Amanda's Wedding (19 page)

‘You're so special – I keep telling you that, but you don't believe in yourself. Look, hey, I came all the way back for you, right? You know how messed up my head is. But here I am!'

I looked him in the eye again. He seemed so sincere, so desperate to make it all right. He was nearly in tears himself.

‘Please, Mel.'

We stared at each other for a long time.

‘It's all right,' I said finally. ‘It's all right. It was a long time ago.'

‘Do you mean that? Fantastic you?'

‘Yes,' I said quietly.

‘I thought about you all the time,' he said.

‘Really? I didn't think about you at all.' I forced a laugh.

‘All that crap is over now, I promise. From now on, it's just you and me. In fact, if you could only dump that Fran character, it would be absolutely perfect.'

‘Lex, she's my best friend.'

‘And I'm not?'

‘You're my soul mate, remember?'

‘Oh, yes.'

I had to ask.

‘Do you love me, Alex?'

He smiled and kissed me full on the mouth.

‘Ah shags you, don't Ah?' he said in exaggerated Cockney.

‘Just tell me.'

‘Pet, as much as I love anyone, I love you.'

He left after that. I stood by the door, not wanting to return to the sitting room quite yet. There was a stack of post on a ghastly occasional table. I never bother looking at it usually; bills I let Linda take care of, and everything else she usually flicks under my door. But I leafed through it listlessly, wondering how many animal charities there are in the world. Suddenly I
drew out an envelope addressed to Alex, care of me. It was stiff, white card. How bizarre. Underneath, there was one for me too.

It occurred to me immediately what these were – the wedding invites! After all, how many stiff card envelopes did I normally get? (This was my first.) I could put it on the mantelpiece! Except Linda had already covered it with miniature glass kittens.

I walked back into the living room. Angus and Fran were watching me with obvious concern.

‘I'm sorry!' Fran yelled immediately, to get it in.

‘I'm fine,' I said, sitting down to pour another glass of wine.

‘I was only guessing, Mel. I didn't even think …' Fran looked absolutely stricken. I patted her on the hand.

‘Come on outside. I need to tell you something.'

She followed me.

‘Fran, don't worry. If anything, it did more good than harm. He …' I felt a bit shy and crap. ‘I didn't want to say this in front of Angus, but … he said he loves me. For the first time.'

‘That weasel?' Fran was immediately scornful again. ‘He doesn't love anyone but himself.'

I shot her a look that said she wasn't forgiven.

‘OK, OK, I'll stop. I'm pleased for you. I really am.'

‘Look, Fran, I mean it: are you going to stop being so horrid whenever he's around?'

Fran groaned.

‘Are you? I mean, it's driving him crazy – and me.'

‘OK. OK. If that's what you really want, I'll curb my natural instincts towards that creep.'

I gave her a friendly squeeze. ‘Fran, I'd love your natural instincts – if only they weren't those of a cornered cougar.'

She snarled at me affectionately. We headed back in.

‘Do you two always live in such pitched drama?' asked Angus, who was quietly toying with his wine.

‘Hang on – which one of us is trying to sabotage an entire wedding again? Oh, it's you, isn't it?' I reminded him. ‘Ooh, which reminds me – look!'

I drew out the envelopes.

‘Invitations?' Fran made a grab for them. ‘How come you got two separate ones?'

‘They can afford it, I suppose,' I said airily, opening mine.

I gazed at the gold-rimmed card in shock.

‘That bitch!'

‘What?'

‘Look!'

Fran took it from me.

‘Twenty fucking years! That BITCH!'

Joan and Derek Phillips
, the card said,
invite you to the post-reception of the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at Pyrford Manor on December 21st. A coach will be available to pick up guests from Central London at 4.30 p.m. Formal dress will not be required
.

Fran and I stared at each other. Then she tore into Alex's. Sure enough, it said:
Joan and Derek Phillips
invite you to the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at Pyrford village church, noon on December 21st, after which lunch at Le Coq Fantastique, followed by dancing at Pyrford Manor. Morning Dress
.

Enclosed with both of them was a wedding list, placed at Heal's. The cheapest thing on it was three hundred quid.

Fran and I stared at each other.

‘OK,' I said to Angus. ‘What do we have to do to fuck this wedding up the bum?'

‘It's only fair,' added Fran. ‘For years and years of all that shit she used to pull at school.'

I winced in remembrance. ‘For that time she got the boys to hold us still while she pulled our hair.'

‘For that time she insisted on taking our dinner money and giving it to charity,' hissed Fran.

‘For that time she wouldn't own up to stealing the teacher's ruler and I took the blame.'

‘For that time she told Stacey Norton I wanted to fight with her.'

Angus was watching us, agape.

‘For that time she told on you for stealing lipstick from Woolworths!'

‘Oh yes!' Fran remembered. ‘For that time we were meant to be going to the pictures and she didn't want to go and pretended to be sick until it was too late and we missed it.'

‘Aargh!' I said. ‘That time she got into that nightclub and I didn't, and she didn't come back for me!'

‘That time she got off with Legsy Forters just because you liked him!'

I buried my head under the cushion. ‘Legsy! Legsy!' We were getting hysterical.

‘Let's do it!' shouted Fran. ‘For every mean little thing that bitch has ever done, let's do it.'

I was fired up. ‘Yeah!'

We turned to look at Angus, who was backing away with a scared look on his face.

‘You know, girruls, we only have to reason with them, not blow them up or anything.'

I opened the third bottle of wine.

‘OK, we need a plan.'

‘Well, we're going to the hen night,' said Fran.

‘No we are not.' I shot her a dangerous look.

‘Fine. If you want to stay at home and smooch with the love of your life, so be it. I'm going there for reconnaissance. And I'm going in wired.'

Nobody said anything.

‘You're what?'

‘You heard. Wire me up. I'll tape what she talks about and, if it's suitably evil, we'll play it back to Fraser. Painful, but effective.'

There was a further pause.

‘That is absolutely brilliant!' said Angus.

‘Well, I'd better come too then,' I volunteered. ‘Um … you'd never get in otherwise.'

‘Bet I could.'

‘Stoap it, youse two. I've already got one partnership headache on my hands. OK, Francesca, that's an excellent idea.'

I was watching them closely for some hint of sexual tension, but it was as if nothing had ever happened.

‘You'll need to wear something baggy, so it doesn't show.'

‘I haven't got anything baggy. How do those tarty TV babes do it?'

‘Doesn't matter. We'll sort something out.'

‘Hang on,' I said. ‘What if they aren't sitting together? There's going to be hundreds of people at this bash.'

‘Well, you're both just going to have to be really friendly.'

Fran sneered. ‘Yeah, given that she didn't even ask us in the first place, that's going to be easy.'

I had a flash of inspiration. ‘I know! You could pretend you're completely pished and pass out underneath the table at her feet! Then you'll catch everything.'

Both of them looked at me with surprised faces.

‘Maybe you could do that bit,' said Fran. ‘Then we wouldn't have to pretend.'

‘Ha ha ha,' I said sulkily.

‘OK, right, just try and stay close to her and make sure she does a speech,' said Angus excitedly. ‘Then we'll play it to Frase and he'll come to his senses!'

‘How will he know we haven't taped the Queen's Christmas message? That's what she sounds like,' I said.

‘Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.'

I was pretty excited all week after that. Well, we had a mission now. The following night, Alex and I went out
for a very cosy romantic dinner. He thought the plan was on the childish side, but I didn't mind so much about that. And he had an interview for a job, at a record company, which meant things were looking up. He lived rent-free at Charlie's gaffe, though, and got regular influxes of guilt money from both parents, so he was never going to starve. I toyed with my mussels and gazed out the window of Café Rouge – OK, not exactly the Ritz, but it would do for now.

Late-night opening, Fran and I went to find a microphone, which was easier said than done, especially in the high street electrical outlets.

‘Have you got a small mike?' I asked the glazed-eyed brat standing next to the door. He looked blankly at the CD shelves and nervously pretended to look for something that clearly wasn't there.

‘Eh, um, naow.'

‘What's this?' asked Fran, smiling sweetly and picking up a microphone.

‘Yeah, it's a mike, yeah.' The boy scratched himself nervously. Where did they grow these morons?

‘Have you got any small ones?' Fran continued to encourage him.

‘That's, uh, as small as they go, like.' I noticed the damp patches under his arms.

‘So … what's this, then?' said Fran, picking up a smaller mike. I grimaced at her to stop.

The boy stood there, staring straight ahead in a catatonic state to avoid answering the question. I wondered if he ever got punched.

‘Look,' I said to the boy, ‘it's simple: we just want
a tiny microphone, like they have on TV – you know, TV? – that we can attach to a Walkman to tape something with.'

He focused again, and came out of about-to-be-punched mode. ‘I'll … I'll check out the back.'

And he disappeared. For ever. Finally, Fran growled at an assistant manager long enough for him to sell us one.

She tried it on in the nearest wine bar, slotting the tape machine inside her jeans and the mike tucked inside her shirt. Then we disappeared into a toilet cubicle together to check whether it was working or not.

‘God, you've got noisy tits,' I told her, rather too loudly.

‘Shh! For God's sake. Now, hang on.' She wound the tape back and switched it on. And sure enough, there it was, slightly muffled: the boring conversation between two old bankers who'd been sitting next to us. Every word of their interminable discussion about insurance rates was clearly distinguishable. We grinned at each other over the seedy loo.

‘Partying again?' said Cockney Boy on Friday morning, clocking my little glittery bag and spare pair of tights. ‘You'll be turning into a right alcoholic at this rate.'

‘What, you mean I'll feel ill in the mornings? I thought that was just the effect of seeing you.'

‘You think you're well funny, don't you?'

‘Actually, no. But as long as I'm annoying you, I don't care.'

He went and got himself and Janie a cup of coffee and didn't get me one. Bastard.

I was very worried about the night ahead. What if Amanda hadn't booked for us? What if she wouldn't let us in? What if everything cost £100 and we couldn't afford it? – Fran was permanently skint anyway.

And what on earth did we think we were doing? I mean, she deserved it in principle, but surely our interference wasn't going to make much difference: people would do what they were always going to do, except they'd hate me into the bargain.

I sighed deeply over my copy. Really, I wanted to stop my life for a moment, get off and catch my breath, then start again, instead of dashing on headlong. I tried to do some deep breathing exercises, but after thirty seconds I realized I was bored rigid, and if I stopped to think about everything that was going on I'd probably end up in a catatonic state listening to people pity me as they loaded me into an ambulance. So I phoned Fran and arranged what time I'd meet her.