Vince and Joy (24 page)

‘Well, no,’ flashed Bella, ‘
obviously.
I mean, who would?’ He curled himself up into the corner of the sofa and fiddled with his plastic gloves.

They’d decided, last night, she and George. There was no point in hanging around, waiting for a long-distant summer’s day that may or may not be blue-skied and balmy. If they were going to do something as spontaneous as getting engaged after eight weeks, then why not go the whole hog and marry in haste? Christmas Eve meant nothing to George since his mother had died, and it would be a sensitive date this year for Joy and her
mother. Why not make it something to be truly celebrated, create a new anniversary?

Joy had been surprised by the proposition, but not averse to it. It was only when George had suggested, quite rightly, that if they were to be married by the end of the year, then they really should think about moving in together, that Joy had felt a tremor of uncertainty. Wilberforce Road was her link to her independence. It was the place she came home to, drunk after a night out with her colleagues; the place where she lounged around on the sofa, picking her toenails and watching rubbish television (George only used his TV for watching videos and
Newsnight).
It was the place where she swore, freely and liberally (George had decreed fairly on in their relationship that swearing was the lowest form of communication’ and Joy had immediately dropped five words from her vocabulary). It was where she drank lager and had stupid conversations about soap stars and hairstyles. Up until now, her grown-up life with George had been one strand of her existence; when she moved in with him, it would become the
only
strand of her existence.

But she could hardly have said, ‘I’m prepared to marry you – but live with you? No, thanks’. So she’d nodded and said, ‘I’ll give Julia my notice tomorrow.’

And the boat drifted ever further from the harbour lights.

Julia pointed at the cat with a pink Sobranie. ‘Mou-Shou will be devastated. Won’t you, Moushy?’

Joy ruffled the cat’s head and smiled. The name Mou-Shou had nothing to do with her. It was a stupid bloody
name and Joy could only assume that Bella had had something to do with it, but in her present state of mind she really wasn’t prepared to enter into a debate on the subject. Mou-Shou. Dim Sum. Crispy bloody Duck. Whatever…

‘He’ll get over it,’ she said. ‘He manages without me five days out of seven as it is.’

‘Yes, but he’s not the same. Not really. He comes every day, you know. Goes into your room, looking for you. Sits there on the sofa, waiting for you. Totally ignores me, though, the bastard,’ Julia sighed, and examined her hair in the mirror. She had a violent orange splodge on her left cheek, which she rubbed at with a spitty finger. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting a cat flap put in. Poor thing was drenched when I let him in yesterday – God only knows how long he’d been waiting out there.’

‘You know he’s not our cat, don’t you?’ said Joy.

‘Yes, I know. He belongs to the patchouli person with the curry smells. But he definitely prefers it here.’

Joy sniggered. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well, of course he does – he wouldn’t spend so much time here otherwise. And we don’t even feed him. But anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re leaving us. Lovely, beautiful, precious Joy is leaving us,’ she sniffed dramatically. ‘It’s too sad.’

Bella raised a plucked eyebrow, clearly feeling no sadness at all at the prospect of no longer having to share his beloved Julia with someone thinner and prettier than himself. ‘I think you’re mad,’ he said, ‘getting married to someone you’ve only just met.’

‘Bell!’ Julia threw him an appalled look. ‘Don’t say that!
Don’t listen to him,’ she said to Joy, ‘he’s just jealous. It’s wonderful that you’re getting married. The most romantic, wonderful thing. And on Christmas Eve, too. Will you wear red velvet? White fur? A cape?’

‘Oh, and why not a big white beard while you’re at it, too?’ Bella uncurled himself and stalked over to Julia to examine her hair.

‘No, not fur and capes,’ Joy ignored him. ‘I’m going to get something made up for me. I’ve got pictures. Do you want to see?’

‘Ooh, yes.’

Joy pulled out a stash of pages torn from the wedding magazines a girl at work had brought in for her, and handed them to Julia. ‘I want something short,’ she said. ‘It’s only a registry office do, so I didn’t want to go over the top.’

‘Oh, I like this one.’ Julia pointed at a little 196os-style shift dress with enormous buttons. ‘Very Jackie O.’

At the mention of one of his all-time icons, Bella flopped on to the sofa next to Julia, chanting, ‘Let me see, let me see,’ and for the next half an hour they lost themselves in a frenzy of dresses, rings and flowers.

The past week had been an ongoing frenzy of dresses, rings and flowers. Every time she told someone the news they immediately started asking a million questions about the minutiae of her upcoming nuptials, and in spite of the fact that Joy had never really been a particularly wedding-y girl, hadn’t spent her teenage years fantasizing about tulle and tiaras, and even now was hoping for something low-key and simple, she couldn’t help but get carried away by the force of other people’s enthusiasm.

Having blended into the background at ColourPro for more than a year, Joy had suddenly achieved celebrity status. Jacquie and Roz had made it their business to tell everyone her news: clients, the girls at the sandwich shop, couriers, the managing director – even the managing director’s wife was in the know. Joy would never have guessed how strongly people felt about weddings, how much pleasure such a simple piece of news could bring to people who barely knew her and how much interest virtual strangers would suddenly take in what seemed to her mere frippery.

People had started foisting things on her, too – bridal magazines, lists of venues, offers to organize hen nights, anecdotes, advice and congratulations. People smiled at her more and the atmosphere was enhanced wherever she went. Her mother had smiled for the first time in four weeks when she went home to tell her the news. Everyone at work seemed to have an extra spring in their step. Even the acidic Bella was sweetening slightly at the prospect of having some input into the design of her dress.

‘Oh, let me make it. Please, let me make it.’

Joy had never seen Bella so excited before – he was almost smiling.

I’m really good, aren’t I?’ he turned to Julia. ‘Tell her how good I am. Show her that bustier I made you for that slags party. Go on.’

Julia heaved herself and her bosom from the sofa and trundled off to her bedroom in fluffy socks.

‘Honestly. I’m really good. I mean I’ve not been to fashion college or anything, but my mum taught me to
sew and she was a proper seamstress and look –’ He grabbed the bustier from Julia’s hands. ‘Look at the detail in that.’

She examined the voluminous piece of red satin in awe. It really was quite beautifully made, covered in tiny red sequins and squiggles of black lace.

‘That’s real whalebone, that is,’ he said, turning the bustier inside out and showing her the seams, ‘like they used to make them, in the old days. Properly. You know.’

‘Bella,’ said Joy, fingering the tiny hook-and-eye fastenings, ‘I don’t understand. Why are you working as an usher when you’ve got this talent? This is just amazing.’

Bella shrugged and rolled his plastic gloves back on. ‘Don’t know, really. Just like hanging around in theatres, I s’pose. The smell of the crowd. The roar of the greasepaint. You know’

‘Well, you could have been a costume designer, then. God, just think. You could be running up tutus for the Royal Ballet. Imagine that.’

He shrugged again, and pulled the transparent cap off Julia’s head. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘I dunno. Just not really very me. Anyway,’ he changed the subject, ‘can I or can’t I? Make your dress?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘why not? I can’t afford much, though.’

‘Well, then, I won’t charge you much. How does
£200
sound? Plus materials and stuff.’

‘Sounds amazing. Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ he said. ‘Now, Miss Julia, it’s time to get you to the bathroom, before your hair turns Day-Glo.’ With that he ferried Julia out of the living room, leaving Joy
alone to contemplate the commissioning of her wedding dress and the taking of her first faltering steps on the wide, open road to her wedding day.

In bed that night, Joy thought about what Bella said, about her being mad getting married to someone she barely knew. Maybe he was right, she mused. Maybe she was insane. She had no idea. Joy had lost the ability to differentiate between fantasy and reality, and the whole ‘engagement’ scenario was now so plump with positive energy that Joy found it impossible to give any thought to the negative aspects. Like the notion of leaving her lovely warm bedroom in Wilberforce Road and taking up permanent residence in George’s ugly, chilly flat. Like the fact that she hadn’t met any of his friends and he hadn’t met any of hers. Like the shadowy sense of dislocation that she still hadn’t managed to shake off. All she knew was that, at a time in her life when everything had felt grey, empty and bleak, George had come along and made it colourful again.

And now she found herself in a position where the light emanating from her state of betrothal was so bright that it had somehow blinded her to everything – including her own incipient, dazzling folly.

One day, thought Vince, there d be an awards ceremony for this sort of thing and, if there were any justice in the world, he would get the top prize. The Heinous Tat Marketeer of the Year Award or something.

No one could quite believe their eyes when they’d come into Melanie’s office on Monday morning and seen Tiffany Rose sitting on the boardroom table, her cotton poplin skirt hitched up to her thighs, a sag of jersey knicker around one ankle, perched over a tiny plastic potty with a shiny ‘puddle’ to the side – thankfully not in lifelike yellow, but discreetly transparent. On pulling up her skirt they ascertained that the designers had indeed given her a proper bare, dimply bottom and even the faint suggestion of a fanny at the front.

‘Urgh, Jesus, that’s disgusting,’ had been the general consensus.

‘Surely that’s illegal,’ had been another observation.

Vince, meanwhile, sat her on his desk, his tiny porcelain muse, and waited for the words to come.

‘Vince,’ came a voice from the other side of the office, ‘phone for you. It’s Cass.’

Vince picked up the phone, thankful for the diversion. ‘Cass.’

‘I’ve found her.’

‘Who?’

‘The woman. The Obsession woman.’

‘Oh. Right. And?’

‘And, she lives on Wilberforce Road and she’s very fat and she’s got an ugly little boyfriend who looks like a girl.’

‘And what did you say to them?’

‘Nothing. I lost my nerve. Just watched them from the other side of the road. They call her Mou-Shou.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Madeleine – I heard them talking to her and they were calling her Mou-Shou.’

‘As in pork?’

‘Yes,’ she hissed, ‘as in pork. I mean, they’ve named her after
meat,
for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t they just go the whole hog and call her Sirloin? Or… or, you know –
Rump.
I’m so furious I could… I could… Jesus. I’m furious.’

‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to go back tonight. Have it out with them. But I want you to come with me.’

‘Me?
But why?’

‘Because they’re weird-looking and I don’t want to go on my own.’

And what exactly do you think might happen to you?’

‘Christ, I don’t know. I mean I read this book once about this girl who was given a lift by this really normal-looking couple who ended up keeping her in a box under their bed for ten years. The world is full of scary fuckers. Why take a chance?’

‘OΚ,’ he said, ‘but I’m not very good with confrontation. Promise me you won’t go ballistic’

‘Of course I’m going to go ballistic. They’ve kidnapped my fucking cat.’

‘Cass, aren’t you supposed to be a hippy?’

‘Yes. And?’