Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties (3 page)

I narrow my eyes.

      ‘He’s right you know,’ I say.

     
‘Are you sure? What’s he doing here?’

     
‘P-p-parking cars,’ huffs Alistair. ‘I wish you would wear your contact lenses. Honestly you’ll be curtsying to parking attendants before we know where we are.’

      ‘I do wear them. I’m just so tired and they make my eyes sore. I was sure my glasses were in my bag. I feel like I’m jet lagged. You know, that ‘when you’re not here’ feeling?’

     
‘I’m rather wishing I wasn’t. I feel like a sodding wallflower,’ I say looking around desperately for Julian.

     
‘A scarlet w-w-wallflower,’ sneers Alistair. ‘It’s a w-w-wedding you know, not a b-b-bloody period drama.’

What a cheek, some people just don’t appreciate individualism do they?

      ‘Bloody things,’ he mumbles yanking the zip up.

     
‘You look lovely,’ Fiona assures me. ‘I love the snap pearl buttons on that dress.’

     
‘You don’t think it’s a bit, you know,
Little House on the Prairie?
’ I say feeling self-conscious.

     
‘A little bit?’ sneers Alistair. ‘That’s an understatement.’

     
‘Ignore him, he wouldn’t know style if it bit him on the arse,’ Fiona says glaring at Alistair.

     
‘Have you seen Julian?’ I ask. ‘He should have been here ages ago. I’m sure he left well before I did. You know how he likes to be on time.’

     
‘Most people like to be on time,’ says Alistair.

     
‘I can’t see anybody without my contacts,’ moans Fiona, ‘let alone Julian. He’s probably got held up at the restaurant.’

I shake my head sending a pearl drop earring flying.

      ‘I’ve tried the restaurant, and his mobile, and he isn’t answering either. I’ve only brought a cheap card with me. He’s supposed to be bringing the present.’

     
‘I imagine he’s still bombing it down the A40 in your Mini,’ says Alistair casually.

I stare at him.

      ‘What?’

     
‘That’s just the thing. Alistair swears he saw Julian bombing it down the A40 in your Mini. I said that’s not possible. It’s completely the wrong way, and your Mini won’t do more than forty,’ says Fiona.

     
‘Not with an empty tank it won’t. That’s why I got a taxi here. I forgot about petrol. I don’t mean I forgot that the car takes petrol, of course. I’m not that dippy.’

     
‘That’s a relief,’ quips Alistair.

I shoot him a dirty look.

      ‘I just forgot I was on the red and I’m flat broke. Bombing it down the A40, are you sure he was in the Pooch? The thing will blow up.’

     
‘I don’t think it is p-p-possible to mistake your Mini. You know that distinctive whining sound that says
Harriet’s Mini
?’

Why on earth would Julian be ragging the Pooch down the A40 when he’s got his new van? I hope the wheels weren’t nicked from it. That’s all we need. The past nine months have been
shit. Every single penny going into Julian’s dream of setting up a French restaurant which, so far, has not done very well at all. If it wasn’t for our friends eating there we wouldn’t have broken even. I’ve seriously started considering selling a kidney. Julian’s obviously, not mine. I’m not that crazy. After all, we could survive on three between the two of us. In fact, maybe I could sell off bits of Julian’s body until he has the restaurant up and running and I have all my studies paid for. Although, strictly speaking, not all our money has gone into the venture. I have been secretly squirrelling away some of my earnings. I decided from the start that one of us needed to put a little by and I’m so glad I did. I need to pay for the next part of my tuition fees as I am not planning to work in a laundrette all my life. I can’t help worrying though, what earthly reason would Julian have for racing down the A40 in my Mini? Come to think of it why is he ragging it down the A40 at all when the church is the opposite way? Still, Julian always did have a terrible sense of direction. All the same, it’s a bit odd. Julian would never be late unless there was a good reason.

     
‘It’s not like Julian to be late,’ I say voicing my concerns.

     
‘There’s a f-f-first time for everything,’ says Alistair.

     
‘It’s dead posh this wedding isn’t it?’ says Fiona, breaking into my thoughts. ‘There are Lords and MPs and everything. It’s a real high-class do isn’t it? They’re all big knobs.’

     
‘Is that a fact? Perhaps you should keep an eye on that zip Alistair. You don’t want people making comparisons,’ I laugh.

Fiona snorts and quickly turns away. Alistair scowls and storms off.

      ‘God, what’s wrong with him?’

     
‘He’s tired. He’s putting a lot of hours in at the office. We both are. Honestly, what with the rent and food …’

     
‘What’s food?’ I quip.

     
‘Oh come on Harriet, things aren’t that bad surely.’

I sigh.

      ‘No, that’s true. There are my mum’s scraps after all.’

     
‘C-c-come on,’ calls Alistair.

     
‘He’s not stammering much today, that’s good isn’t it?’

     
‘He’s taken a Valium,’ she says with a sigh and grabs my arm.
‘Come on, lead me to the reception. I can’t see a sodding thing beyond my hand without my contacts, and you know how I hate wearing glasses.’

      ‘Oh no, you’re not on our table are you?’ Alistair mumbles as he studies the table plan.

     
‘Do you need another Valium?’ asks Fiona helpfully.

     
‘Of c-c-c-course not,’ he stutters. ‘I’m not a b-b-b-bloody drug addict.’

     
‘Right, just trying to help. You don’t mind if I have one do you?’

Before he can reply she has popped a little yellow pill into her mouth and downed it with champagne.

      ‘Blimey, am I that bad to sit with that you need tranquillising?’ I say hurtfully.

She hugs me.

      ‘Of course not. I’m always tense at weddings.’

I’m getting worried about Julian. He is not answering his phone and has not returned my texts. It is so unlike him. I sometimes wonder if Julian really loves me. Of course, I’m sure he does, it’s just sometimes I wonder. He’s always saying how grateful he is but that isn’t the same is it?

      ‘I really appreciate you working double shifts to help with the restaurant Harry, I really do.’

But that isn’t exactly saying
I love you
is it? And he only moved in with me when his rent went up.
Two can live cheaper than one
he had said. Not quite the declaration of love I had been waiting for.

     
‘God, I hate line ups,’ Fiona moans, heading awkwardly towards the bride and groom, patting her neat bun as she goes.

     
‘Do your flies up.’

     
‘Buggery things,’ Alistair groans. ‘There’s something wrong with the zip on these t-t-trousers.’

I fumble in my clutch bag for the card and totter behind Fiona, trying to avoid a vomiting baby that is screaming behind me.

      ‘Well done, well done,’ bellows a man. ‘Where’s the Bollingers? You’re looking dandy my dear. I love the scarlet woman look. Sir Alfred Marcham at your service.’

He drapes an arm around my shoulder and leans his hand down to cup my breast while his other hand gropes my bum.
Fiona takes a sharp breath. I smile at him politely.

     
‘Everyone’s entitled to be stupid, but you’re abusing the privilege don’t you think? Please remove your hands.’

He squeezes my breast.

      ‘I’m just being friendly my dear,’ he grins.

     
‘Well, I would much prefer it if you’d be a little less friendly,’ I say, leaning across him.

     
‘Now, remove your grubby knighted hand from my breast this second you pompous pervert or I’ll knee your groin so hard, your cock will fly out of your mouth,’ I whisper in his ear.

     
‘Just a little fun my dear,’ he responds, giving my bum another squeeze.

     
‘I think that’s enough fun for one day Sir Alfred, don’t you?’ says a familiar voice. I turn to see the gallant helper is my partner from the back pew. He removes Sir Alfred’s hand, accidentally brushing my breast with his own as he does so. I blush and lower my eyes.

     
‘Steady on Brice old man,’ says Sir Alfred, holding up his hands. ‘I never would have had her down as your type,’ he adds with a smirk.

What a cheeky bleeder. Brice avoids my eyes, gives a little nod and walks away.

      ‘You’re a lively little filly,’ grins Sir Alfred. ‘I like that.’

     
‘Don’t get any ideas about mounting me,’ I hiss before stepping on his foot with my heel. At the same moment the vomiting baby coughs, projecting vomit at his shirt. Fiona looks at the child with disgust.

     
‘Why she doesn’t stick that monster on her tit I’ll never know. At least he’d shut up.’

     
‘Be quiet,’ hisses Alistair.

     
‘Do you think if you stick Alistair on yours he’ll shut up,’ I snigger.

     
‘No, but I’d clear the hall. I hate these sorts of weddings,’ she moans. ‘Who was that?’ she says nodding to Brice. ‘He’s bloody gorgeous.’

     
‘Just someone who arrived late like me, we crept into church together.’

     
‘Sounds like the beginning of a great romance,’ she laughs. ‘Right, let’s get through this line up. Don’t you just hate these things?’

     
‘Let’s just drink plenty of Bollingers,’ l laugh.

     
‘Would you be a darling and let me dive in front of you? It’s just that if I don’t get him on the breast soon I swear he’ll turn into the Antichrist,’ says the harassed mother.

Turn into? I thought he already was. We step aside and she pushes forward.

      ‘Silvia,’ Fiona squeals on reaching the bride, ‘you look spectacular and the dress …’

     
‘What’s that smell?’ mumbles Alistair.

     
‘What?’ Silvia snaps.

     
‘Alistair asked is it Chanel?’ I say, quickly handing her the card. ‘You look fab, congratulations.’

I peck Hugh on each cheek.

      ‘Lovely wedding Hugh.’

     
‘Yah, classic so far,’ he grins, seemingly unaware of the stink surrounding him.

     
‘No it’s not Chanel,’ says Alistair, seemingly in a world of his own. ‘More like v-v-v- …’

     
‘Versace,’ squeals Fiona, kicking Alistair in the shin. ‘Yes, I think it’s more Versace too. Anyway the dress is gorgeous.’

Even if it does smell to high heaven.

      ‘Dior actually, Mummy is wearing Chanel,’ says a sour-faced Silvia.

     
‘Oh, I …’

     
‘Mark,’ yells Silvia to a man behind us, pushing Fiona out of the way so roughly that she narrowly escapes falling into Silvia’s father’s arms.

     
‘Sloshed already?’ he laughs.

Fiona forces a laugh.

      ‘Yes that’s weddings for you, never been sober at one yet. Congratulations. It’s a lovely wedding.’

     
‘Fuck,’ she mumbles as Alistair joins us.

     
‘Did you smell that bloody dress? It stinks of vomit.’

     
‘Most likely the Antichrist,’ I say.

     
‘How bloody awful,’ groans Fiona.

I check my mobile again. Oh God, what if Julian has had an accident on the way here? It really isn’t like him not to text. I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

      ‘To the Ladies, come on,’ says Fiona. ‘What an awful wedding, it’s all bank managers and toffs. Have you seen the best man? What a ponce. The vicar is pretty gorgeous though.’

Fiona grins at me through the mirror and I think how fabulous she looks.
My closest friend and confidante and a brilliant accountant to boot. I’ve known her since uni. We shared a love of Sylvia Plath and erotic novels. Sylvia Plath got forgotten over the years but the erotic novel lives on. She’s horse crazy though, which is something we don’t share. Fiona’s family always had horses, whereas we only ever had budgies. Still, we can’t all have everything can we? She’s as vain as they come of course, and blind as a bat. I’ve stopped her on more than one occasion from walking into a door and all because she will not wear her glasses, and contact lenses just don’t suit her. But do you think she’ll give up on them? A bit like her relationship with
stuttering Alistair, who I so wish she would dump. She is much too good for him. I have always envied her deep chestnut hair. It’s wonderfully thick, shiny and naturally wavy. I drop my head forwards and fluff up my honey blonde hair before clipping the diamante slide back in.

     
‘I swear I’ve aged since Julian opened the restaurant,’ I groan. ‘Do you think I look my age?’ I ask Fiona anxiously.

She looks dubious.

      ‘I hate answering questions like that,’ she says wrinkling up her face.

     
‘Oh no,’ I sigh. ‘I knew it. I’m twenty-eight and prematurely aging. I’m like that woman in the Facebook advert with
her shocking $3 trick to a wrinkle free face
who looks ninety if she’s a day. I’ll have to get that cream, and I don’t believe it will be just three dollars. Damn it.’

     
‘It’s because I don’t have my contacts in,’ she says, attempting to comfort me while spraying Issey Floral everywhere. ‘I’m sure you look about twenty.’

     
‘Now I know you’re lying.’

     
‘Don’t let me flirt with anyone hideous will you. You know what I’m like after a few drinks. That’s the trouble with being blind as a bat. I’ll probably end up either flirting with
Sir Alfred or the vicar,’ she says, popping on her glasses to see her reflection.

     
‘I thought you forgot your glasses.’

     
‘Of course not, that’s just what I tell Alistair. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them in a place like this.’

Ten minutes later and we are back in the hall where the smell of baby vomit is distinctly noticeable. There is still no sign of Julian.

     
‘Is that the gorgeous vicar on our table?’ hisses Fiona.

I nod.

      ‘And several ponces,’ I groan. ‘As long as they don’t think my scarlet dress entitles them to a quick grope.’

The men scrape back their chairs and stand up. Alistair quickly follows and our eyes go to his flies.

      ‘We must seem desperate looking at his crotch,’ whispers Fiona. ‘Not that I can see it from here. Nothing’s hanging out is it?’

     
‘We must seem desperate just looking at Alistair, period,’ I quip. ‘No, nothing is hanging out, at least nothing worth looking at.’

     
‘Thanks a lot,’ retorts Fiona, fumbling in her bag and producing the bottle of Valium.

     
‘One more won’t hurt,’ she mumbles.

     
‘Ladies,’ says one of the men in an upper-crust voice as he pulls back a chair.

     
‘Ta very much,’ I say, sitting down and smiling at the vicar who sits next to me.

     
‘Where have you been?’ snaps Alistair.

     
‘I’ve been snorting coke in the loo and having sex with a waiter,’ Fiona slurs, taking a sip of Merlot. ‘I thought it might ease my tension.’

     
‘Good afternoon,’ says a pompous looking man opposite me, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Duncan, otherwise known as the government chief whip,’ he adds proudly.

     
‘Ooh, I should have brought my leathers,’ I smile.

     
‘I thought your performance in church was excellent,’ I tell the vicar. ‘In a non-kinky way of course.’

He coughs uncomfortably.

      ‘Thank you very much but it’s all in a day’s work.’

I stare fascinated at his dog collar. Fiona fights back a giggle. There is a tapping sound from the mike and a deep booming voice bellows from the PA.

      ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please stand for Mr and Mrs Hugh Cramphorn-Williams.’

     
‘Oh shit,’ mumbles Fiona.

     
‘Don’t you mean puke?’ I say, discreetly removing a small Febreze spray from my clutch bag.

Silvia wafts along the grand hall, leaving a wake of baby vomit fragrance as she goes. I madly pump at the
spray as she passes. Alistair lifts his hand to his nose but Fiona stops him.

     
‘It’s rude,’ she tells him.

     
‘It’s bloody rude swanning by us in a vomit smelling wedding dress too,’ groans Alistair.

I have to agree with him.

      ‘Oh no, really?’ says the vicar.

I nod.

      ‘It was the Antichrist,’ I say and bite my lip. Honestly, talk about opening my mouth and putting my foot in it. ‘Although I’m sure you get it all the time. Not the Antichrist vomiting all over you, obviously. Crikey that would be a bit like the Exorcist wouldn’t it? I mean babies vomiting on you, obviously. Not the other …’

You know that feeling when you’re just in too deep?
He smiles warmly.

     
‘Indeed. Babies tend to puke over me a lot I’m afraid, especially at christenings.’

     
‘Downside of the job I suppose. You’d think God would protect you really,’ I say, looking around for Julian.

     
‘I expect he has bigger fish to fry.’

I nod thoughtfully.

      ‘Yes, I’m quite sure he has. I can’t imagine why he would want to be here today with all these posh pricks. Far more people needing his attention I would think. Although there are a few perverts here I imagine.’

Good heavens, is he blushing? Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t think I mean him.