Getting Over Mr. Right (17 page)

As I walked home from work that afternoon, the sun was still shining and it seemed that the world and his missus were out enjoying it. The birds, the bees, even the wasps were out there two by two. I was reminded of my single status at every turn. I had forgotten how bloody awful it was to be on your own in a world that had been made for pairs ever since Noah. Especially during the summer.

What is the best time of year to have your heart broken? The annals of female experience are packed with tales of chronologically thoughtless dumpings. Christmas and New Year’s seem to be favorites. I suppose it makes great sense if you’ve decided that you no longer want to be with someone to call it a day before you have to buy them a Christmas present, or before they get you something ridiculously thoughtful and expensive that ties you in for another six months.

New Year’s must be a rough time to be dumped as well. There you are, looking forward to seeing in the new year with the man of your dreams, then suddenly it’s over and you find yourself in a corner at midnight. At best, you’re fighting back the tears while you watch all the couples who did make it to January 1 together. At worst, you’re avoiding the one single bloke at the party, a geek with a cold sore, who thinks you’re there expressly for the purpose of breaking his three-year sex drought with a shag in the host’s airing cupboard.

Valentine’s Day is another baddy. There’s nothing worse than being single on Valentine’s Day. Except perhaps a card from your mother. I can see how being dumped on your birthday would scar you for life as well. Especially if it’s a big birthday, like forty. You might as well have opened a birthday card to discover it says, “Get a cat.”

Nevertheless I decided that the misery of finding yourself single on Christmas, New Year’s, or Valentine’s Day had nothing on what I was going through. It seemed that I alone in the
whole of England knew the pain of being dumped in the wedding season.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t been single during the wedding season before. I had known the horror of the invitation to which your neatly calligraphed name is appended with the words every girl dreads: “plus one.” Without that elusive “plus one” by my side, I had known the horror of being seated at the “singles” table, only to find that the other guests at said table were only single because they were widowed. In the Second World War.

What Michael had plunged me into was a whole new level of horror. Prior to our breakup, just that summer alone I had accepted invitations to four weddings on behalf of us both. Admittedly, I hadn’t told him about three of them, but I had felt sure that he would be there by my side and so I had confidently added his name to my RSVPs.

Becky had threatened castration when she realized that Michael really was going to leave a gap in one of her carefully put-together tables of eight. I knew that at some point I would have to let the other brides know that Michael was intent on monkeying with their numbers.

“Don’t leave it too long,” Becky had warned me. “There is nothing, nothing on earth more distressing for a bride-to-be than last-minute changes to the guest list.”

“What? Nothing?” I’d responded. “Even the groom getting killed in a freak stag-night accident?”

“That’s not even slightly funny,” said Becky. “I can’t believe you would joke about my fiancé being dead!” She crossed her fingers and knocked on wood as though that would make things better.

I felt suitably chastised, but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t secretly wish that one of the prospective brides would call me and tell me that her wedding had been canceled. Not
because of a death, of course, but perhaps an outbreak of chicken pox, or a surprise pregnancy that meant she wouldn’t be able to get into her dress and had thus decided to postpone the wedding until the following year. Anything, anything at all that would save me having to explain that Michael and I had split up. I just didn’t want to have to go to all those bloody weddings on my own.

The four weddings would begin with Becky’s, which was to take place in less than three weeks. Thursday was to be her hen night.

As Becky’s best friend and chief bridesmaid, I had been charged with arranging her send-off. Back when she first announced her engagement, I had happily taken on the project, though, despite the fact that we’d been friends since childhood, there were very few other girls whom I knew properly on the guest list. Since she’d met Henry, Becky had, inevitably I suppose, spent more time cultivating his pals than vice versa.

Still I realized that I was in trouble when I sent out the first round-robin email, asking everyone on Becky’s list to let me know what might be a suitable date. I had no idea how difficult it was going to be to dovetail the school/holiday/fertility arrangements of a dozen assorted London ladies. Just when I thought I had the perfect day, one of Becky’s invitees (someone who was married to one of Henry’s former coworkers) wrote to tell me that she would be unable to attend on that particular evening as it coincided with her ovulation. I resisted the urge to write back and tell her that coming out and getting rat-arsed with the girls might actually increase her chances of getting laid at the right time.

“Amanda can’t make the eighteenth,” I told Becky.

“Oh, no,” said Becky. “We have to have Amanda. Her husband is really high up in a company that Henry’s applying for a job with.”

I got out my diary again.

And that’s how Becky’s hen night came to be on a Thursday,
rather than the more traditional weekend evening as I had envisioned. Likewise, my plan to spend an afternoon doing the wine-tasting tour at Vinopolis was swiftly voted out in favor of a meal at a smart restaurant in Mayfair. Once Amanda the ovulator got her way over the date of the hen night, she started moving in on the other arrangements, too. She sent an email to everyone on the list raving about the restaurant where she’d had her own “extremely grown-up” hen party and everyone agreed it would be perfect for Becky’s send-off, too. I had no choice but to agree, though the sight of the menu made me blanch. I had organized group outings before and was well used to the fact that someone would skip off without paying their share. If that happened on this hen night, I would be unable to pay my rent. For months. But Becky was really excited about the idea and so that was that.

Thursday rolled around.

I felt like the slowest girl in school when I met Becky’s friends. I knew immediately that I had worn the wrong outfit. My skinny jeans and sparkly top combo, which got a grudging nod of approval from Ellie, was way too casual for the venue and the crowd. I swear that one of them was wearing a black velvet Alice band (and not in an ironic nod to the eighties, which was what I had been aiming for with my pixie boots).

When the woman who turned out to be Amanda arrived, she actually handed me her coat as she walked into the room. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “You look as though you work here.”

I gritted my teeth behind a smile and made a mental note to make sure I was sitting a very, very long way away from that cow. But Amanda wasn’t the only one I didn’t fancy sitting next to. Perhaps it was because I had arranged the evening that Becky’s new friends acted as though I was the hired help. I tried and failed to break into several conversations as we milled in
the bar, sipping cocktails (largely virgin ones). I was met with looks of pure horror when I attempted to get the party started by suggesting that we all don novelty headgear from Claire’s Accessories.

“I suppose I’d better have one,” said Becky, picking out the least horrifying pair of deely-boppers. “Since I am the bride-to-be.”

But I could tell even she was embarrassed.

“Your table’s ready,” said the woman who really was in charge of the restaurant. Not a moment too soon.

I let the other women seat themselves and squeezed in at the very end of the table, opposite an empty seat. There’d been a cancelation. One of Becky’s hens was ovulating a day earlier than expected.

Though all of the women were in theory my contemporaries, they seemed from a different generation. To my left was Isabelle. Her husband had been at college with Henry. As I understood it, she’d just celebrated her thirty-third birthday, but she looked much older. For most of the first course she was engaged in a conversation about prep schools with the woman opposite her. When that woman got up (six months pregnant, bladder fit to burst), Isabelle turned her politest smile on me.

“Do you have children?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Would your husband like to have some?”

“I don’t have a husband,” I admitted. “In fact, I don’t even have a boyfriend right now. I just got dumped!” I said gaily. I tried to chink my glass against hers, as if to toast my hopelessness. She smiled tightly, as though I’d said something slightly distasteful.

“Oh, poor you,” she said, but there was little sympathy in her voice.

“Turned out he’d been seeing someone else for the last few
months,” I continued. “She’s an interior designer. She was doing up his office. You think you’re safe when they’re at work, right? How wrong could I have been …”

Isabelle nodded along, but she was noticeably relieved when the pregnant woman came back from the ladies’ and complained about her stretch marks. That seemed to be infinitely preferable to talking about my faithless ex-boyfriend.

What is it about single women that makes married women so nervous?
I wondered as the conversation carried on without me. Did Isabelle think that being dumped was catching? Did she think I was on the prowl for a new man? It wasn’t as though her husband was there to steal, if I suddenly decided that I had to have a man right at that very moment. I wondered if Becky would stop inviting me to her house as soon as she had a wedding ring on her finger. Probably not. At least, not while Henry’s best mate, Julian, was still single. In fact, since I split up with Michael, I think on balance Becky had actually invited me over more often. I was a welcome addition to her table plans while Julian continued to muck up the nice even numbers.

But the other women at Becky’s hen night seemed to have no interest in wasting talk on me. Isabelle was quickly engrossed in conversation with the woman who had stretch marks and I felt, not for the first time, that marriage and children was an exclusive club for which I never seemed to be wearing the right outfit.

A little later I tried to infiltrate the conversation by offering to refill Isabelle’s glass. She glared at me and looked pointedly at the pregnant girl’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I joked, “I had no idea that you’re not supposed to drink while sitting next to a pregnant woman.”

“Actually, I’m trying for another baby,” Isabelle explained before she turned back to her companion with a roll of her eyes that I couldn’t miss.

A brief but horrible image of Isabelle trying for a baby flitted through my mind. I imagined her face straining as she mounted her husband. “Come on! Come on! I’m ovulating right now!”

I filled my own glass and tried to drink my mind blank again. There was plenty of booze to get through. I’d ordered three bottles of white and three bottles of red, but as far as I could see no one was drinking except me and the bride-to-be.

I don’t think that anyone addressed another comment to me all evening. It was just me and the Sauvignon Blanc from then on. When I got to my feet to raise a toast to our mutual friend, the bride-to-be, I felt such a lurch that I had to sit straight back down again and Becky went untoasted until Amanda, who had chosen the restaurant, noticed the omission and made a little speech of her own.

“Dear Becky,” she said, “I remember the first day we met, when Henry brought you to our little garden party and I said to Tristan, ‘This is her. This is Henry’s little Miss Right.’ Well, I’m so glad that I was right and that I can be here today to celebrate your forthcoming marriage. I’ve known you for just a couple of years, but I truly feel, Becky, with my hand on my
little
heart, that you and I are good friends. I’m sure that everyone around this table tonight would like to join me in wishing you all happiness for your future. To Becky!” She raised a glass of cranberry juice.

“Thank you,” Becky replied. “And thank you, Amanda, for choosing this lovely restaurant. I’ve had a truly special night.”

The women around the table congratulated Amanda on her organizational ability. It was clear that my diarizing spreadsheet was long forgotten. As were my novelty hen-night gifts. Even Becky had discarded her deely-boppers.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there.