It was all too much. The presentation, the cock shot, the fight, the train, my lack of a manicure, My Two Dads sitting opposite. I really wanted to have a little cry.
‘Seriously. Do not freak out. I’ll work out what’s the fastest way to get you home and we’ll fire up Grandpa’s jet if we have to.’
Ooh. Silver lining.
‘Just stay calm, get something to eat and chill out. I’ll see you in two hours.’
‘See you in two hours,’ I replied, practising being calm for her and thinking about what I was going to eat. I hung up and popped the phone back in my bag.
The man in the outside seat leaned towards me and coughed politely. I looked up, ready for another fight, but he looked surreptitiously from side to side before putting his hand over his mouth to speak.
‘So just how big was this cock?’ he whispered.
‘Good luck with everything tomorrow,’ Brian, one of my new best friends, said as we hugged it out on the platform of the Gare du Nord. ‘I just wish we could be there.’
‘Me too.’ I wiped away a tear and swapped hugging partners to make sure Terry didn’t get jealous. Terry was the jealous type. ‘But you two have a lovely weekend. You deserve the break. You work too hard.’
‘I tell him all the time.’ Terry gave me a big squeeze. ‘But does he listen?’
‘Well he’ll listen now I’ve told him,’ I reassured him. ‘Now go on, before you miss your dinner reservations.’
I waved them off as Delia came running over, a look of confusion replacing the air of panic about her. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.
‘New friends,’ I said, accepting my third hug in as many minutes. ‘Good friends.’
‘That’s cute.’ She handed me a ticket. ‘Now get your ass back on that train.’
‘We’re not taking the jet?’ I was more than a little bit disappointed.
‘This is quicker.’ She gave me a push. ‘Don’t worry, I have a bottle of champagne in my bag. I figured we’d need it.’
‘I know I do.’ I linked my arm through hers and looked at my watch. ‘Is it really only five-thirty?’
‘Mais oui,’ Delia replied. ‘I’ll have you home to your mom by eight at the latest.’
Home by eight. I could only imagine what had been going on in my absence.
‘And I have some good news.’ She slipped her arm through mine and pulled me back towards passport control. ‘Grandpa called. Your presentation seems to have gone over pretty well.’
‘It did?’ I made a deal with myself to ensure there was a cracking great phallus in all of my PowerPoint documents from now on.
‘It did,’ she said. ‘And so did mine. Which means we’re on.’
We’re on. We were on. Gloss was happening. I stopped still, just to let the moment sink in. And also because I was afraid my legs might crumble underneath me at any moment.
‘But you get no say in the cover design,’ Delia said as she dragged me down the station. ‘Grandpa told me to make that quite clear.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
It turned out one bottle of champagne was quite enough, and I was almost relaxed, full of Ladurée macaroons and the thrill of success, when my taxi pulled up outside my mum’s house not long past eight, as promised. Delia was staying with friends in Mayfair and had promised to have Cici hunted down and strung up as a wedding present by morning. Or at least early afternoon. I hadn’t even got my keys in the lock before the door was flung open by Jenny, complete with new Bluetooth headset, who dragged me in and tossed me into the kitchen. She gave me a warning finger and pointed at a dining chair. Apparently I was to sit down.
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’re heartbroken.’ Jenny pressed a finger against the earpiece. ‘But I need a serving staff here tomorrow at twelve. So I’ll see you then.’
She shook her head and put the phone and earpiece on the table.
‘How anyone gets shit done in this country, I do not know,’ she grumbled. ‘The caterer’s mom died and she wanted to cancel. Can you believe it?’
‘Shit, Jenny.’ I wondered if it was cancer. I wondered if my mum knew them. ‘Serious?’
‘I know − it’s like, be professional.’ She looked super-annoyed and had missed my point entirely. But never mind.
‘But is everything else all right?’ I asked. The back garden was pitch black so I couldn’t see if anything had happened. ‘I’m so sorry about this afternoon.’
‘Jenny to the rescue.’ She sat down beside me and held out her hands. ‘Whatever. Did you hear from Bob Spencer? Did you hear about Gloss?’
I nodded, my non-manicured hands pressed against my lips. ‘We got it.’
Jenny pulled me into her arms and screamed, bouncing around all over the kitchen and taking me with her. I was excited that she was excited, but I was a little bit sad that I would now be deaf in my left ear on my wedding day.
‘Thank you so much.’ I pressed down on her shoulders to reset the bouncing mode. ‘You saved the day.’
‘Hey, it’s what I do.’ Jenny smiled brilliantly, the perfect ad for Crest Whitestrips. ‘It’s who I am.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘Is everything else OK?’
‘Today was not without its challenges,’ she admitted. ‘I probably shouldn’t have thrown my phone in the river. That didn’t help. But it will all come off. Louisa has been super-helpful. Your mom and dad are going to hate me by the end of this, but I kinda got everything done that needed doing.’
It was good enough for me.
‘Now. What do I need to do?’ I asked.
Jenny made a clucking noise and turned to a tab in her notebook marked ‘Angela’. ‘Since you missed all of your beauty appointments …’ She frowned. I frowned. And then tried not to because I hadn’t had Botox. Not that I was supposed to get Botox. As far as I knew. ‘We need to do your mani-pedi, maybe a little mini facial, but nothing harsh, and I want to get a deep conditioner on that mop of yours.’
‘What about my lowlights?’ I was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to darken the tone of my hair by ten percent. My wedding absolutely could not happen unless my hair was ten percent lower. ‘Jenny, what about my hair?’
‘It’ll be fine.’ She waved a hand at me. ‘I might have been overreacting.’
It was still a concern, but if she was going to let it slide, so was I.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ I asked. The house seemed so quiet. ‘Do they all hate me? Have they buggered off on holiday?’
‘Your mom and dad went out for dinner. Louisa is at home making sure Grace’s flower-girl outfit fits, and shut up before you start.’ She gave me another warning finger. ‘Sadie is at her hotel because she couldn’t conceive of crossing the river. James was gonna come over but he didn’t because he’s a flake. Alex is somewhere with Craig and Graham and yeah, that’s everyone. It’s just you and me, pal.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. And it did. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do the night before my wedding than veg out on the settee with Jenny, doing my nails and potentially drinking the bottle of white wine my mum hid under the sink behind the Cif mousse. ‘Pizza?’
‘You know, it’s too late to do any damage now.’ She picked up her phone. ‘Pizza me.’
A few hours later, I was slouched on the sofa, almost at the end of Die Hard (my choice), having already watched Pretty Woman (Jenny’s choice). There was an empty Domino’s box on the floor and I was holding my nails held carefully away from the carpet even though they’d been dry for ages. Jenny was curled up in a corner, so fast asleep that even the untimely end of Alan Rickman couldn’t wake her. Mum and Dad had snuck in a while ago and poked their heads around the door just to check we were adhering to the sleepover rules and not making international phone calls or hiding boys anywhere. It felt like any other Friday night in the Clark household. But it wasn’t really. It was the night before my wedding. There was a great big tent in the garden and a boy somewhere in town who was going to come back here tomorrow and marry
me. I just couldn’t quite believe it.
Careful not to wake Jenny, I turned off the TV and covered her with a blanket before creeping upstairs to bed. I just couldn’t take in the fact that this time tomorrow I would be married. But then I hadn’t expected it. I hadn’t expected to spend half an hour in Paris today. I hadn’t expected to be moving to New York two years ago. And if I hadn’t, maybe I’d already be married. Maybe I’d already have a baby. Maybe I wouldn’t have given a presentation that included a technicolour image of a six-foot cock. Maybe I would never have lived. Just the thought of how many ‘maybes’ had brought me to this time and this place took my breath away. I had found Alex as a result of a thousand bad decisions made every single minute of every single day until we met. Ever since then, even the bad days seemed more manageable. He made everything make sense, he made everything else more bearable, and I knew that as long as we were together, everything else would work itself out in its own time. I lay down on the bed with a smile on my face and slept sounder than I could ever have imagined I might.
Morning came quickly. I woke up with the nervous excitement of every Christmas and birthday that had ever gone before bundled up in one great big ball of stomach-churning giddiness. Wedding day. Wedding day. Wedding day.
The curtains were leaking with bright sunshine − a good start, I thought − and when I pulled them aside, I spotted the marquee at the end of the garden in all its bright white glory. Closer to the house, Jenny was barking orders at a large man carrying a stereo speaker. Another large man, verging on burly, was stringing lights all over the garden. My fairy lights! I felt like such a girl.
‘Angela, are you awake?’ Mum knocked and let herself in, carrying a cup of tea. ‘Good, you’re up. I told Jenny to let you sleep in, but apparently we need you awake now if we’re going to “stay on schedule”.’
Hearing my mum use verbal air quotes made me very happy.
‘Oh.’ I clapped once and dived into my suitcase. ‘Happy birthday!’
Mum pretended to look surprised, but we both knew, wedding day or no wedding day, that if I’d forgotten her sixtieth birthday I’d need more than crutches to get down the aisle. I grabbed the little blue carrier bag out from underneath my knickers and presented it to her with a little ‘ta-da’.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said without a trace of authenticity in her voice. I knew I should have and so did she. Inside the bag was a small box, and inside the small box was a gold chain holding a delicate Tiffany heart and a delicate little ‘A’ and ‘C’ in golden letters. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And when you cark it, we’ve got the same initials so I’ll be able to wear it!’ I exclaimed happily. Mum didn’t look quite as amused as I did. And she was supposed to be the practical one. ‘As a touching tribute,’ I added, helping her fasten the tiny clasp behind her neck. ‘Because I love you.’
‘Get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes,’ she said. ‘And thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said back. ‘And I’m sure you’re not going to die soon.’
‘I’m glad one of us is,’ she called on her way down the stairs. ‘This wedding will be the death of me yet.’
‘OK, listen up, flower people.’ Jenny was standing in the conservatory, perched on a crate, shouting at a group of annoyed florists. ‘The garden is marked into four different areas − you are each in charge of a specific area. Please go now and familiarize yourself with your location and then start bringing the flowers in. Any questions, I’m right here. Go.’
‘You know they say people who choose to be florists have the same psychological profile as serial killers,’ I commented, nursing my tea. ‘I’d watch myself if I were you.’
‘Happy wedding day!’ she trilled, bouncing off the box and bounding over to me, her hair wild and her eyes terrifying. ‘I have had so much caffeine. We are on fire.’
‘Please don’t die,’ I whispered mid-hug.
‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘So everything is going to be fine. I’m just waiting to hear from the catering people about what time they’re getting here. They’re running late because of the whole dead mom thing, and then we’re waiting on the cake and the dress, and after that, it’s just me, you, a whole shit-ton of make-up and a good strong mimosa. Sound good?’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, trying to suppress my smile and calm the spinning sensation in my stomach. ‘I know this is going to be an odd question, but what time am I getting married?’
‘Two.’ She looked at her clipboard to confirm. ‘We’ve got four hours. Although people will be arriving from one, so really three hours. And the photographer will be here to take pictures of you getting ready from around eleven. So you have one hour, because you need to be kinda ready before he starts taking pictures of you, you know.’
‘Getting ready?’ My head was already spinning with the timings. ‘Have I got time to have a bath?’
‘Yes. But you have to eat first,’ she said, turning her attention back to the garden. ‘Nothing heavy! Wedding dress!’
‘Nothing at all,’ I said to myself, holding my stomach. I was almost certain I was going to spew. ‘Bath first.’
The house was loud and busy, but no one seemed to be terribly interested in what I was doing so I shut myself in the bathroom, ran a deep, deep bubble bath and locked the door. Pouting, I looked at my phone, holding it well away from the water. There were a couple of texts but nothing incredibly exciting. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it hadn’t happened yet. Perhaps something between a telegram from the Queen and a cavalcade of Facebook birthday wishes. Served me right for never really using Facebook.
I was afraid to stay in the bath for too long, so I took care of business, shaving my legs, scrubbing off at least three layers of skin and making a bubble-bath bikini before climbing out and turning on the shower. The ultimate indulgence − a bath-shower; and, as my mother was bound to point out, a waste of water when there was a hose-pipe ban. Before too long I was pink-skinned and fresh as a daisy. My black eye was all but gone and the scratches on my legs and arms were going to be pretty easy to cover up. My limp still threatened to add a touch of Keyser Söze to my march down the aisle, but I was fairly certain I could get away with my heels as long as I took a painkiller an hour before I needed to wear them and didn’t drink for another hour after that.
I moved the solo primping party from the bathroom to the bedroom and blow-dried my hair, not sure what Jenny was planning to do with me later. I smothered myself in moisturizer and checked my mani-pedi. All perfect.
Hmm. Wrapped in my dressing gown, I didn’t know quite what else to do. And it was only a quarter to eleven. Resting my chin on my forearms, I gazed out of the window at the back garden. Jenny was bounding around like a children’s TV presenter, all neon jeans and headset. My mum was taking a case of champagne into the marquee. I couldn’t see my dad. But I could hear him. Somewhere in the garden, somewhere I couldn’t see and part of me hoped I never would, I heard a brass band begin. Wow. They were not subtle. And if I was not very much mistaken, they were playing possibly one of the least wedding-appropriate songs of all time − I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred. Without a second’s hesitation, I picked up my phone and called Louisa.
‘Hello? Are you OK?’ she answered quickly. ‘I’m coming over in, like, fifteen minutes. Grace just threw up on my dress.’
‘Your bridesmaid’s dress?’ I asked, horrified.
‘No?’ I could tell she was lying. ‘Not at all. Twenty minutes.’
‘Don’t rush. To be honest with you, there’s not much I can do at the moment. I feel like Rapunzel locked in her bedroom. Well, there is this,’ I said, leaning out of the window. I stuck my phone out as far as I could reach and put Louisa on speaker.
‘I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, babe,’ she shouted over the music. ‘They’re bloody terrible. But your dad promised they weren’t going to play their Sexy Medley, so maybe they’re warming up?’
‘Sexy
Medley?’
‘I’m Too Sexy, Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? and You Sexy Thing,’ she stated. ‘On brass instruments. Your dad has a solo in You Sexy Thing.’
‘I’m going to throw up.’ I closed the window but the music kept on coming. ‘Alex better not have told him he can play during the ceremony.’
Louisa was silent.
‘Fucking hell.’
‘It’s all going to be perfect, Ange,’ Lou promised. ‘I’ll see you in a bit. Grace looks so cute, you’ll want to eat her face.’
‘I am peckish,’ I said, trying to work out if my stomach was growling with hunger, nerves or the thought of my dad’s trumpet solo. ‘See you in a bit.’
The garden, unlike my bedroom, was all action. I watched florists bring in stacks and stacks of peonies. I watched assorted burly men install the PA system and hang my lights. I watched Jenny flapping her arms around like a very attractive but angry flamingo, and I wished I could help. Sort of. When the doorbell went, I ran downstairs, determined to get involved in my own wedding.
‘Hi, bride.’
It was Chloe with my dress.
‘You want?’ She handed over a big garment bag, and I couldn’t stop myself from squealing with delight as she draped it over my arms before sliding a large, stiff cardboard carrier bag onto my wrist. ‘This is all the accessories and bits and pieces,’ she explained. ‘I really wish I could stay and see you in it, but I’ve got to deliver a ton of other stuff today, and the shop is always busy on Saturdays.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. I was bouncing with excitement again and couldn’t wait for her to leave so I could go back upstairs and get into the frock. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘No worries.’ She leaned over the dress to kiss me on both cheeks and patted the garment bag lovingly. ‘Just enjoy it. I know it sounds stupid, but people forget to.’
‘Thanks.’ I hugged the dress tightly. ‘Again.’
Closing the door, I held the bag up high and the light from the kitchen window created a halo around it. My precious.