The Wedding Date (16 page)

‘Better?’ Wolfgang asks as I emerge from the ladies. We’ve been sitting in the dark so I’d forgotten how ridiculous he looks in his plaid suit. His hat is tucked under his arm but he pops it onto his head as we step outside.

‘That was rather special, wouldn’t you say?’ I make murmuring sounds in response to Wolfgang’s question. ‘But next time I would leave the picnic at home.’ Wolfgang flashes me a reproachful look. ‘You do not visit the theatre often. This I can see. But we will change that.’ Wolfgang gives a decisive nod while I think how unlikely that will be. ‘How are you travelling home?’

I point to a row of black cabs waiting along the pavement and we make our way over.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ Wolfgang says as he opens the door of one of the cabs. He takes my hand and I think he’s going to kiss it again. But it’s worse. Much worse. Wolfgang presses himself against me, his mouth like a suction cup on my lips. His tongue pushes its way in, large and moist and wrigglier than a bag of snakes. With my free hand on Wolfgang’s horrible suit, I push him away, resisting the urge to gag.

‘You are a beautiful lady, my Delilah. I hope we can meet again soon.’

I climb into the cab and pull the door firmly. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I give my address to the driver. There is no way at all that I will be seeing old Wolfy again.

Chapter 17

Clara

Text Message:

Clara:
Are you doing anything next Saturday? I’m having a little dinner party and I thought you might like to come. Trevor will be there. You got on well last time, didn’t you?

Delilah:
Trevor got pissed and tried to put his hand up my skirt

Clara:
But you had a nice chat, didn’t you?

Before I came along, Clara had Mum and Dad all to herself for five years. She was the centre of their universe until I popped out and ruined everything. Clara still enjoyed her tea parties out on the lawn but they were interrupted when Mum needed to dash inside for nappy changes, leaving her with only her dolls and teddies for company until she returned. Bedtime stories were often hijacked by wailing and Mum couldn’t breastfeed and push Clara on the swing at the same time so Clara had to learn the art of patience. But no matter how much Mum told her so, the slide was never as much fun as the swing.

I don’t think my sister has ever quite forgiven me for crashing the Clara party. She’s never said as much but the evidence is clear. For example, in every photo before I was born, Clara is grinning toothily at the camera but after she is scowling, especially in photos that we are both present in. Clara also had a notebook dedicated to mad ramblings such as ‘I hayt my babby sisster’ and she referred to me as ‘it’ until I was eleven.

Clara and I never got on. There was no sisterly bond, no solidarity against our parents. We didn’t play together or swap clothes and makeup. We didn’t giggle and gossip about boys or provide shoulders to cry on. We resided in the same house and were even forced to share a bedroom when Justin joined the family but there was no warmth or pleasantness in our relationship. Clara left home as soon as she could, first for university and then for a year-long trek across Europe, Asia and South America. When she returned from her travels, Clara moved into a flat share, which was a relief for both of us, although Mum had been devastated. For all her ‘get out there and live your life’ claptrap, Mum is pretty suffocating when it comes to us actually spreading our wings.

Three years ago, Clara met Graham (full name: Dull Graham) and quickly moved out of the flat she’d been sharing and started co-habiting with him instead. Clara and Graham are both accountants, which is how they met. At forty-seven, Graham is eighteen years old than Clara but you can’t really notice the age gap. Not because Graham is immature (if only) but because Clara is old before her time.

Clara and I still aren’t close, though the distance created when she moved out of the family home has certainly helped to warm up our frosty relationship. We don’t hate each other but we don’t particularly like each other either. I think Clara’s bossy, pretentious and thinks she’s oh so sophisticated since she bought her flat with her boring boyfriend. She thinks I’m juvenile (how can you stand to still live at home like a teenager?), uncouth (don’t hold your fork like that, Delilah. It isn’t a shovel) and unambitious (don’t you want to climb up the career ladder? Aren’t you fed up of being on the bottom rung?) but we somehow tolerate each other. Still, I would rather do anything than attend one of her pretentious dinner parties, yet here I am, standing outside her flat with a bottle of wine and not much will to live.

It all started a couple of weeks ago, just after my date with Wolfgang, which hadn’t turned out quite how I hoped it would and the reality was pretty boring and extremely slobbery (ugh). I ended up on a couple more dates mid-week with an insurance consultant called Vincent who was slimier than a snail with goo issues, and a butcher called Ivor who turned up with animal blood still caked under his fingernails. Ivor had apologised, explaining he’d come straight from work, but it was an unforgivable state of affairs for me and I only just managed to get through one drink before I made my excuses and left.

And as for Vincent? I had high hopes for Vincent. He wasn’t classically handsome, but then that wasn’t necessary for Project Wedding Date. This wasn’t an actual romantic endeavour, after all. Vincent was fun and chatty online. He didn’t take life too seriously, which was a plus after my too-serious date with Wolfgang.

The date did not go well. I don’t even want to think about it, never mind recount it. It was that bad.

‘It can’t have been as bad as Wolfy’s fat tongue,’ Lauren had said when I refused to go into detail.

‘It was worse.’

Lauren was shocked – what could be worse than that? – and obviously intrigued, but my lips were remaining shut on the matter.

‘Never mind. The next date will be better, I’m sure.’ Lauren had reached for my phone to open the Love Today app but I moved the phone out of the way.

‘I can’t do it.’ I deleted the app from my phone. ‘I can’t go on any more dates with complete strangers. They’re all weird or married or worse.’ I shuddered while Lauren’s eyes widened.

‘What the hell happened on that date?’ I shook my head. I wanted to forget all about Vincent, Love Today and online dating in general. ‘What are you going to do? Call the project off?’

‘Nope.’ I dropped my face into my palms. I couldn’t look at Lauren when I said this. ‘I’m going to take drastic action. I’m going to let Clara set me up.’

Clara is always trying to set me up with one of her dull friends. It’s why I’ve stopped attending her dinner parties because I always end up having an acquaintance of my sister foisted upon me. That and Clara’s dinner parties are tedious, pretentious affairs and my sister isn’t quite as great a chef as she thinks she is.

I knock on Clara’s door, hoping that a meteor will strike Earth before Clara has the chance to answer. It doesn’t, of course. I’m not that lucky.

‘Delilah! You made it!’ Clara’s voice is clogged with surprise, but I can hardly blame her. I’m surprised I’m here myself. Clara grasps me by the wrist before I can change my mind and flee, tugging me into the flat and grabbing the bottle of wine before my feet make it over the threshold. She reads the label and pulls a face. Clara and I have very different tastes when it comes to wine. I’ll grab whatever happens to be on special offer at the time of purchase while Clara has far more refined (read: snobbish) tastes.

‘Come through. Everybody’s already here.’ Clara leads me along her oak-floored hallway to the sitting room, flashing me an accusing look. So I’m a tad late (if you can call almost an hour ‘a tad’). So what? That I’m here at all is miraculous enough.

Clara’s sitting room is decorated in grey tones, the only source of colour coming from the teal sofa and matching armchairs arranged around the fireplace. Even the pillar candles, arranged artfully on the mantelpiece, are a dove grey.

‘You remember Veronica and Nigel, don’t you?’ Clara thrusts me towards the couple – both in their early forties, her with grey hair glinting, him with more lines on his face than a map of the London underground – and I’m subjected to double-kisses from both. ‘And this is Patrick!’

‘Delilah! What a delight to finally meet you.’ Patrick strides across the sitting room and envelops me in a too-tight hug. He has a slight pong of BO about him but it’s almost masked by the whiskey he’s been busy putting away this evening.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Clara offers. Patrick still hasn’t released me so I give him a gentle push and step away from the pungent smell he’s emitting.

‘Have you got any tinnies?’ I ask Clara, just to annoy her. I feel a satisfied glow as she squeezes her lips together, her cheeks flushing.

‘We have some bottles of lager in the fridge,’ she says, trying hard to remain composed. ‘I’ll just go and check on the salmon and I’ll bring one over for you. Do sit down and get to know Patrick a little better.’

Patrick leads me to the teal sofa, sitting down too closely to me. He’s practically sitting on my lap! I shift over to give myself some breathing space.

‘Wow.’ Patrick sits staring at me while he shakes his head in wonder. ‘Wow, wow, wow. Clara never mentioned quite how beautiful you are.’

I smile tightly and try to lean away from him. I suppose I should feel flattered by the compliment but Patrick’s intense stare is starting to freak me out. I don’t think he’s blinked since we sat down.

‘Such a beautiful name too.’ Patrick closes his eyes and takes in a lungful of air before releasing it slowly along with my name. ‘Dee-lie-lar. Exquisite! My, my, my, Delilah.’ Patrick leans in so close I can feel his hot whiskey-breath on my neck. When he inhales sharply, his nostrils practically flat against my throat, I decide enough is enough.

‘Will you excuse me? I think I’ll go and see if Clara needs any help.’ Leaping out of my seat, I escape to the kitchen where I find Graham alone, chopping tomatoes and adding them to a wooden bowl of lettuce leaves and slices of cucumber and peppers.

‘Ah, Delilah. How are you?’ Graham holds up his hands, the fingers tinged with tomato juice, to excuse his lack of a hug or handshake. I’m more than fine with the lack of contact. I’ve had more than enough from Patrick, thank you very much.

‘Fine thanks. You?’ I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle of lager, which Clara has failed to bring me.

‘Not bad, not bad.’ Graham nods at one of the drawers, where I find the bottle opener. ‘Can’t complain. Life’s pretty darn good.’

‘Great.’ I open the bottle and drop the lid into the chrome pedal bin. Graham continues to chop the tomatoes, his bottom moving to the rhythm of the knife, as I hover by the fridge. I don’t know how to talk to this man. We have nothing in common apart from my sister, which we all know isn’t the greatest link to have.

‘How’s the job going? Still at that biscuit place?’ Graham continues his bottom-wriggling chopping as he asks. I continue to hover by the fridge. The only thing keeping me in here is the fact that Patrick is in the sitting room and the less time spent in his presence the better. I’m beginning to think agreeing to meet him was a big mistake.

‘Yep, still at Brinkley’s.’

‘I’m not a huge fan of biscuits myself.’ Graham picks up the chopping board and scrapes the sliced tomatoes into the wooden bowl. ‘I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I’d much rather have a nice selection of cheese.’ Graham tosses the salad and places it on the table, which is already set with slate grey square plates, matching bowls and side plates, and crystal goblets. The table isn’t terribly big but Clara always seems to find room for her guests.

‘Do you like cheese?’ Graham is washing his hands at the kitchen sink, the sleeves of his brown jumper rolled up to his elbows. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Cheddar?’ I can’t say I know much about cheese, other than it tastes delicious on a pizza. ‘I like those little plasticky cheese squares on burgers too.’ I say this last bit for fun. Graham’s aghast face is amusing, though he quickly recovers.

‘Right. Yes. Very good.’ Graham dries his hands on a tea towel before he claps them together. ‘I think I’ll go and find Clara. See what else needs doing.’ With a nod of his head, Graham vacates the kitchen and I slump against the counter. I have a whole evening of cheese-talk and Patrick to put up with. Why am I putting myself through this?

The six of us are squeezed around Clara’s kitchen table, plates of salmon spew set out before us. Clara tries her hardest and has a whole shelf dedicated to celebrity cook books in the sitting room but the truth is she’s terrible in the kitchen. The salmon is slightly more edible than it looks, but each forkful is placed in my mouth reluctantly, my brain unable to get past its rank appearance. I tuned out of the conversation about twenty minutes ago as the topic has lodged itself at accounting, something I have no knowledge of, or interest in. Everybody but Veronica and I are accountants and I was hoping she and I could break off and have a chat. We probably have nothing in common, but I’d rather talk about anything other than accounting. Even cheese.

But it isn’t to be. Veronica is not only keeping up with the accountancy chat, she’s joining in too.

‘Are we being incredibly boring?’ Patrick has leaned in towards me and I can smell his fishy breath, which is infinitely worse than the whiskey breath.

With substantial effort, I force my lips into what could resemble a smile. Sort of. ‘No. Of course not.’ YES! I am in Dullsville and Patrick is the mayor.

Patrick flashes me a fishy-tinged smile. ‘You haven’t said much.’

I fight to keep my sort-of smile in place but there’s a grimace pushing its way to the surface. ‘I’m just enjoying my food.’

‘Oh yes, it’s delicious.’ Patrick loads his fork with fishy mush and pops it into his mouth, murmuring his delight. ‘Compliments to the chef!’ A stray flake of unchewed fish flies across the table as Patrick raises his goblet of wine, landing on Graham’s turd-coloured jumper. Patrick doesn’t notice his fishy misdemeanour and beams at Clara before he takes a sip. I suspect he’s rinsing away the taste of the fish swill.