The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) (2 page)

Then she’d picked up her bag, a woven raffia folk art thing she’d bought for almost nothing from some poor desperate trader at a local Sunday market. ‘This is getting difficult,’ she’d muttered. ‘I think I’d better leave.’

‘No, hang on, Maddy,’ he had pleaded as the barman stared. ‘I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. I should have—Maddy, wait!’

But she hadn’t waited and, as she’d walked through the door, the barman suddenly started polishing hard and whistling something and gazing at the cherubs on the ceiling, at anything but him.

This was not surprising, Adam thought, since he’d just made the most pathetic, stupid exhibition of himself.

What should he do now?

Go home to the first floor flat above the jeweller’s shop in Camden Town, the place he shared with Jules and Gwennie, who would be agog to know how things had gone tonight?

They would be dying to open the champagne. They’d already told him Maddy could move in, it would be fine, until she and Adam found a place.

After all, she practically lived there, anyway.

It seemed she didn’t live there any more.

He walked all night, head down, along Whitehall, along the Strand, into the City which smelled of deals and money even in the small hours, round and round the Barbican. Then he strode down Aldersgate and, as the dawn was breaking, he finally ended up outside St Paul’s.

He stared up at the round, white dome, ethereal in the early morning light. It seemed to be inviting him to make some kind of gesture, but he didn’t know what.

Then, as he stood there looking at this huge extravagance of a cathedral, the wedding cake to end all wedding cakes, he made a solemn vow.

I shall never fall in love again.

It had to be Tuesday morning now.

Or Cat supposed it must be Tuesday, because her diary said so, and it must be morning, although she wasn’t absolutely sure. Since Jack had gone the days and nights had blurred into a never-ending twilight of misery and despair and everything was permanently grey.

But, if it was Tuesday, she ought to go to work. She had the payments on the sofa to keep up, the rent to pay, she had to eat from time to time and so she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

She got up, had a shower, drank a mug of instant coffee, dressed in she-was-not-sure-what and took herself to work in Walthamstow.

Look straight ahead, she told herself as she walked along familiar streets – no glancing right or left in case the hounds of melancholy see you, get you, drag you down into the pit of hell.

Just as she had done since Jack had left.

Since Jack had said that, ‘Actually, Cat’—who actually said
actually
these days? Why did Jack say
actually
? Who was he trying to sound like?—‘Actually, Cat, this being engaged, this buying sofas, this looking at matching towels and tablecloths and duvets stuff, I’m not sure if we should be doing it.’

Of course it wasn’t down to Cat, he’d added graciously. She had done nothing wrong. She was sweet and beautiful and lovely. But just recently he’d come to realise that he wasn’t ready to get married, settle down. He needed to put things on hold a while, sort himself out.

But could they see each other in the meantime, meet up for a drink or something, could they still be friends?

She supposed he meant that when he wanted it, could he still come and get it?

No, she’d thought, he couldn’t –
actually
.

But when she didn’t hear from him at all, she started feeling she’d give anything, do anything, to see his face again.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Tess.

Cat was a couple of minutes late and Tess was already in the office at Chapman’s Architectural Salvage, feet up on the desk and flicking through
heat
magazine. ‘Good Easter? Get some eggs? You went to see your parents, didn’t you?’

‘No, I stayed in Leyton.’

‘Oh, honey pie!’ cried Tess. ‘You were all by yourself? I thought you were going home to Sussex – isn’t that what you said?’

‘I thought about it, yes,’ admitted Cat. ‘But if I had gone home, my mother would have realised straight away that everything was wrong. I could have told her Jack was working and we were doing fine. But she’s got this spooky way of knowing when I’m lying. I didn’t want Mum droning on and sobbing over me and my father saying Jack was obviously a scoundrel – yes, my dad still uses words like scoundrel – and if he were twenty-five again …’

‘I suppose not.’ Tess put down her magazine. ‘But you could have texted me, you saddo. We could have had a takeaway and watched some DVDs. Do you know your top’s on inside out, or is this a hot new fashion trend of which I’m tragically unaware?’

‘Did you and Bex go to that gig?’ asked Cat, pulling off her top and turning it the right side out and thinking it was time she learned to dress herself again.

She wasn’t six years old.

‘Yes, but if you’d called me you could have come as well,’ said Tess. ‘Or we would have settled for a girls’ night in with you. So anyway, coming out with us this evening?’

‘Why, where are you going?’

‘This place in Dagenham Bex’s brother goes. They’ve got a sixties night. It’s miniskirts, white lipstick, Dusty Springfield eyelashes – that means seriously gunked-up, in case you didn’t know – and diamond-patterned tights.’

‘Getting off with John Travoltalikes?’

‘I wouldn’t rule it out.’

‘Sorry, I’m not interested,’ said Cat.

‘Oh, go on, come out with us!’ begged Tess. ‘You can’t stay in forever and cry all by yourself. It’s been God knows how long, I’ve lost count. He hasn’t called, he hasn’t e-mailed, he hasn’t even texted. You have to face it some time, girl – Jack Benson was bad news.’

‘Speaking of news, I have something to tell you.’

By the time Cat had finished telling Tess about the wedding competition, Tess’s eyes were bigger than her face.

‘You’ve won?’ she kept repeating, obviously unable to believe what Cat had said. ‘You’ve won this fabulous dream wedding – ceremony, reception, all the trimmings?’

‘Yes, that’s what the woman told me.’

‘So – confetti, wedding invitations, limousines, expensive little chocolates in pretty silver boxes, magnums of champagne and Pimms and posh designer nibbles, they’re all in? This company, they’ll do the wedmin, organise the wedsite, advise you on the wediquette, get you and the bridesmaids to the tanning salon, pay for all the nail art? They’ll commission special wedding cupcakes, sort out readings, get some swish couturier to make your wedding gown?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘What are you going to do, then?’

‘You mean about the prize?’

‘No, about the getting married, dope.’

‘I’m not getting married.’

‘Of course you’re getting married! Look, you’ve got a – what’s it worth? What does a wedding in a country house hotel cost nowadays? It must be twenty thousand at the very least. Or maybe even thirty. This Melbury Court Hotel, where is it?’

‘Dorset,’ Cat replied.

‘Brilliant, you’ve got yourself a bridesmaid.’

‘You’ve forgotten something.’

‘Yeah, I know. You need a man. So find one.’

‘Where do you suggest I start to look?’

‘Oh, they’re everywhere. You must have noticed them. They come in various shapes and sizes. But if I were you I’d go for tall and dark and handsome, maybe thirty, thirty-five.’

‘Tess, this isn’t funny—’

‘They sometimes smell disgusting. You should avoid the ones who smell disgusting. Or I would, anyway. Honey, it’s not going to be a problem. All he’ll have to do is hire a suit and find the place and wait until the evening to get drunk.’

‘Tess, stop mocking me.’

‘I’m not mocking you.’ Tess looked earnestly at Cat. ‘You’ve got the wedding sorted, haven’t you? So all you need to do is sort the bridegroom. You’re young, you’re pretty and you’re solvent, so how hard will it be?’

‘I’m not over Jack.’

‘You ought to be,’ said Tess. ‘I’ve told you fifty, sixty, seventy times, that scumbag isn’t worth your tears.’

‘I wish it was that simple.’ Cat looked miserably at Tess. ‘I know Jack’s vain and sometimes selfish. But I love him, and you can’t control these things. We don’t choose who we love.’

‘This isn’t about love,’ retorted Tess.

‘Oh, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it’s not!’ Tess grinned. ‘This is about a sumptuous dream wedding we’ll talk about for years!’

‘But, Tess, I don’t—’

‘I tell you what,’ continued Tess as she fizzed and buzzed and sparkled with extreme excitement and googled frantically. ‘We’ll do some wedding fairs. See what’s on offer. Okay, here’s a nice big wedsite, so let’s have a look. Do you fancy being a demure Victorian bride? Or a saucy, sassy rock ’n’ roll one? Or perhaps a mediaeval princess, Disney style?’

‘None of those,’ said Cat.

‘What about a fifties bride in paper nylon petticoats and sticky-out full skirts and beehive hair? Or is beehive hair a sixties look? I think it might be early sixties. I’ll have to ask my mother. Or my granny, she’ll remember. What about burlesque? I think you’d look great in black and red and corsets and suspenders.’

‘I’m not doing wedding fairs.’

‘Oh, go on – why not?’

‘I just don’t fancy it.’

‘You’ve only got one life, you know,’ said Tess. ‘So you’re coming out with us this evening.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘You want to bet?’

‘I’m not going to talk about it, right?’

‘You will, you know,’ said Tess. ‘When you get the brochures and the DVDs and stuff, you won’t be able to resist.’

‘We’ll see.’ Cat looked up from her keyboard. ‘I just heard Barry pulling up. So we’d better get on with some work.’

Adam didn’t want to talk about it.

Gwennie and Jules were being so kind, so nice, so understanding – so bloody damn considerate. So fucking well annoying, tiptoeing around him, never touching, never snogging in the kitchen, never holding hands while they were watching
Notting Hill
or bloody
Brief Encounter
for the ten zillionth time.

It was like someone had died.

Somebody had, of course, and what was walking round the place these days pretending to be Adam was a zombie, just a shell. But he didn’t want an autopsy. He didn’t want a wake.

‘Gwennie, love, I’m fine,’ he said that evening, when she offered to make his supper yet again, and he said again he wasn’t hungry.

But Gwennie wasn’t having it. Steak and kidney pie or egg and chips, she said – he needed comfort food. She’d just been to Sainsbury’s. It wouldn’t take a moment. ‘Adam, you need building up,’ she added. ‘You’ve always been too thin. Or maybe that’s because you’re half the size of Jules and maybe you’re just right? But anyway, a bacon sandwich – I dare say you could fancy one of those?’

‘I’ve eaten,’ he insisted, as Gwennie crashed and clattered round the kitchen, getting out the frying pan and turning on the oven to cook healthier-option chips. ‘I stopped at Burger King on the way home.’

‘Yeah, I bet,’ said Gwennie, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Okay, which Burger King?’

‘It – it was the one in Portland Place.’

‘What were you doing in Portland Place?’

‘I—’

‘Adam, there’s no Burger King in Portland Place, and I’ve never known you to eat a burger, anyway.’ Gwennie pursed her lips. ‘Your face looks awful nowadays. You’re all gaunt and hollow eyed and even Jules has noticed, so it must be bad. I’ll make you eggy bread.’

‘No thank you, Gwennie.’

‘Make some for me?’ called Jules, who was lolling on the sofa, watching television while he read the
Evening Standard
.

‘You greedy pig, you’ve had your supper!’

‘Go on, lovely woman,’ wheedled Jules. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Gwennie, but she laughed, then started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Why couldn’t I fall in love with somebody like Gwennie? Adam thought as Gwennie shuffled round the kitchen in her Garfield slippers, opening the cupboards and getting out the plates and cutlery – with someone warm and generous, with someone nice and kind, with someone who would care for me and love me?

Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, you maudlin bastard, Adam told himself.

As Gwennie made them all some eggy bread, Adam sat down at the kitchen table. He fired up his laptop and started looking through the plans and drawings for his next few projects. These included one in Aberdeenshire which he hoped would make his name and which would occupy his mind and body for months or even years, and maybe this was just as well?

If he kept busy, it might stop him going mad.