by Jane Green
“I watch you all the time on TV,” he says. “I never realized you were a friend of Libby.”
“Yes. Do you like the show?” Her face lights up, happy at being given the opportunity to talk about herself.
Jules rolls her eyes at me as I suppress a giggle, but I watch Amanda very carefully, and although she’s obviously delighted at having found a fan, I can’t hear a glimmer of flirtation in her voice, or a flicker of interest. I look up to catch Jules watching me watching her, and Jules raises an eyebrow as I shrug and turn to Ed, who’s got his hand on my knee.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, pursing up for a kiss. I kiss him and nod.
“Are you?”
He smiles. “Of course,” and looks round the table. “Who would like some more champagne?”
“Yes, please,” says Sal, proffering her glass. “I’ll never say no to a bit of fizz.”
Ed refills her glass, then says, “Do you know Amanda?”
“We haven’t met,” says Sal, as Amanda looks up at the mention of her name. “Hello. I’m Sally Cross.”
“How do you do,” says Amanda, a distracted look on her face. “Sally Cross. That’s a familiar name. Have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so,” says Sal.
“What do you do? Are you in TV?”
Sal explains her job, and Amanda’s voice immediately warms up. A journalist! Another potential hit to get a feature written about herself! They start talking shop, and after a few minutes Amanda stops in mid-flow and taps Nick on the shoulder, “Sorry, but could we swap places for a bit, it’s just that it’s so rude talking across you.”
Nick shrugs and stands up, and Amanda pushes past him to sit in his recently vacated seat, as she carries on talking about her career as a presenter.
“How’s the book going?” Olly shouts over to Nick.
Nick taps the side of his nose mysteriously. “All sorts of things going on, but can’t talk about them.
“Yet,” he adds.
Olly laughs. “You mean that we’re actually going to be able to read it soon?”
“Time will tell,” says Nick, in his Mystic Meg voice.
“You’re an author?” Ed, for the first time this evening, is showing an interest in Nick.
“Aspiring,” Nick says with a smile.
“You’re not published, then?”
“Not yet. But things are looking hopeful.”
“What sort of a book have you written?”
“Oh, it was political but I wasn’t getting anywhere so now I’m trying a thriller, cloak-and-dagger type stuff.”
“So if you’re not published you must do other work.”
“Nope. The only other work I do is walk to the dole office and back.”
“Oh ha ha! Very funny.” Ed’s laughing, and Nick looks at him peculiarly.
“Yes, well, I’m glad you think it’s funny. Unfortunately, it’s not a joke.”
“Oh gosh!” Ed colors a deep red. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought, I assumed you were joking.”
“I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”
“I’ve never met anyone on the dole before,” says Ed, digging himself deeper and deeper as far as I’m concerned. Nick catches my eye, and I can’t help it, I shrug and raise my eyes to the ceiling.
“Well, there are plenty of us about,” Nick says, as I decide to step in and help the conversation change course.
“Come on, Nick, tell us what your book’s about.”
“You wouldn’t be interested,” he says.
“Yes, yes! We would.” Jules joins in with me, and for the next ten minutes Nick holds center stage as he details the plot for us, while I sit there absolutely staggered, because it is brilliant! Seriously, it is one of the most original ideas I’ve heard for ages, and I wish I’d listened to him before. I can’t believe that no one’s already done it.
“That sounds fantastic!” says Olly, who by now is also listening in. “You shouldn’t have any trouble getting that published.”
“I agree,” says Paul. “I’d buy it.”
“I hope you will,” laughs Nick, who’s puffed up with pride at the positive reaction to his story. “I expect all of you to contribute to my royalty payments.”
Amanda and Sal have finished their shop talk, and Amanda taps Ed on the shoulder. “Binky Donnell says hello,” she says, smiling, “and congratulations.”
“Binky Donnell!” exclaims Ed, his eyes lighting up. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How is the old rascal?”
Nick nudges me and mouths, “Rascal?” I kick him under the table, but I can see that even Jules has a smirk on her face.
“He’s lovely,” she says. “I had dinner with Binky and Bunny last week.”
Nick nudges me again and this time I can’t help myself, I start giggling, and I honestly can’t believe I’m going to marry someone who has friends called Binky and Bunny.
“I can’t believe you’re going to marry someone who has friends called Binky and Bunny,” Nick mutters, when he’s finally recovered.
“Oh I see,” I say, “and Moose is so much better?”
“At least Moose is cool,” Nick says, mock indignantly. “Binky and Bunny don’t exactly have much street cred.”
“How do you know? For all you know Binky drives a vintage Harley, and Bunny’s a blond bombshell rock chick.”
“With long floppy ears?”
“Quite possibly,” I snort, and we both collapse with laughter again, completely unnoticed by Ed and Amanda, who are now shrieking with delight at having so many people in common. More power to them, as far as I’m concerned.
Even Jules shoots me an odd look, and I just shrug, more than happy that Ed’s found something in common with at least one of my friends, even if Amanda isn’t exactly a friend.
Olly and Carolyn are chatting away to Sal and Paul, and as far as I can tell the evening’s a success. Everyone’s had a chance to meet Ed, they all seem to be getting on, and okay, so not everyone’s really had a chance to talk to Ed, but then that’s always the problem with large groups of people at dinner, isn’t it? Olly, for example, has barely exchanged words with Ed, but at least they’ve met, and it’s a starting point. On the other hand, maybe they should have a bit more of a chat.
When the coffee arrives I get up and go to see Olly at the other end of the table.
“Why don’t you talk to Ed a bit? Get to know him?”
Olly sighs. “Libby, I’m not sure what I’d have to say to him.”
“Olly! That’s not very nice. This is the man I’m marrying. You could make an effort. How do you know you wouldn’t have anything to say to him?”
“Okay, you’re right. But I’ve heard him across the table and . . .” He pauses.
“And what?”
“Nothing.” He sighs. “Anyway. He’s deep in conversation with your friend Amanda. I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Okay,” I say warily. “Maybe you and Carolyn will come over for dinner with us?”
“Maybe,” he says distractedly. “Look, let’s talk about this tomorrow, shall we?”
“God, Oll. Anyone would think you’d taken an instant dislike to him.”
“Libby, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“So what did you think?” We’re driving back home, and much as I hate to admit it I’m actually far more worried about what my friends thought of Ed, but I won’t be able to get the lowdown until tomorrow morning, so in the meantime I want to know if Ed liked them, if he approved, if he can see them fitting into our lives.
“It was a great success.” He smiles indulgently at me.
“No, I meant what did you think of my friends?”
And it suddenly occurs to me that this is an important conversation. That before now I would quite happily have sacrificed my friends for a man, but that I would never dream of doing that now, and that Ed’s opinion matters far more than I ever dreamed. And not because I want him to like them, but that
whatever he says will be a reflection of who he is, and that if he doesn’t get it right, if he fails to approve, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to see him in the same light again.
“Oh, they were great fun,” he says finally. “Especially Amanda. I definitely approve of Amanda.”
“It’s not about approval, Ed,” I say slowly. “It’s about liking the people whom I love. And Amanda isn’t exactly a friend, more of a work colleague, and the only reason you liked her was because you both know so many of the same people, and that’s probably because Amanda’s such a bloody networker.”
“Libby! That’s not nice.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But it’s true. Anyway, what did you think of Olly?”
“I didn’t really talk to him,” Ed says truthfully, “so we’ll have to have him over for dinner, I think. Soon.”
“Yup, okay. But he’s nice, isn’t he? Is he what you expected?”
“I didn’t expect anything, and he seems awfully nice.”
“What about Sal and Paul? Did you like them?”
“Well,” he pauses. “I’m not sure I’m that happy about you being friends with tabloid journalists.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Well, yes. I wouldn’t mind if they were on the FT, but their paper’s such rubbish. I don’t think they’re, well, suitable really.”
I can feel an argument coming on.
“What do you mean, suitable?”
“Darling, I’m not sure I trust them, that’s all.”
“But you don’t even bloody know them.”
“Don’t swear at me, Libby.”
“Sorry. But they’re two of the nicest people I know. I can’t believe you’re judging them by their jobs. And their paper isn’t exactly sleazy, plus they don’t do news, they don’t doorstep people or anything like that.”
“Still,” he says, looking quickly at me. “Oh, maybe you’re right. I’m just being a judgmental old fuddy-duddy, but I do have to say I was very surprised that you are friendly with someone like that Nick fellow. How on earth do you know him?”
“Nick. Not that Nick fellow.” My voice is becoming more and more strained. “I know him through Sal. Why?”
“Ah.” He nods. “That makes sense.”
How dare he. How dare he. How dare he.
“What. Makes. Sense?” The words, if Ed bothered to listen, are dangerously slow coming out of my mouth.
“He’s terribly scruffy. So unkempt. Not the sort of person I’d have thought you’d associate with at all.”
“But you hardly said two words to him.”
“But, Libby, please. Look at the chap, what does he think he looks like? Those shabby clothes, and as for that business about being on the dole . . . I think it’s best if you don’t see him again.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this. I can’t believe you’re sitting here”—incidentally, I’m now spluttering with rage—“I can’t believe you’re trashing my friends. And most of all, I cannot believe how incredibly superficial you’re being. You have judged all my friends either by their appearance or by their jobs, and I would have thought that you are old enough to know better. Evidently unlike you”—this last bit said through gritted teeth—“I choose my friends because of who they are, and not because of how much money they have or which bloody public school they went to.”
I run out of steam then and sit there shaking with anger, and we don’t say a word to each other the whole way back.
There have been times, in the past, when I’ve introduced boyfriends to friends and my friends haven’t liked them, and I’ve been furious with those friends, furious with them for not seeing what I see, for having the temerity to tell me the truth, and yes, I’ve fallen out with people over it. But this time I can’t see a grain of truth in what Ed is saying. I cannot see that my friends are bad people because they don’t have as much money as he would like, because they do not dress in immaculate designer clothing, because they do not socialize with Binky and Bunny fucking Donnell.
And as we get out of the car outside Ed’s house, I wonder whether I’m being too hard. Whether perhaps Nick’s clothes are a bit shabby, whether Sal and Paul are perhaps not altogether my cup of tea, whether it would be a huge hardship for me to cut them out of my life, and the truth is that I really don’t know. I don’t know whether to compromise on this and try to forget about it and accept that they are not the sort of people the wife of Ed McMann should be socializing with. I just don’t know what to think anymore.
We get undressed in stony silence, and, after I have climbed into bed and turned my back to Ed, he says he’s sorry.
I ignore him.
He touches my shoulder and I shrug off his hand, and he says, again, that he’s sorry.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “And you’re right. I was wrong. I’ve been far too judgmental. Libby, my darling, I really am sorry.”
And I turn to him and there are tears in his eyes, and I can see that he is sorry, so when he starts stroking my leg I accept his apology, but I don’t feel anything. Completely numb. And when he thinks he’s done enough foreplay and is ready to enter me, I still don’t feel anything. And then he’s inside me, pounding away on top of me, and this time I don’t think about walking down the aisle, I just lie there with a strange pain in my chest, and this pain moves higher and higher, and suddenly I’m crying.
Huge, great heaving sobs. Like a child. And I push Ed off and run into the bathroom, locking the door, and look at myself in the mirror for a long time.
I have never felt so lonely in my life.
Despite myself, as soon as I get to the office the next morning I pick up the phone and ring Sal.
“Well? What did you think?”
“He’s lovely!” exclaims Sal, and I start to relax.
“Really? You liked him?”
“He’s very charming. Of course. You two look good together.”
“God, Sal. I am so pleased to hear that.”
“Why? Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“No.” Yes. “It’s just that it’s important to me what my friends think.”
“Did he like us, then?”
“Yes! He thought you were lovely!” And as I say it I recognize the insincerity. My voice has exactly the same inflection as Sally’s.
“I’m ringing up to thank you for last night.” Why do I suddenly feel that Nick is playing a larger and larger role in my life? I mean, it’s over. Finished. I’m getting married to someone else, yet suddenly I seem to be speaking to Nick, or seeing him, far more often than ever before.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was lovely to see you,” he says warmly. “Especially looking so glowing and happy.”
“Am I?” I’m surprised. I never dreamed Ed had that effect on me.
“Very much so,” he laughs. “You’re really going through with this?”
What does that mean? “We haven’t set the date yet,” I say. “And it doesn’t really feel real at the moment.”
“I suppose you’re waiting until you’ve got that rock on your finger for it all to sink in,” he says in a strange tone, which can only mean one thing. He’s jealous. But then it hits me, what he’s just said. The ring.
Oh God. The ring. The diamond that will make it all true. The diamond that will mean there’s no going back. Because suddenly I’m not so sure, and suddenly I remember Jules’s words: that this isn’t about falling in love with love, or wanting to get married for the sake of being married, or getting excited about walking down the aisle, or living in Hanover Terrace, or any of those things. This is about spending the rest of my life with Ed, and as I think that I remember last night, and how I felt looking in the mirror, and I feel an icy dagger of fear splinter my heart.
No. I’m not going to think about this. I wrap the dagger in a fantasy of ivory lace, and surround it with images of my vast designer wardrobe, and start to feel slightly better.
“Just how big do you
think the rock should be?”
“At least five carats, Libby.” Nick sounds exasperated but jokey, like he used to. “And that’s just the one in the middle. It will basically have to be so big, no one will be able to look at your finger without wearing sunglasses.”
I chuckle. “That sounds like the one for me.”
“So you’re really going to do it?” he says, sounding suddenly serious.
“ ’Course!” I say indignantly. “I don’t go around getting engaged to every man I meet.”
“You’re telling me,” he laughs.
I want to ask Nick what he thought of Ed, but I have a horrible feeling that Nick will tell the truth, which is why he hasn’t volunteered the information himself, and I don’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned my doubts are just pre-wedding nerves, but even so I don’t want anyone else to corroborate them.
It isn’t as if I shouldn’t be nervous. Surely every bride feels this way? Aren’t there people who become completely terrified the night before the wedding, who, despite being madly in love, suddenly doubt that they’re doing the right thing? That’s all that these feelings are, I realize with relief. It is perfectly natural for me to be doubting this. Everything’s going to be fine.
Jo runs in and tells me Sean Moore’s here for the meeting, so I say goodbye to Nick and spend the rest of the morning talking to Sean Moore, his agent and Joe Cooper about his publicity campaign. I do well. I think they’re all happy with the work I’ve been doing, and when we’re finished there’s a message from Jules.
I don’t call her back. Not yet. I go out for lunch with Jo and try to forget about everything, because right at this moment I feel that it’s all getting a bit much for me. So we go to the Italian café and order milky cappuccinos, and tuna salad on toasted baps, and we sit there and gossip about everyone at work, and by the time I step back into the office at half past two I feel human again.
So when Jules calls again midafternoon I’m in a good mood, and I’m totally unprepared for what she’s about to say.