Amanda's Wedding (18 page)

‘How are you feeling?' I asked tenderly.

‘Like I've been run over by the Death Star.'

‘Oh, sweetheart. Can I get you anything?'

‘No milk, please,' he said. Then he half smiled. ‘Were we awful?'

‘You were naughty, and your friend was evil.'

He laughed, and then winced.

‘We didn't mean anything. We just went to the rugby and had a few pints …'

‘And then chaos happened. Amazing that, isn't it?'

He forced a slow grin. ‘How awful?'

‘You didn't do anything you didn't pay for.'

‘I could have had him, you know.'

‘Course you could, sweetheart.'

‘If I met him again, I'd take him …' He reached out for me sleepily, and I let myself be grabbed.

‘I'm the most tolerant girlfriend in the world, you know.'

‘I know,' he said, asleep. ‘I know.'

I was absolutely desperate for somebody to talk to at work, but the prospects weren't good. Only Cockney Boy, whose name was, inevitably, Steve, bothered to ask me how the stag went.

‘It was great,' I said. ‘Turned out the stripper was gay and I copped off with her.'

‘Yeah?' he grunted, his eyes wide as saucers.

‘No.'

‘Lezzie cow! Probably couldn't cop off with anyone,' he muttered under his breath.

‘Not true, actually. Normally I let the boys watch. But only the ones I like … so, tough luck!'

He grimaced at me and went back to his work, which as far as I could tell was mostly colouring in.

‘How are you doing, Janie?' I asked her, using
the soft, invalid voice I reserved for the troubled of heart.

‘Well,' she said bravely, ‘he had a ticket for the rugby on Saturday, but came to Ikea instead.'

‘See? He loves you. Anyway, I was at this party on Saturday night, right …'

‘But then he didn't want to go to the Homes and Houses Exhibition at Earls Court …' She started to sniffle a bit. ‘And he didn't come round until the end of
Football Focus
! When it was too late to go!'

I stared at her. ‘Are you bonkers? You can't take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition after two months. You can't ever take him to the Homes and Houses Exhibition. Jesus! You're going to have to stop reading the bloody
Daily Mail
. Anyway, there was this bloke at the party who I thought quite liked me, right, but he went off with my best mate. And I can't fancy him anyway, because my boyfriend is terrific and I'm completely in love with him. But he's – the first boy, not my boyfriend – trying to sabotage his brother's wedding and he wants me to help him. Apart from which, he's really nice. But, obviously, I'm in love with my boyfriend. But I'm really pissed off that the first bloke slept with my mate. Almost like I was jealous – if I got jealous, which, really, I don't. So, what do you think I should do?'

She stared at me, mouth open.

‘Apart from take them both to the Homes and Houses Exhibition and see which one can find the hardest-wearing carpet?'

Unbelievably, she had tears welling up again.

‘I only wanted to look at cushions. Cushions aren't too committed, are they?'

Arrgh! This was it. I was going to have to phone the Samaritans and ask them. Although, knowing my luck, they'd only give me lip or be completely distracted. I put on my martyred expression and turned towards Janie in a saintly fashion.

‘Ookaay. So, first of all, why wouldn't you let him go to the rugby? He's a boy. Boys need rugby. Believe me, I know.'

She blinked at me. ‘Do you let your boyfriend go?'

‘Sure!'

‘And it's OK?'

I reflected on this for a bit. I didn't want to say:
Well, apart from the beating and being insulting to strippers and throwing up on yourself and sleeping rough …

‘Sure!' I said. God, if he would only hurry up and leave her, so I could talk about my problems for a change.

‘You know what you should do, dolls,' said Cockney Boy, who had somehow been managing to colour in and listen to our conversation at the same time. ‘You should both learn to play rugby, yeah? Then you birds can run around the pitch yourself, getting all covered in mud and stuff. That way everyone will be happy – the blokes can watch the rugby, and you'd be, roight, playin' …'

We both turned and stared at him.

‘You spent an awful long time alone in your bedroom as a teenager, didn't you?' I asked him.

‘No,' he pouted. ‘No, I didn't.'

‘Day after day, just staring at the wall, picking your spots and listening to your Phil Collins albums.'

‘Oh, shut up.'

‘Dreaming of the day Linda Lusardi comes past and accidentally breaks down in front of your little Cockney house.'

He held up his arms and walked off. ‘I don't have to listen to this.'

‘Oh, Steve, Steve, thank you for fixing my car … what can I, Linda Lusardi, possibly do for you in return?'

He turned at the door and flicked me a V-sign. But he was smiling a little bit. I hoped.

I had three messages. One was from Fran, wanting to know what to wear to Amanda's hen night. If she thought she was going to that, she had another think coming. In fact, neither was I, given that I liked both my eyes the way they were, thank you.

The second was Alex, who had ‘just called to say good morning, pumpkin.' He'd been terribly soppy since Saturday. Which was a good thing, clearly, although slightly unusual. Previously, in fact, unheard of. He sounded practically wimpy!

The third one started oddly. There was a long pause, and it kind of went ‘urrr'. Then a throat was cleared noisily, and then apologized for. I realized who it was.

‘Angus,' I said into the phone, even though it was only a message. ‘Don't worry. It's only me. Yes, I do think you're a plonker, but that's OK. I don't mind.'

‘Erm, hullo there, ehm, this is Angus. Umm, Angus McConnald.'

Ah,
that
Angus.

‘So, really, Ah just wondered how you were going after Saturday night, and, ehmm, whether you wanted to go to lunch or something to talk about, you know … just for a chat … I won't talk about the wedding or anything …' There was a pause on the answerphone. ‘Well, maybe a bit about the wedding … They can't … Oh God. Well, anyway … give me a ring on 555 2127. Sorry, 0171 555 2127. Poncey sodding English codes. Right. Sorry. OK. Bye.'

He wasn't going to let this alone, I could tell. Neither would Fran. I kind of wished they'd leave me out of it, but I hated being left out of things. Also, something in me wanted to see him again. I didn't phone him back right away, but I wrote his number in my address book in ink.

‘We've been invited,' went on Fran, ‘so, you know, we turn up and do something. The Hensterminators.'

‘That's not even funny.'

‘Maybe we could get that stripper to turn up at Quagli's.'

We'd met for a council of war. Or rather, Fran had come over to try and get me to do stuff, and Alex was at the flat anyway. I'd told Fran what Angus had said at the stag night, and she was excited at the potential for devilment, and more convinced than ever that we were in the service of the right by trying to bugger
things up, even a bit. I wasn't quite so sure. Alex was reading
The Sunday Times
and couldn't give a toss.

The phone rang. I picked it up, then put my hand over the receiver and popped my head round the living-room door.

‘It's Angus!' I hissed to Fran. Two phone calls in two days, I was thinking. I internally hugged myself with glee. I knew I was right. I'd thought maybe he had a little crush on me. Would have to be pretty little, though, for him to have copped off with Fran so quickly. I hated the nineties. A bit of courtly love would not have gone amiss. He should have worshipped me for about ten or fifteen years and then been happy with a mere flower, or something.

Fran shrugged.

‘Well,' I said, ‘shall I ask him to come over?'

‘Why on earth would I mind?'

‘I don't know … ehm, he's seen you from the inside?'

Alex looked up from the sports pages with his eyebrows raised, but then he'd known Fran for a while.

‘Honestly, it's not a big deal,' she said. ‘I'd like to see him. He's nice. And he can join in our plan.'

‘Hmm.' I wasn't sure how closely I wanted those two working together.

‘Hey!' I rejoined the phone call with an alacrity which betrayed exactly what I'd been doing.

‘Why don't you come over? We're only sitting about drinking wine and being small-minded about people we know.'

‘Aye, OK.'

I gave him the address, expecting him to take hours to find it and arrive cursing our poncey southern road system, but he made it in about half an hour, armed with a couple of helpful bottles of wine. Him and Alex smiled fixedly at each other and shook hands, whereupon Alex said, ‘I think I'll let you three get on with ripping everyone to shreds,' and returned to his paper.

‘Wooo,' said Fran, ‘Mr Perfect strikes again.'

‘OK, stop nipping at each other, you two.'

Fran shot him a final dirty look then joined us on cushions on the floor.

‘So!' said Angus through clenched teeth. He'd obviously been thinking about what to say.

‘This isn't at all embarrassing, is it?'

‘What isn't?' said Fran.

I kicked her on the ankle. ‘No, it's not,' I added. Fran smiled sweetly, leaving Angus looking uncomfortable.

‘How's Fraser?' I asked.

‘He's fine. Recovered. She's' – there was no mistaking the intonation: it sounded like how people used to talk about Margaret Thatcher – ‘making him choose dinner patterns. Then every time he chooses one she tells him it's wrong.'

‘I love that game,' I said.

Fran stretched herself out on the floor and turned to face the ceiling, arms behind her head.

‘Look, why don't you just tell him. Go up and say, “Fraser, don't marry her, she's a bitch. She's a skinny-rumped, dyed-haired bitch bitch bitch. She's
a complete and utter utter utter bitch. If she was a president, she'd be Bitchaham Lincoln.'”

‘What's your point?'

‘If she was a cowboy, she'd be Bitch Cassidy.'

‘Fran, that's a pretty subtle idea. But I think Angus might have already tried it, somehow.'

Angus half tilted his head.

‘Kind of. I didn't do the whole bitch song, though.'

‘Well, what happened?'

‘He looked at me like a mopey dog and said,' – sincere voice – ‘“Angus, you two just haven't hit it off. Believe me, she's sweet. It's going to be OK.'”

‘Argh!' said Fran. ‘I can't believe there's anything I hate more in the world than women men think are sweet but who are actually complete BITCHES!'

Alex rustled his paper and peered over the top of it. ‘Really? What about women who can't stop bitching and shouting all day?'

‘Oh yeah? What about men who run off to America and fuck their girlfriends about?'

I froze.

The way I heard Fran – and she always said everything on purpose – well, I suppose I'd assumed, guessed that Alex had been up to all sorts of things when he was away, but, well, I'd never known for sure, and I'd thought … I looked at him, already knowing that my eyes were full of tears, the kind that I tried to swallow until it hurt. Fran leaned over, suddenly worried about what she'd said.

‘Melanie …'

Alex threw down his paper and stormed off. I
thought he was just going to leave – forever, probably. My throat felt as if I was being strangled.

Obviously not quite knowing what to do, Alex stormed back in the room again and nodded for me to follow him, but I was paralysed.

‘Come on,' he said sharply. I stood up and walked out with him to the hall. He grabbed me and put his arms tightly around me, then tilted his forehead against mine, trying to regain his cool.

‘Your friend really, really hates me, doesn't she?'

‘Yes,' I said, biting my lower lip. I almost couldn't ask.

‘D-did you?' I quavered.

‘Mel, you know I had to discover myself. Try new things. So I could work out where I belonged. Here. With you.'

I dropped his very close gaze and stared fiercely at the ground.

‘America … it feels like a different life to me now. I did tons of things there I wouldn't do here. Daft, meaningless things. You've got to believe me, pumpkin.'

I wanted to, so much.