Girls on Tour

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘Sure, sounds great,’ I say, absently. If it’s meant to be … when you know, you know … These are things I believe, so why am I not acting on them?

  I keep thinking about Charlie and his proposal. Yes, it was impulsive and a bit ham-fisted – but it was sincere, and passionate, and generous: all the things I love about him. I don’t really think our age difference matters. Or how long we’ve been together. So why did I say no?

  ‘Ladies, are you ready for some desserts?’

  I’m so distracted, I pick a dessert at random from the menu, something I’ve never done in my life. And this is dessert at Gramercy Tavern!

  ‘I think I’ve made a mistake,’ I blurt out, once he’s gone.

  ‘Do you want me to call him back?’ asks Maggie. ‘Or you can share my caramel cheesecake if you like.’

  ‘Not with dessert. With Charlie. I do want to marry him! I just … I didn’t think it would happen this way.’

  ‘You mean, you had a romantic notion of how you’d get engaged and this isn’t living up to it?’ Rachel asks innocently. Damn, she’s good.

  ‘Maybe,’ I admit. ‘I certainly didn’t think it would happen online or feature garbled phone calls from my mum and us being on different continents.’

  ‘Come on, tell us your engagement fantasy.’

  I say instantly, ‘Moonlit gondola ride in Venice on our second anniversary. God! I’m such a cliché.’

  ‘Nice,’ says Rachel. ‘Mine is a skiing holiday – New Year’s Eve, champagne in front of the fire, ring hidden in a box of chocolates.’

  ‘I always thought I’d like to get engaged at the top of a mountain,’ Maggie muses. ‘Now I think it’s been done to death. Every second couple seems to get engaged on top of a mountain.’

  Lily’s looking at us all as if we’re insane.

  ‘Tell us more about the proposal, Poppy,’ Maggie says. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Well, he asked twice. The first was when he thought I was pregnant. He disappeared from the screen because he went down on one knee. And then he reappeared and said, “I love you, Poppy, will you marry me?”’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie has clasped her hands in front of her and Lily looks dreamy; even Rachel is blinking something back.

  ‘Yeah. Then the second was after I told him I wasn’t. And he said something like “Why don’t we do it anyway?” and waved the ring around again. Not really a story to tell your grandchildren.’

  ‘What was the ring like?’ Lily asks.

  ‘I couldn’t see very well. But it was a diamond solitaire, white gold. Very conventional. Not what I would have chosen at all.’ I shrug, feeling mean for criticising Charlie’s ring choice. ‘Oh, and he was wearing his best shirt.’

  This seems to be the final straw. They make a collective ‘Awwwww’ sound.

  ‘The ring doesn’t sound like you,’ says Lily. ‘But the rest of it sounds romantic!’

  ‘What kind of ring would you have liked?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Something with character. Vintage. Not a diamond, necessarily. Something like your one, actually,’ I tell Lily.

  ‘Have it,’ she says immediately, pulling it off her finger.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You don’t think I want it, do you? It’s always going to remind me of when I was a visa bride.’ She passes it to me. It’s gorgeous: shaped like a lightning bolt, made of small white and blue stones that Lily says are topazes and sapphires.

  ‘So Ryan was meant to have bought this in Dubai, was he?’ Maggie says, looking puzzled.

  ‘That didn’t hold water, did it? No, I bought it in a vintage store in LA. It’s art deco, or so they said.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ It fits perfectly, even though Lily is half my size. I turn my hand, watching it catch the light. I think I have an idea. Charlie may have botched his proposal – but I’ve still got a shot at mine.

  ‘Could I borrow it?’ I ask Lily.

  ‘Of course! I’m telling you, you can have it. It’s your other birthday present! Why do you want it?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll explain later. But I’m going back to the hotel to Skype Charlie – again. I’ll see you girls later at Le Bain. And wish me luck!’ I stand up, fishing dollars out of my purse. Rachel tells me not to worry about it.

  ‘It’s your birthday. Anyway,’ she says, when I protest, ‘we got out of buying this one a wedding present,’ indicating Lily. ‘Call this an engagement present.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that. Not yet,’ I say, suddenly nervous.

  ‘You could use my phone to Skype him,’ says Maggie. ‘They might have WiFi here.’

  I turn around. ‘Thanks, Mags. But weird as it sounds, I think it would be more romantic on a laptop.’

  In the cab on the way back to the Mercer, I’m buzzing with impatience. It’s after midnight in London; Charlie might have fallen asleep over his game of Minecraft. Or he might be out drowning his sorrows with his brother; he might not even want to talk to me. I call him on my mobile as soon as I get into the cab, but there’s no reply. I’ll have to try again from the hotel.

  The traffic’s terrible, so as soon as I recognise our surroundings, I pay the driver and get out of the cab. I rush back towards the Mercer through the springtime dusk, feeling exhilarated. I meant it when I told the girls that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Charlie. The rest of my life is starting sooner than I thought, that’s all.

  Back in my room, I fire up my laptop and wait for the connection. He’s not online, so I have to ring his landline. I get a grumpy reply and he agrees to Skype. As soon as he appears on the screen, my heart melts. He’s sitting up in bed wearing his comfort hoodie – the ancient extra-soft one he wears when he’s feeling blue and wants to curl up and be sorry for himself.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, brimming over with love. ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘No,’ he says gruffly. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh babe. How come?’ He shrugs, so I continue, ‘I’m sorry about earlier. You just caught me off guard a little.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says, sounding subdued. ‘Look, let’s drop the whole thing.’

  ‘Actually … let’s not.’ I hold out my hand, and uncurl it slowly to reveal Lily’s ring. Suddenly my heart is hammering, and I’m absurdly nervous. How do men do this? I clear my throat. ‘Charlie, I love you. Will you marry me?’

  He stares at the ring for a minute, before a smile breaks out across his face. ‘It’s a bit small for me, babe.’

  I laugh, and wave it at him. ‘No – it’s for me to wear. If that’s what you really want.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he says. ‘Don’t make me start singing the Spice Girls. I would love to.’

  Now we’re both grinning like idiots. He said yes!

  ‘This is the drawback of getting engaged over Skype,’ he says. ‘We can’t have engagement sex.’

  ‘You say the most romantic things,’ I reply. ‘We can when I get home. Gosh. When do you think we should tell people?’

  ‘We’ll get our PR people to put out a joint announcement. By the way, be honest: do you hate the ring I got you?’

  ‘I don’t hate it …’

  ‘It’s OK. I knew you’d prefer something more unusual, but I didn’t know where to start. So I ran to Oxford Street and got a holding ring. If you prefer that one you’ve got, then go for it. I want you to have whatever makes you happy.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ I look down at the lightning bolt ring. ‘I do love this one. You wouldn’t feel hurt if I wore it instead?’

  ‘Nah. I can give the other one to my next fiancée.’

  I stick out my tongue at him, wondering how it’s possible to love someone this much.

  After spinning out our goodbyes for another minute or so, we finally end the call. I flop back on to the luxurious bed and exhale in a sigh of perfect happiness. I love Charlie; he loves me; we’re getting married. I have everything I could possibly want.

  Except maybe some B
en and Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream ice cream. There’s some in the minibar freezer, and I never did get my dessert this evening. In fact, I’m very tempted to skip Le Bain and curl up here, watching films and vegging out. It’s been a physically and emotionally exhausting few days. I think my body is telling me it needs rest. And ice cream. The girls will understand.

  Turning on the TV, I find an old episode of Sex and the City. Perfect. I’m about to take off the Hawaiian dress and get into my PJs when I stop short. Wait a second. It’s nearly my birthday and I just got engaged! Why would I stay in a hotel room watching Sex and the City when I have the real thing outside my door?

  Half an hour later, I’m clattering across the cobblestones of the Meatpacking District on the way to Le Bain, dressed to kill (or at least lightly injure) in one of my favourite outfits: a black jumpsuit with a low-cut neck, sleeveless and backless. It’s an original number from the seventies, very fitted and slinky. Lots of black eyeliner, metallic heels and a fake snakeskin clutch round things off nicely, and I’m wearing my new jewelled comb in my hair.

  There’s a queue, but on the off chance, I ask if we’re on the guest list. We are! Reflecting that I would hire Lily if I could afford her, I go straight to the rooftop bar. The view is spectacular: the lights of Manhattan, and all along the East River to New Jersey. The crowd is a mixture of Eurotrashy-looking types, suburban kids on a big night out, and some very sleek and sophisticated people behind the velvet ropes to the side. And they’re playing disco music! Something tells me this is going to be an excellent night.

  ‘Poppy! You’re here!’ I turn around: the girls are standing at a little table the size of a tray, drinking champagne. I run over and hug them all.

  ‘You look fantastic!’ Maggie shouts over the music. ‘I love that jumpsuit!’

  ‘What happened?’ asks Rachel eagerly, handing me a champagne flute.

  ‘Well … we’re engaged!’ I hold out my left hand and they all exclaim over it, although they’ve obviously seen it before. ‘And Lily, I love the ring. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m really glad! I owe you, after everything I did. Just maybe don’t tell people exactly how you got it,’ says Lily.

  ‘No! I want the world to know that Charlie proposed over Skype and I said no, and then I proposed with my friend’s bogus engagement ring from her fake wedding. It’s romantic.’ Lily is looking freaked out, so I tell her I’m joking.

  ‘Congratulations to Poppy and Charlie,’ says Rachel, and we clink glasses. Maggie insists on taking a photo to capture the moment, and we all check and approve it. Then Maggie turns to Lily.

  ‘Tell Poppy your news!’ she says.

  ‘Oh my God, more news?’ I ask, alarmed. ‘What now?’

  ‘I checked my email while you were gone …’ Lily does a little twirl, and starts dancing around in a way that makes it clear she’s had a head start on the celebrating. ‘I’ve been offered a job by a wedding planner in LA and she’s happy to sponsor my visa!’

  ‘That’s amazing!’ I give her a huge hug. ‘Fantastic, darling, well done!’

  ‘And I spoke to Alice and she’s going to put me in touch with her lawyer. I’m going legit.’ She starts bopping to ‘Young Hearts Run Free’, one hand in the air.

  We all clink glasses and toast my birthday, our engagement and Lily’s new job.

  ‘What a weekend,’ says Rachel, looking at us all in wonder. ‘What a year! Fabulous trips, new jobs, not one but two weddings … I can’t believe I thought I was the one with the scoop, with Oliver wanting to move in with me.’

  ‘I can’t believe I thought Leo getting together with Jenny was news. That was just, like, a tweet,’ says Maggie.

  ‘A tweet or a twit?’ asks Lily.

  ‘Both,’ says Maggie and we all giggle.

  ‘Hey, where’s your bloke?’ I ask her. ‘Did he make it?’

  ‘He’s over there,’ she says demurely. ‘I said I’d come and chat to him later, once I’d had a drink with my friends.’

  I take a discreet look over my shoulder, and I know immediately which guy it is without her even telling me. He’s tall and sporty-looking and handsome – not as handsome as Charlie, obviously, but still. And I instantly know that this is going to become a thing. I don’t know why – maybe it’s Maggie’s air of confidence, or the fact that this John guy can’t stop looking at her. But I know. If Leo was a tweet, this man is a whole novel.

  Lily obviously agrees. ‘I have a good feeling about this, Mags,’ she says. ‘And do you know why? Because we got rid of your Hundred Years of Solitude book.’

  ‘Don’t start on that. I’m still annoyed, you know,’ Maggie says.

  ‘No you’re not! Think about it. That book represented your past. You needed to let it go and move on.’ Lily does another twirl and head wave to the Jackson Five.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Maggie says. ‘It was a good book, but it wasn’t for me. I need to move on and meet the right book.’

  We all clink glasses again, and this time we toast our engagement, Lily’s new job and to meeting the right book.

  ‘So are you going to move in with Oliver?’ Maggie asks Rachel.

  She nods. ‘I think so. Not yet, though. I’m going to suggest September. What about you, Poppy? When’s the wedding?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I am going to wear something fabulous.’ I grin as it hits me all over again: Charlie and I are getting married. ‘And you’ll all have to come!’

  ‘Please let me help organise it! Oh my God. Do you know what this means?’ Lily says. ‘Hen paaaartaaaaaaaaaay!’

  ‘Oh wow, Lil, my ears,’ says Maggie, giggling.

  ‘She’s right!’ says Rachel. ‘Poppy, this is officially your hen party. Your New York hen, anyway. We’ll have one in London too, with penis straws and strippers and everything. And your mum can be guest of honour for getting the ball rolling.’

  ‘Of course she can come, but can we keep that part quiet, please?’ I’m already planning the official version of our engagement story, and it does not feature my mum, Facebook or my menopause.

  At that moment, the music changes to ‘Love Train’, which is possibly my favourite song ever. It’s so crowded now that we have to fight our way on to the dance floor, and as we do, pieces of metallic confetti start falling on us. I don’t know where it’s coming from because we’re in the open air, but it’s flying around, covering everyone with silver scraps. I notice one girl picking it out of her glass. ‘This is a LAW SUIT waiting to happen,’ she tells her friend.

  Lily’s taking a different view. ‘Glitter!’ she says, jumping up and trying to catch the confetti as it falls. ‘This is the best night ever!’

  ‘And we’re just getting started,’ says Maggie, twirling around in a very slinky way that I’m sure isn’t lost on John.

  ‘Exactly,’ Rachel yells over the music. ‘It only gets better from here.’

  And we all start dancing, whirling around and generally having a fantastic time. I feel like I could dance all night, and maybe I will. All three of the girls are totally right. This is the best night ever, and we’re just getting started: it only gets better from here.

  POPPY

  If you’d asked me how I thought I would spend the evening before my wedding, I probably would have imagined having a calming aromatherapy massage, or sitting around with my female relatives and friends, laughing over herbal tea as we painted each other’s toenails. Instead, I’m on my knees in my mum’s living room in Brighton, holding a glue gun and trying to follow an online tutorial to create thirty mini burlap bows.

  I really have been laid-back about everything – guest list (all my friends in return for all Charlie’s random relatives), food (jerk chicken and rice and peas made by local caterers according to my grandma’s secret recipe), venue (my mum’s friend’s garden), even my dress – but I did want the flowers to look nice. I set my heart on having huge masses of summer wild flowers overflowing from jam jars on every table. But they’re already wilting and
frankly look like bunches of weeds. I secretly wanted to go back to the flower market for more this morning, but Maggie and Lily and my mum were looking tired and I didn’t want to be a bridezilla.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ says a voice behind me. It’s Mum, already in her pyjamas though it’s only nine o’clock. She’s also wearing her favourite home-made honey face mask. I thought I was the one meant to be having an early night and a face mask?

  ‘Nothing!’ I say quickly. ‘I just thought the flower arrangements looked a bit sad, so I found this tutorial online to decorate the containers …’

  ‘Poppy. Put. Down. The glue gun.’ Mum marches into the room, taking in the scene: the blue glow of my laptop, the glue gun and the piles of burlap and twine I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. Whoever said DIY arrangements were cheaper was talking nonsense: I could have bought Kew Gardens with the amount I’ve spent on these doo-dahs.

  ‘Now leave those flowers alone. They are absolutely fine. Honestly, Poppy, I thought you were a sensible girl. How on earth are you going to manage married life if you lose your head over a few weeds?’

  ‘So you do think they look like weeds!’

  ‘They do a bit, but nobody will notice them anyway, I promise you. The only people who notice flowers at a wedding are the people who are planning their own weddings. And sometimes not even them. Now come on, love, pull yourself together. Pass me all that string, I’ll use it on my runner beans.’

  Feeling indignant, but also secretly relieved that I don’t have to make thirty hand-tied burlap bows, I hand her the twine.

  ‘Really,’ Mum says, folding it up neatly, ‘your generation are so bourgeois. We never had any of this fuss. Down the registry office, pub afterwards …’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I interrupt her. ‘You wore Doc Martens with your wedding dress and had your honeymoon in a caravan in Wales. While I’m wearing a vintage dress and going on honeymoon to Italy. I’m such a capitalist swine.’

  Mum’s expression softens. ‘No you’re not. You’re a good girl, Poppy.’ In one of her typical switches from lecturing to sentimentality, her eyes start to tear up. ‘I’m proud of you. And I just want you to enjoy tomorrow and not fret over silly things. It will go by so fast!’ And she gives me a big hug. Now I’m starting to tear up as well. We’re as bad as each other.