Vince and Joy (32 page)

Joy listened to the echoing shards of Julia and Bella’s laughter as they left the flat at midnight and got into a rumbling taxi outside the building. She clicked the door closed slowly and headed towards the living room.

George was sitting with his knees brought up to his chest, surrounded by empty wine bottles and smoking a spliff. He didn’t turn around when she entered the room, just stared into the distance, exhaling doughy cushions of smoke. Joy perched herself uncertainly on the edge of the sofa and looked at him. She hadn’t the first idea what to say, what to apologize for first. Every arrangement of words that came to her mind seemed destined to aggravate the situation further, so it seemed safer to say nothing at all. She placed a hand on George’s knee, which he ignored. A moment’s silence passed, then
George pressed his spliff into a jumble of butts and uncurled himself.

‘Well,’ he said, reaching to switch off a table lamp, ‘I can honestly say that that was the most appalling night of my entire life. Good night.’

He stalked from the room, leaving Joy sitting in the dark watching an orange circle burn its way through a Rizla in the ashtray and turn to colourless ash.

Bella took a pin from his mouth and pressed it firmly into the cream fabric.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ he said, tugging at the dress. ‘You can’t keep losing weight. I’m not going to have any fabric left to stitch together.’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Joy, balanced precariously on top of a stool in the middle of Bella’s bedsit. ‘I’m just not hungry’

Yes. And why’s that? Because you’re miserable, that’s why.’

‘I am not miserable.’

‘You are. I can tell.’

‘I am not. I’m getting married in four days. It’s stressful. There’s so much to organize. And anyway, why would I be miserable?’

‘Because you live in a pigging disgusting flat in south London, because your first love is married to a supermodel, because your fiancé hasn’t spoken to you since your sorry excuse for a hen night…’

‘Bell… ‘ Joy glanced down at him pleadingly, ‘you do promise you won’t tell Julia about that, won’t you?’

Bella raised his eyebrows and snorted. ‘Of course I won’t tell her. We wouldn’t want to burst her lovely, big, pink, romantic bubble now would we?’

‘And anyway – it’s not that he’s not talking to me; it’s more that he’s not using very many words when he does.
And I can’t really blame him. I mean, who wouldn’t be upset if they found out that their future wife had been going around telling all and sundry that she thought he was ugly’

Bella shrugged and blanched. ‘Yeah, well. I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t drink. I’m no good at it. And anyway, I still don’t understand why you didn’t just tell him that I was lying. I wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Because it would so obviously have been a lie. Why would you say something like that if it wasn’t true? George isn’t stupid. It would just have made it worse if I’d tried to deny it.’

‘So, how much longer do you think this silent treatment’s going to go on for?’

‘Oh, God,’ tutted Joy, ‘I don’t know’

‘Because he’ll have to start talking to you again at some point or he won’t be able to say his vows, then all this…’ he said, gesturing at her dress, ‘would look pretty fucking silly, wouldn’t it?’

‘Look. He’ll come round in the end. This is just his way of dealing with things. He’s hurt. And there’s absolutely nothing I can say to him to make it any better. Even if I tell him that I’ve changed my mind, that I think he’s the most handsome man in the whole world, nothing can take away the fact that I used to think he was ugly. I keep expecting him to call off the wedding, but he’s still going through the motions.’

‘And what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you still going through the motions? Do you still want to go through with it?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘And you still love him?’

‘Totally. I mean he’s not perfect or anything, he can be moody and stuff, but it’s still the best relationship I’ve ever had.’

‘Yeah, but…’ Bella took the final pin from his mouth and embedded it into the hem of her dress. ‘You say it’s the best relationship you’ve ever had, but that doesn’t mean to say it’s the best one you’ll
ever
have. I mean, you might meet someone tomorrow who just blows you away, you know, someone who doesn’t only make you feel
amazing,
but someone who makes you feel
complete.
Someone with a warm flat, someone with straight hair. Someone a bit more…
you.
I just don’t understand why you’re settling for second best, I really don’t… ’

Joy stared at Bella in surprise. ‘Second best?’

‘Yes. Because, Joy, my sweet girl, I know this is neither the time nor the place to be saying this, but I really think you could do so much better than Georgie Porgie.’

Joy felt herself stiffen defensively. Well,’ she said tersely, ‘you say that, but actually, could I? Could I really do better than George? I used to think maybe I could. When I met him, it was like he was someone from another planet, I thought he was totally beneath me, but actually he’s about a hundred times cleverer than me, he’s got a really nice body, he’s really good in bed, he’s romantic and sensitive and kind. All his family are dead or missing, he’s had to look after himself since he was eighteen and it’s not surprising that he gets a bit moody from time to time. And I’m not exactly perfect myself. And if I do decide to hang around waiting for some “perfect man”, where will that get me, anyway?
Men like that always leave you in the end, they always find someone
better
to be with, someone more beautiful.’

‘Men like
what,
exacdy?’

‘Men like Vincent Mellon. Men like Stuart Bigmore. Men like my fucking father… ’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bella, folding his arms across his chest, ‘your father… ’

‘Oh God, please don’t start that again. This has got nothing to do with my fucking father.’

‘Oh, of course it has. It’s got everything to do with your father. How else would you explain that a week after he left your poor downtrodden mother for a glamorous younger woman, a week after you cut him out of your life, you bizarrely accepted a proposal of marriage from a man you barely knew and didn’t fancy? It’s because you think that if you marry someone who puts you on a pedestal, then you’ll never end up like your mother. But the problem with pedestals, Mrs Pole, is that you can fall off them.’ He grabbed the legs of the stool she was balanced on and shook it from side to side.

‘I am not on a pedestal,’ she tutted, and gripped Bella’s bony shoulder for support. And I am not afraid of ending up like my mother.’ She climbed gingerly off the stool. All I want is to make George happy and have a lovely life. And I really think that once we’re married, all this insecurity and sulking, it’ll stop, because then he’ll know that I’m not going to run off with someone else, that I’m not going to leave him.’

‘That’s what you think, is it?’

‘Uh-huh. He just needs a show of commitment. That’s all… ’

‘Well,’ said Bella, ‘you know what they say. Make a show of commitment in haste, repent at fucking leisure. It’s your funeral.’

Joy threw him a withering look and started to climb out of her dress.

‘Don’t you want to see it?’ said Bella. ‘Don’t you want to see what you like look in it?’

‘No,’ said Joy, ‘not yet. I’ll wait until it’s finished, till all the pins are out.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Bella, appraising her slowly, and adjusting the neckline slightly, ‘but for what it’s worth you are officially the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. In fact, if you had a cock, I’d marry you myself.’

George didn’t start talking to Joy properly again until two days later when she came home with her wedding dress in a huge white bag.

Spitting in the face of matrimonial tradition, Joy disappeared into the bedroom and slipped into the dress to give George a preview. She stood on the bed in an attempt to catch a full-length glimpse of herself in the small mirror on the opposite wall, but all she could see were her knees and shoulders.

‘Are you sure you want to see?’ she shouted from behind the living-room door.

‘Absolutely!’

‘Da-da!’ she said, making her entrance. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, wow,’ said George, getting up from the sofa. ‘Wow, wow, wow,
wow
’

‘Is it nice? I couldn’t really see in the mirror.’

‘Nice?’ he said, circling her appreciatively, ‘it’s absolutely stunning. You look like… God, I’m lost for words. You look spectacular. Utterly. Come here,’ he said, opening his arms to her. ‘I am the luckiest man in the whole world. Totally and utterly blessed.’ He kissed the top of her head and Joy hooped her arms around him and felt all the tension of the past week instantly leave her body. He’d forgiven her. He still loved her. He still wanted her. He still thought she was perfect and beautiful. She was still the girl of his dreams.

And she clung on to him for dear life in her beautiful new dress, a bare-footed princess in cream linen, not wondering for a second why it was so important to her that she remain the girl of George Pole’s dreams, not thinking one inch beyond the realms of his momentary approval.

Vince paid more attention than usual to the weather forecast on the day before Christmas Eve.

Dry, cold and sunny.

Perfect, he thought, a perfect day for a wedding.

The forecast was proved 100 per cent accurate when he awoke the next morning to a brilliant blue sky blemished only by a solitary jet-engine trail. He attempted a lie-in, but something made him restless. He could hear Cass snoring in the room next door as he made his way to the bathroom, where Madeleine was asleep on the bathmat, a new favourite place. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he peed, her belly rising and falling with each breath. She extended her claws and scratched lazily at the turquoise loops of the towelling mat. And then she turned to gaze at him, suddenly and unnervingly.

‘What?’ he said, turning away to check his aim.

She opened her mouth and issued a plaintive ‘ow’.

And of course the cat wasn’t talking to him, of course the cat didn’t know what was going through his mind, but it was all the encouragement Vince needed to throw on some clothes, sort out his hair and get on the first Tube to Sloane Square.

The King’s Road on the day before Christmas was thick
with teenagers. They cruised in groups of three or four, arms linked, back from boarding school for the holidays, reclaiming their territory. They weren’t here buying gifts for friends and family; they were choosing outfits for raucous teenage parties in rambling Chelsea town houses and voluminous Fulham mansion flats.

Vince didn’t peer through shop windows as he walked. He wasn’t tempted by the sharp suits and designer clothes hanging from rows of angular plastic men. He had only one destination in mind as he strode purposefully westwards, and that was Chelsea Town Hall.

Someone else was getting married as he stopped on the other side of the road, outside Habitat, shielding his eyes from the sun. A man shaped like a currant bun had just married a woman shaped like a pencil. She wore a hat made of brown feathers and a narrow dress in purple velvet. He wore tails, but no top hat. They looked joyously happy as elderly people in expensive-looking coats threw paper confetti at them.

Vince glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty. He darted across the road, ducking to avoid appearing in the newly-weds’ photographs and followed the signs to the registrar.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘how can I find out what time someone’s getting married today?’

He was pointed towards a board under glass. The banns. Inside, cards were pinned to green felt listing every wedding registered in the borough. He skimmed the display with his finger, primed for the word ‘Joy’. And then he saw it:

Joy Mary Downer
George Edward Forbes Pole
24 December at 12.15

He found a coffee shop, where he consumed three cups of tea and a chocolate muffin, then at midday he paid his bill and returned to his post outside Habitat.

The steps outside the town hall were empty and speckled with confetti. After a few moments a dark Mercedes dressed in white ribbon pulled up outside and a youngish-looking man got out. He was wearing a black suit with a brightly embroidered waistcoat and a satin tie. His hair was brown and on the frizzy side of curly, and he looked as if he took life very seriously. He smiled at the person left in the car, turned and straightened his tie. He looked softer when he smiled, like a vet or a children’s doctor. Vince could see him clearing his throat. He looked nervous but happy. He looked like a groom.

A smaller, youngish-looking man got out after him wearing a job interview suit and inappropriate rubber-soled shoes.

The two men climbed the stairs together, sharing a joke. The taller man, the groom, turned at the door to scan the street, before heading inside. If this was George, as Vince suspected it was, then Joy had done well for herself. He looked like he’d be good to her. He looked decent and intelligent and kind. He looked like he’d make a good husband. Vince felt a grudging approval.