The Nearly-Weds (27 page)

‘Absolutely.’ He smiles. Then turns to leave, and hesitates.

‘I didn’t know you had an aunt – what? Lil-let?’ he says.

‘Hmm,’ I reply.

‘She . . . French?’

‘No . . . er, yes. No.’

Ryan raises an eyebrow.

‘I mean . . . she’s Belgian,’ I bluster.

‘You got family in Belgium?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I wish my mouth would close and not open again until I’ve managed to cultivate a brain. ‘Tons of them. Big beer-drinkers. And chocoholics.’

Shut
up
, Zoe.

‘Anyway . . . I thought I’d come up here to take the call because Auntie Lil-let doesn’t half go on sometimes,’ I add, rolling my eyes.

‘Oh?’

‘Mmm,’ I continue. ‘She’s going through the menopause and is having terrible hot flushes. That was what she phoned about – so, obviously, I didn’t want to have
that
talk with Ruby and Samuel in the room.’

There’s another pause.

‘Apparently it’s the chocolate,’ I add, cursing myself.

‘What’s the chocolate?’

‘The hot flushes. The chocolate sets them off something rotten.’

‘Really?’

‘Mmm, oh, yes, she—’

I stop. Ryan is staring at me, clearly not believing a word of this rubbish.

‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘pass on my regards next time you speak to her. I’m going down now. I just wanted to check you’re okay.’

‘Me? Ha! Fine. Absolutely fine and dandy. Couldn’t be better.’

He smiles. I try to smile.

And when he shuts the door behind him, I stare at the phone. What was I thinking? What the
hell
was I thinking? I wipe off the last received-call number –
Jason’s
phone number – and turn it off.

‘Ryan,’ I shout, opening the door. ‘Hang on a sec. I’m coming too.’

Chapter 65

Nights out on the town with a priest are not something I’ve had many of before now – and I suspect the same goes for Trudie, Amber and Felicity. But Paul is unlike previous churchmen I’ve encountered. At least, he’s nothing like the Reverend Derek Crapper, who was at St Michael’s, Woolton, in the days when I last attended regularly. He was a lovely man who had sideburns you could have scrubbed a step with and a gentle, caring manner. Lord knows, that was a miracle, given the stick he must have received growing up with that name.

Looking back, he also had a body odour so potent that one whiff almost took the lining off your nasal passages, but he was so nice it didn’t matter.

For the Reverend Paul Richardson, however, this isn’t an issue. He’s lovely too, but he smells of Hugo Boss and tonight he’s wearing his dog collar over a stylish black shirt and a pair of jeans that flatter his backside in a manner some might think shouldn’t be allowed for a man of God.

‘So, um, what do you think of Paul?’ Amber asks, as she helps me carry the drinks back to our table. She’s trying so hard to make the question appear idle that she sounds as though she’s been brushing her teeth with turps.

‘I think he’s fantastic. Kind, intelligent, great fun to be around. Why do you ask?’ I add, as if I didn’t know.

‘Oh, no reason,’ she says.

I smile.

‘Don’t look like that,’ she adds, blushing. ‘I know you all think I’m attracted to him, but I’m not, I promise you.’

‘Course,’ I say.

‘Apart from anything else, our moons are mismatched.’

‘Your what?’

‘Moons. I’m a great believer in Vedic astrology, after all the time I spent in India. Under the Kuta system, you can measure the flow of consciousness between two people and how this energy harmonizes in the relationship.’

‘And your energy isn’t in harmony with Paul’s?’

‘Our lunar mansions are all over the place.’ She sighs. ‘Of course, it’s not meant to be an indicator of
complete
karmic compatibility . . .’

‘Oh, well, then.’

‘Hmm,’ she says doubtfully.

‘Of course, if you
did
like him, none of that stuff would matter, would it?’ I point out.

‘Of course it would, Zoe,’ she tells me pityingly. ‘Two people getting together whose moons aren’t aligned would be like trying to mix . . . I don’t know . . . something really oily with something really watery.’

‘Oil and water?’ I suggest.

‘Well, exactly. It wouldn’t work.’

I’m grinning inwardly about this conversation until I sit down. Trudie and Felicity both look utterly miserable.

‘You okay?’ I whisper to Trudie.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ She nods – but it couldn’t be clearer that she’s not. ‘Why didn’t you bring Ryan out with us tonight?’

‘Oh, because someone’s got to babysit. Anyway, it’s nice just being out with friends.’

Between you and me, I’m fibbing so outrageously I’m surprised my nose isn’t a foot long. Ryan did toy with the idea of getting someone in, but as soon as he found out that this was largely a girls’ night out he seemed to go off the idea.

I’m not concerned about this, especially since nobody – Trudie aside – knows about our fling. So it makes sense to avoid doing anything as suspicious as inviting Ryan out with us.

‘How’s Tallulah, these days?’ I ask Felicity. ‘Ruby’s missing her – we haven’t seen you for a week.’ I’m attempting to spark her into conversation, but she’s been so uncharacteristically low-key tonight that I suspect nothing short of jump leads would work.

‘Oh? Ah, fine,’ she replies, with a flicker of her usual smile.

‘Is it right you’re teaching her French?’ asks Trudie.

‘Yes,’ says Felicity, clearly trying to brighten up. ‘She’s very good, actually. And her mother’s picking up the odd word. I fear we won’t get very far, though, given that Nancy has only just stopped pronouncing the
z
in
chez.
But she
is
trying.’

‘Fantastic!’ I exclaim, glad she’s warming up a bit. ‘I hope you’re bringing them to Ryan’s Christmas party.’

This is a venture Ryan only announced last week. It was Ruby’s idea initially, but Ryan has embraced it wholeheartedly, which I can only take as proof that he’s enjoying being able to talk to his neighbours without teetering on the edge of Armageddon.

For my part, I can’t wait, not least because Ryan’s got somebody in to do the catering. I already have my outfit planned. Flattering wide-leg trousers and black cashmere top with plunging neckline. It’s chic in an effortless way, although it took a day-long intensive search of every retail outlet in Boston to find it.

‘Christmas party?’ asks Felicity, her fragile smile disappearing. ‘Ryan’s having a Christmas party?’

‘Well, yes. Um, you’ve got your invitation, haven’t you?’

‘No, Zoe. We haven’t.’ Felicity makes an attempt to look cheerful while she delivers her reply, but it doesn’t work.

‘Oh. Well, maybe they haven’t gone out yet.’

‘We got ours,’ Trudie points out unhelpfully.

‘And us,’ Amber pipes up.

I look over to the Reverend Paul for help. He nods. My eyes widen.

‘Oh, God, sorry, Felicity,’ I say, suddenly flustered. ‘It must have been an oversight, it really must. I know we put you on the list. Ryan must have forgotten to send you an email. But, please, consider yourself invited. Really.’

‘No, no!’ she declares, holding up her hand like a traffic warden and grinning widely as if that was the last thought on her mind. ‘Really, don’t you worry about me, Zoe!’

‘But, Felicity, I—’

‘No! We won’t come! Don’t worry!’

‘Honestly, Felicity,’ I attempt to butt in, ‘you
were
invited. You
are
invited!’

She pauses for a second. ‘I wouldn’t want to come if I wasn’t welcome.’ She’s smiling in a wobbly, wounded way.

‘You
are
welcome,’ I insist.

She pauses. ‘Am I?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say.

‘Well, that’s wonderful.’ She beams. ‘I’ll have to check my diary, of course, but you can pencil me in.’

The subject comes up twenty minutes later when Trudie co-ordinates a trip to the ladies’ with me so she can touch up her makeup – which she likes to do with as much regularity as a toddler undergoing training visits the potty.

‘Christ, it’s a good job you discovered Felicity’d been left off the invite list to Ryan’s party,’ she tells me. ‘She would have never forgiven him.’

‘I know. I just hope it really was an accident and Ryan didn’t leave them off on purpose. Maybe he doesn’t get on with Nancy and Ash.’

‘They get on with everyone,’ says Trudie, dismissively. ‘Besides, Ryan’s making an effort to be the world’s perfect neighbour at the moment, from what Barbara tells me, so he would never have not invited them deliberately. Anyway, I’m just glad it’s sorted. Felicity’s been in a funny mood all night.’

It’s typical of Trudie to be thinking of others when her own life isn’t exactly a bed of roses. ‘And how are things with you?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Oh, you know – so-so. I mean, things with Barbara are great, don’t get me wrong. Ryan worked a miracle there.’

‘You and Ritchie?’

‘There
is
no me and Ritchie. We haven’t spoken since the other day.’ I wonder what to say next – but Trudie gets there before me. ‘He won’t return my calls.’ Her face crumples.

‘Oh, Trudie.’ I put my arm round her. I’m fully aware that my response is as woefully inadequate as attempting to put out a house fire with a water pistol, but it’s difficult to know what more to do.

We spend the next ten minutes in the loo, sobbing and hugging, sobbing and hugging. When she decides she’s ready to go back into the bar her skin is so blotchy she looks like she’s had an allergic reaction to her face powder.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Trudie,’ I tell her, as we head out.

‘Don’t be daft, love. I feel better for having a good old blub. I don’t know what I’d do without you, really I don’t.’

However, the second we’re outside the ladies’, I spot someone at the other side of the bar who, I know, will change the course of the evening dramatically.

I nudge Trudie, but she’s rifling through her pink-sequined bag, trying to locate a nicotine patch to join the other four she’s got plastered under her top.

I nudge her again.

‘Hang on, love, I think I’ve got one,’ she says, pulling out a small, plaster-like item. ‘Oh, bollocks. That’s one of my nipple covers.’

‘Trudie,’ I hiss, nudging her so hard in the ribs that she yelps.

As she looks up, Ritchie walks towards us, unfaltering. They stand facing each other, silent, and for a second you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

‘Hiya, love,’ Trudie whispers eventually. ‘How ya doing?’

Ritchie reaches out to grab her hand, which, despite her attempts to seem calm, is trembling uncontrollably. ‘Trudie,’ he murmurs, ‘I’m here to try again.’

Chapter 66

The bar is bustling. People are paying about as much attention to Trudie and Ritchie as they would a busker at a U2 concert. That is, until Ritchie produces a ring. I’m not sure whether he intends his proposal to be quite so public, but the woman to his left is not overly concerned about that. Because when she works out what he’s about to do, her reaction is so over the top you’d think he was asking
her
to marry him. ‘Oh, my Gaaad!’ she hollers. ‘Oh, my Gaad! He’s going to propose! Ssssh, everyone, he’s going to propose!’

The whole bar comes to a standstill and gawps at Ritchie.

‘Uh, Trudie,’ he begins, as he sinks on to one knee – Trudie looks as if she’s about to walk the plank. ‘You’re the only woman for me, honey. I know I’m making a fool of myself, but you’re worth it. I love you, Trudie, and I’ll ask you to marry me again and again and again, if need be. I want you. I want you to have my babies. So please, Trudie, what do you think?’

I wince at Ritchie’s penultimate sentence.

‘Er, yeah . . . about that.’ Trudie glances round the room, her eyes scanning a sea of expectant faces. Then she looks at Ritchie.

‘Trudie?’

‘Er, well . . . Yeah, why not?’

I drop the bottle of Budweiser I appear to have inadvertently stolen. It shatters on the floor in front of me, leaving my new jeans covered with beer and foam seeping between my toes.

‘Are you saying
yes?
’ asks Ritchie, standing up with an expression of such incredulity he looks close to passing out.

‘Er . . .’ she scans the room again ‘. . . YES!’

I give her ten out of ten for conviction.

Ritchie scoops her into his arms as the whole bar erupts at the sort of volume you’d expect to hear standing next to a 747 on take-off. ‘Drinks are on me!’ he yells, spinning Trudie round and causing her handbag almost to throttle an innocent passer-by. When he finally puts her down, he leans over the bar to grab a bottle of champagne and I give Trudie a look.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she hisses.

‘Like what?’ I whisper. ‘I wasn’t looking like anything. I just—’

‘What?’

‘Well, the thing that stopped you saying yes the first time – are you going to tell him?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘Course I am. I just need to find a suitable time to—’

But before she can get the words out, she’s engulfed in another kiss so passionate Ritchie’s lips must be on fire.

‘Well, I gotta say, that’s a pretty good way to end a night out,’ says the Reverend Paul, as he pats Ritchie on the back. ‘Way to go, you guys. Well done.’

‘Where’s Felicity?’ I ask no one in particular.

‘Oh,’ Amber frowns, ‘I’m not sure where she went. She was here a minute ago when Ritchie proposed. Then she stood up and said she had to go.’

‘Is she all right?’ I ask.

‘Dunno.’

I contemplate going after her, but Trudie’s at my side again. ‘It’s no good,’ she whispers. ‘You’re right. I’ve got to tell him. I can’t do this.’

‘Trudie, wait—’

‘No, Zoe,’ she replies. ‘I need to speak to him.’

I watch as Trudie takes Ritchie’s hand and leads him out of the bar, wondering how the hell he’ll react to her news.

Chapter 67

I close the front door quietly and wonder if Ryan is still up, but hear nothing. I feel a stab of disappointment. Creeping upstairs, I spot that his light is off and know I ought to head for my own room. I mean, I’m not desperate, am I? Surely I can manage to go one night without snuggling up to Ryan and running my fingers across the curve of his back. Besides, it will be the perfect opportunity to do my new beauty regime. I’ve vowed to stick to it since I filled in a magazine quiz yesterday and discovered my slackness in this area is set to leave me with the face of Dot Cotton by the time I hit thirty-five.