Wedding Night (8 page)

I’m just Googling
Harvard overseas students
when Deborah reappears.

“So, the students should be assembled by now,” she gulps, sounding desperate.

“Oh, OK.” I drag my attention back to her. What on earth is her
problem
? Maybe she’s new. Maybe this is her first-ever recruitment presentation and that’s why she’s so twitchy.

I refresh my lip gloss, trying to avoid the sight of my bloodshot eyes. Looking suicidal, Deborah disappears through the double doors onto the stage. I can hear her indistinct voice rising above the hubbub. After a few moments there’s a round of applause, and I nudge Steve, who’s just bitten into a croissant. Typical.

“Come on! We’re on!”

As I stride onto the little stage and see our audience, I can’t help doing a double take.

Recruiting for a science company, you get used to students who shamble in, hair unwashed, unshaved, with bags under their eyes. But this lot are stunning. There’s a whole cluster of immaculate girls at the front, with long shiny hair, manicured nails, and full makeup. Behind them is a group of super-fit guys, their T-shirts bulging with muscles. I can’t speak for astonishment. What kind of labs do they have here? Ones with treadmills incorporated?

“They look great!” I murmur encouragingly to Deborah. “Top marks for presentation.”

“Well … we do advise them to make an effort,” she says,
reddening before she hurries off. I glance over at Steve, who is peering at the beautiful girls as if he can hardly believe his luck.

“Welcome, everyone!” I head to the front of the stage. “Thanks for coming today. My name is Lottie Graveney, and I’m here to talk to you about choosing a career at Blay Pharmaceuticals. You’ll know us best for the range of global brands we sell at the pharmacy, from our Placidus range of painkillers to our bestselling Sincero baby cream. But a career with us is so much more than that—”

“It’s an
exciting
career.” Steve practically elbows me out of the way. “Yes, it’ll challenge you, but it’ll
thrill
you. We’re working right at the edge of pioneering research and we want to take you on that roller coaster with us.”

I glare at him. He’s
tragic
. First of all, that’s not the script. Second, where has that fake “sexy” voice come from? Third, he’s now rolling up his sleeves, as though he’s some sort of rugged, pharmaceutical-research version of Indiana Jones. He really shouldn’t. His forearms are all white and veiny.

“If you want an adventure in life …” He pauses for effect and practically growls, “Then this is the place to start.”

He’s homed in on a girl in the front row, whose white shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a deep, tanned cleavage. She has long blond hair and big blue eyes and seems to be scribbling down every word he’s saying.

“Let’s show the DVD, Steve,” I say brightly, dragging him away before he actually drools over her. The lights dim and our first DVD clip starts rolling on the screen behind us.

“Bright lot,” whispers Steve as he sits down beside me. “I’m impressed.”

Impressed by what? Her bra size?

“You can’t know if they’re bright yet,” I point out. “We haven’t talked to them.”

“You can see it in the eyes,” Steve says airily. “I’ve been at this game long enough to know potential when I see it. That fair-haired girl in the front row looks very promising.
Very
promising. We should talk to her about the scholarship program. Scoop her up before any of the other pharmaceutical companies get to her.”

For God’s sake. He’ll be offering her a six-figure contract next.

“We’ll give them
all
information about the scholarship program,” I say severely. “And maybe you could try not to address every remark to her boobs?”

The lights come up and Steve strides center stage, pushing his sleeves up still farther, as though he’s about to split some lumber and single-handedly construct a cabin with it.

“Let me share with you a few of the newest advances we’ve made and those we hope to make in the future. Maybe with your help.” He twinkles at the blond girl, and she smiles back politely.

Onto the screen comes a picture of a complicated molecule.

“You’ll all be familiar with onium-poly hydrogen fluorides.…” Steve gestures at the screen with a pointer, then stops. “Before I continue, it would be useful to know what you’re studying.” He looks around. “There’ll be biochemists here, obviously—”

“It doesn’t matter what they study!” Deborah cuts him off sharply before anyone can answer. To my surprise, she’s leapt up out of her seat and is heading toward the stage. “It doesn’t matter what they study, surely?”

She’s as tense as a spring. What’s going on?

“It’s just a useful guide,” explains Steve. “If all the biochemists could raise their hands—”

“But you take students from all subjects.” She cuts him off. “You say so in your materials. So it’s irrelevant, surely?”

She looks panicky. I
knew
something was wrong.

“Any biochemists at all?” Steve is looking at the silent room, baffled. Normally, at least half our audience is biochemists.

Deborah is ashen. “Could we have a word?” she says at last, and beckons us desperately to one side. “I’m afraid …” Her voice trembles. “There was an error. I sent the email to the wrong set of students.”

So that’s it. She’s left out the biochemists. What an idiot. But she looks so upset, I decide to be kind.

“We’re very open-minded,” I say reassuringly. “We’re not only interested in biochemists. We also recruit graduates in physics, biology, business studies.… What are these students studying?”

There’s silence. Deborah is furiously chewing her lips.

“Beauty,” she mutters at last. “Most are trainee makeup artists. And some are dancers.”

Makeup artists and dancers?

I’m so flummoxed I can’t reply. No wonder they’re all so stunning and fit. I catch a glimpse of Steve—and he looks so gutted I suddenly want to giggle.

“That’s a shame,” I say innocently. “Steve thought this seemed a very promising bunch. He wanted to offer them all scientific research scholarships. Didn’t you, Steve?”

Steve scowls evilly at me and rounds on Deborah. “What the
fuck
is going on? Why are we giving a lecture on a career in pharmaceutical research to a room full of bloody makeup artists and dancers?”

“I’m sorry!” Deborah looks like she wants to weep. “By
the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. I’ve been set a target of attracting more blue-chip companies, and you’re such a prestigious firm, I couldn’t bear to cancel—”

“Does
anyone
here want to work in pharmaceutical research?” Steve addresses the room.

No one raises their hand. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I got up at six A.M. to be here. Not that I’d been asleep, but still.

“So what are you
doing
here?” Steve sounds like he’s going to explode.

“We have to go to ten career seminars to get our career-search credit,” says a girl with a bobbing ponytail.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve picks up his jacket from his chair. “I do
not
have time for this.” As he stalks out of the auditorium, I feel like doing the same thing myself. I’ve never met anyone as incompetent as Deborah in my life.

But, on the other hand, there’s still a roomful of students watching me. They all still need a career, even if it’s not in pharmaceutical research. And I’ve come all the way from London. I’m not just turning round and going home.

“OK.” I take the remote from Deborah, flip off the DVD, and walk center stage. “Let’s start again. I don’t work in the beauty industry or the dance industry. So there’s not much point me advising you on that. But I
do
employ people. So, how about I try to give some general advice? Do you have any questions for me?”

There’s silence. Then a girl in a leather jacket hesitantly lifts her hand.

“Could you look at my CV and tell me if it’s any good?”

“Of course. Good idea. Anyone else want me to look at theirs?”

A forest of arms shoots up. I’ve never seen such a well-manicured selection of hands in my life.

“OK. Form a line. That’s what we’ll do.”

Two hours later, I’ve scanned the CVs of about thirty students. (If Deborah is their CV adviser, then Deborah should be fired. That’s all I’m saying.) I’ve done a Q and A session on pensions and tax returns and self-employment law. I’ve shared all the advice I think might help these guys. And in return I’ve learned a lot about many areas I was totally ignorant of, such as: 1) How you make someone look wounded in a movie; 2) which actress currently filming in London seems really sweet but is actually a total bitch to her makeup artist; and 3) how you do a
grand jeté
(I failed on that one).

Now I’ve opened the floor to any subject at all, and a pale girl with pink streaky hair is speaking about the cost of shellac and how difficult it is to make the margins work if you want to open your own salon. I’m listening and trying to make helpful comments, but my attention keeps being drawn to another girl, sitting in the second row. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she hasn’t said a word, but she keeps fingering her phone and blowing her nose and dabbing her tissue to her eyes.

There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—

No, Lottie.
Don’t
go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.

“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.

Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.

“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”

“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”

“Of course!” I say. “Absolutely!”

“But will she still get the credit?” chimes in another friend anxiously. “Because she’s already failed one module.”

“It’s all
his
fault,” says the first friend viciously, and about ten girls nod in agreement, murmuring things like “It
so
is” and “Tosser” and “He can’t do a smoky eye.”

“We were together for two years.” The pale girl gives another sob. “Two whole years. I did half his coursework for him. And now he’s all like, ‘I need to focus on my career.’ I thought he wanted to be with meeee.…” She dissolves into prolonged weeping and I stare at her, tears starting to my eyes. I know her pain. I
know
it.

“Of course you’ll get the credit,” I say warmly. “In fact, I’ll give you a special mention for turning up when you’re clearly in mental distress.”

“Will you?” Cindy gives me a watery smile. “Will you really?”

“But you have to listen to me, OK? You have to listen to me.”

I’m feeling a gathering urge to speak off-topic. To convey a universal truth, not about pensions, not about tax breaks,
but about love. Or not-love. Or whatever limbo place we’re both in. I know it’s not in my remit, but this girl needs to know. She
needs
to know. My heart is beating strongly. I feel noble and inspirational, like Helen Mirren or Michelle Obama.

“Let me say one thing to you,” I begin. “Woman to woman. Professional to professional. Human being to human being.” My eyes fix on hers intently. “Don’t let a breakup ruin your life.” I feel so galvanized. I feel so sure of myself. I’m burning with my message. “You’re strong.” I tick off on my fingers. “You’re independent. You have your own life, and you
don’t need him
. OK?”

I wait until she whispers, “OK.”

“We’ve all had breakups.” I raise my voice to take in the whole room. “The answer isn’t to cry. The answer isn’t to eat chocolate or plot revenge. You need to move on. Every time I’ve had a breakup, do you know what I’ve done? I’ve taken my life in a new direction. I’ve found myself an exciting new project. I’ve changed my look. I’ve moved house. Because
I’m
in charge of my life, thank you.” I pound my fist in my palm. “Not some guy who can’t even do a smoky eye.”

A couple of girls break into applause, and Cindy’s friend whoops supportively. “That’s what I said! He’s a waste of space!”

“
No
more crying,” I say for emphasis. “No more tissues.
No
more checking your phone to see if he’s called.
No
more stuffing your face with chocolate. Move your life on. Fresh horizons. If I can do it, you can.”

Cindy is gawping at me as though I’m a mind reader.

“But you’re strong,” she gulps at last. “You’re amazing. I’m not like you. I never will be, even when I’m your age.”

She’s looking at me with such wonder, I can’t help feeling
touched, even though she doesn’t have to behave as though I’m such a dinosaur. I mean, I’m only thirty-three, not a hundred.

“Of
course
you will,” I say confidently. “You know, I was like you once. I was quite timid. I had no idea what I would do in life or what my potential was. I was an eighteen-year-old kid, floundering around.” I can feel my All-Purpose Motivational Speech coming on. Do I have time to give it? I glance at my watch. Just about. The short version. “I was lost. Exactly like you feel now. But then I went on my gap year.”

I’ve told this story many, many times. At student events, at team-building seminars, at preparation sessions for personnel going on sabbaticals. I never get bored of telling it, and it always gives me a tingle.

“I went on my gap year,” I repeat, “and my whole life changed. I changed as a person. One pivotal night transformed me.” I take a few steps forward and look directly at Cindy. “You know my theory of life? We all have special defining moments which set us on a path. I had my biggest defining moment on my gap year. You just need to have your own big moment. And you will.”