The Other Woman

by Jane Green

  “Me neither.” I smiled, thinking how lovely it was to be this spoiled. “So, tell me about your day.”

  We talked, and laughed, and filled each other in on the events of the day, spoke about our future, shared our separate dreams of what our future together might hold, and were delighted to find we were in agreement: a house with a big garden, no more than two children, and perhaps at some point, if we made enough money, a second home in the country, or maybe even France. A dog would be good, we agreed, but nothing too big, not for London living. I wanted a West Highland terrier, but Dan said those were dogs for girls, and he’d have to have, at the very least, a small Labrador.

  Desserts came and went, and then creamy lattes, at which point Dan’s face suddenly became serious.

  “What’s the matter?” I watched as the color drained out of his face and he turned a paler shade of green. “Are you okay? Oh, God. Is it something you ate? What is it, Dan? Talk to me.”

  He cleared his throat and reached over the table for my hand, and I knew. I swear to God that as soon as I heard him clear his throat I knew what was coming, and I’m sure I stopped breathing for a few minutes, and when he started his rehearsed speech about how he had always wanted to get married but didn’t think he’d ever find the right girl, my heart was beating so loudly I could hardly hear him.

  Of course I said yes.

  5

  We took a taxi home, kissing and cuddling on the backseat as I held up my hand to examine the engagement ring. It felt so odd, wearing a ring on that finger, a ring so beautiful that I wanted to flash my hand at everyone we passed.

  Dan hadn’t done anything as obvious as stop at a jewelry shop and ask me which ring I liked, but he’d remembered one time when I was flicking through a magazine and had pointed out a ring that was absolutely stunning.

  “I can’t believe you remembered!” I kept saying, holding my hand in front of my face and watching the diamond flash in the sparkle of the street lamps. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Dan said, kissing my right ear, “and I thought that it wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t have the ring.”

  “You’re right. It probably wouldn’t have felt real. Oh, my God!” I squealed as I flung my arms around him. “We’re getting married!”

  As we walked into my flat the phone was ringing. I picked it up to hear Linda on the other end of the line.

  “Well?” she trilled happily as I looked suspiciously over at Dan.

  “Well?” I threw back at her.

  “Well, do I have another daughter in my family?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Linda. You do.”

  Linda shrieked and called Michael over to the phone.

  “Congratulations, Ellie,” Michael said warmly. “Wonderful news, and I know the two of you will be very happy together.”

  And then Linda was back on the phone. “I’m so excited!” she said. “I can’t wait to start planning the wedding. Oh, my goodness, when is the big day?”

  “I have no idea,” I laughed. “We haven’t even talked about it.” Even as I spoke I was thinking, what are you talking about, you’re planning the wedding? This is my wedding, and I’m thirty-three years old, and the marketing director of Calden. If I can’t plan my own wedding, then what the hell would be the point?

  “What about winter?” Linda said. “I know it’s only seven months or so until December, but I adore winter weddings. So smart! You could have beautiful wine-red roses for the flowers, and we’d have more than enough time to get everything done.”

  “Dan and I will have to talk about it,” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll be the first to know when we come up with a date.” I didn’t bother saying thanks for your offer of help but I’m sure we’ll be fine, although I made a mental note to say it at some point in the near future.

  “Oh, I know, I know, it’s none of my business; it’s just that I’ve waited so many years to make a wedding for Emma, and obviously I haven’t been able to, and now I can do this for you.”

  “I know.” I suppressed a pang of guilt—she was only trying to be nice after all, and really, shouldn’t I be more grateful that she is this excited? “I understand completely. Dan’s right here, talk to him,” and I handed the phone over to Dan and hovered until he said goodbye.

  “Dan,” I said slowly when he put the phone down, “did your parents know you were going to propose?”

  He looked sheepish. “My dad didn’t but my mum was in on it.”

  “Oh.” I felt strange that I hadn’t been the first to know, almost as if Dan had put his mother first, as ridiculous as that sounds. I know that mothers and sons have special relationships, but I was the most important woman in his life now, and in telling his mother first he’d placed her back on top, and that bothered me. No matter how I looked at it, it bothered me, but I knew that if I said my thoughts out loud, Dan would think it ridiculous. It probably was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help feeling that my bubble had been somehow deflated.

  “I’m sorry,” Dan said, “I wanted to surprise everyone too, but I needed my mum’s jeweler to make the ring, so I had to tell her.”

  “Oh, okay. I understand, it was just weird, hearing the phone ring as soon as we walked in and then your mum obviously knowing.”

  Dan placed a solemn hand on his heart. “I swear that if we ever get engaged again, I promise I will tell no one else before you. How does that sound?”

  “Ridiculous,” but his words had the desired effect. I grinned and allowed myself to be swept up in a hug.

  “Good. Now let’s phone everyone else.”

  Dan phoned Richard first, then Emma, and then the boys. He passed the phone to me each time so that they could congratulate me, and then handed the phone over so I could phone my friends. Not that I really had people to phone. I’d become so used to work taking over my life, I never thought it strange that I didn’t seem to have friends outside of work. But, in the event, I called Sally, my closest friend from the office, and Fran, the PR for Calden, who I knew would be thrilled.

  I hesitated over phoning my father. We had only spoken twice over the last year, and both times had been awkward. He’d invited me to Potters Bar for lunch, but I’d been busy and there really didn’t seem to be much to say. Both times the conversation had dwindled down to “So what else is new?” and neither of us had anything else to talk about. But he is my father, and however awkward things may be between us now, from time to time I think back to my childhood, to how much I adored him, to how he was my knight in shining armor. When my mother was “ill,” as we used to call it, my father would always be there to look after me. He was the one who turned up to watch our gawky, amateur plays in junior school. He was the one who came in to see my teachers whenever there was a problem, and when I was ill he was the one who would spoon me medicine and soothe my brow. I try not to think of those times too much. The loss of my mother was bad enough, but when I think of the father I lost, the father I knew from my childhood, the pain becomes almost too much to bear. I can barely reconcile that father with the father I speak to occasionally today, and so I rarely do. I rarely think about the past, yet that is where our few conversations so often go, because a shared history, after all, is the only thing we now have in common.

  I took the coward’s way out. I did phone, but not until the next morning, when I knew he’d be at work, and Mary would be ferrying the kids to school. I left a message on his answering machine and said I hoped I’d see him soon, and that he could call me at work, where I could screen my calls or tell an assistant I was in a meeting.

  Still. I did the right thing.

  Everyone makes a huge fuss of me at work. Women I hardly know fuss and coo over my engagement ring, everyone wants to hear how he did it, was it on bended knee (no), and when would we actually tie the knot.

  At lunchtime Fran and Sally insist on buying me champagne, although, as we all joke, it will be on expenses.

  “Just think,” Sally says,
looking around the bar, “this is where you first met.”

  “I know.” Fran grins. “That means there’s hope for you yet.”

  Sally is the quintessential serial dater, whereas Fran has been married to Marcus for five years. They have two children, Annabel and Sadie; live in a house in Notting Hill that is the envy of all her friends; and Fran has a reputation as one of the hottest PRs in town.

  She’s also terrifying—at least when you first meet her. Frighteningly trendy, sporting the latest designer clothes; at our first meeting, when she was supposed to be pitching for our business, I felt like the little match girl in comparison. But the more I get to know her, the more I like her. In truth, she isn’t a woman’s woman, but when she decides she likes you, she’ll do anything for you. She teases me regularly about my lack of social life, my church-mouse tendencies, as she calls them, and even though I don’t see her often outside work—her “real life” seems to revolve primarily around her children—I love our frequent lunches and drinks.

  Sally, who usually accompanies us on the aforementioned lunches and drinks, has spent many hours asking Fran whether she can find her a man like Marcus, and Fran has on occasion fixed her up, but it never works out. Sally is still waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet. She believes that unless she hears violins playing at the moment that he kisses her, then he is not her soul mate. She has the most spectacular, wonderful, romantic romances, but as soon as she realizes her latest man is in fact human after all, the bubble bursts and she decides it cannot possibly be True Love.

  “Still,” Sally says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you met the man you’re going to marry here.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I start to laugh. “You’re the one who’s always saying that this is your dream job precisely because the most gorgeous men in London are right here, on your doorstep.”

  “Well, I know that,” Sally says, “and gorgeous they most definitely are.” We all pause and look around the room, noting the significant number of beautiful people scattered around the Calden bar. “But marrying material? I think not.”

  “You think wrong,” Fran says, ordering another bottle of champagne. “I think what you’re trying to say is that the men you choose aren’t the marrying kind. Clearly, it’s not where you pick ’em, it’s the men that you pick.”

  “I think I do a pretty good job,” Sally sniffs. “What about Alex? Both of you thought he was lovely.”

  “He was,” I agreed. “You were the one who said you couldn’t stand his constant stream of jokes. Frankly, I thought he was a bloody good catch. And, let’s face it, he adored you.”

  “She’s right,” Fran says, nodding. “Alex was great.”

  “That’s just because you didn’t have to listen to him snorting with laughter all the time. God, he drove me mad.”

  “They all drive you mad,” Fran says. “You’ve got to lower your expectations or you’ll end up as a mad old spinster.”

  “But you didn’t lower yours,” Sally says. “And neither did you, did you, Ellie?”

  “Okay, perhaps I didn’t lower my expectations,” Fran says, “but there are things about Marcus that drive me mad, that have always driven me mad, but I wouldn’t walk out on him as a result.”

  Sally and I are instantly intrigued. “Things like what?” asks Sally.

  “Okay.” Fran orders skim lattes all round. “Things like he poos with the bathroom door open, and expects me to come in and chat to him while he’s doing it.”

  “Ugh,” Sally and I chorus in unison. Sally has never reached the stage in a relationship where she could ever envisage such a thing, and I’m still being vaguely prudish about bathroom habits.

  “Exactly. You’re right. As I keep saying to Marcus, it’s not clever and it’s not funny, and sometimes it drives me insane, but I love him so I have to accept it.”

  “You would definitely dump someone over that,” I say, looking at Sally pointedly.

  “Bloody right,” she says in horror. “Dumping in public deserves to be dumped. So what else does he do?” She leans forward with an evil grin. I do the same.

  Fran sighs. “Sally, you’re pathetic, do you know that?”

  “How else am I supposed to learn what I should and shouldn’t put up with unless an old married woman like you tells me?”

  “Okay. He farts in bed.”

  “Silent and violent?” I offer.

  “Not even. Loud and revolting. I swear to God, my husband’s bottom is the deadliest weapon this country possesses.”

  Sally starts shaking her head. “Sorry, but I don’t think you should have to put up with that. That’s disgusting.”

  “Well, I know you wouldn’t put up with it,” Fran laughs. “That’s part of your problem. Marcus isn’t Superman; he’s human. He does disgusting things just like everyone else, and marriage isn’t the romantic happy ending you seem to think it is.”

  Sally turns to me. “Are you sure you want to get married? Just think, Dan seems like the perfect man now, but a few months down the road and he’ll be picking his nose and scraping it on the pillows.”

  “But he does that already,” I say innocently, as Sally widens her eyes in horror. “God, Sally.” I smack her arm playfully. “You are so bloody gullible. Anyway, I agree with Fran. You do get rid of them the minute they do something you don’t like.”

  “Just because you’ve both ended up with smelly dirty men doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “True.” Fran shrugs. “You could always become a lesbian.”

  “I could, but it would be a shame to let so many men go to waste.”

  Fran turns to me. “So, newly engaged Ellie with that ever-so-sparkly rock on your finger. How does it feel to be engaged, and what kind of a wedding do you think you’re going to have?”

  I laugh. “Give me a chance; I’ve been engaged less than twelve hours. Ask me again next week and I should have a better idea. As for what kind of wedding, my future mother-in-law has already said her preference is a winter wedding—”

  “No!” Sally interjects, looking horrified. “Tell her it’s none of her business.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I say with a smile. “Anyway she’s really nice, and I actually think we’re going to be good friends.”

  And Fran laughs so hard she sprays latte all over the table. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes, then reaches over to pat my hand. “You’re just such an innocent sometimes.”

  “Why? Because I actually like my future mother-in-law?”

  “Everyone likes her future mother-in-law,” Fran states firmly. “The hatred only sets in once you become married.”

  “But you don’t hate your mother-in-law,” Sally says. “I thought you got on really well.”

  “I don’t hate her now, but I would say we tolerate one another at best. Frankly, it’s much easier when we don’t have much to do with one another.”

  “But why?” I’m truly confused. “I’ve never understood the whole mother-in-law thing. Why does there have to be animosity? Why can’t you get on?”

  “Why is the sky blue?” Fran shrugs. “Why is grass green? Some things just are.”

  I shake my head. “I know that you don’t get on with yours, but it’s different for me.”

  Fran raises an eyebrow.

  “No, really, it is. Remember I don’t have a mother. I haven’t had a mother since I was thirteen. I’ve dreamed of marrying into a family exactly like this for almost twenty years. And you know what, Linda is lovely, and she’s welcomed me into her family. I can’t imagine ever having a problem with her.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you that she felt the need to express that she has a preference for your wedding?” Fran pushes.

  “I think she was just trying to help. And to be honest I wouldn’t mind a winter wedding myself.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Sally says. “Spring weddings are just so done. Winter weddings can be lovely, so smart. Log fires, rich reds and purples, candleligh
t.” She disappears off into a reverie.

  “I take it you’re going to be using Sally,” Fran laughs, knowing that Sally excels in her role as events organizer at Calden, and has already put together two of the most spectacular celebrity weddings of the year.

  Sally snaps out of her dream. “I’d love to do your wedding,” she says eagerly. “I haven’t done a friend’s wedding in ages. And we’d have so much fun.”

  “No crystal thrones and white doves, then?” I warn, referring to the last wedding she did that was featured in every newspaper in the country, not least because of its huge cost and lack of taste.

  “How many times do I have to tell you those thrones weren’t my idea?” she says. “I kept telling them it was a bit over the top, but ultimately they were paying my bill.”

  “Let me talk to Dan about it,” I say. “We’ve only been engaged a minute and I feel overwhelmed already. But thank you for offering. I appreciate it hugely and I know you’d do a wonderful job. I’ll let you know; is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Sally says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push, and I know how overwhelming it is. So,” she says, leaning forward eagerly, “do you know what kind of a dress you’re going to have?”

  “How’s your day at work?” Dan says when he rings me later that afternoon.

  “I’m completely champagned out,” I laugh, already battling a headache from drinking far too much in the middle of the day. “Yours?”

  “I’m beered out,” he says. “Taken out for celebratory drinks at lunchtime.”

  “Does that mean we can have an early night tonight?”

  “Absolutely. My parents said they wanted to pop in quickly just to congratulate us in person, but other than that I think takeout, TV, and bed.”

  “Great minds think alike. Now I know why I agreed to marry you.”

  “Dan!” Linda flings her arms around him as Michael smiles at me warmly and gives me an awkward hug. “Congratulations,” he says into my ear before pulling away. “I couldn’t be more delighted for you.”