‘OK,’ he said, removing his arm. ‘OK, I see. That’s cool. I apologise.’
‘No, Jonathan, listen,’ I gabbled. ‘Don’t get the wrong end of the stick, I don’t mind you putting your arm around me. I mean, it’s fine!’
But a huge barrage of shells, rockets, and God knows what exploded at that point, and I don’t think he heard me. It was like the Somme up there and yet I have never enjoyed a firework display less.
I grabbed his arm to get his attention, and he yelled something back to me, with quite a stern expression on his face, but I couldn’t hear a word he said, and my lip-reading is useless.
‘What?’ I yelled desperately. ‘What? I can’t hear you!’
You know that feeling just after you’ve dropped your car keys – when you can see them slipping out of your fingers, and you know you’ve struck the one in a hundred chance of them falling right down the drain, but there’s absolutely no way of stopping them, and all you can do is watch as they slip down and splash into the slime?
Well, that’s how I felt.
Abruptly, as if the council had unexpectedly run out of money, the fireworks ceased, there was a round of applause and suddenly relative quiet descended around us as the crowd began to disperse via the hot-dog stands and smelly burger vans.
How did that situation go so wrong, I wondered miserably.
With perfect timing, my phone started ringing in my bag.
I knew from the ringtone that it was my own phone, not my work one – which I’d only brought so Jonathan could get hold of me – but whatever I said now would look like a fib.
‘Your cell phone is ringing,’ observed Jonathan.
‘I know. It’s my own line. I’m going to ignore it.’ I tried a big smile.
‘Don’t do that on my account,’ said Jonathan, and his voice sounded polite, but distinctly distant, as though I were a client he was showing round a house.
I looked at him, hoping to see a twinkle in his eyes, but there wasn’t one. Not even a twinkly reflection from the bonfire.
I unzipped my bag and extracted my phone.
It was Nelson.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded loudly. So loudly I was sure Jonathan could hear.
‘Near the main gate,’ I said, even though we were some way away from it.
‘Good. If you can get to the car in the next fifteen minutes we’re going to Nando’s for chicken. Stuff that hat up your jumper and tell people you’re pregnant – they should let you through faster.’
I looked at Jonathan as I slipped the phone back into my bag. He looked older, more grown-up than me, as though he should be there with two excited children clinging to his hands, and I was suddenly crushed by my own misreading of the situation. Without the euphoria of the fireworks and the music whipping me up into a frenzy of fantasy, it hit me like a ton of bricks. All that stuff about Carolyn and Hughy, then checking with me that I knew it was work: he was being kind, trying to put me straight. He was being a gentleman, which only made me feel more of a silly little girl. An inexperienced silly little girl.
My insides felt as if they’d been removed with an ice-cream scoop: I was completely hollow and numb.
‘I, er, I have to go,’ I said, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else but stuck next to Jonathan in a stationary crush.
Appropriate as that might be.
‘Your room-mate?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
I wanted to yell, ‘No, you don’t!’ but what was the point? Even the word ‘room-mate’ sounded so juvenile; he’d be going back to that beautiful family home in Barnes, and here I was going back to a shared house in a run-down street in Pimlico.
I could virtually hear my father chuckling at my gaucheness.
‘Honey, I’ve had a great evening,’ he said, adjusting his scarf. ‘Thanks for taking time out of your own Bonfire Night to organise it for me. Apologise to your friends for my taking you away, will you?’
‘That’s no problem,’ I said faintly. ‘Thank you for the whisky.’
He gave me a brief smile, and for a second I thought he was going to lean forward and kiss my cheek. He made a tiny movement, then checked himself, lifted a hand and, turning, marched off, in completely the wrong direction.
‘Jonathan!’ I yelled.
He turned back.
‘You’re going the wrong way!’ I yelled, conscious of everyone looking at me. ‘You need that exit over there if you want to get a taxi home.’
He shrugged, and carried on walking the way he’d been going.
I stared after him until his cashmere overcoat disappeared into the crowd, then I let myself be carried along like a zombie on the wave to the gate.
19
I woke up the next morning with a dull headache. Gabi and Nelson had wanted to make a night of it after our chicken dinner, but I hadn’t been in the mood for drinking. However, in place of a hangover, a heavy sense of foolish anticlimax covered me like a smelly old blanket.
I was conscious that there was something sitting on my bed, and it smelled strongly of Jo Malone’s Red Roses, which rather ruled out Nelson.
‘Mel,’ said a wheedling voice. ‘Are you awake?’
I hadn’t yet opened my eyes, so I tried to pretend I wasn’t.
‘Mel?’ Gabi repeated, more insistently. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea!’
That was when I knew she wanted something, and when Gabi wanted something it was best to capitulate as early as possible.
Without opening my gummy eyes, I flung back the eiderdown so she could get underneath. It was cold in my bedroom. Nelson liked to switch on the central heating at the last possible minute, to save on fuel bills, or, as he put it, ‘to cut down on environmental pollutants’.
‘Ooh, it’s as warm as toast in here,’ she said.
‘Flannelette pyjamas,’ I mumbled. ‘You can’t beat them.’
‘Did you have a nice evening with Jonathan?’ asked Gabi, wriggling herself into the warm bedding.
‘Yes, and no.’
‘I had a nice evening with Nelson,’ she said smugly. ‘A lovely evening.’
‘Did you?’ My heart sank. Now I was more awake, all I could see in my mind was the distant, adult look that had come over Jonathan’s face when I’d failed his mobile-phone test. If it had been a test. Whatever.
Oh Lord. What a mess.
I shut my eyes again but the face was still there. I buried my nose in my pillow and tried to think about Emery’s wedding dress, and the new designs she’d sent me in the post. It didn’t help.
‘Yes, we had a great old chat before you turned up,’ Gabi went on. ‘He was asking me about work and stuff, and told me all about this sailing trip to Ireland he’s got planned with that plank Roger Trumpet.’ She went quiet when I didn’t respond, then said, ‘Me-e-e-e-el . . . ?’
‘What?’
‘You know, I’ve been thinking really hard about what you said. About sorting out my feelings for Nelson before I work out what to do about Aaron.’
‘I don’t know that’s exactly what I did say,’ I began, but Gabi wasn’t listening.
‘Will you talk to him? To Nelson?’ she pleaded.
It was just getting worse and worse.
‘What do you want me to say?’ I groaned.
‘Just . . . just get a sense of how he feels about me. So I’ll know.’ Gabi twisted the duvet round her legs again. ‘Then there can be no what ifs.’
I was fairly sure I could tell her right there and then about how Nelson felt, but my conscience cut in. Maybe I didn’t know. If she was asking me, I had to do it for her, as her best friend. And I’d have to explain Nelson’s feelings to her, as Nelson’s best friend. Anyway, just because I was feeling low, there was no excuse for taking it out on Gabi, and, if I did talk to Nelson, it might knock things on the head once and for all.
Besides, he might surprise me by declaring his hidden passion for her.
I surprised myself with
a wave of new depression at that thought.
‘Do you want me to say anything about . . . um, about how you feel about him?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what are your feelings?’
‘You don’t need to go into my feelings,’ she said hastily. ‘Not unless he admits he’s been in love with me for years. Then you can say I’m quite fond of him.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But you have to promise not to shoot the messenger if the news is bad. Bear in mind that I haven’t had to do this since I was in the fifth form. And I wasn’t very good at it then.’
‘No problem,’ said Gabi cheerfully, and wound her feet into the warm cotton sheets that were now cocooning her like a fat larva.
I made a lame attempt to get some of my eiderdown back, but Gabi had it firmly trapped. No wonder Aaron never slept over at hers. I gave up, got up and went for a shower.
Even after a shower with every single one of my ‘saved for best’ bath-time treats, a dismal sense of gloom hung over me. I couldn’t face my usual Saturday morning tidy-up and I certainly didn’t want to hang around to watch Gabi drool over Nelson, so I went to the one place where I didn’t feel like a complete idiot: my office.
I didn’t often go into the office on a Saturday, but recent events had left me somewhat behind on my paperwork. I’d been putting off my monthly financial review for ages, and if there was one thing growing up with my father had taught me it was to keep on the right side of the tax people. And if I got sick of that, there was always Emery’s dress to tackle.
Just being in the office was reassuring: I was in control here. The open diary on the desk, the next few weeks filled with appointments in different coloured inks, gave me a boost, and I was grateful for it.
There were two messages on my answerphone: the first from Jonathan, who must have called just after I left to meet him in Battersea.
‘Hey there,’ he began with a clunk where he’d picked his phone up off speed-dial, ‘really looking forward to this evening . . .’
I fast-forwarded it, unable to hear the rise and fall of his voice, so grown-up and assured, without cringing.
The next message was from Bryan Birkett, the man so wet he was unable to call off his own engagement. ‘Hello, Honey,’ he said. ‘Um, you haven’t returned my call from yesterday, so I’m leaving another, in case you, er, didn’t get it. I was wondering if you were around for a drink sometime this week? I mean, I’m, er, I’m having trouble with my, um, mother’s birthday present and I’d appreciate some advice. I’m free all week. I think you have my number – I put it on the remittance slip for your invoice, but in case you’ve misplaced that, let me give it to you again, it’s—’
I fast-forwarded that too, before Bryan could reel off his numbers. This was actually the third pointless message he’d left for me now; though I felt rather sorry for him, I was beginning to wonder if he was developing an unhealthy dependence. Some clients were like that: so relieved to find someone to make decisions for them that they quickly wanted to dump every single life decision in my lap. I tried to be kind but firm. Sometimes firm wasn’t enough, but actively rude wasn’t in my natural repertoire.
I made a note to put Bryan in touch with a tough-talking counsellor chap I’d met at a party in Islington with Jonathan. He’d have no compunction about telling him to get a life, and Bryan definitely wouldn’t be tempted to ask him out for drinks.
I spent a few hours filing loose papers, making a list of invoices to chase up, and then cross-referenced my client file cards with the diary, checking for mothers with birthdays, or anniversaries requiring flowers, or godchildren who might expect attendance at confirmations. It was soothing, satisfying work, and time flew past, until the street lights flickered on as dusk fell outside.
Then my mobile phone rang, and I was shocked at how quickly I grabbed it, just in case it was Jonathan.
‘Hello?’ I said.
There was a long silence, then a familiar, absent-minded woman’s voice ventured, ‘Hello? Who’s that?’
‘Emery.’ I leaned back in my chair and drew the curtains. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know . . . Um, I was just phoning to check you got the parcel?’
I drew a deep, patient breath. ‘No, I didn’t. Which parcel was that?’
‘The favours, dummy!’
Emery and I had spent an interminable afternoon trying to decide on new table favours since the wedding planner had absconded with Emery’s ‘final four choices’. I had no idea whole favour catalogues existed, filled with mind-boggling variations on the ‘bag of sugared almonds’ theme, but they did.
‘I ordered them, like you told me to,’ she said, sounding very pleased with herself.
‘Did you?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said Emery, in a hurt voice. ‘I got a very good deal for them too. They were at least half what you thought they were going to cost.’
‘Well done you,’ I said, mentally scouring my brain for any stray parcels that had arrived. ‘Did you, er, did you have them sent to Nelson’s?’
‘Dur!’ honked Emery. ‘Of course I did! Where else would I have them sent to, you idiot?’
‘Um, good point,’ I agreed quickly, then a fresh thought occurred to me. ‘Emery, why did you have them sent to me? You’re the one getting married, aren’t you?’
The line went vague. ‘Mmm. Got to go, Mel,’ said Emery. ‘Daddy’s just come in with William. They’ve been out clay-pigeon shooting.’
I could hear the distant sound of an argument. Daddy liked to give his potential sons-in-law a rigorous preparation for their married life.
‘Emery? Emery? Listen, we need to talk about your invitations. If we don’t get them ordered soon, there won’t be time to . . .’
As was her annoying habit, she hung up without saying goodbye, which left me gabbling away pointlessly to myself for a good two minutes.
With a big sigh, I closed my desk diary. No parcels had arrived for me at home and I was sure I’d have noticed a box like that, but then recently Nelson had dropped one or two things off for me at the office, if I’d been working late and needed cheering up. There was nothing in my little foyer, so I went into the cupboard-like spare room, where I kept Emery’s wedding bits and bobs, well out of Gabi’s sensitive sight.
Lo and behold, under a bag with fabric in it, was a large box addressed to me from grace&favour.com.
I stared at it. It was a timely reminder of how I needed to get a better grip on what was going on in my life. How had I failed to notice that there? And how long had those clothes I’d sorted out for the charity shop been lingering?
I carried the box back into the office, wondering why it was so heavy. God alone knew what Emery had considered appropriate favours for her wedding tables – the last time we’d talked about it, she’d murmured something about lumps of pink clay at each setting, so guests could mould love-hearts for a massive sculpture for their new garden.
As soon as I got the box open, I understood why she’d managed to get such a good deal – and also why she’d had the box sent to me: it contained about three thousand circles of tulle, several hundred miniature rosebuds, half a hundredweight of multicoloured sugared almonds and enough ribbon to gift-wrap St Paul’s Cathedral. Emery hadn’t stinted on the optional decorations; she seemed to have ticked every box to be on the safe side.
And every bit was bloody self-assembly.
The instructions featured mother, daughter and sisters sitting round the family table, looking warmly at each other – a sort of hen night, but with paper rosebuds and home-spun advice.
Still, I thought miserably, helping myself to a couple of sugared almonds, at least it would take my mind off the accounts.
Which I still hadn’t tackled.
I put Ella Fitzgerald on my stereo and had done about forty bonbonnières – enough for one table, the way the guest list seemed to be going – when my phone rang again: it was Nelson and I was astonished to realise it was half six already.
‘Hello
,’ he said. ‘Where are you? Don’t tell me, I can hear soothing, spending music. Are you shopping?’
‘I’m in the office. And I’m working,’ I said. It gave me a warm glow of saintliness. I understood why Nelson liked to say it so much.
‘Really? Are you going to come home for supper?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just bought some lamb so free-range it still has walking boots on.’
I looked queasily at the pile of sugared almonds in front of me. Pink ones, it seemed, did not have a different flavour to the lilac, green or blue ones. I was sure my tongue now matched my office decor. ‘You know, I think I might have to stay here for a bit longer. But you go ahead and make supper for yourself if you want to.’
Nelson tutted down the phone. ‘Come home, Miss Martyr,’ he said. ‘You’ve made your point. So you’re now so busy and successful that you have to work weekends. Please come back. The house is too eerie and peaceful without you here.’
‘Well, OK then,’ I said. ‘Are you, um, alone?’
‘Quite alone, thank you,’ he said. ‘Gabi made a big point of telling me she was going home to her mother’s, so we could have the place to ourselves. Do you know why she might have done that?’
‘No idea,’ I said, with a grim sense of obligation. ‘OK, I’m coming back, but I should warn you that there are about two hundred and thirty-seven bonbonnières still to make.’
‘What?’
‘It’s French for “waste of money”.’
‘Do you want to bring your accounts back too?’ asked Nelson. ‘I imagine you’ve been putting them off for a while and I’d hate to see you organise Emery’s wedding from a prison cell.’
A tidal wave of relief and gratitude flooded my entire body, counteracting the sugar rush. ‘That would be most kind.’
‘No problem. See you in about an hour then,’ said Nelson. ‘Go and get a bottle of wine. None of your cheap rubbish either, please. My lamb has high standards.’
After supper, I cleared away the plates, and dumped my box of favour ingredients on the table, along with a second bottle of wine.