Young Wives' Tales (38 page)

Craig laughs. ‘Would you like to have a rest?’

Seriously? I’d like to stay in his arms until Cadbury’s discover a recipe for calorie-free Dairy Milk, but I understand that the answer required is that I would like to sit down for a breather. He releases me and I feel bereft. At night-time I sometimes sneak into the twins’room and, from the doorway, I watch them sleeping. I derive an unimaginable amount of solace and joy from those secret midnight moments of watching them breathe. It’s such an honour to bring life on to the planet and I can spend hours simply appreciating their lives. I always find it difficult to close the door and walk back to my room. A similar feeling sweeps me when Craig drops my hand and walks from the dance floor back to our seats. I don’t want to let go.

I need to fill the temporary void so I keep talking. What was I chatting about? Oh yes, Peter.

‘I had him fooled. Or maybe I was just a fool.’

‘What do you mean?’asks Craig. It’s admirable that he’s not shying away from the sore topic of my ex.

‘Peter thought he’d bought nice. He thought I was
nice
.’

‘You are nice, Rose. So I assume you’re saying that was
all
he thought you were. He missed all the other bits.’Craig pours us both another glass of wine and we clink glasses.

‘Exactly,’I murmur.

‘Didn’t he see that the quirky thing about you, the big, well-guarded secret that stays hidden under all your obedience, and your sincerity and your ferocious work ethic, the fact that there is a heart that beats at a rate
of knots, a head that is full of dreams and hopes and an unquashable sense of optimism and joy? You are not dull, Rose.’

I do not know what to say. I stare at Craig and I’m amazed. Not only because he’s really never looked more gorgeous, and commanding and adult, but because I want to know how he could possibly have guessed? I’m not sure my own sister knows I think of myself that way. How does Craig know? It appears he can read my mind too, because he goes on to answer my unarticulated question.

‘If anyone ever took the time to scratch the surface they’d discover Rose the comedian, Rose the idealist, Rose the believer in true and everlasting love. Rose who privately, and rightly, holds the belief that she is rather thrillingly special. So special in fact that she never felt the need to parade her uniqueness, her intelligence or her depth the way so many lesser mortals feel inclined.’

I realize that Craig’s glass is empty, which might explain his vociferous compliments. But does it explain his insight? How long has this man been thinking about me? How carefully has he been listening to me? Is there a hint that he agrees with me? No doubt Connie would scream ‘stalker’and run a mile, but I am delighted. Craig has just articulated things that I’ve barely acknowledged to myself.

‘I guess the thing was, you didn’t need outside acclamation because you only needed Peter to recognize your talents and strengths,’said Craig.

I stare at him warily. How much do I want to say
about Peter? He is, after all, a parent at the school that Craig heads. Is it fair of me to prejudice Craig’s views? On the other hand, if Craig is going to become my friend then it might be reasonable to expect that I won’t be singing Peter’s praises day and night.

‘Peter didn’t see any of my talents, well, at least not beyond jam-making. When I tried to show him that I was anything more than efficient or reliable, he didn’t want to know. Passions aren’t his thing. He likes cold. He felt he had been duped by me. He thought he had married a pleasant, nice lady who would be no trouble, in the way that his father had married a pleasant lady and had enjoyed a life free of squabbling, noise or strong feelings. But I turned out to be more trouble than he imagined. I expected rather more of him than he was prepared to give when the boys were born. And besides, by then he’d fallen in love with Lucy.’

‘So it wasn’t as clear cut as that he left you for another woman?’

‘Not really, although it’s the story I feel most comfortable with. There was another woman and he did leave.’

‘The marriage was already over?’

‘The truth is somewhere in between.’

Craig nods as though he understands the complexities and nuances of a marriage that was dead years ago. I think it’s impossible for him to do so but I appreciate his effort for trying at least.

‘We’re having the conversation that we’re supposed to have six months down the line, not on a first
date,’I point out. I wonder if I ought to be more reticent.

‘That’s weddings for you. They make you think about the big stuff, or at least they ought to.’

‘What will we talk about in six months?’I make the joke in an effort to break the all but overwhelming tension. I don’t consider that my question might appear pushy.

‘We’ll probably be picking out wallpaper,’says Craig, not showing any signs of being shoved.

I wonder if I ought to be scared, very scared or delighted, extremely delighted by this comment. With other men I would comfort and torture myself by believing it was an off-the-cuff and meaningless remark. But I know Craig doesn’t do off-the-cuff and meaningless.

I glug back more wine and observe, ‘It’s nearly speech time. Are you giving one?’

‘I’m just reading telegrams. John is the funny man.’

I scan the room and my eyes settle on John; he is supposed to be sitting on the top table but he’s alone at a side table.

‘He doesn’t look that funny right now,’I point out.

Craig follows my gaze. John is slumped almost face down on to the table. His weary demeanour is in stark contrast to the other guests. Everyone else in the room appears animated and exhilarated.

‘Oh God, he must have drunk too much. He tends to when he’s emotional. Jen will kill him if he messes up the speech. Can you excuse me?’

This mini crisis is rather timely. I need a little bit of thinking space for a minute or two. Craig leaves our table and heads over to drooping John. I watch as Craig gently shakes his friend, they swap a couple of sentences and Craig pours John a glass of water. I think the rescue mission may take some time, so I turn to the man next to me and start to make conversation.

Craig’s nose is almost touching mine. I wish he’d stop shaking me. If he doesn’t I might throw up, and he won’t want vomit in his face, no matter how good mates we are. I’ve drunk enough to throw. Fuck it, I haven’t drunk enough. It’s not possible to drink enough. I need to keep on and on and on and…

‘John, drink some water.’Craig firmly pushes a glass towards my hand. I try to grasp it but it slips through my fingers. He guides it to my mouth. ‘Mate, I’ve never seen you this wasted.’

I can’t decide if Craig is in awe or shock. My tongue feels fat in my mouth and I’m struggling to move it in the directions necessary to articulate a response. This must be how those people with nut allergies feel. Poor sods. I stare at Craig. I’m trying to convey the fact that I’m going to be just fine and the speech and everything, well that’s going to be just fine too. Except I doubt I’m doing much in the way of reassuring, considering I can’t actually speak right now.

‘Jussneedafewminutes. Itsabloodysilly time forspeeshes. Aferdinner. No one canssstaysober.’

Craig tuts and holds the water glass to my mouth so that I can gulp from it. I’m grateful, and too wasted to care that we must look like a couple of benders or a special care patient with hospital staff.

‘Sorry.’

Then everything turns black.

When I come round I am sat on a chair in the bog. Craig is stood next to me; he has his hand on my shoulder, presumably to stop me slouching forward and knocking myself out as I fall on to the tiled floor. I wonder if I managed to crawl in here on my own or whether he had to drag me.

‘Must be something I’ve eaten,’I mumble.

Craig tuts, it’s a very articulate tut. It’s rammed full of disapproval and despair.

‘Drink this,’he instructs.

This time I successfully take hold of the glass and even manage to glug back the water without spilling too much of it down my suit. As soon as I finish Craig refills the glass from the faucet and hands me it once again.

‘I’ll be sick if I glug too much water too quickly.’Craig points to the floor. Both our shoes and trousers are splattered with puke. ‘Mine, I presume?’

‘You presume correctly.’

‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Yes. You should be.’

The chunder, although clearly a pity for our shiny
shoes, has helped to make me feel considerably better. I stagger to my feet and while the room is swaying, it’s not doing a breakneck speed spin, which was the case when I was sitting at the table in the reception room. It’s a posh gig, so the bogs aren’t gross, but there are always nicer places to hang than next to the urinals. I want out of here. I splash some cold water on my face, and Craig and I move on.

The bogs spill out on to a carpeted foyer. The carpet is red and heavily patterned; it’s a little threadbare in places but you’d only notice if you were crippled with shame and insisting on staring at the floor rather than meeting your mate’s eye. I force myself to look up and notice that the chandeliers are stunning. The echoes of elegance, a tribute to more graceful and sophisticated eras, mock me. I’m too shabby to be here. At least, I’m too shabby to be here like this. Fuck, I’m Tom’s best man. He’s expecting me to do a speech.

‘John, you are Tom’s best man, he’s expecting you to do a speech,’says Craig. He’s scowling. Normally temperate, he doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s naffed off.

‘I know that, mate.’

‘I can’t do it.’He sounds panicked. ‘I haven’t prepared anything.’

‘I know that, mate. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ve been worse.’

Craig looks doubtful. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

I don’t know the exact answer. I started this morning.
A couple of jars before the ceremony, with Tom, to calm his nerves and that. And he gave me a hip flask, with my initials on, by way of marking the occasion. Bit over if you ask me but Jen had read about it being the thing to do, in one of her girly wedding magazines, and she wanted him to give me a gift so give me a gift he did. Came in useful. We filled it with whisky and I had the odd nip while we were waiting for the photographer to wrap up the ‘watch the birdie’bit. Hell, that seemed to take an age. Ended up draining the flask. Then on to the reception, where I’ve been steadily drinking ever since. Or maybe not so steadily. I think I’ve gone through a couple of bottles. Thing is, I don’t normally do grape, I’m more of a grain man myself, so I switched again when the beef arrived. Big mistake mixing the two.

‘You should have brought a date,’says Craig. ‘Then you wouldn’t have got so plastered.’

‘Wouldn’t have helped with my chances of pulling the bridesmaids though, would it?’I joke.

‘One of the bridesmaids is married, another is a lesbian and the remaining four are pre-schoolers. You were never really in with a chance,’Craig points out, tetchily.

‘I know, mate. Just joshing.’

‘I thought you’d bring a date. You’ve gone on at me for long enough to do so.’

‘Yeah, well.’I don’t want to comment on this so I distract him. ‘She looks happy enough, your Rose. You’re in there, mate.’

Craig smiles and nods. ‘She is lovely. It’s going really well.’

‘Good on you.’I gently punch his arm. I can’t help myself. I’m half cut and my old mate is in line for breaking his celibacy vows. It’s an emotional moment. The pungent stench of puke wafts over me when I move my head. ‘Oh, sorry, mate. You have a bit of’– I point to the splatters – ‘on your lapel.’

Craig scowls at me and marches back into the bathroom. He can’t return to his lady friend smelling of odour de puke – it’s a known passion-killer. I find a seat and light up. I’m not in a rush to get back to the reception so I might as well wait for Craig, even if his reappearance with a damp suit will be accompanied by a bollocking or at the very least, stern looks of censure.

‘There you are, Hardie. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Oh, Tom. Hello.’I’m pretty sure my demeanour suggests that I haven’t been searching him out. Luckily, Tom is too hyped to pay me much attention. ‘I’m just waiting for Craig.’I wave in the direction of the bogs. Tom doesn’t sit down. He’s almost on tiptoes, he’s practically bouncing.

‘Good do, isn’t it, eh? Having a good time, are you?’he asks.

‘Fucking brilliant. Best wedding I’ve been to,’I declare.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’It would crucify him to answer in any other way. In truth, I’m having a bloody miserable time and
even I can see that Jen has got a bit carried away. Jordan and Peter Andre’s do was subtle in comparison to this.

‘Except for your own, presumably,’he says. ‘I mean, even though things didn’t work out between you and Andrea, you must still have fond memories of, you know, the early days.’

As he makes this intimate observation Tom stops bouncing. He decelerates so much he seems to be doing a farcical impression of someone acting in slow motion. He doesn’t know how to handle something so private and delicate. Who does?

I have to help him out. It’s his day. I don’t want to be responsible for putting a downer on it.

‘Ah well, all turned out for the best, mate. Did I tell you she’s up the duff?’

‘No.’

‘Yup, she rang me the other night to let me know the happy news. With her new bloke. So that’s good for them, eh?’

‘You all right with that, mate?’

‘Too right, mate. Better man than me for the job. I’m not ready for all that crap.’I think about what I’ve just said and I do mean it literally and metaphorically. Nappies, yuk. Tom looks nervous and I see that I have a responsibility to move the conversation back on to something we’re both more comfortable with. ‘You’re right though, mate, my wedding day was a monumental occasion. Do you remember we watched the big game?’

‘Jesus, yes!’Tom, a lifelong Liverpool supporter, can’t resist reliving the moment; he’s instantly buoyant
again. ‘We looked beaten as Freddie Ljungberg put Arsenal ahead. I was beginning to think that Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium was an unlucky place.’