Vince and Joy (28 page)

Magda, he thought, you’d better hold on to your hat, girl, for tonight we shall be drinking champagne.

Joy and George were having dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Norbiton. Norbiton wasn’t a place that Joy had ever thought she’d find herself doing anything other than driving through en route to somewhere else, but life, as she was rapidly coming to understand, was strange and unpredictable.

She was eating gigantic prawns, with chopsticks. She’d never managed to master the art of chopsticks before and had decided it was a skill she could easily get through life without, but George had been so appalled the first time they’d gone to a Chinese restaurant together and she’d asked for cutlery that she’d felt shamed into learning.

He’d taught her how to hold the top one like a pen and rest the bottom one in the crook of her thumb and forefinger; how to keep the bottom one still and use the top one as the pincer. George had taught her lots of other things, too, over the weeks.

He’d taught her how to open champagne (Twist the bottle, not the cork. Let the cork pop into your fist, not towards the ceiling.) and how to drink champagne (Hold the glass by the stem, not the bowl. Otherwise the champagne gets warm.).

He’d taught her how to order in posh restaurants (Just ask for the main ingredient of the dish – i.e. ‘I’ll have the lamb’ not ‘I’ll have the lamb fillet with couscous and
spiced aubergine.’) and how to taste the wine (If it’s not corked just say ‘fine’ and put your glass down – no need to comment any further.).

He’d taught her to say ‘sitting room’ not ‘lounge’, to say ‘napkin’ not ‘serviette’ and to ask for the ‘loo’ not the ‘toilet’. He’d taught her none of these things explicitly of course – that would have been far too rude – rather she’d picked them up by osmosis, by reading between the lines. George, she was coming to realize, though he saw himself as liberal and free-spirited, was a stickler for etiquette and tradition. He winced when someone swore loudly in his vicinity; he expected impeccable service wherever he went and complained heartily if he didn’t get it; he found the whole notion of
EastEnders
repellent, hated regional accents and got very angry about misprints in newspapers.

He wasn’t a snob, exactly, but there was certainly a big, fat stratum of society that existed outside of his consciousness. People who read tabloids and went on package holidays. People who washed their own cars and sat down to eat at service stations. And in a strange way, Joy felt that he found a kind of invigorating novelty in the fact that she had come to him from this mysterious stratum. He’d seemed fascinated by her parents’ house when Barbara had insisted on throwing them an engagement party, intrigued by life in an Essex cul-de-sac, by the steady stream of people with names like Rita and Derek who processed through the house in Marks & Spencer’s casual-wear, by the sausage rolls and processed ham sandwiches that had passed for canapés and the shaggy towelling hat that sat atop the toilet seat.

He’d laughed, affectionately, but somewhat patronizingly, when Joy’s mother had suggested placing an announcement in the forthcoming marriages section of the
Telegraph.
He used words like ‘plebeian’, ‘arriviste’ and ‘gauche’, and swirled his wine around his glass before he drank it.

Joy was learning many things about George as time went by – some of them good, some of them not so good – and she was just about to learn something new.

‘So,’ he said, beaming at her across the table, ‘my beautiful wife-to-be, have you contacted your bank yet about changing your details?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, your new surname. You’ll have to change your passport, too, remember.’

Joy gulped. Along with her teenage vow to herself not to marry before her thirtieth birthday, she’d also decided that, when she did eventually marry, there was no way she would ever consider changing her surname to that of her husband. It was archaic and outmoded. It went against all her principles. Her name was her identity; it was who she was. It was the name that had been called out every morning at school, the name she filled out on forms. It wasn’t a great name and it didn’t fill her with ancestral pride, but it was
her
name and she wanted to keep it.

‘Erm, George. You do realize I have no intention of changing my name, don’t you?’ Joy wasn’t sure what she was expecting to happen next or how she’d imagined George might react. But laughter wasn’t it.

‘Oh, very funny,’ he guffawed.

‘No, George. I’m serious. Ever since I was a little girl I vowed that I would never change my name.’

The smile dropped from George’s face and was replaced by a sort of blank horror. ‘But we’re getting married. You
have
to change your name.’

‘No, I don’t. Not in this day and age.’

‘No. You do. It’s hugely important.’

‘But why? Why is it important? I don’t understand.’

‘Good God – we’re getting married. You’re going to be my wife. You can’t have a different surname to me. I’d be a laughing stock.’

Joy snorted. ‘With who exactly?’

‘Whom
he snapped. ‘With my friends. My colleagues. My family’

‘Oh, George, they’re not going to care whether I’ve got your name or not.’

‘Of course they will. They’ll think you don’t respect me.’

‘Respect
you? George – it’s 1993. That sort of thinking went out with pocket handkerchiefs.’

‘Maybe in
your
world,’ he sniffed, and Joy chose to ignore the oblique reference to their differing social stations, ‘but in my world marriage is defined as an official, legally binding
union
between two people. We become
as one.
We become
family.
With a shared surname.’

‘OΚ, then, why don’t we take
my
surname. Let’s both be Downers.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Why is that ridiculous? You just said that once we’re married we should share a surname – so let’s share
my
surname.’

He sneered and pinioned a straggle of spring onions
between his chopsticks. ‘Now you’re being juvenile.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with my surname?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your surname. But it’s
your
surname. That’s not how it works. And besides, it would be disrespectful to my dead mother.’

‘Your dead mother! What about my living parents?’

‘Oh, come on now – that’s a bit low’

‘Well, you started it.’

‘Oh, now, this is just turning into a rather vulgar slanging match…’

‘Let’s go double-barrelled.’ Joy attempted a compromise.

‘Good God, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Do you really have to ask? Quite apart from the fact that it is quite gut-churningly nouveau – Downer-Pole? I’ve never heard anything so ghastly’

‘Yes, well, what about Joy Pole? I mean, that just sounds
rude.’

‘Ah,’ said George, ‘I see. Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. This has nothing to do with your highflying feminist ideals. You just don’t like my surname.’

‘I
do
like your surname. And if I really wanted to take your surname, I’d take it even if it was… was…
Willy,
or something. But I don’t want to take it. Because I don’t believe anyone, regardless of their sex, should have to change their name for any reason whatsoever. I just wouldn’t be
me
any more.’

George raised his eyebrows sardonically, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. ‘Me, me, me,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘absolutely nothing.’

And a heavy, impenetrable silence fell upon them.

There were so many points of concern to be pondered as a result of the preceding conversation that Joy could barely think straight. Concerns about differing value systems, about pedantry and snobbishness, concerns about their compatibility and concerns about whether or not they actually liked each other very much.

Joy had never liked confrontation and had an almost pathological fear of silences. A combination of the two was too much for her to bear. She was also terrified by the prospect of the final destination that pursuing these concerns would inevitably take her to – because once she started to air her misgivings there was only one possible conclusion to be reached: that they were both in the grip of some strange madness and about to make a terrible mistake. That they shouldn’t get married. And whether or not that was true, she wasn’t ready to face it. So instead of addressing these issues head on in a grown-up fashion, Joy decided to sidestep them entirely and change the subject.

‘We should sort out wedding rings next week,’ she gushed, breaking into the silence like a drunk at a funeral. ‘It’s one of those things you usually need to do six weeks in advance, apparently.’

‘Oh,’ said George, a hint of sulkiness still clinging to the corners of his mouth, ‘fine. Where do we need to go for that?’

‘Oh, just a high-street jeweller will do for wedding rings. Nothing fancy’

‘Good,’ said George, ‘fine. We’ll go on Saturday’

‘Actually,’ said Joy, ‘I was planning on going into town on Saturday. Christmas shopping.’

‘Fine. Then we won’t order rings on Saturday.’

‘I can go in the morning,’ she offered, sensing yet another conflict about to hatch. ‘Early. Be back by lunchtime. We can go in the afternoon.’

‘Good. Fine. Saturday afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Joy, her napkin screwed into a tight knot on her lap. ‘Fine.’

As another silence threatened to engulf them, she chimed, ‘These prawns are absolutely fantastic, aren’t they?’ heroically navigating her runaway boat through treacherous seas.

The following afternoon a courier arrived at ColourPro with a small parcel wrapped in gold paper and addressed to Miss Joy Downer.

Roz and Jacquie watched in awe as she peeled off the paper to reveal a black leather box. Inside the black leather box was a beautiful art deco marcasite bracelet, which sparkled under the halogen spotlights like a night sky full of stars.

The note inside said:

To my darling Joy, I am so honoured to be marrying you and so impatient to call you my wife. You make my world beautiful. I love you, frantically, foolishly, infinitely… for ever.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Roz, one hand clasping the note, the other pressed against her heart. ‘
You are the luckiest fucking bitch in the whole wide world.’

It was two weeks before Christmas, and Selfridges was heaving with festive bodies. Couples, young families and gangs of friends marauded through the aisles exuding body heat through outdoor clothes and an overwhelming, slightly alarming sense of purpose. Apart from her weekly visits to Bella’s bedsit in Finsbury Park, this was the first time she’d been out on her own since she’d moved in with George three weeks earlier and, instead of feeling unfettered and free, she felt small and lost, like she’d cancelled her membership to the world and was about to be asked to leave.

George had been slightly gloomy this morning as she’d pulled on her coat and wished him farewell. He hadn’t said anything explicit, just been meaner with his pleasantries, used less syllables, shorter sentences.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’m fine. Why do you keep asking me if I’m OK?’

‘I don’t know,’ she’d said. ‘You just seem as if you’re annoyed with me.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

He could have proved this by wishing her a fun day out, by hugging her at the door or by cracking a joke. But he did none of these things. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed in his bath towel, staring at his toenails, like an abandoned puppy.

Joy took her handbag from her shoulder and sat down next to him. ‘George. What is it? You always seem so cross when I go out without you.’

‘I can assure you I am not “cross”.’

‘Then what? Why are you being all sulky?’

‘Sulky?’

‘Yes. Sulky’

‘Good God,’ he snapped, pulling himself off the bed, ‘I’ve been awake for less than an hour, I haven’t even had a coffee yet and you’re already throwing accusations at me. I can’t take this.’ He strode angrily towards the kitchen, where she could hear him filling the kettle.

‘So,’ she said, standing in the doorway, ‘you’re not cross with me; you’re just tired?’

‘Yes,’ he hissed, without turning to address her.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘fine. So give me a hug.’ She circled him with her arms and felt him stiffen slightly at her touch. His arms hung limp at his sides.

What!
she wanted to scream,
What is it?! Talk to me!

But it wasn’t in Joy’s nature to question other people’s behaviour; it wasn’t in her nature to demand explanations – it was in her nature to soothe, to remove the root of others’ displeasure. It was in her nature to make everything better. So she fussed over George and she stroked him and promised she wouldn’t be late, diminishing her enjoyment of the day ahead of her before she’d even set foot out of the door.