In case I wondered for even a millisecond that she might have brought something practical, she turns around to display a bubblegum-coloured rucksack with the words J’adore Dior emblazoned across it.
‘I take it you haven’t got a camping stove in that,’ I say.
‘I have everything I could possibly require on an exhilarating morning walk,’ she replies.
I look her in the eyes.
‘You mean your make-up bag, don’t you?’
She purses her lips and doesn’t answer.
Chapter 63
Serious walkers are always looking for their next challenge. They start with the gentle slopes of the South Downs, then go for the trickier crags of Snowdon in North Wales. For the ambitious, it’s then onto the Alps and, you never know, eventually they might end up taking on Everest.
But I’m discovering today they they need not bother with any of this.
Instead, there is an item at any outdoor enthusiast’s disposal which could turn a very average, unchallenging walk into a positively perilous adventure. Something which could make tackling an otherwise simple piece of terrain a seemingly impossible, nay insurmountable, challenge.
What am I going on about? Valentina’s bloody shoes, are what.
I can imagine no footwear less suited to a walk around the rocky shoreline of the island than her three-inch strappy mules. It has now taken us forty-five minutes to cover the sort of distance the average toddler could do in five. This is partly because every time Valentina gets one of her heels stuck between a crag, she makes the sort of squealing noise Penelope Pitstop might emit while having her legs waxed. Then, she falls dramatically to the ground like a nineteenth-century maiden as Edmund rushes to her rescue.
I’m about to suggest to Jack that we leave Valentina and Edmund behind so we can actually make some progress, when suddenly, she steps in before me.
‘Evieee! Jaaack!’ she shouts from behind us. ‘We can step up a pace now, if you like. I’ve decided a change of footwear probably was in order, after all.’
Valentina now has her Nikes on and is jogging along the shoreline with a Baywatch-esque pout. I can’t help smirking as she and Edmund overtake us. Valentina couldn’t be looking more smug at the moment if Jude Law were waiting at home for her with a winning lottery ticket between his teeth.
By the time we finally catch up with the others, they are all on the beach having a rest. My mum and Bob are both sitting with their legs crossed as he shells eggs into a blue bandana and she offers round her flask of dandelion-leaf tea, apparently surprised that there have so far been no takers.
Grace and Patrick are next to them and I’m relieved to see that Grace’s beauty routine this morning appears to have been about as cursory as mine was. Charlotte and Jim are also here and, again, are looking very comfortable indeed in each other’s company.
Georgia and Pete are holding hands and looking thoroughly loved-up, and as we arrive, the topic of conversation is whether she is going to take his surname or not.
‘The thing is, when you’ve got a maiden name like Pickle, the opportunity to have another surname doesn’t seem like such a dilemma,’ Georgia is telling us. ‘I thought about it for all of three seconds.’
‘Yes,’ says my mum, ‘but as a principle, there are lots of good reasons for women not to take their husband’s name–not least because of what it meant historically. It’s a hangover from the days when a husband was considered to own his wife.’
‘I bet life was simpler then,’ says Pete, before Georgia clouts him over the head with her rucksack.
‘But isn’t it just much more romantic?’ whispers Valentina, flashing a smile at Edmund.
Bob joins in now.
‘Oh, but Valentina, there’s nothing romantic about servitude,’ he says softly, although as he sits in his crocheted tank top with bits of boiled egg stuck in his beard, I can’t help thinking that the prospect of him ever reducing my mother to servitude seems pretty remote.
‘Given that women are well and truly emancipated these days, surely it doesn’t hold those negative connotations any more?’ says Patrick. ‘That’s what I tried to tell my missus, anyway.’
All of a sudden, Charlotte pipes up.
‘If I ever got married, I would take my husband’s name,’ she says. ‘I don’t know about historical connotations or anything else, but I do know that if you really love someone, well…why wouldn’t you?’
Grace, Valentina and I all look slightly taken aback. Because for those of us who know Charlotte, this has got to count as something of a seminal moment. Charlotte has always hated talking in big groups, and by big, I mean anything more than two people. And yet here she is, actually contributing to a debate. Okay, it may have only been one statement, but this is so far removed from what we’re used to, it feels like she’s one step away from being a panellist on Question Time.
‘Well, I admit it,’ says Grace, holding her hands up. ‘I’m with the keeping your own surname camp. It’s taken a lot of blood and sweat to build up my name professionally–so why would I want to throw that away now?’
‘Hmm,’ says Patrick under his breath. ‘And that’s so much more important than being married.’
Grace looks as shocked at this statement as the rest of us who caught it. But the ensuing silence is broken as Jim stands up and brushes down his combat pants.
‘Well, everyone,’ he says, ‘shall we head back? I’m aware we’ve all got a flight to catch pretty soon.’
He offers Charlotte a hand, while everyone else starts gathering up their belongings, and we’re soon heading back towards the hotel.
I don’t know whether it’s on purpose or not, but Jack and I somehow drop back from the group and are soon out of earshot of the others.
‘I’d love to get together some time,’ he says. ‘You know, just you and me–no wedding or anything.’
‘What, you mean you might actually be interested in me when I’m not in a bridesmaid dress? And here’s me thinking you were a satin fetishist.’
He laughs.
‘I’d love to get together too,’ I add.
He smiles. ‘Great. Good. Well, we’ll swap numbers and go out some time.’
‘That’d be nice,’ I say. ‘Some time.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You free tomorrow?’
Chapter 64
Our speedboat cuts through the waves and leaves a soft spray on our faces. From Valentina’s yelping, however, you’d think she was in a canoe during a gale force nine storm. Suddenly the boat bounces off a wave, and we are all thrown upwards slightly.
‘Oh!’ cries Valentina, and somehow dramatically lands in Edmund’s arms, despite the fact that everyone else has been flung in the opposite direction.
I can’t help feeling disappointed when the boat arrives at St Mary’s harbour. It’s not just because the time to leave this gorgeous place is almost upon us, but Jack and I are catching different flights. And it’s time to say goodbye. Okay, he’s going to phone me later to arrange to get together tomorrow, but leaving these islands somehow feels like the end of a holiday romance–admittedly without the tan or huge bar bill–and I just hope things will feel the same back home.
‘I’m just going to nip into the shop and buy a paper before I go,’ I tell Jack and he waits outside.
The queue at the counter is annoyingly long, not helped by the fact that some poor teenage oaf at the front is attempting to buy some condoms.
‘Just the plain ones, is it?’ asks the shopkeeper, who must be in his seventies and is wearing a T-shirt commemorating Status Quo’s 1996 UK tour.
‘Hmm, yeah,’ says his poor customer, looking at his shoes.
‘I think them ribbed ones are on special offer. They’re two for one,’ the man says.
‘Er, okay, whatever,’ says the lad, fiddling with his key chain.
‘We’ve also just got some of these new flavoured ones in, if they take your fancy. Melon,’ he reads, shaking his head. ‘The things they co
me up with these days.’
The teenager is now the colour of a very ripe cranberry. ‘The others’ll do,’ he says, clearly desperate for this torture to end.
‘Quite right, lad,’ the man agrees. ‘There’s sixteen johnnies in there between the two packets–and if that’s not a couple of quid well spent, I don’t know what is.’
At last, the queue moves forward, but as the shopkeeper launches into his views about whether a Cornish pasty really is a Cornish pasty if it’s made of puff pastry rather than short-crust, I look out of the window and do a double-take. Jack has now been joined by Beth–and she’s wearing a pair of denim hot pants smaller than the average bikini bottoms on a Rio beach.
He says something that makes her laugh, which she does with a flirtatious flick of her long dark hair. She leans forward and puts her hand on his arm, as they both continue laughing. She then twists her waist to remove a piece of paper from the back pocket of her shorts and appears to be consulting him about it. I may be wrong but I’m sure it’s the same piece of paper that had his phone number on it yesterday.
I am rooted to the spot, wondering what the hell to do. But with the queue almost grinding to a halt, I decide there’s only one thing for it. I abandon my paper and make my way outside, trying to look as casual as possible. The thing is, there’s no way I’m going to say anything, but I still want to get over there to see what this conversation is all about. More importantly, I want to see what sort of guy Jack really is.
But when I’m still a few feet away, my mum grabs me by the arm.
‘Evie,’ she says. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get going or we’ll miss our flight.’
I look over to Jack and Beth.
‘So it’s okay if I phone you next week?’ she asks him, flashing a set of teeth so white she’s like a walking Colgate advert.
‘Er, sure,’ says Jack, who has spotted me looking at them.
As Beth walks away, I can’t help noticing that half of the people in the harbour have their eyes glued to her perfect backside, most of which is peeking out of the bottom of her shorts. I walk over to Jack and pick up my suitcase.
‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ he says.
‘Er, well–good,’ I say, not sure how to handle this.
‘Is something the matter?’ he asks.
Yes.
‘No.’
‘Well, you still on for doing something tomorrow?’ he asks.
Maybe there’s been some misunderstanding with Beth. Maybe I didn’t hear it right. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I’m a complete bloody idiot. Maybe not.
Oh God.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Give me a ring later, by all means.’
Suitably nonchalant, but not closing any doors completely. It’s the only way to play it. He leans over to kiss me and I find myself turning my head slightly so his kiss lands on my cheek.
‘See you,’ he says.
‘Bye,’ I reply. And I walk away in the full knowledge that, sadly, there isn’t a single soul looking at my arse.
Chapter 65
‘Well, what do you think? Am I being taken for a ride or what?’ I say, taking a gulp of water and putting the bottle on the ground next to me.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ says Grace.
We are sitting outside on the grass waiting for our plane to arrive.
St Mary’s hasn’t so much got an airport as a field with a terminal the size of a doctor’s waiting room. The others–those who are due to catch the first flight with us–are inside drinking tea and eating scones and clotted cream. For some reason, I’ve lost my appetite.
‘Well, you’re not being much help, I must say,’ I tell Grace.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘you were the one who was there. Did he act like he was two-timing you?’
I think for a second. ‘No. No, he didn’t,’ I say firmly.
‘Well then,’ she says, by way of a conclusion.
‘At least, he didn’t until I saw him telling another woman to phone him. Oh God!’
‘Look,’ she says again, ‘just wait until he rings you later today–that’s what he said, didn’t he? Then, when you go out with him, if you still feel the need, just ask him straight.’
‘You don’t think I haven’t got any right to ask him about this sort of thing?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like he’s my boyfriend. We just, you know, kissed.’
She shrugs.
‘If he’s worth his salt he won’t mind you asking,’ she says. ‘As long as you ask in the right way. You know, like you’re not really bothered but just…interested.’
I nod. ‘Gotcha. Have you ever thought of becoming an agony aunt?’
Chapter 66
My flat, Sunday, 8 April
I wonder if there is something wrong with my phone?
When Jack said he would call me, I just assumed it would be earlier than this. It’s now 9.30 p.m. and no matter how hard I try to convince myself to be relaxed about things, I currently couldn’t feel less relaxed if I were about to take part in a Mastermind final.
I switch on the TV and catch the tail end of a piece about some Brits being taken hostage somewhere in the third world–a story that will undoubtedly dominate the papers tomorrow. I decide to put How Clean Is Your House? on again. It’s been playing back to back all evening on some cable channel as I’ve nearly worn a hole in my laminate flooring from pacing up and down.
I pick up my mobile and scroll down to his name on the phone book. Maybe I should phone him.
Or maybe not. No.
Or maybe yes.
No. Definitely not. Far too Fatal Attraction.
I put the phone down and decide I need to do something to occupy myself. I settle on cleaning out my food cupboard, which bears an alarming resemblance to that of a family of fifteen from Hackney who have just been told by presenters Kim and Aggie that they have an estimated 42 billion dust-mites living in their carpet.
My flat isn’t particularly messy or dirty, it’s just averagely disorganised. And while I’m happy to hoover and dust once in a while, I have to admit that until today, the food cupboard hasn’t really been on my radar.
I pull out a previously unopened bottle from under the sink, calling itself a ‘power spray’, which I can’t help thinking sounds like something you’d find at a nuclear processing plant and not just something designed to remove old bits of tomato sauce from the hob.
When I open the cupboard door, I am confronted by an array of foodstuffs that ought to have been condemned a long time ago. A packet of Bird’s custard powder that has split in the middle. White wine vinegar that is now less white than urine-coloured. Loose Earl Grey tea which has never been opened and that I could only possibly have acquired by mistake instead of bags.
This is the cupboard that time forgot. No wonder Jack doesn’t want to phone me. Who’d want to go out with someone who has such a sluttish attitude to household cleanliness? Depressed by this thought, I go to have another look at my mobile again, just in case it accidentally went into silent mode without me knowing. Sadly, my phone screen refuses to humour me. I go to the contacts book, scroll down to Grace’s mobile and press call.
‘What’s up?’ she asks, when she answers.
‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘Can you just phone my mobile?’
‘Why?’ she asks.
‘Er, because I’ve lost it and think it might be under a cushion or something.’
‘But you’re phoning me from it now,’ she says. ‘Your number’s just come up.’
‘Ah,’ I say, realising I’ve been well and truly rumbled. ‘Look, Jack’s still not phoned, and I want to dismiss even the tiniest possibility that there’s something wrong with my phone before I go away and slit my wrists.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ she says. ‘I’ll do it now. And calm down, for God’s sake.’
I put the phone down and wait. And wait. And I keep waiting until at least a minute goes by
. This is starting to look promising. I look at my clock and decide I will time it. If three minutes pass without Grace phoning, there really must be something wrong with my phone.
They feel like a long three minutes but, sure enough, the clock ticks by and eventually they pass. I feel ridiculously jubilant. There is something wrong with my phone, after all! Which means Jack hasn’t gone off me. In fact, he probably still likes me very much indeed. My mind starts spinning with the thought of him frantically trying to get hold of me to tell me he’s booked a table at a romantic restaurant or that he’s cooking a candlelit dinner round at his place. Who am I kidding? I’d be happy if he were planning a date at a sewage works.
Oh joy! Oh Jack! You still like me. You still want to go out with me. You still want to walk along beaches with me and hold my hand. You still want to let me look into those deep brown eyes. You still…
The phone rings. I look at the display to see that Grace’s number has come up and I answer it.
‘Shit,’ I say despondently.
‘Charming,’ she replies.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, sorry it took me a while to phone back. I was busy having a domestic.’
‘Is that husband of yours playing up?’ I ask.
‘Don’t get me started,’ she says.
‘Is everything all right?’ I am thinking back to Patrick’s barbed comments in the Scillies when he accused Grace of caring about work more than her marriage.
‘Hmm, listen, I’ve got to run, Evie,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry about Jack. He’ll phone.’
Chapter 67
My flat, Monday, 9 April, 6.30 p.m.
He hasn’t phoned.
It’s now 6.30 p.m. on the day we were supposed to be going out together, and as far as I can tell, I have two choices. I can sit here moping all evening about the destitute life of spinsterhood I have in front of me. Or I can phone Jack and risk looking like the sort of woman who likes making bunny stew in her spare time.
Not very appealing either way.
Bridesmaids Page 17