by Jenny Colgan
‘Not true, actually. Normally I let the boys watch. But only the ones I like … so, tough luck!’
He grimaced at me and went back to his work, which as far as I could tell was mostly colouring in.
‘How are you doing, Janie?’ I asked her, using the soft, invalid voice I reserved for the troubled of heart.
‘Well,’ she said bravely, ‘he had a ticket for the rugby on Saturday, but came to Ikea instead.’
‘See? He loves you. Anyway, I was at this party on Saturday night, right …’
‘But then he didn’t want to go to the Homes and Houses Exhibition at Earls Court …’ She started to sniffle a bit. ‘And he didn’t come round until the end of Football Focus! When it was too late to go!’
I stared at her. ‘Are you bonkers? You can’t take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition after two months. You can’t ever take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition. Jesus! You’re going to have to stop reading the bloody Daily Mail. Anyway, there was this bloke at the party who I thought quite liked me, right, but he went off with my best mate. And I can’t fancy him anyway, because my boyfriend is terrific and I’m completely in love with him. But he’s – the first boy, not my boyfriend – trying to sabotage his brother’s wedding and he wants me to help him. Apart from which, he’s really nice. But, obviously, I’m in love with my boyfriend. But I’m really pissed off that the first bloke slept with my mate. Almost like I was jealous – if I got jealous, which, really, I don’t. So, what do you think I should do?’
She stared at me, mouth open.
‘Apart from take them both to the Homes and Houses Exhibition and see which one can find the hardest-wearing carpet?’
Unbelievably, she had tears welling up again.
‘I only wanted to look at cushions. Cushions aren’t too committed, are they?’
Arrgh! This was it. I was going to have to phone the Samaritans and ask them. Although, knowing my luck, they’d only give me lip or be completely distracted. I put on my martyred expression and turned towards Janie in a saintly fashion.
‘Ookaay. So, first of all, why wouldn’t you let him go to the rugby? He’s a boy. Boys need rugby. Believe me, I know.’
She blinked at me. ‘Do you let your boyfriend go?’
‘Sure!’
‘And it’s OK?’
I reflected on this for a bit. I didn’t want to say: Well, apart from the beating and being insulting to strippers and throwing up on yourself and sleeping rough …
‘Sure!’ I said. God, if he would only hurry up and leave her, so I could talk about my problems for a change.
‘You know what you should do, dolls,’ said Cockney Boy, who had somehow been managing to colour in and listen to our conversation at the same time. ‘You should both learn to play rugby, yeah? Then you birds can run around the pitch yourself, getting all covered in mud and stuff. That way everyone will be happy – the blokes can watch the rugby, and you’d be, roight, playin’ …’
We both turned and stared at him.
‘You spent an awful long time alone in your bedroom as a teenager, didn’t you?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he pouted. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Day after day, just staring at the wall, picking your spots and listening to your Phil Collins albums.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Dreaming of the day Linda Lusardi comes past and accidentally breaks down in front of your little Cockney house.’
He held up his arms and walked off. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘Oh, Steve, Steve, thank you for fixing my car … what can I, Linda Lusardi, possibly do for you in return?’
He turned at the door and flicked me a V-sign. But he was smiling a little bit. I hoped.
I had three messages. One was from Fran, wanting to know what to wear to Amanda’s hen night. If she thought she was going to that, she had another think coming. In fact, neither was I, given that I liked both my eyes the way they were, thank you.
The second was Alex, who had ‘just called to say good morning, pumpkin.’ He’d been terribly soppy since Saturday. Which was a good thing, clearly, although slightly unusual. Previously, in fact, unheard of. He sounded practically wimpy!
The third one started oddly. There was a long pause, and it kind of went ‘urrr’. Then a throat was cleared noisily, and then apologized for. I realized who it was.
‘Angus,’ I said into the phone, even though it was only a message. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only me. Yes, I do think you’re a plonker, but that’s OK. I don’t mind.’
‘Erm, hullo there, ehm, this is Angus. Umm, Angus McConnald.’
Ah, that Angus.
‘So, really, Ah just wondered how you were going after Saturday night, and, ehmm, whether you wanted to go to lunch or something to talk about, you know … just for a chat … I won’t talk about the wedding or anything …’ There was a pause on the answerphone. ‘Well, maybe a bit about the wedding … They can’t … Oh God. Well, anyway … give me a ring on 555 2127. Sorry, 0171 555 2127. Poncey sodding English codes. Right. Sorry. OK. Bye.’
He wasn’t going to let this alone, I could tell. Neither would Fran. I kind of wished they’d leave me out of it, but I hated being left out of things. Also, something in me wanted to see him again. I didn’t phone him back right away, but I wrote his number in my address book in ink.
‘We’ve been invited,’ went on Fran, ‘so, you know, we turn up and do something. The Hensterminators.’
‘That’s not even funny.’
‘Maybe we could get that stripper to turn up at Quagli’s.’
We’d met for a council of war. Or rather, Fran had come over to try and get me to do stuff, and Alex was at the flat anyway. I’d told Fran what Angus had said at the stag night, and she was excited at the potential for devilment, and more convinced than ever that we were in the service of the right by trying to bugger things up, even a bit. I wasn’t quite so sure. Alex was reading The Sunday Times and couldn’t give a toss.
The phone rang. I picked it up, then put my hand over the receiver and popped my head round the living-room door.
‘It’s Angus!’ I hissed to Fran. Two phone calls in two days, I was thinking. I internally hugged myself with glee. I knew I was right. I’d thought maybe he had a little crush on me. Would have to be pretty little, though, for him to have copped off with Fran so quickly. I hated the nineties. A bit of courtly love would not have gone amiss. He should have worshipped me for about ten or fifteen years and then been happy with a mere flower, or something.
Fran shrugged.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘shall I ask him to come over?’
‘Why on earth would I mind?’
‘I don’t know … ehm, he’s seen you from the inside?’
Alex looked up from the sports pages with his eyebrows raised, but then he’d known Fran for a while.
‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see him. He’s nice. And he can join in our plan.’
‘Hmm.’ I wasn’t sure how closely I wanted those two working together.
‘Hey!’ I rejoined the phone call with an alacrity which betrayed exactly what I’d been doing.
‘Why don’t you come over? We’re only sitting about drinking wine and being small-minded about people we know.’
‘Aye, OK.’
I gave him the address, expecting him to take hours to find it and arrive cursing our poncey southern road system, but he made it in about half an hour, armed with a couple of helpful bottles of wine. Him and Alex smiled fixedly at each other and shook hands, whereupon Alex said, ‘I think I’ll let you three get on with ripping everyone to shreds,’ and returned to his paper.
‘Wooo,’ said Fran, ‘Mr Perfect strikes again.’
‘OK, stop nipping at each other, you two.’
Fran shot him a final dirty look then joined us on cushions on the floor.
‘So!’ said Angus through clenched teeth. He’d obviously been thinking about wh
at to say.
‘This isn’t at all embarrassing, is it?’
‘What isn’t?’ said Fran.
I kicked her on the ankle. ‘No, it’s not,’ I added. Fran smiled sweetly, leaving Angus looking uncomfortable.
‘How’s Fraser?’ I asked.
‘He’s fine. Recovered. She’s’ – there was no mistaking the intonation: it sounded like how people used to talk about Margaret Thatcher – ‘making him choose dinner patterns. Then every time he chooses one she tells him it’s wrong.’
‘I love that game,’ I said.
Fran stretched herself out on the floor and turned to face the ceiling, arms behind her head.
‘Look, why don’t you just tell him. Go up and say, “Fraser, don’t marry her, she’s a bitch. She’s a skinny-rumped, dyed-haired bitch bitch bitch. She’s a complete and utter utter utter bitch. If she was a president, she’d be Bitchaham Lincoln.’”
‘What’s your point?’
‘If she was a cowboy, she’d be Bitch Cassidy.’
‘Fran, that’s a pretty subtle idea. But I think Angus might have already tried it, somehow.’
Angus half tilted his head.
‘Kind of. I didn’t do the whole bitch song, though.’
‘Well, what happened?’
‘He looked at me like a mopey dog and said,’ – sincere voice – ‘“Angus, you two just haven’t hit it off. Believe me, she’s sweet. It’s going to be OK.’”
‘Argh!’ said Fran. ‘I can’t believe there’s anything I hate more in the world than women men think are sweet but who are actually complete BITCHES!’
Alex rustled his paper and peered over the top of it. ‘Really? What about women who can’t stop bitching and shouting all day?’
‘Oh yeah? What about men who run off to America and fuck their girlfriends about?’
I froze.
The way I heard Fran – and she always said everything on purpose – well, I suppose I’d assumed, guessed that Alex had been up to all sorts of things when he was away, but, well, I’d never known for sure, and I’d thought … I looked at him, already knowing that my eyes were full of tears, the kind that I tried to swallow until it hurt. Fran leaned over, suddenly worried about what she’d said.
‘Melanie …’
Alex threw down his paper and stormed off. I thought he was just going to leave – forever, probably. My throat felt as if I was being strangled.
Obviously not quite knowing what to do, Alex stormed back in the room again and nodded for me to follow him, but I was paralysed.
‘Come on,’ he said sharply. I stood up and walked out with him to the hall. He grabbed me and put his arms tightly around me, then tilted his forehead against mine, trying to regain his cool.
‘Your friend really, really hates me, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I said, biting my lower lip. I almost couldn’t ask.
‘D-did you?’ I quavered.
‘Mel, you know I had to discover myself. Try new things. So I could work out where I belonged. Here. With you.’
I dropped his very close gaze and stared fiercely at the ground.
‘America … it feels like a different life to me now. I did tons of things there I wouldn’t do here. Daft, meaningless things. You’ve got to believe me, pumpkin.’
I wanted to, so much.
‘You’re so special – I keep telling you that, but you don’t believe in yourself. Look, hey, I came all the way back for you, right? You know how messed up my head is. But here I am!’
I looked him in the eye again. He seemed so sincere, so desperate to make it all right. He was nearly in tears himself.
‘Please, Mel.’
We stared at each other for a long time.
‘It’s all right,’ I said finally. ‘It’s all right. It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you mean that? Fantastic you?’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly.
‘I thought about you all the time,’ he said.
‘Really? I didn’t think about you at all.’ I forced a laugh.
‘All that crap is over now, I promise. From now on, it’s just you and me. In fact, if you could only dump that Fran character, it would be absolutely perfect.’
‘Lex, she’s my best friend.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘You’re my soul mate, remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’
I had to ask.
‘Do you love me, Alex?’
He smiled and kissed me full on the mouth.
‘Ah shags you, don’t Ah?’ he said in exaggerated Cockney.
‘Just tell me.’
‘Pet, as much as I love anyone, I love you.’
He left after that. I stood by the door, not wanting to return to the sitting room quite yet. There was a stack of post on a ghastly occasional table. I never bother looking at it usually; bills I let Linda take care of, and everything else she usually flicks under my door. But I leafed through it listlessly, wondering how many animal charities there are in the world. Suddenly I drew out an envelope addressed to Alex, care of me. It was stiff, white card. How bizarre. Underneath, there was one for me too.
It occurred to me immediately what these were – the wedding invites! After all, how many stiff card envelopes did I normally get? (This was my first.) I could put it on the mantelpiece! Except Linda had already covered it with miniature glass kittens.
I walked back into the living room. Angus and Fran were watching me with obvious concern.
‘I’m sorry!’ Fran yelled immediately, to get it in.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down to pour another glass of wine.
‘I was only guessing, Mel. I didn’t even think …’ Fran looked absolutely stricken. I patted her on the hand.
‘Come on outside. I need to tell you something.’
She followed me.
‘Fran, don’t worry. If anything, it did more good than harm. He …’ I felt a bit shy and crap. ‘I didn’t want to say this in front of Angus, but … he said he loves me. For the first time.’
‘That weasel?’ Fran was immediately scornful again. ‘He doesn’t love anyone but himself.’
I shot her a look that said she wasn’t forgiven.
‘OK, OK, I’ll stop. I’m pleased for you. I really am.’
‘Look, Fran, I mean it: are you going to stop being so horrid whenever he’s around?’
Fran groaned.
‘Are you? I mean, it’s driving him crazy – and me.’
‘OK. OK. If that’s what you really want, I’ll curb my natural instincts towards that creep.’
I gave her a friendly squeeze. ‘Fran, I’d love your natural instincts – if only they weren’t those of a cornered cougar.’
She snarled at me affectionately. We headed back in.
‘Do you two always live in such pitched drama?’ asked Angus, who was quietly toying with his wine.
‘Hang on – which one of us is trying to sabotage an entire wedding again? Oh, it’s you, isn’t it?’ I reminded him. ‘Ooh, which reminds me – look!’
I drew out the envelopes.
‘Invitations?’ Fran made a grab for them. ‘How come you got two separate ones?’
‘They can afford it, I suppose,’ I said airily, opening mine.
I gazed at the gold-rimmed card in shock.
‘That bitch!’
‘What?’
‘Look!’
Fran took it from me.
‘Twenty fucking years! That BITCH!’
Joan and Derek Phillips, the card said, invite you to the post-reception of the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at Pyrford Manor on December 21st. A coach will be available to pick up guests from Central London at 4.30 p.m. Formal dress will not be required.
Fran and I stared at each other. Then she tore into Alex’s. Sure enough, it said: Joan and Derek Phillips invite you to the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at P
yrford village church, noon on December 21st, after which lunch at Le Coq Fantastique, followed by dancing at Pyrford Manor. Morning Dress.
Enclosed with both of them was a wedding list, placed at Heal’s. The cheapest thing on it was three hundred quid.
Fran and I stared at each other.
‘OK,’ I said to Angus. ‘What do we have to do to fuck this wedding up the bum?’
‘It’s only fair,’ added Fran. ‘For years and years of all that shit she used to pull at school.’
I winced in remembrance. ‘For that time she got the boys to hold us still while she pulled our hair.’
‘For that time she insisted on taking our dinner money and giving it to charity,’ hissed Fran.
‘For that time she wouldn’t own up to stealing the teacher’s ruler and I took the blame.’
‘For that time she told Stacey Norton I wanted to fight with her.’
Angus was watching us, agape.
‘For that time she told on you for stealing lipstick from Woolworths!’
‘Oh yes!’ Fran remembered. ‘For that time we were meant to be going to the pictures and she didn’t want to go and pretended to be sick until it was too late and we missed it.’
‘Aargh!’ I said. ‘That time she got into that nightclub and I didn’t, and she didn’t come back for me!’
‘That time she got off with Legsy Forters just because you liked him!’
I buried my head under the cushion. ‘Legsy! Legsy!’ We were getting hysterical.
‘Let’s do it!’ shouted Fran. ‘For every mean little thing that bitch has ever done, let’s do it.’
I was fired up. ‘Yeah!’
We turned to look at Angus, who was backing away with a scared look on his face.
‘You know, girruls, we only have to reason with them, not blow them up or anything.’
I opened the third bottle of wine.
‘OK, we need a plan.’
‘Well, we’re going to the hen night,’ said Fran.
‘No we are not.’ I shot her a dangerous look.
‘Fine. If you want to stay at home and smooch with the love of your life, so be it. I’m going there for reconnaissance. And I’m going in wired.’
Nobody said anything.
‘You’re what?’