Amanda's Wedding (13 page)

‘Oh no. We'd win that, bring out a cover record, get asked on to pull the National Lottery lever, and
then
I'd dump him.'

‘Wow! An almost flawless plan.'

‘What do you mean, “almost flawless”?'

I put my arm around her.

‘I'm sorry, dear. But I don't think even the real Keith Harris could win that show.'

She sighed melodramatically. ‘I know. Unless we were up against the fake Joe Dolce.'

‘What's Plan B?'

She giggled maliciously. ‘Plan B is the table next to Amanda's bunch of slavering Sloane witches at her hen night. I thought I'd do lots of shouting and maybe set things on fire.'

I loved that plan.

‘Oh yes, please, please do that, please.'

‘Unfortunately it's on a Friday night, and they're full up.'

‘You checked?' I asked, full of admiration.

‘Well, I'm not called …' she paused. ‘What am I called?'

The man-chomping gonzo of South London
, I didn't say.

‘Ehm … no one calls you anything. Except Fran.'

‘Huh. Well, anyway, so, plan C.'

‘?'

‘Keep reading the papers.'

‘What?'

Fran lifted up her profile dramatically.

‘I am going to shag him to death.'

Oh no. Fran had done this shag-to-death routine before. It was never pretty. It involved a man having a night he would probably never forget, with a woman
he would never normally have a hope of scoring with – i.e. Fran – then having to follow her around in humiliation for weeks begging for a second chance. It had never failed so far, and was a punishment kept for the most flagrant transgressors.

‘Are you sure?' I asked her. ‘That's pretty serious.'

‘It's poetic justice,' she announced sternly, reaching for the phone.

‘Charlie! Hello there! How lovely to hear from you!'

I danced up and down furiously in front of her doing more and more elaborate vomit-miming. She reciprocated by making wanker motions in time with her talking.

‘Yes, that would be super.'

I couldn't not laugh.

‘Eight thirty? I'll see you there … OK, bye now.'

She put the phone down and I let out a suppressed snort of laughter.

‘He's dead!' I said. ‘You just killed a man stone dead!'

‘I doubt he'll be able to even get it out of his pants,' said Fran. ‘It's almost too easy.'

Next day I got in the lift by mistake before remembering my rightful place back in the lime green basement.

Cockney Boy was on fine form. ‘Hey, snoots!' he yelled at me. I gave him my best contemptuous look.
I was a bit worried that I was taking all my career angst out on him. Then I looked at the rash of unbroken pus spots under his shaving line and thought, well, if needs must …

‘Snoots,' he said again, ‘I got off with this girl last night, right. She was all over me.'

‘I know,' I said, smiling sweetly. ‘She's left some dog make-up on you.'

‘Ha,' he said, without humour. ‘Bet you just stayed in watching
EastEnders
, then?'

‘Yes, I did, actually. I didn't know you had a part-time acting job as Robbie Jackson.'

He sneered at me and left me alone. On my right, Janie was red-eyed again. We hadn't got past the everyday stage of my asking her if she was all right when she clearly wasn't, to which she would vehemently nod while being on the brink of tears. I got her a coffee, and didn't get Cockney Boy one, and her eyes brimmed over at such basic human kindness.

At lunch time I took a book and a ciabatta roll – the cool effect rather spoiled by a packet of beef Hula Hoops – into an alcove I'd discovered behind reception. I was rather cross to find it already occupied. Janie was there, snivelling away into a disgusting piece of green tissue. I sighed and mentally abandoned my peaceful lunch.

‘OK, tell me: what's the matter?' As long as it wasn't a lifelong infatuation with
The English Patient
, surely I ought to be able to do something. Oh God, I hoped it wasn't cancer or anything really tough. Or her parents dying – oh no! That would be awful. I
cringed in anticipation. I'd always thought of myself as a kind person, but now I realized that was in fact a complete fallacy. I was really a path-of-least-resistance person. Damn!

Gradually, the sobbing started to slow down. I patted her tentatively on the shoulder, and said ‘Don't worry!' encouragingly. This brought on a fresh wave. My sandwich began to fade away into some dried-out afterlife in my mind.

Finally she stumbled: ‘It's James … my boyfriend … It's – boohoohoo …'

Oh well, at least it was something I could deal with. Not-quite-up-to-scratch boyfriends were my speciality.

‘Right, tell me all about it,' I said. ‘Has he moved to Fulham to live with someone you absolutely hate?'

‘No,' she looked up, momentarily surprised.

‘Whoops, no, that's me,' I remembered. ‘Well, what's he done?'

‘He wasn't at home last night … and he didn't even phone me.' The last part of the sentence was drawn out in melodramatic sobs.

‘Ehm, so what?' I said gaily. ‘Who are you, Ally McBeal? It's not that much of a problem! He was probably just out for a pint or something.'

She sniffed loudly. ‘Why didn't he ring me, then?'

‘Why? Are you two married?'

‘No.'

‘Have you got kids? Pets? Lice?'

‘No.'

‘Well, why did he have to ring you then? You're
both independent.'

God, this was good advice. I was brilliant at this.

She sniffed again.

‘Did you phone him?'

‘Yes,' she said quietly.

‘More than once?'

‘Yes.'

‘How many times?' I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

‘Oh, well … I pretty much just –'

‘– pressed the redial button all night?' I interrupted.

She nodded mutely.

‘Pfff. Bad news. How long have you two been together.'

‘Six weeks.'

I heard
Psycho
music in my head.

‘Oh … OK.'

I settled back into the potted plant. This story was obviously a long one.

It was, but nothing original. After being dumped by her fiancé well into plate-planning stage, she had clung on to any passing flotsam ever since. James was a stockbroker and sounded perfectly dull and nice and nothing to worry about.

‘Nothing to worry about,' I said. ‘He sounds perfectly … nice. And at least he's rich.'

‘I know.' She pouted a little. ‘When we get married I think we could get one of those nice houses in Clapham … if he ever speaks to me again.'

Hang on there, schizo girl!

‘He doesn't know you're getting married, does he?'

‘No.'

‘Then for God's sake, Janie, leave him alone. He's going to do what he's going to do anyway, whether you're crying about it or not.'

She looked as if she was about to cry again.

‘Come on. Stop it. You know it's true. Leave him alone. He sounds nice and you're going to drive him away.'

She sniffed in a final kind of a way and looked up at me.

‘I know. I'm sorry. I just get a bit daft.'

‘Huh! Don't worry about that,' I said heartily, trying to get my hand round to where my sandwich was.

‘What about you?' she said suddenly. ‘How's your love life?'

‘Oh …' I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘It's good. It's fine. No, really, I mean, it's OK, most of the time … Well, ha ha, you know how it is.'

‘Oh well,' she said. ‘Any time you want to talk about it, just let me know.'

Hang on, I thought. Wasn't this … I mean …

‘Righty-ho!' I said. (I never say ‘Righty-ho.')

I looked out through the atrium into the rain.

‘Hula Hoop?'

‘Thanks,' said Janie, and took four.

Alex phoned that night.

‘Hey, pumpkin.'

‘Hey yourself.'

‘What are you up to?'

‘Oh, you know, just hanging around the house in my black, silky, lacy underwear – oh, it's so warm! I must unfasten my negligée.'

‘Yeah yeah yeah.'

‘Oh! Is that the door? Goodness me, hello, plumber. Have you come to … clean out my pipes?'

‘Mel, shut up for just one second.'

‘OK … big boy.'

‘Listen, ehm, Charlie really wants to come to this do on Saturday night.'

‘No he doesn't. He said it sounded complete crap.'

‘Well, when I got back on Sunday he said he really wanted to come, and could I ask you.'

‘God, what's the matter with the boy, is he a Johnny No-Mates? Is this the first party he's ever been invited to? Hang on, no, I mean, is this the latest party he hasn't been invited to?'

‘No, I don't know what it is. He just keeps pestering me, and I said I'd ring you, that's all.'

‘Ah ha ho – I think I know.'

‘What? What is it?'

‘I'm not telling you. And no, he can't. He's annoying.'

‘Oh, go on, Mel – please. Please. For a mate.'

‘A mate? Who, you?'

‘Well, you know what I mean.'

‘You're my mate?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Your soul mate. Now, please, please can you get Charlie an invite?'

‘Alex, is he going to chuck you out if you don't wangle him into this party?'

‘Ehmm … yes?'

‘Good. No, he definitely can't come.'

‘I'll … do the washing-up.'

‘I … probably wouldn't notice.'

‘Oh, go on, Mel. It'll be a laugh.'

I sighed. ‘Fine, fine, if it means that much to you.'

‘Fantastic.' His voice turned curious. ‘Why does he want to come so much then?'

Ha! I don't think Alex really needed to know that. Fran had obviously commenced the process.

‘Ah,' I said. ‘Well …' I said. Then inspiration
struck. ‘Apparently, Charlie's never seen a stripper before and there apparently … might … be one.'

‘No, really? I've never seen one either.'

‘Good God, what is the public school system coming to these days? Anyway, good. I'm glad you're happy. I'll see you on Saturday … unless you feel like popping round now …?'

‘Jeez, Mel, it's two hours away.'

‘Oh! So it is. Saturday, then.'

‘Bye, pumpkin.'

‘Bye, sweetpea.'

I phoned Fraser to check the rapidly extending guest list was going to be all right. Angus had already OK'd our presence by threatening to withhold stripper privileges if we weren't granted entrance, so at least Fran and I were in the clear. Amanda answered.

‘Oh, hi,' I said coolly. I was prepared for this. ‘Is Fraser there?' Hee hee hee.

‘Is that you, Mel, darling?'

Uh-oh: what was this, scary reverse psychology? Maybe she was planning on turning my legs into the legs of a chicken.

‘I'm dreadfully sorry about the other day, darling. Pre-wedding tension and all that.'

I didn't know what to say. She seemed to have had pre-wedding tension for the last twenty-six years.

‘Don't worry about it,' I mumbled.

‘Darling, I'd love you to come to my hen party. Honestly.'

‘But …'

‘No, no “but”s, darling. Please, do come.'

‘What about Fran?' I said loyally. Also I'd be too scared to go on my own.

She sighed. ‘Yes, and Fran too. It's Quagli's at eight, a week on Friday. We'll squeeze you in somehow.'

‘Have you been dropped on the floor and landed on your head?'

‘No, darling, it's just … I thought … Oh, it would be so silly and embarrassing for you two to have to go to Frase's stag night. I mean, the humiliation …'

‘Oh no. We're still going to that. It's going to be a right laugh,' I said.

‘Darling, don't be a silly. It's for boys. They won't want you!'

I knew it! She couldn't bear not being the centre of attention for even one tiny microsecond.