Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

“Where’s Ed?” My mother’s bright smile is disappearing as she stands on the doorstep looking over my shoulder.

  “He had to work. Sorry,” I say, pushing past her into the house, which isn’t strictly true—I couldn’t face another Ed and my family scenario.

  “Jesus, Mum. What’s all this?”

  The dining table has been laid with my mother’s best china that only ever seems to see the light of day once a year, and, peering through the clingfilm that covers the dishes, I can see my mother’s completely gone to town.

  “Obviously it’s a waste of time,” she says, reaching down and tightening the Saran Wrap covering a plate of finger sandwiches in the center of the table. “I thought Ed would be with you and I didn’t want him to think we didn’t know how to provide a nice tea.”

  “Mum, tea is tea, with maybe a cake or some scones or something. This is enough to feed an army. What have you got here?” I pull back some more clingfilm to find piles of tiny Danish pastries, and more to reveal a huge chocolate cake. Thank God Ed isn’t here. Thank God he can’t see my mother in all her suburban glory.

  “Oh well,” I say, taking a pastry. “I’m starving.”

  My mother sighs. “I was so looking forward to seeing Ed again. I thought we could all celebrate together.”

  The doorbell rings and I look up. “Who’s that?”

  “What am I going to tell Elaine and Phil?” she says, walking to the door as I sink into the sofa in disbelief. My mother’s invited her bloody bridge partners, presumably to show off her new wealthy son-in-law-to-be.

  “Hello, Libby,” says Elaine, walking over at the same time as looking round the room. “Congratulations. Where’s the lucky man?”

  “Working,” I say ungraciously, as she leans down to kiss my cheek.

  “That’s a pity,” booms Phil, walking into the living room. “We were looking forward to meeting the famous Ed McMann. Well-done, girl. You’ve struck lucky there.”

  I force a pained smile on to my face as I nod.

  “Where’s Alan?” says Phil. “In the garden?”

  My mother raises her eyes to the ceiling and nods. “With his rosebushes, as usual,” and Elaine gives a thinkling laugh.

  “At least your Alan does the gardening,” says Elaine. “My Phil wouldn’t know what a rosebush looks like.”

  “Thank you, Elaine,” says Phil. “And who does all the DIY, then, I’d like to know?”

  “I know, dear. You are wonderful with a drill, I’ll give you that.”

  Phil’s chest puffs out like a pigeon. “I’ll go and see if Alan needs a hand,” he says as he leaves the room.

  And the doorbell rings again. I look at my mother with raised eyebrows, as she goes to answer it.

  “Diane! Ken!” I hear her exclaim, and then I have to strain my ears to hear her voice, which drops down to what my mother thinks is a whisper. “Ed’s not here. I’m so sorry, he had to work. You know how it is, being such a successful financier. Never mind.” And her voice goes back to its normal booming self. “We’ve got a lovely tea.”

  “Libby!” says Ken, as if he’s surprised to see me there. “Ay ay.” He nudges me and winks. “What’s all this about being a millionaire’s wife, then?”

  “Ken,” warns Diane. “Leave the poor girl alone. She’s probably fed up with all these people going on about it.” I give her a grateful smile.

  “We’ve heard all about him.” She then, unbelievably, continues, taking off her tweed Country Casuals jacket, “Jean told us all about the house. He sounds wonderful. Aren’t you a lucky girl?”

  Why do I feel like a six-year-old around my parents’ friends?

  My mother comes over to me and prods me with her elbow.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “I’m a very lucky girl.”

  “Lovely bag,” Diane then twitters, as she turns and sees my beloved Gucci, which is dumped next to the sofa. “That’s not yours, Jean, is it?”

  “No. It’s Libby’s,” says my mum, who turns to me. “Looks expensive?” Said as a question.

  “Yes. It’s very expensive. Ed bought it for me.”

  “Not one of those Pucci ones, is it?” Diane says, walking over and—can you believe this—actually opening my bag to look at the label. “Oh!” she giggles. “I meant Gucci.”

  “Ed bought you a Gucci bag?” Now my mother’s seriously impressed. I nod. “That Tara whatsername’s got one of those.”

  “Tara?” Diane stands racking her brains for a neighbor/ member of the bridge club called Tara.

  “You know, Diane, that girl in all the papers. Tara Thompson-Parker.”

  “It’s Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, actually,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “That’s the one,” Elaine says brightly from the dining table, where she’s looking at all the goodies. “Goodness, Jean, look at this spread. You must have worked so hard.”

  “It was nothing,” says my mum proudly. “No trouble.”

  “Oooh, look at that cake.” Elaine removes some tinfoil for a peek. “Did you do that yourself?”

  “Of course. I’d never serve a store-bought cake,” says my mother. “You know how much I love baking.”

  Christ. I wish Olly were here. My mother on her own is bad enough, but with her ridiculous, twittering friends it’s just a total nightmare.

  “You’ll have to start cooking for your fiancé now,” Elaine says, smiling at me, while my mother snorts merrily away. “What?” says Elaine, looking at my mother. “She’ll have to get used to entertaining all his friends.”

  “Unfortunately for Libby, she didn’t inherit my cooking skills,” says my mother, who then proceeds to describe the food the other night, in great detail, while Elaine and Diane tut-tut and give me disbelieving looks and I want to kill them. All of them. And in my mother’s case I’d make it particularly tortuous.

  “I hear there are some wonderful cooking courses around,” Diane says innocently, when they’ve finished laughing at me. “Maybe you should try that Pru Leith school. They’re meant to be very good.”

  Oh please shut up. All of you.

  “Maybe,” I find myself saying.

  “What a pity your Ed isn’t here,” Elaine says, after the awkward silence that followed. “We were so looking forward to meeting him.”

  “I know,” I say, and then, I can’t help it, it just comes out in a massively sarcastic tone: “He would have loved you.”

  My mother looks at me in horror. “Libby!”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, and I am, I honestly didn’t mean to say that. “I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did.”

  Elaine does a perfect impersonation of my mother’s sniff, while Diane pats my knee and smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You must be under a lot of pressure, marrying someone like Ed.”

  “Mum,” I mumble. “Mum, can I use the phone?”

  “Go on,” she sighs. “Take it upstairs.” And I think even she is grateful to see the back of me for a few minutes.

  “Jules. This is hell. I am going through living hell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my bloody parents with their bloody friends, who are all taking the piss out of my cooking.”

  “Do you have to stay?”

  I sigh. “For about an hour. Listen, what do you think about an engagement party?”

  “Hmm. What about an engagement dinner?”

  “What, instead of a party?”

  “Well, you can always have a party later, but, seeing as Ed doesn’t have that many friends, why don’t you have a small dinner somewhere and introduce him to everyone? Otherwise you’re going to have to go out with everyone separately, and this way you can get all the introductions out of the way.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. So have like an introductory dinner, and then have the party?”

  “Yup, because it will be a bit weird to have the party when no one’s met him.”

  “When should I do it?”

  “Sooner the better.”

>   “Should I just ring everyone and see when they’re free?”

  “Yeah. We could do next week if you want. Any night except Tuesday.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Fine. Who else will you ask?”

  “Sally and Paul. Olly and Carolyn.”

  “He’s still with her, then?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Oh good. I really liked her. Who else?”

  “Well, how many do you think? Should it be everyone or just the inner circle?”

  “Just the inner circle, I think. What about Nick?”

  Is that really a good idea? “Do you think he’ll come?”

  “Yes. Plus you’re always saying you’re still friends.”

  “But then I need a woman for him. I know! Jo from work! They’d get on.” Actually, I’m not sure that they would, which is why I’ll ask her. Jo, like me, would never demean herself by going out with someone with no money whatsoever.

  “Okay. Then you can ask those friends of Ed,” says Jules. “What were their names?”

  “Charlie and Sarah. Hmm. Don’t know. Maybe not. They were really nice but they’re quite a bit older, I’m not sure they’d fit in.”

  “Fine. Well have one dinner for your friends and another for Ed’s.” And then she stops and sighs.

  “What’s the matter, Jules?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that it’s going to be so weird celebrating this without Jamie. You know, being with all these people I know and being on my own.”

  “You could ask him,” I say hesitantly.

  “No way,” she says firmly. “I’m not going to let him turn up and pretend to everyone that everything’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.” She attempts a laugh. “But I’m still not going to ask him.”

  “Libby!” My mum’s standing at the bottom of the stairs shouting for me.

  “Shit, gotta go. The dragon’s screaming.”

  “Call me later.”

  “Yup.”

  “So when will you have the engagement party?” Elaine’s got a smudge of egg mayonnaise on her chin, and I’m quite enjoying the fact that no one’s noticed, or if they have, they haven’t bothered to say anything.

  “We haven’t really discussed it and by the way you seem to have left half your sandwich on your chin.”

  Her eyes widen as she hurriedly wipes her chin with a paper napkin.

  “Sorry,” I say cheerfully, enjoying her embarrassment, “but I always think you should tell people things like that.”

  “Yes. Er. Thank you.”

  “So what sort of party will it be?” says Diane loudly, over the sound of the football, which Phil insisted on turning on, so Phil, Ken and my dad are huddled by the TV while “the girls”—as Phil called us—are on the sofa on the other side of the room.

  “I don’t know, but I think we’ll probably have it at home.”

  “Hanover Terrace,” my mum adds smugly.

  “I know, dear,” says Diane. “You already told me.”

  “I just can’t believe my daughter’s going to be living in Hanover Terrace,” she says, almost crying with the sheer joy of it. “It’s not a house, it’s a mansion.”

  “I hope he’s got good security.” Elaine obviously feels left out. “Those sorts of houses are forever getting burgled.”

  “There wouldn’t be anything to take,” jokes my mother, “the house is practically empty.”

  “So you’ll be redecorating, then?” says Elaine, as I nod. “How exciting. I noticed they had some lovely sofas in John Lewis the other day.”

  “Libby won’t be buying anything in John Lewis,” says my mother, as I look at her, wondering what on earth she’s on about. “She’ll be doing her shopping at Harrods, thank you very much.”

  Diane and Elaine look impressed.

  “Actually,” I say, “I think Harrods is a bit old-fashioned for me. I’m planning on going to the Conran Shop.”

  “The Conran Shop?” say Diane and Elaine in unison.

  “You can’t buy those modern newfangled things in the Conran Shop!” explains my mother. “They might look nice but I’ll tell you this, Libby, they’re not comfortable.”

  “And when was the last time you went to the Conran Shop?” I offer.

  “Two days ago,” shouts my father. It’s halftime. “She decided she ought to learn a bit more about how the other half live.”

  Elaine and Diane giggle politely, while my mother pretends to smile at the same time as shooting daggers at my father.

  “We just happened to be passing,” she says, “so we thought we’d have a look and see what all the fuss was about.”

  “Passing?” I say, an evil smile on my lips. “Was that before or after lunch at Daphne’s?”

  She gives me a stony look.

  “I think I’ll just use the phone again.” I stand up and make a move to go upstairs, and as my mother’s about to protest, I add: “I’m calling Ed. Is that okay?”

  “Oh yes,” she simpers. “Of course. Do give him our love.”

  “Right.” I walk on up to their room and sit on their bed to make the call.

  “Hello, sweetieloveydarling!” Ed exclaims. “I miss you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working, but I’ve nearly finished. Are you coming over later?”

  “I’ll leave here in a minute, then I’ll come.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “A pain. As usual.”

  “Libby! Don’t say that about them. They’re your parents.”

  “Sorry,” I grumble. “It’s just that they’ve got their friends round, and it’s all a bit much for me. What are we doing tonight?” I’m hoping that we’ll be going out somewhere swish, because I haven’t worn my new designer outfit for nothing.

  “Sundays are always a bit difficult. I thought maybe we could go to the cinema? Or perhaps we could rent a video and watch it at home.”

  “Oh. I thought we were going out for dinner.”

  “Not on a Sunday, I think. Is that all right? Do you want to go out? I could always book somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m happy staying in.”

  “I’ll make sure everything’s magnifique,” he booms. “What would you like to eat? I’ll go shopping now before you get here.”

  “I don’t mind, Ed. Anything. I’m pretty full after tea here.”

  “Smoked salmon? Scrambled eggs? Pasta?”

  “Anything, Ed. Really. I don’t mind.”

  “All right, my darling. I can’t wait to see you and I love you very very much.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “I love you too.”

  I walk back into the living room and everyone turns to look at me.

  “Well?” says my mother.

  “Well what?” I positively sneer.

  “Well what did he have to say?”

  “Oh. He said he was really sorry he couldn’t be here, and he was particularly sorry he missed the finger sandwiches and he can’t wait to see you soon.”

  My mother sighs and turns, smiling, to Elaine and Diane. “I can’t tell you how lovely it is to have such a charming son-in-law.”

  “He’s not your son-in-law yet,” I mutter.

  “Speaking of which,” my mother says, grabbing the opportunity, “when are you thinking of actually setting a date?”

  “We haven’t talked about it, but don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I always think summer weddings are lovely,” says Elaine.

  “I’ll bear it in mind. I’m sorry, everyone, but I must go. Ed’s waiting for me.”

  I walk round the room and perfunctorily kiss all the guests goodbye, and my mother sees me to the door.

  “You could have been a bit nicer to our guests,” she hisses on the doorstep.

  “You could have made it a bit less obvious that you’d invited them round to show off your daughter
’s boyfriend.”

  “Not boyfriend. Fiancé”, she says. “And anyway. I didn’t invite them round to show Ed off to them. I owed them, and I completely forgot you and Ed were supposed to be coming round.”

  “Which is why they were all so upset when he wasn’t here.”

  My mother folds her arms and looks at me. “Honestly, Libby. Most girls would be over the moon to be engaged to Ed McMann, but you just seem to be in a permanent bad mood. I can’t think what’s the matter with you. Anyone would think you didn’t want to be engaged to one of the most eligible men in the country.”

  “What are you wearing?” I’ve just disengaged from one of Ed’s smothering hugs, and I look down to see these worn-out shabby old carpet slippers that are exactly like the worn-out shabby old carpet slippers my grandfather used to wear.

  “My slippers,” he says in a bemused tone. “They’re my favorite slippers. Don’t you like them?”

  “Ed! They’re old-man slippers. They’re awful!”

  Once again he gets that sad puppy-dog expression on his face, and this time it just irritates the fuck out of me.

  “Ed, sometimes I think you’re a sixty-year-old trapped in a younger man’s body.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s only that sometimes you seem so middle-aged.” Shit, I think I’ve pushed this one a bit too far. “I’m sorry,” I say, putting my arms around him and kissing him, which, thank God, removes the expression. “It’s just that you aren’t old and sometimes you behave a bit like an old fuddy-duddy.”

  “I’ll throw them away,” he says, kicking off the offensive slippers and carrying them to the dustbin. “There!” He closes the lid of the bin. “All gone. Happy now?”

  “Yes,” I snort, although it’s not just about the slippers, and I do genuinely worry that Ed lives in another world. That he doesn’t really have a clue what’s going on, that I really am forcing myself to be compatible with someone who’s too damn straight for me.

  Would you listen to me?

  “I’m in a bit of a bad mood. I’m sorry, darling. My parents seem to have that effect on me.”

  “I don’t like Libby when she’s grumpy,” he says, sitting next to me on the sofa and pursing his lips for a kiss. I dutifully kiss him and he grins at me. “I like Libby when she’s happy.”

  “I’ll try to be happy,” I say, and smile.