The Importance of Being Married (15 page)

Grace, though…she hadn’t believed in penance. She’d believed in people, in romance, in love. She’d believed in me. Whenever I’d doubted I could do something, whenever I’d been tempted to throw in the towel, she’d looked at me with those glistening eyes of hers and told me that I could do anything I set my heart on, so long as I stayed focused and didn’t doubt myself. And she was always right. At Grandma’s funeral I didn’t think I’d be able to make a speech—not one that would do her justice, not one that wasn’t tinged with anger, with recrimination, with the desperate need to shout out,
“It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault”
—but I did. When I got landed with her debts, I was convinced I’d never be able to pay them off, that my life was for all intents and purposes over, but again Grace disagreed. She took my hand and squeezed it, and she said, “You know, your grandma was a proud woman. She wouldn’t have wanted you to know about the debts. But she was proud of you, too.” And I raised my eyebrows because if anything I was a disappointment to Grandma—though until I turned up on her doorstep she didn’t even know I existed. But Grace just smiled and said, “She didn’t know how to tell you. But she told me. She told me all about you. You got Grade Five piano when you were just thirteen. She kept the certificate, you know. She kept everything.” And just like that I stopped worrying about the debts. Because I was proud, too. Proud to finally be able to help Grandma, like she’d helped me all those years.

And now…now I wanted to help Grace. Wanted to pay her back for being a friend, for making the world a bit brighter. Slowly, I dug out my mobile phone and dialed home. “Helen? It’s me. So, tell me what to do next.”

Chapter 10

“OKAY, SO WE NEED
to up the ante.”

It was Friday night, and Helen and I were sitting in a smoky bar. I wrinkled my nose. Despite my following Helen’s advice to the letter for the next two days, wearing lipstick, flicking my hair, and generally behaving like the sort of person I loathed, I had gotten no further in securing a date, let alone a marriage proposal, from Anthony.

“Okay,” I said carefully. “But remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“I’m not expecting you to marry Anthony in a day, either. But you had fifty, and I’m sorry to say it but you seem to be frittering them.”

“I’m not frittering them,” I said defensively. “But Anthony’s barely been there…”

“Barely? So he has been there a bit?”

“I guess, but he’s been in meetings.”

“Meetings? Who with?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. Clients. Marcia. People.”

“So then set up a meeting of your own.”

“Me?” I frowned.

“Yes! Set up a meeting to talk about that handbag thing. Or to complain about the fax machine. Anything.”

“The fax machine,” I said uncertainly.

“It doesn’t matter what the meeting is about,” Helen said patiently. “The point is, you want some one-on-one time with him.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see.”

Helen shook her head. “God, for someone who’s meant to be clever, you are a total moron when it comes to men.”

“I’m not a…,” I started to say, then shrugged. “It just seems like wasted effort when there are so many other things to do.”

“You mean Max?”

I looked up with a start. “Max?” I asked, reddening. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you had the hots for Max, didn’t you? You used to talk about him all the time. And he never asked you out.”

“That was ages ago,” I said defensively. “And I didn’t have the hots for him. I just…I just respect him, that’s all. I think he’s really good at what he does, and…”

“And you fancy him?”

“No!” I protested, shaking my head vigorously.

“Just a little bit?”

My blush deepened; I said nothing. I didn’t fancy Max. And even if I did, it wasn’t important.

“Fine, deny it. But just imagine if he liked you back. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Nice?” I rolled my eyes, trying to push the image of Max kissing me from my head. “Look, Hel, trust me, I don’t like Max. Really I don’t. Not at all.”

“So you keep saying,” Helen said with a sigh. “I’m just trying to make you see that having a boyfriend isn’t such a terrible thing. It’s not a sign of weakness.”

I looked down at my drink. I remembered the funeral, remembered the little smile on my face when Max had turned up unexpectedly, the crashing disappointment I’d hidden when I realized he was only there to get a style sheet. Of course love was a sign of weakness. Wasn’t it weak to feel the prick of tears just because someone didn’t like you back? It was pathetic. And I wasn’t having any of it.

“Helen, if I’m going to do this ridiculous Project Marriage thing, I want you to understand that it has nothing to do with love, romance, or the desire for a boyfriend. Or husband. Got it?”

“Got it.” Helen shrugged. “So, let’s get on with it, shall we? Because we’re losing time every day. There’s no time for coyness or a gradual buildup. You have to swoop in. You have to figure out the competition, make your move. Now is the time to really get in there and seal the deal, so to speak.”

“Seal the deal?” I raised one eyebrow. “Helen, do you watch anything other than
Deal or No Deal
these days? What happened to
Murder, She Wrote
?”

“You have to get him to ask you out,” Helen continued, unabashed. “Come on, that’s the baseline requirement here if you’re going to get him to marry you. Am I right?”

“I suppose,” I said, squirming slightly. “But it’s not that easy. I mean, you can’t just get someone to ask you out, can you? He has to want to.”

Now it was Helen’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“You could ask him,” she suggested.

“No. No way.” I shook my head for added emphasis.

“I guess you’re right,” Helen said thoughtfully. “You want him to chase you. Okay, so you have to get him to ask you, then.”

“Brilliant!” I said archly. “Well, that’s all sorted then.”

Helen sighed. “God, you’re annoying sometimes. Okay, watch this.”

She stood up and walked over to the bar, shaking back her long dark hair that was absolutely gorgeous, in a slightly messy, boho way. Helen was only five foot two, but you’d never know it, because she always wore shoes with heels so high the city could use them to build bridges.

She stood at the bar for a few moments, turned around and winked at me, then let her gaze revert to the bar, slowly. Before it got there, though, she seemed distracted by something to her right. She looked at it kind of curiously, smiled, looked down, then looked back at it. Next, she kind of lifted her head so she was looking down at it, and, finally, she turned back to the bar. Two minutes later there was a guy next to her, offering to buy her a drink. Evidently the
it
had been a
him.
I saw her shake her head and point me out, then I saw him call over the barman, giving him a ten-pound note, before handing Helen a business card, giving her a meaningful look, and then walking away, stopping at least twice to turn back and stare at her some more. I had to admit, it was impressive.

Five minutes after that she was back at our table, carrying two drinks.

“See?” she said triumphantly.

“You got a number, not a date.”

“I could have gotten a date.” Helen shot me a withering look. “So, now it’s your turn.”

I laughed. “You have to be kidding. There is no way I’m walking up to the bar and asking some guy to buy me a drink.”

“You don’t ask someone. You just wait for him to offer.”

“Helen, I am not going up to the bar to get some stranger’s number. It’s indecent. It’s…”

“It’s what you have to do if Anthony’s going to give you a second glance,” Helen said. “Come on, if you can’t flirt with a total stranger who you’re never going to see again, what hope do you have with Anthony?”

“But…” I said, searching for a good reason why I couldn’t do it—a good reason that Helen would buy.

I looked at her imploringly, but she wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

“Jess, you do realize what’s at stake here, don’t you?” she said before I could come up with anything. “This is about changing your life. But if you can’t be bothered, then I guess we may as well go home…”

She picked her bag up and started to stand up, looking all fiery and mad.

“Helen, don’t,” I said quickly, tugging at her arm. “Helen, it’s not that I can’t…I mean…look, I will if you want me to…”

“Good, because I do.”

“Fine,” I said resignedly. “Fine, I’ll do it. But if you ever tell a single soul, then I am moving out of our flat and will never talk go you again. Okay?”

“Okay.” Helen shot me a thumbs-up, and I started walking to the bar. Then I turned back.

“On second thought, you can move out of the flat.”

“Whatever.”

I started walking again. Then I hesitated and nipped back to Helen.

“You don’t think I should start with something easier? I mean, like baby steps, leading up to the bar? Maybe I could just smile at people to start with, get used to that and then—”

“Go,” Helen ordered.

I made my way over to the bar, then stood there for a few seconds, gripping the wood with my hands. This was crazy. I just wasn’t the sort of person who flirted with strangers. Or with anyone. It was such a waste of time. So humiliating. And dangerous. Potentially, at least. For all I knew these people could be ax-wielding homicidal maniacs. Still, I had to at least pretend to try, for Helen’s benefit, to get her off my case. It was all right for her—she loved this stuff. Getting her to
stop
flirting was the tricky part. Taking a deep breath, I edged around until I was facing the room. There was a group of men to my left, several groups of men and women dotted around, a couple of small groups of men to my right, and in the far corner a man on his own, drinking a pint, looking very uncomfortable and out of place. He was in his forties, I guessed, wore glasses, and looked like he’d have been happier in his local pub than a trendy wine bar. Immediately I smiled at him. He looked at me suspiciously, then looked around to check whether I was looking at someone else close to him, before looking back at me. Nervously, I raised my chin, trying to remember whether I was meant to keep eye contact or not while I did it, but by the time I decided that eye contact probably was a good thing, he was gone.

Well, I told myself, at least I’d tried.

I caught Helen’s eye and shot her an
I-told-you-so
look, when I felt something on my shoulder. I turned around to see the man from the corner, still clutching his pint.

“Hello!” he said.

I gulped. “Hello.”

“Are you…I mean…I didn’t think you’d be…Well, your description didn’t do you justice. Didn’t do you justice at all.”

“My…my description?”

“On the website. You know, I was worried that you’d stood me up. I’ve been over there an hour, you see. Not that I mind your being late. Not at all. Woman’s prerogative, my wife used to say. Oh, probably shouldn’t mention her, should I?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Now I was thoroughly confused. “And what website?”

“SecondTimeAround dot com. That is…I mean, you are…Oh God. Oh, you’re not, are you? Oh I should have known. Beautiful young woman like you, and I think that you’re here to meet me? Look, I’m sorry. Really sorry. I…”

He looked even more upset and humiliated than I’d felt just a few moments ago, and somehow it seemed to diffuse my embarrassment.

“I’m not from the website, no,” I said gently. “But there’s no need to apologize. You…think you’ve been stood up?”

He shrugged. “Of course I have. I mean, look at me. I don’t fit in here. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. It was my mate Jon who put me up to it. Said it would be good for me—meeting new people. The divorce…it was a year ago now, you see. She’s shacked up with someone called Keith in South London, and I’m just here like a sad git, trying to be something I’m not…”

He trailed off, helplessly, and I felt a stab of recognition.

“You know, I don’t think you’re a sad git at all. I think you’re very brave,” I said firmly, holding out my hand. “I’m Jess, by the way. Jessica Wild.”