Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (32 page)

‘And we'll have to get the Hoover out of the utility room and give the bedroom carpet a quick going over,' I add, a bit panicky. ‘You know what she's like. She'll notice the footprints.'

‘We have a utility room?' says Jamie.

‘Yeah. Downstairs. You know, where we keep all the Christmas decorations.'

Ten minutes later, I'm kitted out, with a stuffed, packed suitcase, all filched from Rachel's bottomless wardrobe.

‘Fabulous,' says Jamie, ‘great look. This says to the parents, “Hello, I'm Amelia, I'm perfect daughter-in-law material.” '

‘And it also says, “I may be a city chick, but I can adapt to the life of a country girl, no problem,” ' says Caroline.

‘Promise me I don't look like Sarah Ferguson?' I ask, gazing at myself uncertainly in the mirror.

‘NO!' they both chime. ‘Definitely not!'

‘You're every inch a Sloane Ranger,' says Jamie. ‘Wait till you see; you'll fit in beautifully. I'd be surprised if you don't come back engaged.'

The phone on the hall table rings and I almost jump out of my skin.

‘If that's my student loan officer, I'm not in,' says Jamie, going into the bathroom and banging the door behind him.

But it's Tim. To say he's on his way.

OK, here comes the panic …

Colossal social faux pas number one:

First of all I have to say that Tim is sensational and I'm madly in love with him. Yes, he's much posher than me, but I just love and adore all his west-Brit quirky ways: his cut-glass accent; the fact that he has all his clothes specially made by a tailor in London (I've tried to introduce him to the wonderful, and much cheaper, world of discount shopping but to no avail); the way he has a preferred brand of single malt whisky; and the fact that he's a member of a gentlemen's club in Dublin. And he's only twenty-seven.

Now, Jamie says the club is men only so they can have strippers in, but I've actually been there on ladies night a few times, and as far as I can see, it's just full of old men on Zimmer frames and, somehow, it always smells of cabbage.

Anyway, I love Tim and on the long, wintry drive up to Monaghan, all I can think of is how vitally important this weekend is for us as a couple. I don't
mean to exaggerate, but my entire future happiness depends on the next seventy-two hours.

And my behaviour around his family.

And the fantastic impression I'm determined to make.

Mrs Singen-Underwood. Doesn't that sound fab? Mrs Amelia Singen-Underwood … The Singen-Underwoods are at home …

‘Are you hungry?'

‘Sorry, Tim, what did you say?'

‘You'd drifted off on me there for a moment, old girl. Just wondered if you fancied a spot of nose-bag?'

‘Oh … yeah … great, that'd be lovely.'

That's the other thing about Tim. He likes his food. I mean, really likes his food. He's a big guy, and has to eat breakfast (a fry-up, usually), lunch (three courses), afternoon tea and that's all before his main meal of the day at night (another three and sometimes four courses). Not including snacks. When we first got together, all of six months ago, I couldn't quite get my head around the sheer amount of food he'd get through. He'd eat a colossal breakfast and then an hour later would wonder what our plans were for lunch. I've given up saying, ‘But you just ate!' Anyway, as Caroline wisely says, I can't expect a grown man to survive on bags of lettuce from Marks and Spencer's, as I would normally do.

So we stop off at a roadside café and Tim orders lunch. No light snacks for my Tim here, he goes for the full works: soup and a baguette, chicken in a basket, chips, mushy peas and a side order of jacket potatoes, swimming in sour cream.

Now, I haven't eaten a thing all morning (I'm too uptight) and really just want a coffee, but Tim insists on my having something. I know he hates it when I just chase a piece of cheese around a plate and he's always telling me that I could do with putting a bit of meat on me, so I go for the chicken too. It's a bit pink in the middle, but I force myself to munch as much of it as I can stomach.

Eughhhhh.

We get back into the car and hit the long, potholed road to Ashton Hall, the family home. We're easily another hour in the car and the combination of my nervousness, the revolting, undercooked chicken and the bumpy road is now really starting to make me feel queasy … That and the sight of Ashton Hall.

It's one of those huge, gothic buildings with stone gargoyles glowering down at you, almost daring you to go inside. My stomach is churning and I'm starting to feel light-headed, but I take Tim's hand as he leads me up the steps to the main entrance door. We knock and wait and I try to steady my nerves.

Remember, you only get one chance to make a first impression,
my inner voice says …

A middle-aged woman in a wax jacket and a woolly hat answers the door.

‘Hello, Mrs Singen-Underwood, what a pleasure to meet you …' I say, going to shake her hand.

‘I'm the housekeeper,' she growls and Tim roars laughing at my mistake.

‘This is Sheila,' he says introducing me.

‘Hi there.' I smile at her nervously, desperately eager for her to like me and at the same time dying to ask her where the nearest bathroom is. The dark, dank hallway stinks of damp and the smell isn't doing my poor sick tummy any good. It's also colder inside the house than outside and Sheila's woolly hat is now starting to make a lot of sense.

‘Sheila's our Mrs Danvers,' Tim whispers to me as we trot after her down one long twisting corridor after another.

‘Where's your bags?' she grunts.

‘In the car boot. I'll bring them in later,' says Tim. ‘I say, are we in time for tea? I'm absolutely starving.'

My stomach does another churn at the very thought of food. On top of everything else, now I'm feeling faint and light-headed, as if I might keel over.

‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?' I ask in a tiny, embarrassed voice, but either they don't hear me or they both ignore me.

‘They're all in the library,' says Sheila. ‘Florence is in there too.'

‘Now there's a lovely surprise,' says Tim brightly. ‘I didn't think Flo was spending the weekend with us too.' He takes me by the hand and leads me down the mankiest, filthiest carpet I have ever seen, past suits of armour and busts of long dead Singen-Underwoods.

‘Who's Florence?' I ask innocently. A family friend? A relation he hasn't mentioned before?

‘Oh, you'll simply love her,' says Tim, striding on ahead of me, dying to get to the tea and sandwiches. ‘Everyone loves Florence. Old girlfriend of mine, you know.' He throws open the great double doors of the library and thrusts me in.

The room is absolutely enormous and it's packed. There must be twenty people here, all dressed in jeans and super-thick jumpers, all munching on sandwiches and holding cups and saucers. I don't have to wonder for very much longer about Florence as she shoots over to Tim faster than a bullet, throwing her arms around his neck and squealing like a girlie-girlie teenager.

‘Timmy! Bet you didn't expect to see me! Your mother told me you were bringing a new girlfriend so I just had to hack over to check her out.'

Florence is about my age, milk-maid blonde (natural – I may be feeling queasy but I still checked), tall and, to put it politely, a very, very big girl.

‘Flo, darling!' he says, hugging her. ‘How wonderful you're looking! I love a woman I can really squeeze on to.'

Unlike this bag of bones I'm going out with, was the clear implication there, I think, as he introduces us.

‘Dear Lord, you are skinny,' Florence exclaims. ‘Tim, you and I will simply have to fatten her up a bit when she's here. Do you ride?'

‘Sorry?'

‘You're wearing jodhpurs.'

‘Oh, no, I just borrowed these from my flatmate. It's a look …' I trail off lamely.

She laughs, a bit cruelly. ‘You look just like a Thelwell cartoon, if you ask me.'

‘Florence, I don't mean to be rude, but do you think you could show me where the bathroom is, please? I'm actually not feeling a hundred per cent …'

‘Well, we're all riding to hounds tomorrow, you
have
to join us. Tell her, Timmy.'

Tim, however, is far too engrossed in a plate of sandwiches he's grabbed from one of the side tables.

‘Oh, do give me one, Timmy, you great oaf!' Florence says, playfully punching him and helping herself to a good-sized fistful. ‘Would you like one?' she asks, brandishing them under my nose. ‘Yum yum, my absolute fave. Sheila's such a doll to remember. Hard-boiled egg and tripe.'

It's all too much for me. I put my hand over my mouth in a frantic attempt to cover up what's coming, but it's too late.

I throw up all over Florence's feet.

Colossal social faux pas number two:

Dinner is served punctually at eight p.m. (none of the Singen-Underwoods like to be kept waiting on meals, it seems) but I'm too ill to join them.

I've got the worst dose of food poisoning I've ever had in my entire life. It's not just the nausea; by now I'm shaking all over and in a cold sweat. Tim is sweet and very understanding about it; he showed me to my room, tucked me in and said he'd make my apologies to everyone, but the minute the dinner gong goes, he's out of there like a scalded cat.

The room is filthy, damp and so cold that I have to sleep with all my clothes on. From the dining room below, I can hear them all roaring with laughter, in top form, having a fantastic time … and then another wave of nausea sweeps over me.

This is not helped by the one thought I can't escape from. I should be down there with them all now, trying my best to be the perfect, charming, intelligent, witty house guest/girlfriend/prospective daughter-in-law. I'd even rehearsed.

Caroline, who's brilliant at this stuff, gave me a crash course in how to make a boyfriend's parents fall in love with you: i.e., pay very careful attention to everything the mother says, ask loads of questions about her fabulous hairdo/clothes/housekeeping tips and, most importantly of all, keep complimenting her on what a wonderful son she has. With the father, you want to
appear fun and playful, a good sport, a great bit of crack: in short, the type of girl who'd be a great addition to any family gathering.

Jamie even gave me a book for Christmas, called
Not a Lot of People Know That: 1000 Interesting Facts About Country Life
, and urged me to memorize a few. ‘The Singed-Underwears will immediately think you're one of them,' he said, ‘plus it's the kind of stuff that'll come in very handy for pub quizzes.'

OK, it may not have made for the most scintillating of conversation (I can now tell you exactly how many acres are in a hectare and the correct type of bridle to put on a two-year-old mare, that type of thing) but the point is that I really made an effort and now they all probably think I'm some sort of Elizabeth-Barrett-Browning type, pale and sickly and bedridden. Absolutely no fun and most
definitely not
daughter-in-law material.

Oh God. A fresh bout of queasiness comes over me and I know I have to get to a bathroom in double quick time. I've puked up on quite enough carpets for one day. I run out on to the corridor and try the room next door to me.

No joy, it's a linen cupboard.

So, I work my way down through all the doors to my left and right, knocking gingerly on each one and each time failing to find a loo.

By now, dinner's over and I can hear them all
drifting from the dining room into the drawing room, chatting and laughing, everyone full of the holiday spirit. Just then, a tall, blonde, middle-aged woman, who kind of has a look of Tim about her, comes striding down the corridor towards me.

‘Excuse me,' I ask, stopping her in her tracks, ‘could you show me where the bathroom is, please?'

Now, I have absolutely no idea who this woman is. The minute I threw up all over the library floor earlier, I was ushered upstairs and haven't actually met any of the family. Plus, there's an awful lot of them and they all look a bit alike.

‘Are you the girl Tim brought?' blondie woman asks me bossily. ‘The one who vomited all over poor Florence?'

‘Emm, yes, that's me.'

‘She was making us all laugh over dinner with that story. Right then, you'd better have a barf in my bathroom if you want. It's through here.'

‘Thanks,' I say weakly, following her into a bedroom and straight on through to her en suite.

What follows isn't pleasant and I'm in there for ages. When I emerge, I presume that blondie woman will have gone back downstairs to rejoin the others, but she hasn't. She's in the bed, completely naked with a very dark-haired, younger-looking moustached man, kissing the face off him.

‘Oh, I'm really sorry,' I say, speeding through the
bedroom as fast as I can, but they completely ignore me, as if they've far better things to get on with than exchanging pleasantries with a food-poisoned house guest …

I presume that this is her husband/lover/partner/boyfriend and leg it back to my own room, feeling a whole lot better.

Breakfast the next morning is buffet-style and, thank God, I'm actually able to eat again. Only a thin bit of toast, much to Tim's annoyance, but at least it's something. He and I are the first downstairs and have just plonked ourselves at the dining table when my blonde-haired guardian angel from last night comes in, with the moustached man I'd seen her with the night before, followed by another, much older, silver-haired man.
Tim's father, maybe?

Before Tim even has a chance to introduce us, I'm in like Flynn.

‘I owe you such a big thank you for letting me use your en suite bathroom last night,' I gush at blondie woman, ‘you really saved my life. In more ways than one.'