The Nearly-Weds (20 page)

It’s Ritchie. And as Trudie leaps to her feet, her face is so lit up with happiness she could have had her own float at the Blackpool illuminations.

‘Hiya, gorgeous!’
she cries, throwing herself into his arms so he can swing her round, not caring how precariously close her wedges come to knocking over everyone’s stools. Then they kiss – so passionately I barely know where to look – before Ritchie pulls away from her.

‘Hey, kid,’ he says to me. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Good.’ I smile. ‘Fine.’

‘Sorry, love,’ says Trudie, straightening her hair, which now looks like she’s spent several hours rolling round a haystack. ‘What were you saying?’

‘Oh, nothing. Really. Ritchie, let me get you a beer.’

Chapter 43

Ritchie can’t get his head round Felicity. It might be because while most men focus on her looks – as opposed to her endearing but undeniable eccentricity – he is so loved-up with Trudie that they don’t have any effect on him. The result is that every so often you catch him staring at her as if she’s got more screws loose than a reject wardrobe.

‘You see, Ritchie,’ Felicity declares, with her usual joviality, ‘I’m not saying that the American accent necessarily equals incorrect pronunciation. Lots of Americans speak perfectly good English. Such as . . . hmm . . . Well, the point is, it’s not about one’s
accent.
It’s so much more than that.’

‘Uh-huh,’ smiles Ritchie, tolerantly. ‘You guys wanna get another beer?’

‘Why not?’ says Amber, who is wearing a big Paisley skirt and so much ethnic jewellery she looks like Mr T. at Woodstock. ‘I’ll have a Budweiser.’

‘Are Scientologists allowed to drink?’ asks Trudie.

‘Um, I think so,’ mutters Amber, glaring at the bottle she’s just seen off. ‘Although, now you mention it, I’m not sure. Oh, never mind, it wasn’t going very well anyway.’

‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Don’t tell me, Tom Cruise hasn’t made an appearance at church yet.’

‘That’d piss me off too,’ adds Trudie.

‘I wasn’t just jumping on some celebrity bandwagon, you two,’ says Amber, innocently. ‘I was searching for spiritual fulfilment.’

‘We’re only teasing you, love,’ says Trudie, putting her arm round her affectionately. ‘Anyway, it’s funny you should mention spiritual fulfilment because I know someone who specializes in that very thing – and he’s just walked through the door.’

Before Amber has a chance to object, Felicity is waving as if she’s trying to flag down a taxi on New Year’s Eve. ‘Oh, Vicar! Vicar,
do
come and join us!’

‘Hey, guys.’ The Reverend Paul smiles as he approaches us. ‘How are you all?’

‘We’re great,’ says Trudie, ‘although we didn’t expect to see you here. Aren’t you meant to spend Saturday nights at home praying?’

He laughs. ‘I’m here meeting an old friend from out of town so I think God might forgive me. Just this once.’

‘Let me get you a drink, Reverend,’ says Ritchie, taking his arm away from Trudie’s waist to dig out some cash.

‘Oh, thanks,’ replies Paul. ‘I’ll have an orange juice.’

‘Nothing stronger?’ asks Ritchie.

‘Oh, why not? You’ve twisted my arm.’

Trudie nudges Amber. ‘This is looking even more promising,’ she whispers, as Amber’s cheeks turn a ferocious red. ‘You might be able to get him drunk and seduce him.’

Chapter 44

Ryan was once so secretive about his love life that I’d almost become convinced he was dating a member of the secret service. And, to be honest, that suits me fine. I’m not sure I want to hear the gory details of his relationships.

So, as I stand in the hallway, having been collared while I’m still in my dressing-gown, I can’t help feeling uneasy about the conversation we’re having.

‘The thing is,’ he tells me, ‘I’ve been seeing this woman.’

‘O-kay,’ I say, twirling my dressing-gown belt round my finger.

‘She’s called Kristie, and she was the one who was meant to be coming to the black-tie dinner instead of you the other week.’

I try not to resent her.

‘I won’t go into details,’ he continues, ‘but the reason she stood me up was that she was a little pissed at me because . . . well, because she wanted to meet my kids.’

He pauses.

‘Oh, right,’ I mutter, still twirling.

‘And I didn’t want her to.’

‘Um, right.’

My dressing-gown belt is now wound so tightly round my finger that it has turned the shade of a raw Cumberland sausage.

‘But I’ve decided maybe I should give it a go,’ he continues. ‘I mean, it’s not that Kristie and I are particularly serious. It’s just that it’s been three years since . . . Well, maybe I need to introduce the kids to
the idea.
’ He pauses.

‘Right.’ I can’t help hoping this is the end of the matter. But Ryan is expecting some sort of feedback. He obviously doesn’t realize I’m about as qualified to give romantic advice as a celibate cactus.

‘Well, I think you’re probably right,’ I declare. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I’m going to introduce them today,’ he replies.

‘Oh . . . oh, well, good,’ I say.

I feel my mood lift: if Ryan’s taking the kids out for the day I can see if Trudie’s available for that shopping trip to Filene’s Basement – a spectacular Boston discount store selling designer goodies you can pass off as something you picked up in Selfridges.

‘Yes, that really is good news,’ I continue. ‘It’ll be nice for you to spend some quality time together as a family and—’

‘You’re coming with us,’ he interrupts.

‘
Me?
’ I exclaim. ‘I mean, sorry, but why do you need
me
?’

‘I’m sure everything will be okay,’ he carries on, ignoring me, ‘but I just think there’s a remote chance they might find it a little unsettling. I hope they won’t, but they might. And if they do I need you there.’

‘To do the settling.’

‘You got it,’ he replies cheerfully, heading up the stairs.

Chapter 45

Kristie is a Cindy Crawford lookalike, with cheekbones like window-ledges and a body so toned she must spend seven hours a day doing
Buns of Steel
. She’s stunning. And it’s not hard to see why Ryan might find her appealing. The kids, on the other hand, despise her the second they set eyes on her.

‘What are your favourite subjects at school?’ she asks, sounding so awkward you can almost hear her voice creaking with the strain.

‘Samuel’s too little to go to school,’ Ruby informs her sulkily. ‘He’s only three.’

‘Oh.’ Kristie purses her lips.

We’re sitting on a blanket at Boston Common, having been for a trip on a swan boat and had an enormous picnic.

Kristie only ate two rocket leaves and a piece of cracker that looked like something you’d feed a rabbit on appetite suppressants. I can’t help reflecting on this guiltily as half a cold pizza and several helpings of Doritos sit heavily in my own stomach, whose bulges I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to mask by keeping my arms crossed for most of the afternoon.

It strikes me that if Jason and I were to meet now for the first time he’d never be attracted to me. He isn’t one of those men who appreciate women’s curves. Although he never said anything when I put on a few pounds, it was obvious he preferred me on the skinny side. God knows what he’d think if he could see how bad my cellulite is, these days.

‘Well, how about you?’ Kristie continues, trying to engage Ruby in something approaching a conversation.

She shrugs and doesn’t answer.

‘Go on, Ruby,’ I coax. ‘Tell Kristie how much you love art.’

‘Art, huh?’ says Kristie, trying again. ‘I used to like art at school too. That was a long time ago, though.’

Ruby doesn’t say anything.

‘I bet you can’t guess how long?’ asks Kristie.

‘Two hundred years?’ Ruby shrugs impishly. I flash her a disapproving look, Ryan suppresses a smile and Kristie clearly wants to strangle her.

‘No,’ she replies, smiling with gritted teeth. ‘Not that long ago, as I’m sure you know, really.’

‘Kristie brought a Frisbee with her,’ announces Ryan, as he stands up and brushes the grass off his jeans. ‘How about a game? Come on, Ruby.’

‘Frisbee’s dumb,’ she replies. Fortunately, Samuel isn’t quite so contemptuous. He jumps up to join in. ‘I play, Daddy, I play!’

‘You’re not being mean to Kristie, are you?’ I ask Ruby, when they’re all out of earshot.

‘No!’ she protests.

‘Okay, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘But you should give her a chance.’

‘Why?’ She pouts.

‘Because your daddy has to have
friends,
’ I reply, as she climbs over and sits on my knee. ‘And you should be nice to them.’

‘She’s not his
friend,
’ she tells me, turning up her nose. ‘She’s his
girlfriend.
There’s a difference.’

‘You’re right.’ I nod. ‘Sorry if I underestimated your powers of observation. But, Ruby, it would help your dad to be happy if he had some company like Kristie. And him having a girlfriend isn’t that bad, is it?’

‘It is if it’s
her.
’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I think she’s perfectly nice, really I do. And if your daddy likes her, then—’

‘I wouldn’t mind him having a girlfriend if it was you.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Ruby, sweetheart, that isn’t going to happen. Your daddy and I are just friends.’

‘But you’re much prettier than she is,’ she says.

‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that . . .’ I smile modestly, choosing not to see this comment as a blatant fib designed to bring me round to the idea.

‘And Daddy’s never grumpy when you’re around.’

Yeah, right.

‘At least, he’s not quite so grumpy now you’re around. Really,’ Ruby insists, eyes wide.

The others come bounding over and Samuel dives on top of me, determined to find a place on my knee. ‘I played Frisbee, Zoe!’ He couldn’t look more pleased with himself if he’d just passed his driving test.

‘I know – I saw you! You’re such a big grown-up boy, aren’t you?’

‘Not a little boy,’ he reiterates seriously.

‘No, definitely a big boy,’ I confirm.

‘Very big boy,’ he repeats.

‘Very, very, very big boy,’ I say, kissing him as he collapses into giggles.

When I look up, Kristie’s staring at me as if I’m chief policy adviser to the Antichrist.

‘Um, wasn’t that clever of Kristie to buy you two a Frisbee?’ I say, in a flimsy attempt at distracting everyone and getting Kristie on-side. But Ruby doesn’t rise to the bait. And, unfortunately, another hour’s worth of my encouragement seems to do nothing for Kristie’s popularity.

The only let-up is when Samuel is eventually persuaded by Ryan to go with Kristie to feed the ducks while Ruby stays behind to ride her bike. Ryan and I start to tidy up the leftover picnic, which is such a mess you’d think it’d been consumed by a herd of wildebeest at a teenage house-party.

‘What do you think?’ Ryan asks. ‘Of Kristie, I mean.’

‘Oh . . . well, she’s fine,’ I say, putting some part-regurgitated fairy cake from Samuel’s plate into a bag. I can’t help feeling a twinge of something approaching jealousy at this line of questioning. ‘Nice, I mean.’

Ryan sniffs. ‘Anything else?’

‘She’s very attractive,’ I tell him truthfully.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘She’s okay.’

He abandons the picnic, sits down, picks up a small branch and starts to scrape the bark off it with his Swiss Army knife. The muscles in his forearms ripple. I try to look unmoved.

‘What I meant was, how do you think it’s gone – with the kids?’ he asks.

I try to think of a way to put this diplomatically. ‘I’m sure they’ll warm to her. Sooner or later.’

Ryan snorts. ‘You Brits really are masters of the put-down, aren’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘“I’m sure they’ll warm to her,”’ he mimics. ‘That’s your way of saying she’s shit with the kids and they hate her.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Heat rises to my neck.

‘You didn’t need to.’

This isn’t the worst thing Ryan has said all week or, indeed, since I got here. Maybe it’s just one comment too far. Whatever, there’s something about it that makes me want to dump the plateful of now soggy brownies on his head and garnish them with a cherry.

‘Ryan,’ I say, ignoring my heart, which is doing championship-standard flick-flacks. ‘What’s
with
you?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I said, what’s
with
you?’

I’m hoping I sound tough, but my hands are shaking so much I feel about as tough as Jemima Puddleduck.

‘I’ve come here today, although I’ve not had a day off in Christ knows how long,’ I splutter, ‘and I’ve played the perfect chaperone, the perfect diplomat. I’ve tried my best to get Ruby to like your girlfriend. And despite all this, you’re
still
having a go at me.’

If Ryan is shocked by this outburst, he doesn’t show it.

‘Can I remind you that
I
employ
you
, Zoe?’ he points out.

‘If only you treated me like an employee,’ I grumble, ‘and not like a slave.’

‘I pay you, I give you a roof over your head, and in return you’re expected to work for it,’ he replies. ‘What’s wrong with any of that?’

‘Nothing,’ I mutter, reminding myself that I need this job. ‘Really, nothing. I just . . . just . . .’

‘Just what?’ he says.

My lip starts to wobble uncontrollably. I take a deep breath and pull myself together. ‘Ryan, I work my arse off in this job. And I don’t mind that. It’s just . . . well, I can’t help finding it infuriating that you don’t – ever – say, “Gee, thanks, Zoe.”’

‘So you want me to start sending you flowers now or something?’

‘No!’ I cry in frustration.

‘So what
do
you want?’ he yells.

‘I just want you to stop being such a bloody tosser!’ I scream.

As soon as I’ve said it I’m torn between thinking I’ve lost my mind and that I’m doing the right thing.

Because while I feel sorry for Ryan – I feel desperately sorry for him – nobody seems prepared to tell him that he can’t go around treating people as he does.