Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

  Instead though, a miracle happened and his reaction utterly astonished her. He was absolutely overjoyed, jubilant, got up to swing her round and said in that moment, she’d just made him the happiest man on the planet. Said he always knew the doctors who’d diagnosed his infertility must have got it all wrong. Sure what do doctors know anyway, he’d laughed. He stayed up half the night with her discussing baby names, schools, you name it.

  He’d even asked her to marry him.

  All she wanted was to run away somewhere and do it quickly and quietly abroad. But nothing would do him only to make as big an occasion as possible out of it. After all, we’re only getting married once, he’d told her, so let’s go all out. Waste of time, she’d told him spiritedly. Live bands and bridesmaids and stag nights? Sure who’d even bother to come? Mates from the restaurant she was working in? That was a laugh!

  He didn’t like her working night shifts now. Instead he wanted her home in the evenings when he was there, so he could take care of her properly. This is the only time you and I ever get to be together, he used to say to her, and while on the surface it may have sounded romantic, she knew deep down it was complete rubbish; the two of them were together night in, night out. Weekends, bank holidays, you name it. The only other person either of them really saw was the other one; they were joined at the hip. Like having a social circle of just one other person.

  And while she loved him and adored being with him, especially when things were as good as they had been lately, there were still times when she wished she could do normal things with pals her own age. He was thirty-five, but she was only twenty-two, for God’s sake. These were the years when she should be out there having fun, she told herself, like any other normal girl her age. But she knew if she did what it would inevitably lead to, so more and more often she just stayed put.

  Far easier all round.

  These days, she mostly worked early mornings instead of late shifts, and whenever there was a night out or a party happening with her co-workers, she knew far better than to ask him along. And eventually, to even bother going herself. From bitter past experience she knew it just wasn’t worth the hassle, the constant questions, the mood swings. Best not to rock the boat, she reasoned. Besides, things were so good between them ninety-nine per cent of the time, weren’t they? ’Course they were.

  And as for family, who did she have she could possibly invite to her wedding? She had only one person who counted as family, now in a nursing home, miles away. And yes, his parents were alive and well, but relations were strained to put it mildly and he hardly ever saw them. Rarely even spoke about them. Besides, he seldom let her out of his sight these days, which left precious little time over for his family. They spent every spare minute together, until eventually she looked around herself one day and, to her surprise, realised just how isolated she’d become. How scarily dependent she now was on him. And now, in time, how dependent her child would be.

  But she’d told Becky her big news about her engagement and about the baby, of course. She’d known Becky for years. They’d shared a foster home when they were just kids. Over the years, they’d lost touch, but found each other again when they ended up staying in the same hostel, trying to get work, trying to scrounge enough cash together to get out of there.

  Two heads, they figured, were always going to be better than one, so between them they got work in a fast-food burger bar and worked their way up from there. By putting in for every extra shift that they possibly could, they’d even managed to afford the deposit of a month’s rent on their very own flat. Where the pair of them had an absolute ball, working hard, but crucially, playing even harder.

  But ever since she’d moved in with him, that had all changed. Becky just didn’t like him and never had.

  ‘It kills me to have to tell you this, Jean,’ she’d say time and again. ‘But I wouldn’t be a true pal if I just sat here and kept my trap shut. And I’m sorry, hon, but Joe is just far too controlling for his own good. What’s really weird, though, is that you don’t even seem able to see it! Does the guy ever give you a single minute to yourself? God, that fella would follow you into the bloody ladies if he could!’

  Jean would sit quietly opposite her with her whole face burning, but saying nothing. Knowing deep down that kind-hearted old Becky thought she was only doing the right thing. Even if she didn’t really have the first clue about the depths of their relationship. How these days they were now like trees whose roots had slowly become entwined. Utterly inseparable.

  ‘Sorry to bang on about it,’ Becky went on, really driving her point home, ‘but I just don’t like Joe. Never really did. And, yeah, I know you always say you’re madly in love and that he treats you like a queen. And of course, after what you and I’ve been through, it helps that he’s not short of a few quid and has a decent place to live. But you’re not yourself around him, not your real self, and I just don’t think it’s right.’

  Jean had wanted to get up and stride out the door at that, but forced herself to stay put and listen. Becky means well, she told herself. So just hear the girl out. You’ve been through so much together, you owe her at least that.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Becky went on, ‘you’re normally so confident and full of fun and messing! You used to be so different, Jeanie. You were easily the wildest person I’d ever known, someone who could stand up for herself and who didn’t take any crap from anyone! But around him you turn into this timid little voiceless mouse, this person that I barely even recognise half the time. I’m sorry to have to be the one to say it and I know how serious things are between you, but that’s just the way I feel. If I was going out with a complete dickhead, I know you’d have the guts to say it to me.’

  And so, inevitably after that conversation, she and Becky had drifted apart, just like she had with all of her other friends. They’d completely given up arranging nights out where Joe would just glare moodily across the table at them and pretty soon, even Becky understandably got fed up with his rudeness down the phone if she chanced to call the flat and he answered.

  It was utterly pointless, Jean knew, to ask Becky or any of her work gang to celebrate her engagement to a guy they’d absolutely no time for.

  Sad, she thought, to be only twenty-two years old, up the duff and effectively friendless. Made her all the more dependent on him and she was someone who’d been independent her whole life.

  Was it a bad sign, she sometimes wondered, that there were times when she’d to remind herself she was in love?

  Chapter Twelve

  The Chocolate Bar, 6.15 p.m.

  Mother of Divine, I can barely get my head around it, but the place is completely thronged! There must easily be a hundred and fifty people, maybe more, all crammed in here like sardines. I cannot believe the turnout. This is by far the biggest premises we have and you want to see it right at this moment, there isn’t room for a kitten. Even the street tables under a canopy outside are jammers … it’s AMAZING!

  The PR girl we hired for the night is running round the place carrying a clipboard and generally acting like some kind of blow-dried missile in a pair of slingbacks, corralling the social diarists and food bloggers who’ve come to – we hope – give us a little name-drop and say kind things about us. Social diarists and bloggers, she’s been lecturing us all week, wield considerable amounts of clout in this town and therefore must be treated like minor royalty and not be allowed to leave without having incredibly generous goodie bags thrown their way.

  Swear though, every time I catch her eye, the PR girl looks nearly ready to ditch the clipboard and burst into a jig of pure joy. Because, after all, it’s just an ordinary midweek night, and never in our wildest dreams did we imagine we’d get this kind of a turnout.

  This is just unbelievable! It’s actually like a bleeding furnace in here now; even the insides of the windows are sweating and I’m sure my carefully applied make-up (well, v. special occasion and all that) is now well and truly dribbled down to somewhere
round my collarbone. The launch party officially kicked off at six o’clock and already I can tell that I’ll have to re-order stock first thing tomorrow. The goodie bags were snapped up within minutes, one or two cheekier punters even asking if we’d any going spare, and all the complimentary trays of chocolate pyramids we’d dotted around the place as tiny little samplers, were all scoffed approximately fifteen seconds after we opened our doors. Now guests have started buying individual chocolates and the till hasn’t stopped ringing all evening.

  Lovely, lovely sound; the pinging noise the till makes when it’s opening. Don’t think I’ll ever tire of it.

  I catch Sarah’s eye, where she’s standing over in the corner, chatting up one of our suppliers – a v. good-looking guy of about forty, by the way, who’s been the subject of much debate amongst us recently as to whether he’s gay, married or straight and single. No wedding ring, but as Sarah says, that means shag all in this day and age.

  She sees me looking in her direction and grins broadly back. This branch is gonna work, her eyes seem to be saying. Our biggest risk to date is about to pay off, in spades. Think you might just be right, I try to mouth back at her, but then I’m dragged off in yet another direction to chat to yet another ‘highly influential food blogger’. (All the PR speak is starting to rub off on me a bit, too.)

  ‘I think this is going to be a great success for you,’ the poor girl has to almost shout at me to be heard over the din.

  Wow, think to myself. Because it’s a major momentary reality check. Did I ever think the day would come when the word ‘success’ was uttered in the same breath as my name?

  7.00 p.m. on the dot

  Speeches. Been dreading this all day and know I won’t be able to really relax and get a decent glass of vino into me till the torture is ovah. Tried my level best to get out of it, but our slightly bossy PR girl said not a chance, it’s expected that each of us say a few words.

  Sarah’s up first. Hush descends and all you can hear in the background are passing waiters politely asking guests if they’d like their wine glasses topped up. And as you’d expect, Sarah’s completely terrific, cool and competent with efficient cue cards in front of her, a bit like a politician. Name-checks everyone she should, thanks her family for their support, emotional and financial, then moves on to thank each of our investors individually for their faith in us, not to mention their generosity.

  As she’s chatting, I do a quick scan of the crowd and spot Mum and Dad centre stage, Mum looking as Ann Widdecombe-like as ever in a sensible tweed suit and even more sensible shoes to go along with her sensible hair. But then my mother, bless her, went blithely into the frump-osphere aged around fifty and pretty much decided to stay there. She catches my eye and I wave over to her, then she nudges a woman beside her and stage-whispers, ‘Yes! That’s her standing right over there, that’s my daughter, you know. The co-owner!’

  Yet another massive reality check. Mum actually, actually, actually being proud enough to lay claim to me in public!

  Dad’s beside her, taking photos on the camera I bought him for his last birthday and looking fit to burst with excitement. He gives me a big, confident thumbs up and I wave back at him. It’s a lovely, lovely moment that I want to savour, just so I can relive it later on.

  Sarah’s still chatting confidently away into the microphone in front of her, so I scan the crowd yet again.

  But no sign of The Man yet. Which is odd.

  Because he’s always on time, he’s the punctual one out of the two of us; if left to me, we’d never have a snowball’s chance of making a dinner reservation in time. On a v. rare date night (and believe me, in this weather, it’s once in a blue moon that the two of us actually get to go out at all) I’m usually so tired, I’m incapable of even organising myself to leave my flat and arrive at the restaurant in time. Drives him nuts, he says, though he always says it lightly, jokingly.

  I get a momentary surge of disappointment that he’s not here for our big launch, which quickly turns into worry. Which escalates at the speed of light into full-blown panic.

  Maybe something happened to him in work? Something major that delayed him? But then if that’s the case, why didn’t he just call me to say so? And then supposing something even worse happened to him, like he was involved in some kind of horrific accident on his way here? And is now lying unconscious on a stretcher in an A&E somewhere, unable to even get a message to me?

  But then that’s something my own personal history has left me scarred by. These days, whenever someone is even a tiny bit late to meet me or doesn’t phone when they say they will, I automatically assume the very worst.

  There you go, two years on and the legacy left behind by Kitty Hope still has the power to reach out and clutch me by the throat.

  Sorry, I meant to say Jean. Keep forgetting.

  Weird, though. That’s the second time today that her ghost has resurrected itself. Strange.

  Of course he’s not lying in an A&E, I tell myself. But then, I’m invariably my own worst enemy when it comes to The Man, and immediately start doing my own personal Olympic sport: jumping to extreme conclusions. And then of course, all the self-doubting kicks in …

  If he’s a no-show tonight, then he’s definitely not interested … I just misread all the signs, that’s all … Whole thing is just a big non-starter … And, by the way, I was a roaring eejit to ever have thought someone like him would ever be interested in me anyhow! Didn’t I, deep down? ’Course I did. Always felt I was seriously punching above my weight with him and now here’s the proof … staring me slap, bang in the face …

  Suddenly, I’m aware there’s expectant silence all round and now all eyes seem to be focused on me.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sarah is saying, game-show-host style, ‘let me proudly introduce the single best reason why The Chocolate Bar is the success story it’s been … my amazingly wonderful friend, the one and only Miss Angie Blennerhasset!’

  Oh shit, anyway. Time for my shagging speech.

  Thunderous applause as I stumble my way in slightly too-high heels to makeshift podium where a v. scary-looking microphone waits for me. Everyone’s now focused up this way. A terrifying moment. I’m suddenly aware of cameras flashing in my face, and everyone staring expectantly up at me. So I begin hesitatingly, not unlike Colin Firth in The King’s Speech, eyes darting towards the door in case The Man turns up late. Which would be marginally better than him not turning up at all, but still.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I say into a microphone that whistles bit gratingly every time I breathe into it. It made Sarah sound like an authoritative politician; makes me sound like a toothless hag of about seventy. ‘Thanks so much for coming along and … em …’

  I break off a bit here, suddenly hit by a bout of nerves.

  Make a joke, my subconscious mind screeches at me. Just make them laugh, say something, say any shagging thing, but for God’s sake do something to fill the dead air …

  ‘Well … em … I hope you all enjoyed the free chocolate?’

  Mumbles and murmurs of grateful appreciation all round and I have to wait a while before there’s hush again.

  ‘Look … the thing is … well, let me put it to you this way.’

  I take a deep breath here and somehow try to find my way. Something The Man once said suddenly comes back to me. If you’ve got something to say in public, he told me, then it’s always best just to speak straight from the heart.

  Right then, from the heart. Here goes.

  ‘Can I just say that two years ago,’ I begin falteringly, ‘I was on the dole, living at home with my poor, long-suffering parents, with not a bean to my name and about as much chance of getting a proper, paying job as I had of winning the Lotto jackpot. And then …’

  I’m about to say ‘… and then Sarah O’Reilly bounced up to me, waved her magic wand and somehow managed to change my whole life around,’ but just at that moment, I spot him.

  Yes, I think jubilantly, he
is here after all! The Man’s actually here! Not only that, but he’s been here all along, by the looks of him! I must have just been so busy running around like a blue-arsed fly that somehow I hadn’t spotted him through the throng.

  He’s standing over by our cabinet display, looking, no other word for it, just beautiful. Tall, dark and classically handsome, lightly tanned from the fabulous Indian summer we’ve been having, and still in his work suit. Carrying a massive, oversized bunch of pink stargazer lilies, my all-time favourite flower, bless him.

  As ever, just seeing him, actually here for me, to support me, almost takes my breath away. I could v. happily stand here staring at him all day. The guy really is that extraordinary-looking. Like a Greek God with a Roman Emperor profile, and yet by a country mile the kindest, most caring, unassuming soul I know. I almost go a bit weak-kneed, like some pathetic, teenage One Direction groupie whenever I see him. Can’t help it. He’s that much out of my league, it’s unbelievable.

  But it’s only been six months, I tell myself. Stop mentally planning the wedding, Angie! Early, early days!

  And yet here he is and he’s here for me. Even though I’ve been so busy, I never even noticed him arriving. With flowers. For me. When’s the last time a man actually went and bought flowers for me? Can’t even begin to answer that one.

  Just the sight of him somehow gives me the confidence to propel me through the rest of the speech. Suddenly words start to foam at my mouth and, with renewed vitality, I tell the room that once Sarah and I teamed up as a partnership, I never saw the inside of a dole office again. I even touch wood as I’m saying it, which gets a big laugh.