I looked at them, then back up at him. Jonathan had a beautiful silver Mercedes SL. He couldn’t have given me a nicer bonus.
‘I remember you saying how much you missed your own car,’ he explained. ‘Thought you’d appreciate having a ride of your own for a while.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, scooping up the keys with a broad smile. ‘Every smart girl needs a decent ride, as Granny always used to say.’
Having wheels again was fabulous, and having Jonathan out of the country thinned my appointments down so I had time to use them. I was gazing out of my office window the next afternoon, daydreaming about how I could surprise Nelson the gourmet fish-fiend with a cockle-happy day out in Whitstable when Gabi burst into the office, a look of supreme triumph illuminating her face.
Without even pausing for niceties like ‘Hello’ or ‘Are you busy?’ she shoved her hand under my nose, nearly causing me to inhale the massive diamond glittering on her engagement-ring finger.
‘Look!’ she screeched unnecessarily.
I didn’t need to ask what it was, and despite myself, I was quite impressed. The diamond was about the same size as a sugar lump.
Gabi threw herself into the chair opposite mine and reangled my desk lamp so it shone directly on her new ring. She turned her hand this way and that, in the manner of a QVC jewellery model, while pretending to be unaware of the dazzling refractions coming from her left hand.
‘Congratulations!’ I said. A funny sensation settled in my stomach like indigestion. ‘Um, I take it Aaron’s proposed? Or is this another “commitment gift” like your platinum ring?’
‘Melissa!’ Gabi chided. ‘Don’t be snotty. I don’t wanna be hearin’ any hatin’.’ She did her horizontal Ricki Lake head movement, as much for the accompanying flashing hand gestures as for any dramatic emphasis. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me,’ she added, looking a little wounded.
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ I said, getting up from my chair to give her a big hug. I didn’t like sounding so old-maidish and really wished I could summon up some genuine excitement. I scrabbled urgently for three good things: Gabi had got what she always wanted; I could help out with the wedding; Aaron already knew what he was in for.
Even I wasn’t convinced by that little lot, but fortunately she couldn’t see my face over her shoulder.
After some squealing (from her) and hugging (from me), we disengaged and Gabi helped herself to some iced tea and biscuits. Very slowly and with maximum ring-display.
‘So, how did he propose?’ I asked. ‘Spare me no details.’
‘Well,’ said Gabi, breaking her biscuit into frugal quarters, ‘last night, I got home and Aaron was already there, which was weird to begin with, because as you know, normally he works till late.’ She sipped her tea, obviously settling herself in for a long story. ‘Anyway, Aaron says, “Why don’t we go out for a drive, babe?” And I was like, “Why?”’
‘You thought it was going to be the car sex thing again, didn’t you?’ I asked sympathetically. Aaron had gone through a phase of adventurous manoeuvres inspired by some feature in Loaded, and also by his intense passion for his Audi TT.
Gabi nodded. ‘Yeah. Especially when he wouldn’t say where we were going. Anyway, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we get in the car and set off, and head onto the M1. You know what Aaron’s like – we hit Mach Four within about ten seconds, overtaking everyone, and then suddenly, without warning, he slams on the brakes and swerves in front of this lorry!’
I covered my face with my hand.
‘I thought, this is it! Oh. My. God. It’s some kind of death pact!’ continued Gabi. ‘But no, we’re sandwiched between two lorries, and they’re honking, and Aaron’s swearing and everything, and suddenly we’re lurching off at the next exit, going round the roundabout, down the other way, back off at the exit we came on at, round the roundabout then down the M1 again!’
I was beginning to wonder where this was going. Much like Gabi last night, I guessed.
‘So, anyway, this time he drives really slowly, and I can tell it’s killing him, doing fifty, but he stays in the middle lane, then suddenly he goes into the slow lane and there it was!’
Gabi’s eyes shone.
‘There what was?’ I prompted.
‘A sign, saying “Will you”,’ beamed Gabi.
‘OK . . .’
‘Aaron’s like, “Ooh, look at that! I wonder what it means?” And I said, “I don’t know, Aaron, but I’m starving. Can we get some supper?” So we come off at that twenty-four-hour McDonalds, you know the one?’
I didn’t, but nodded anyway.
‘And he gets out – which was weird too, because normally we just drive-thru – and when he comes back, he’s got my Big Mac meal, but he tells me not to open it till we get there, so I don’t get grease on his upholstery. Which made sense, because he won’t even let me put lipstick on while he’s driving in case I slip. Anyway, we set off again, and after a mile, Aaron hits the brakes, nearly crashes into some four-by-four, and there it is – a sign saying “Marry Me”. Just above the “Tiredness kills – take a break” sign.’
‘How romantic!’ I said. Actually, I was more intrigued by how Aaron had managed to get the signs up without being stopped by the Highways Agency.
‘No, no, that’s not the end!’ Gabi put her cup down to prevent excited spillage. ‘I didn’t want to draw attention to it, in case Aaron thought I was hinting, so I just went, “Aaah, bless!” And Aaron acted all casual, like it wasn’t anything to do with him! He just put the CD player on, and it was playing our song . . .’
‘“Every Breath You Take” by the Police,’ I supplied.
‘Yeah!’ Gabi’s eyes widened. ‘So, I’ve got my hand in the chips, and we have a couple of chips each, and I can tell Aaron’s stressed about something, but I assume it’s the grease getting on his steering wheel, then I feel something hard in the chips and guess what it is?’
‘A human finger?’ I joked. I had a vague feeling of foreboding in my stomach that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
‘Noooo!’ said Gabi. ‘Mel! It’s a diamond ring! And suddenly, there it was, underneath the Services board, in huge letters – Gabi Shapiro!’ Gabi looked unbelievably proud. ‘I’ve never seen my name that big! Can you imagine how many people on their way home saw that “Will you marry me, Gabi Shapiro?” on the MI?’
‘It’s certainly something that would stick in the mind,’ I agreed, trying to ignore the voice in my head demanding to know exactly when she’d get round to telling me how much she realised she loved Aaron.
‘Anyway, I’m all over the place, and just before Scratchwood, there it was again, all in one, massive letters, “Will you marry me, Gabi Shapiro?” I suppose he put it there again, in case an articulated lorry got in the way of part of the message and I missed a bit,’ she mused. ‘He’s very thorough, is Aaron. God love him.’
Gabi’s eyes were now shining with triumph, and I realised that I was crying, despite myself. There was something about weddings that just set me off like a tap.
‘But are you happy, Gabi?’ I gulped.
‘I’m so happy, Mel!’ she beamed. ‘I’m going to have the wedding Victoria Beckham could only dream of! And Dean & Daniels will never ruin my Christmas with their stingy bonuses again!’
It wasn’t quite the romantic declaration I’d hoped for, but I got up and ran round the desk and hugged her again, hating myself for being such a suspicious, mean cow.
‘Have you seen the ring?’ she went on, talking into my shoulder as I clutched her tightly. ‘It’s exactly like the one Catherine Zeta Jones has! And it’s from Tiffany! I made him keep the box!’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I sniffed. ‘Have you set a date?’
‘No.’ Gabi was radiating the sort of exhilarated excitement normally seen only on Olympic podia. ‘Not yet. There’s so much to do! Will you help me?’
‘Of course. Have you thought much about what you want?’
Ask a st
upid question.
‘I just want something very simple but elegant,’ she said briskly, patting my shoulder and reaching for her handbag. ‘Themed around Tiffany blue and silver, I reckon. For about two hundred people. Maybe two-fifty. How many is Emery having?’
‘It changes all the time. Three hundred at the last count,’ I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and sinking back down into my chair. For a single girl, I seemed to attract an inordinate amount of matrimonial activity.
I looked over at Gabi, who had whipped out two wedding magazines and a highlighter pen. Not once had she mentioned loving Aaron, or wanting to make him happy. Instead she looked worryingly like a woman embarking on the trolley dash of a lifetime.
The heavy feeling in my stomach intensified and I slid open the top drawer of my desk for my Rennies. While I was at it, I had a quick squirt of Rescue Remedy too.
Gabi’s announcement solved one of my immediate dilemmas though: she was definitely unavailable for our day-trip to Whitstable, since she and her mum were going to Liberty to start searching for The Dress.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ I roared at Nelson as we sped along the A-roads to the east coast. I’d let him plan the route, on condition that we took Jonathan’s car, and he claimed fear had steered him away from motorways and known accident blackspots.
Nelson looked at me from the passenger seat. He had insisted on wearing a bobble hat to keep his head warm, baseball caps in sports cars being totally verboten. My own head was wrapped in an old silk headscarf, printed with scenes of Italian palazzos and held on by nineteen Kirby grips. It wasn’t completely practical, I admit, but I wanted to wear it.
‘If I said I felt sick, would you stop?’ he yelled back.
‘No!’
‘OK then,’ he replied and dug himself in deeper.
We spent an hour or so wandering around the town then, sight-seeing obligations fulfilled, hit the seafood stalls. Nelson loved nothing better than stuffing himself with obscure rubbery bits of phlegm. He was in seventh heaven, picking through the salty offerings. I stuck to the potted shrimps and we set off along the shore.
It was August and technically the sun was shining, but there was a stiff breeze blowing all but the most hardy souls off the beach.
‘I love English beaches!’ I shouted above the wind. ‘We haven’t done this for ages, have we?’
There was a time when Nelson and I, plus Gabi, Roger, Woolfe or whichever of Nelson’s other unattached friends were about, would regularly pile in the car and go to Brighton for the day. Obviously, time had erased the slippery pebbles, cold weather and upset stomachs from my mind, but I had fond memories of driving back in contented silence, full of chips, surrounded by friends falling asleep on each other. Happy days.
It was ages since we’d had a day off together, just me and Nelson. I put my arm round his waist and gave him a squeeze.
Nelson responded by slinging his arm round my shoulder for about nine strides, then removing it to get back to his winkles.
‘I should bring Jonathan here,’ I said. ‘He’d love it! Totally English and uncomfortable.’
‘Are you actually going out with Jonathan now?’ Nelson demanded with a snort.
‘No,’ I said, quickly. ‘Of course not. But you know how he sometimes asks me to take him to interesting places in London, so he can get to know it. I thought I might suggest a day-trip to the good old English seaside, that’s all. Nothing’s changed. Why do you ask?’
Nelson gave me a funny look. ‘Because you’re starting to sound as though you’re his real girlfriend, not his pretend one. Jonathan this, Jonathan that . . .’
I blushed, but fortunately my face was already wind-chapped, so I doubted Nelson could tell. ‘Well, I suppose now I’ve got to know him, and we spend quite a bit of time together, we’re on a more friendly basis than I am with my other clients. But there’s nothing fishy going on. He still doesn’t know my real name. I mean, come on, he probably still thinks I’m a natural blonde!’
Nelson ditched his tub of winkles in a bin and moved on to his whelks. ‘Is Honey really so different from Melissa?’
‘Oh, yes, definitely,’ I assured him. ‘Honey’s appallingly cheeky and wears her clothes far too tight. Besides, only you get to see the real off-duty, warts-and-all Melissa.’
‘Do I?’ said Nelson. ‘Then I’m a very lucky man. Remind me to tell Jonathan about your disgusting face packs next time I see him. I’m sure he’ll have lots to say about setting an alarm clock to maximise face-pack development time.’
‘Don’t be mean. He’s not like that.’ I gave Nelson a playful push and he pretended to stagger under the impact. ‘It’s bad enough persuading Gabi that he isn’t some kind of robot.’
‘Ah, Gabi,’ said Nelson, spearing three whelks in a row. ‘How is the Imelda Marcos of Mill Hill?’
Nelson had always tolerated Gabi’s shameless flirting with good grace, and I was fairly sure that was as far as it went, but you never could tell. People could change, after all.
‘Well, the thing is, Nelson,’ I said, carefully, ‘she’s, er . . . Aaron’s proposed. They’re getting married.’
Nelson laughed out loud. ‘The wedding list of the century! Peter Jones must be celebrating!’
‘Don’t you mind?’
‘No! I’m really thrilled for her. Isn’t that what she’s been angling for for years? To be a lady who lunches? No, Gabi’s a great girl and she’ll have a fantastic wedding. Good luck to Aaron, I say . . . Why?’ He looked at me closely. ‘Isn’t it good news?’
I sighed. He hadn’t mentioned anything about love either. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about that.’
‘Well . . . I’m not really.’ I bit my lip, trying to be loyal and not discuss it.
‘Why?’
I wanted to say, it’s totally hypocritical because she never looks at Aaron the way she looks at you, but I hated sounding like such a prig. ‘Because . . . I don’t know if her heart’s in it?’
‘I can’t see Gabi doing anything she doesn’t want to, can you?’ replied Nelson evenly.
‘No, but . . .’ I felt his solid warmth next to me and couldn’t help feeling reassured. Temporarily anyway.
‘You can’t worry about everyone, Melissa.’ Nelson ditched his empty shellfish carton in a bin and put his arm round my shoulders. ‘Just because you’ve had a bit of a rough ride doesn’t mean that Gabi’s going to. And you don’t know that she doesn’t love him, deep down. People have funny ways of showing how they feel.’
He squeezed my shoulder and took my hand to wrap it round his waist. ‘It can be hard to let other people know how you feel,’ he went on, more seriously. ‘I mean, sometimes it’s just easier to make a joke out of things than to expose yourself to, er, ridicule.’
We stopped walking.
‘I know,’ I said, biting my lip, ‘but . . .’
My phone rang in my pocket.
‘Sorry, Nelson,’ I said and fished it out. The number was withheld, which meant it was either the tax people, the mobile-phone people, or a member of my family. None of which options filled me with joy.
‘Hello?’ I said tentatively.
‘Ah, Melissa!’ It was Daddy.
‘Hello, Daddy.’ My blood ran cold at the sound of his voice. I knew everything had all been going too well! A slide show of nightmares whipped through my mind: did he want that blasted loan money? Had he found out about the agency? Or was it some fresh horror?
‘Are you having a nice day?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, I am, thank you,’ I replied, caught off guard by his civility. I stepped away from Nelson and immediately felt cold, inside and out.
‘Good. Because we’re not. We’re having a complete bloody crisis. So stop what you’re doing and get yourself back here. You’re needed at home.’
‘But, Daddy, I’m . . .’
‘Melissa!’ Then he rang off.
I put the phone back in my pocket. br />
‘Nelson,’ I said unhappily, ‘whelk time’s over. I have to go.’
15
The gravel parking circle outside the house was full of cars, which didn’t bode well. I took three long deep breaths, vowed I wouldn’t let them get to me, then rang the bell.
Emery came to the door. She was looking even more wraith-like than usual, with huge dark circles round her eyes and the sort of shattered expression one only tends to see on recently released hostages.
‘Oh my God, Em,’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Daddy.’ She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Daddy has ruined my wedding.’
‘Already?’ I said, taking her by the shoulders. ‘Now, buck up, Emery. Has he really? Or have you just fallen out about the guest list again? You know, most people only have a hundred or so people at their wedding. It’s not compulsory to invite everyone Daddy’s ever met. You don’t have to write off all Mummy’s social debts, you know.’
Emery shook her head. ‘No, it’s just . . .’ She waved her hand hopelessly. ‘Just . . . You know.’ Her head dropped and she let out a small sob. ‘William says . . .’
It would have been nice if Golf-Boy William were showing any sign of participation in his own wedding, other than actually instigating it, but so far he was claiming that work and client management (i.e. golf and squash) had him booked right up, leaving Emery in sole charge of their nuptials. I could see I wasn’t going to get any sense out of her, and with dread building in my heart, I pushed her spindly frame ahead of me, through into the kitchen.
My mother, father and grandmother were sitting around the table, which was piled high with brochures, paperwork, coffee cups, an overflowing ashtray, shredded tissues, and a smashed plate. The atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and bad temper.
‘Melissa! Darling!’ gasped Mummy, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’
I ignored this, since what she really meant was ‘I’m so glad you’re here to deflect some of Daddy’s wrath.’