Wedding Night (7 page)

“Yes, tomorrow.”

Noah and I are heading off for two weeks to the Côte d’Azur. As far as he’s concerned, it’s our Easter holiday. As far as I’m concerned, I’m reviewing three hotels, six restaurants, and a theme park. I’ll be working on my laptop every night till late, but I can’t complain.

“I contacted my old mate Nathan Forrester. The one I told you about? Based in Antibes? You two should meet up while you’re there, have a drink.”

“Oh.” I feel my spirits lift. “OK. That sounds fun.”

“I’ll email you the details. He’s a nice guy. Plays too much poker, but don’t hold that against him.”

A poker-playing resident of the South of France. Sounds intriguing. “I won’t. Thanks, Barnaby.”

“My pleasure. Bye, Fliss.”

I put the phone down and it immediately rings again. Barnaby must have forgotten some point or other.

“Hi, Barnaby?”

There’s silence, except for some rather fast, rather heavy breathing. Hmm. Has Barnaby inadvertently pressed
redial
while snogging his secretary? But even as I’m thinking this, I know who it is really. I recognize that breathing. And I can hear Macy Gray’s “I Try” faintly in the background: a classic Lottie breakup soundtrack.

“Hello?” I try again. “Lottie? Is that you?”

There’s more heavy breathing, this time raspy.

“Lottie? Lotts?”

“Oh, Fliss …” She erupts into a massive sob. “I really, really thought he was going to propooooooose.…”

“Oh God. Oh, Lottie.” I cradle the phone, wishing it was her. “Lottie, sweetheart—”

“I spent three whole years with him and I thought he loved me and wanted babeeeeees.… But he didn’t! He didn’t!”
She’s crying as bitterly as Noah does when he scrapes his knee. “And what am I going to do now? I’m thirty-threeeee.…” Now she’s hiccuping.

“Thirty-three is nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing! And you’re beautiful and you’re lovely—”

“I even bought him a riiiiiing.”

She bought him a ring? I stare at the phone. Did I hear that right?
She
bought
him
a ring?

“What kind of ring?” I can’t help asking. I imagine her presenting Richard with some sparkly sapphire in a box.

Please don’t say she presented him with a sparkly sapphire in a box.

“Just, you know.” She sniffs defensively. “A ring. A manly engagement ring.”

A manly engagement ring? No. Uh-uh. Doesn’t exist.

“Lotts,” I begin tactfully. “Are you sure Richard is the engagement-ring type? I mean, could
that
have put him off?”

“It was nothing to do with the ring!” She erupts into sobs again. “He never even saw the ring! I wish I’d never bought the bloody thing! But I thought it would be fair! Because I thought he’d bought one for meeeeeeee!”

“OK!” I say hastily. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine.” She calms down a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have a meltdown.…”

“Don’t be silly. What else am I here for?”

It’s awful to hear her so upset. Of course it is. Ghastly. But secretly I can’t help feeling a bit relieved too. The façade is down. Her denial has cracked. This is
good
. This is
progress
.

“Anyway, I’ve decided what to do, and I feel so much better. It’s all fallen into place, Fliss.” She blows her nose noisily. “I feel like I have a purpose. A plan. A goal.”

My ears twitch. Uh-oh. A “goal.” That’s one of my post-breakup alarm-bell terms. Along with “project,” “change of direction,” and “amazing new friend.”

“Right,” I say cautiously. “Great! So … um … what’s your goal?”

My mind is already scurrying around the possibilities. Please not another piercing. Or another crazy property purchase. I’ve talked her out of quitting her job so many times, it
can’t
be that again, surely?

Please not move to Australia.

Please not “lose a stone.” Because 1) she’s skinny already, and 2) last time she went on a diet, she made me be her “buddy” and instructed me to phone up every half hour and say, “Keep to the plan, you fat bitch,” then complained when I refused.

“So, what is it?” I press her as lightly as I can, my entire body screwed up with dread.

“I’m going to fly to San Francisco on the first flight I can get and surprise Richard and propose!”

“What?”
I nearly drop the phone. “No! Bad idea!”

What’s she planning to do, burst into his office? Wait on his doorstep? Kneel down and present him with the so-called “manly” engagement ring? I can’t let this happen. She’ll be utterly humiliated and devastated and
I’ll
have to pick up the pieces afterward.

“But I love him!” She sounds totally hyper. “I love him so much! And if he can’t see that we’re meant to be together, then surely I have to
show
him! Surely it has to be
me
who makes the move! I’m on the Virgin Atlantic website right now. Should I get premium economy? Can you get me a discount?”

“No! Do
not
book a flight to San Francisco,” I say in the firmest, most authoritative tones I can muster. “Close down your computer. Step away from the internet.”

“But—”

“Lottie, face it,” I say more gently. “Richard had his chance. If he’d wanted to get married, it would be happening.”

I know what I’m saying sounds harsh. But it’s true. Men who want to get married propose. You don’t need to read the signs. They propose and that’s the sign.

“But he just doesn’t
realize
he wants to get married!” she says eagerly. “He just needs
persuading
. If I just gave him a little
nudge
 …”

Little nudge? Bloody great elbow in the ribs, more like.

I have a sudden vision of Lottie dragging Richard up the aisle by his hair, and I wince. I know exactly where that story ends up. It ends up in the office of Barnaby Rees, Family Lawyer, at five hundred quid for the first consultation.

“Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that
six
hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”

There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically
see
her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.

“Think about it first, at least,” I say. “Don’t jump in. A few weeks won’t make any difference.”

I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers.

“OK,” says Lottie at last, sounding forlorn. “I’ll think about it.”

I blink in astonishment. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! For the first time in my life, I’ve headed off one of Lottie’s Unfortunate Choices before it even happened. I’ve stamped out the infection before it could take hold.

Maybe she’s getting more rational in her old age.

“Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, to cheer her up. “My treat. As soon as I get back from holiday.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” says Lottie in a small voice. “Thanks, Fliss.”

“Take care. Talk soon.”

She rings off and I exhale my frustration in a groan—although I’m not sure who I’m most frustrated with. Richard? Daniel? Gavin? Gunter? All men? No, not
all
men. Maybe all men except various honorable exceptions, viz: Barnaby; my lovely milkman, Neville; the Dalai Lama, obviously—

My eyes suddenly focus on my reflection in my computer screen and I lean forward in horror. I have a Nerf bullet stuck in my hair.

Great.

3
LOTTIE

I didn’t sleep all night.

People say that, and what they mean is: I woke up a few times, made a cup of tea, and went back to bed. But I
really
didn’t sleep all night. I counted every hour going past.

By one A.M. I’d decided that Fliss is totally, utterly wrong. By one-thirty I’d found myself a flight to San Francisco. By two A.M. I’d written the perfect, loving, and passionate proposal speech, including lines by Shakespeare, Richard Curtis, and Take That. By three A.M. I’d filmed myself making it (eleven takes). By four A.M. I’d watched myself and realized the horrible truth: Fliss is right. Richard will never say yes. He’ll just get freaked out. Especially if I make that speech. By five A.M. I’d eaten all the Pralines & Cream. By six A.M. I’d eaten all the Phish Food. And now I’m slumped on a plastic chair, feeling nauseous and regretting the lot of it.

A tiny part of me still wonders if by walking out on Richard I made the biggest mistake of my life. If I’d hung on, bitten my tongue and never mentioned marriage, might our relationship have worked out? Somehow?

But the rest of me is more rational. People say that women work on intuition and men on logic, but they’re talking rubbish. I studied logic at university, thank you very much. I
know
how it goes. A=B, B=C, therefore A=C. And what could be more logical than the following detached and succinct argument?

Premise one: Richard has no intention of proposing to me; he made that fairly clear.

Premise two: I want marriage and commitment and, hopefully, one day, a baby.

Conclusion: Therefore I am not destined to be with Richard. Therefore I need to be with someone else.

Other conclusion: Therefore I did the right thing, breaking up with him.

Further conclusion: Therefore I need to find another man, who
does
want to make a life with me and
doesn’t
get that wide-eyed, starey look at the very mention of marriage, like it’s such a terrifying idea. Someone who realizes that if someone spends three years with you, maybe they
are
thinking of commitment and kids and a dog, and … and … decorating a Christmas tree together … and why is that such a bad thing? Why is it so totally and utterly off the agenda and unmentionable? When everyone says we’re such a great couple and we’ve been so happy together, and even your own
mother
was hinting that we might end up living near them, Richard?

OK, so maybe not that succinct. Or detached.

I take a sip of coffee, trying to soothe my nerves. Let’s say I’m being as calm and logical as one could expect in the circumstances, which are that I had to catch the 7:09 to Birmingham on no sleep and all the
Metros
had already gone. And I’m about to give a recruitment talk to a hundred students in an auditorium that smells of cauliflower cheese.

I’m with my colleague Steve, in the “backstage” room to the side of the auditorium, and he’s sitting hunched over his coffee, looking about as perky as I feel. We do a lot of these recruitment talks together, Steve and I, in fact we’re quite the double act. He does the science side; I do the general stuff. The idea is, he blows away all the students with how cutting edge our research-and-development department is. And I reassure them that they’ll get looked after and their career will be an exciting one and they’re not selling out.

“Biscuit?” Steve offers me a chocolate bourbon.

“No, thanks.” I shudder. I’ve already crammed enough trans fats and food additives into my body.

Maybe I should go to some hard-core boot camp. Everyone says running changes their life and gives them a new outlook. I should go to some retreat where all you do is run and drink isotonic drinks. In the mountains. Or the desert. Something really tough and challenging.

Or do Iron Woman.
Yes
.

I reach for my BlackBerry and am about to Google
hard-core running camp iron woman
when the careers officer appears round the door. We haven’t been to this particular college before, so I hadn’t met Deborah before today. Quite frankly, she’s weird. I’ve never met anyone so tense and jumpy.

“All OK? We’ll start in about ten minutes. Keep it quite brief, I would.” She’s nodding nervously. “Quite brief. Nice and brief.”

“We’re happy to chat to the students afterward,” I say, hefting a pile of “Why Work at Blay Pharmaceuticals?” brochures out of my canvas bag.

“Right.” Her eyes are darting about. “Well … as I say, I’d keep it nice and brief.”

I feel tempted to snap at her,
We’ve come all the way from London for this!
For God’s sake. Most careers officers are
delighted
we’ll take questions.

“So, normal pattern?” I say to Steve. “Me, you, clip one, me, you, clip two, questions?” He nods, and I hand the DVD to Deborah. “I’ll cue you. It’ll be pretty obvious.”

The recruitment DVD is the worst bit about our presentation. It was shot like a 1980s music video, with bad lighting and bad electronic music and people with bad haircuts looking awkward as they pretend to have a meeting. But it cost a hundred grand, so we have to use it.

Deborah disappears to set up the DVD and I lean back in my chair, trying to relax. But my hands keep twisting together. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything feels so crap. Where am I going in life? Where am I heading? What am I doing?

And this is
not
about Richard, by the way. It’s absolutely unrelated. It’s simply my life. I need … I don’t know. A new direction. A different energy.

There’s a book lying on a nearby chair and I reach for it. It’s called
The Reverse Principle: Change Your Business Strategy Forever
, and
10 million copies sold!!
is stamped across the cover.

I feel a stab of frustration at myself. Why don’t I read more business books?
This
is where my life has gone wrong. I haven’t put enough effort into my career. I flip through, trying to absorb the information as quickly as I can. There are lots of diagrams with arrows traveling one way, then flipping over and going the opposite way. Clearly the message is: reverse the arrow. Well, I got that in about two seconds. I must be a natural.

Maybe I should read all these books and become an expert.
Maybe I should go to Harvard Business School. I have a sudden image of myself in a library, cramming my brain full of business principles. Coming back to England to run a FTSE 100 company. My world would be one of ideas and strategy. Cerebral, high-level thought.