were turned and I’d be cool and dismissive. That was all bollocks, of course. She was horrible, and difficult, and all the rest of it, but she was still my friend. My oldest friend, and I cared about her.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ I said, not sure whether it would. It had never really occured to me - if he could leave me that fast, it didn’t say much for his staying power.

  ‘Oh, forget it, it doesn’t matter. He’s done it before. He is completely indiscriminate. Honestly, we get through cleaners like you wouldn’t believe. He’ll quite happily snog any old boot. He’s like one of those dogs you have to get neutered.’

  ‘But you love him,’ I said.

  ‘I’m wearing the dress, aren’t I?’

  She looked down at what I estimated to be sixty-thousand-pounds worth of glorious haute couture - Galliano, unmistakeably - now looking a little watermarked.

  ‘I mean, I told myself that it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything. This is everything I ever wanted. Gorgeous husband, huge wedding, plenty of money, beautiful house, all of that.’

  ‘And you look amazing,’ I added, helpfully.

  ‘I do,’ she nodded, entirely without vanity. ‘I look amazing. I’ve eaten nothing but oranges for three weeks.’

  ‘That sounds fun.’

  ‘What happened to your hair?’

  ‘I’m dating a golden retriever.’

  A smile touched the ends of her mouth.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I said. ‘Do you want me to get your mum? Do you want to go home?’

  She threw back her head, laughed, then quaffed another load of champagne.

  ‘You are joking.’

  ‘Uh . . .’

  Carena stood up and found a mirror. From a secret pocket somewhere she drew out her make-up bag and started assiduously re-applying her face.

  ‘It’ll be fine, darling. We’ll have a lovely life and be as happy as people can be. I may even take a lover myself one day. It’s all for the best.’

  In almost no time at all she’d got rid of the effects of crying. Trust Carena to be a pretty crier.

  ‘No, it will all work out fine. You won’t mention this . . .’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ I said. Carena came forward and gave me a hug.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I just needed . . . a little time . . .’

  ‘Of course you did,’ I said, hugging her back. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I always am,’ she said. Then she took another huge swig, finishing the bottle. Burping in a most un-bridelike fashion, she threw the bottle aside and unlocked the door.

  ‘Darlings! ’ I heard her say as she threw it open. ‘You must get your picture taken in our gorgeous grotto! Isn’t this such fun?’

  Eventually, word got round, and people did come in and get their pictures taken and a lot of them did recognise me, but amazingly, lots of them were kind (apart from comments about my hair, which I took in good spirit, even whilst internally deciding to have it all shaved off that night à la Britney Spears), and to the rest, I think I gave off good funky photographer chick attitude. As soon as people see you really don’t care, they leave you alone. So it was a very successful day, in fact. I took some young farmers in a big group, all of them howling at me like a bunch of prepubescent owls; a couple of dashing young troubadours, and Rufus himself, who demanded he have his pic taken surrounded by ‘all the totty at the party’ which didn’t include his wife. He smiled happily at me, friendly again, and a bit too pissed and too stupid to care who I was or what I represented. I smiled back at him as best I could.

  By 10 p.m. I was exhausted with smiling, corralling, snapping. Julius was delighted though. He could send all the pics round and sell them individually. Even the little waiter had smuggled me in a plate of utterly delicious food, which I guessed Carena had ordered for me. In fact, it was probably hers so she didn’t have to eat it.

  The crowd had thinned to a trickle, and I was preparing to start packing away, when a bunch of people burst through the door.

  ‘Take our picture! Take our picture!’

  I glanced up expecting another crowd of young London bucks. Which it was, I supposed. It was James, Eck, Cal and Wolverine, all completely pished and collapsing with laughter.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ I said. ‘I said, No. No, no, no, no, no!’

  ‘You’re not our real dad,’ said Cal, giggling and clutching a half-full bottle of champagne. I had a feeling Carena’s parents may have slightly overcatered.

  ‘You’re going to get thrown out,’ I said, trying to stop Wolverine sniffing round the camera box.

  ‘We are not,’ said James proudly. ‘Carena recognised us and invited us in.’

  I took a little breath. I couldn’t help it, I was touched by the gesture. Not that I was that pleased that this bunch of scruffs were turning up as my . . . I took a closer look.

  ‘What are you guys wearing?’

  ‘We broke into drama club!’ said James. ‘They have a wardrobe and everything!’

  ‘I told them not to,’ said Eck, his eyes going in slightly different directions.

  ‘No, no,’ I said, starting to giggle. ‘You look great.’

  Technically they all adhered to the black tie dress code: a red velvet smoking jacket on James, a frilled shirt on Cal (bit Adam Ant, but in a good way), and a pre-tied bow tie on Eck, who came lurching up to give me a big snog.

  ‘We even got a pair with a hole in the back for Wolverine’s tail,’ said Cal dryly.

  ‘But now I feel rubbish!’ I said, looking forlornly down at my jeans.

  ‘We thought of that too!’ said James, as Eck produced a dress from his messy rucksack. It was red velvet, a belted number, completely over the top but weirdly, rather nice.

  ‘Oh my,’ I said. Then, ‘No. This is my first professional engagement. I’m not going to ruin everything by misbehaving all over the place.’

  ‘Champagne?’ said Cal.

  Curses! Felled by my terrible weakness. My hand stretched out of its own volition.

  ‘Go on, love,’ said Julius, who’d been putting camera parts away behind me. ‘You deserve a bit of a laugh tonight.’

  Suddenly, I heard a sound I recognised, though I couldn’t believe it. It
sounded like the opening chords of ‘Pray’ by Take That. My favourite band. But it didn’t sound like a record. It sounded . . . I flung open the door.

  Sure enough, standing at one end of the dance floor, waving to everyone, were the four remaining members of Take That. Now that’s what I called a wedding band!

  As I was watching, Carena turned round and caught my eye. She smiled at me and beckoned to me. That was enough. I certainly wasn’t going to get up close to Take That in my work duds.