by Jane Moore
Ted dropped their suitcases and wagged a finger at her. “Now, now, we agreed we weren’t going to be Miss Rude this weekend, didn’t we?” he said. “You have to think positive to get through this. Breathe deeply and let’s go get ’em.”
One Saturday morning a couple of months ago, Kate had wandered bleary-eyed into her hallway and picked up the mail. There was a Reader’s Digest subscription offer, a leaflet from a local estate agent saying that “Mrs. M” wanted to buy a house in her road, and one interesting-looking envelope that clearly contained an invitation. She opened it after she had thrown a tea bag into a mug and flicked the kettle on.
As she pulled out the card, the names “Faye Parker” and “Mark Hawkins” leaped out at her, then, “You are invited to celebrate the marriage of . . .”
“Oh, my god,” she exclaimed. She sat down at the kitchen table and studied the silver-edged card. The elaborate black inscription informed guests that the wedding would be held in France over the weekend of June 29 and 30 “Kate plus one” was written in black pen in the top right-hand corner.
A map of the area around the hotel was tucked inside the envelope with details of flights, and a note that informed her she was one of a select number of guests invited to stay in the hotel where the wedding would take place.
A tight knot formed in her throat as she picked up the phone and rang Liz, a work colleague with whom she’d become friendly since the breakup with Mark. “Is it OK to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding?” she said, not bothering to introduce herself.
“If you’re over him and able to handle it, it’s a very mature, reasonable thing to do,” Liz replied. “However, if you’re going to stand at the back of the church shrieking, ‘It should have been me,’ then perhaps it’s better to skip it.”
“Oh, I’m so over him,” Kate reassured her. Still, it had jolted her to the core to receive the invitation out of the blue.
After he’d walked out on her, Kate had resisted all Mark’s attempts to be friends. She knew that the fastest way to get over him was to go cold turkey and, eventually, he’d given up calling. But after about a year, he’d rung to wish her a happy birthday and they had shared a long conversation in which he told her about his new job as a restaurant chef, and she told him she’d been made features editor of a diet magazine.
After putting the phone down, she had sat for several minutes in her kitchen, mulling over how she felt about him. The answer: that she could tolerate some kind of friendship. Since then, they’d caught up on each other’s news from time to time and enjoyed a little of the jokey banter that had once endeared them to each other.
During one chat, Mark had mentioned he had a new girlfriend called Faye, and that she was a model. But Kate didn’t ask questions: she still hadn’t been ready for that.
The Saturday the wedding invitation had arrived, Kate steeled herself to call Mark’s mobile. She just hoped he wasn’t in bed with her.
“Hello?” The background noise sounded like traffic.
“Hi, it’s Kate. Are you OK to talk?”
“Hi!” He was overeffusive, as people are when they’re nervous. “Yes, it’s fine. I’m on my way to work, waiting for the bus.”
“I’m just ringing to say congratulations.”
“Oh, yes, thanks!” The overeffusiveness again. “Can you come?”
“Yes, but that’s hardly the point.” She struggled not to sound shrill. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
For a few seconds he was silent. Then, “Yeah, sorry about that. I chickened out.”
“Why?” Kate had the faint hope he was about to say he’d made a terrible mistake in proposing to Faye and that it was her he truly wanted.
“Because of what happened between us, I suppose. We never resolved anything, so the thought of calling to say I’m getting married . . .”
Thud. The glimmer of hope had bottomed out. “Well, that’s all history now,” she said flatly, then made a conscious effort to brighten her tone: “I’m very happy for you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “That means a lot. So shall I add you to my yes list?”
“Yep. Plus Ted.”
“Who’s Ted?”
“Are you the guest police?” she teased, anxious to keep the conversation light.
“Well, it is my wedding.”
“Yes, I know, and you sent me an invite with “plus one” written on it. As I don’t know anyone of that name, I’m bringing a bloke called Ted.”
“Is he a boyfriend?”
“None of your business.”
“Kate . . .” he said wearily.
“OK, OK. Yes, he is. It’s early days, though.”
“I gathered that much, particularly as you haven’t got round to telling me about him.”
“This from a man who didn’t tell me he was getting married!” she chided him gently.
“Touché.”
Afterwards, Kate had spent the rest of the day trying to work out how she felt about the news. At the back of her mind there had always been the faint hope that she and Mark might reunite. Now the possibility was gone forever, and there was no denying that she felt slightly nauseous.
When she’d stepped out of the cab in France, the nausea had developed into a feeling of sickness in the pit of her stomach. She was here to watch Mark marry another woman.
Another car pulling up behind them jolted her out of her reverie. She turned, and her throat tightened.
It was Mark and Brian.
“Fucking hell. That’s it, I’m staying here for good.” Brian fell towards her as he caught his foot on the doorsill. “I can’t face that journey again, especially downhill.” He planted a kiss on Kate’s cheek.
“A pleasure . . . as always.” She beamed. “This is Ted.”
“Hello, mate.” Brian extended a hand. “And you are?”
“My boyfriend,” said Kate quickly, annoyed that Mark hadn’t deemed it important enough to tell Brian on their journey. Consequently she greeted him with a scowl as he emerged from the boot of his car with a large case and a garment bag. “Hi,” she said flatly.
But his broad smile disarmed her. “I’m so glad you made it!” He dropped the bags and stretched out his arms towards her.
Perhaps he assumed I’d duck out, she thought, and said, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Taking both of his hands, she planted a sisterly kiss on his right cheek. The familiar smell of his Issey Miyake aftershave gave her butterflies.
“And you must be Ted.” Mark dropped Kate’s hands. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Kate resisted the temptation to look surprised at this blatantly untrue statement. “Yes, sorry, I should have introduced you both. Ted, this is Mark.”
“Congratulations, and it’s lovely to meet you,” said Ted, smiling broadly. He had a pleasant face, with brown eyes and a clear complexion most women would envy. There were blond streaks in his mousy brown hair.
“Congratulations to you too,” Mark replied.
Ted looked baffled. “Sorry?”
“You’re a very lucky man.” He nodded towards Kate.
She resisted the urge to grab his jugular and hiss, “So were you once.” Instead she laughed, and said, “He is indeed,” kissing Ted full on the lips.
“Where did you meet?”
Now it was Kate’s turn to look startled. She hadn’t expected Mark to probe any further, and was faintly irritated that he had. He was clearly betting on the fact that she wouldn’t say “mind your own business,” in front of Ted.
“I’m a photographer on the magazine,” said Ted. “We spend a lot of time together doing those makeovers where we use bulldog clips to hide the excess skin of someone who’s lost loads of weight . . . just months before they put it all on again.”
Mark winced. “What a lovely thought. How long have you been together?”
Annoyed by his persistent questions about her private life when he had steadfastly failed to fill her in on the details of his own, Kate decided that
enough was enough. “As I said, it’s early days.” She gave Mark and Brian a quick smile, then looped her arm through Ted’s. “Come on, lover boy, let’s find our room.”
Ted smiled sheepishly at them. “See you at dinner.”
They left their luggage for the porter to deal with, and climbed the steps that led up to the front door. As she pushed Ted into the château ahead of her, Kate shot a quick glance over her shoulder.
Brian was following them in, but Mark was standing stock still, staring out over the valley. He seemed deep in thought.
Mark crunched the gear stick into third and pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The car belched, then, after a terrifying nanosecond of inaction, lurched forward and edged into the access road for Birmingham’s notoriously tricky Spaghetti Junction.
“Is this bloody roller skate going to make it?” said Brian, his face ashen.
“Shall we take your car instead, then?” said Mark sarcastically.
Brian looked wounded. “I’ll have you know I’ve got a Ferrari. Somewhere.”
Mark’s ancient Citroen 2CV had been a gift from his parents. They could have bought him a top-of-the-line sports car, but they’d brought up their boys to appreciate the value of money and had compromised with the 2CV. It made it easier for Mark to travel home at weekends to see them and, of course, Jenna, and he’d made the trip several times since starting university.
Brian often finagled a lift. His contribution to the car’s upkeep had been to buy two bumper stickers that read “Honk if you love peace and quiet,” and “Pardon my driving. I’m reloading.”
Initially both boys had felt homesick, but as the weeks wore on and their social life in Birmingham kicked in, they showed less enthusiasm for making the arduous journey home. This weekend, to his shame, Mark had called Jenna to say the car had a flat tire and he wouldn’t be coming. “Besides, I could probably do with getting some studying done,” he had added guiltily.
Now he was driving his car, with four perfectly inflated tires, for a night out with Brian.
They shared a stinky apartment with two other blokes from the university, and it was on a main road that led to the labyrinthine junction around which the car was now hiccuping.
Cheap but not very cheerful, the flat was a seventies shrine, with brown-and-cream swirly wallpaper, polystyrene ceiling tiles, and a grimy avocado bathroom suite. The carpets were virtually threadbare and covered with unidentifiable stains left over the years by previous occupants.
They had a weekly kitty for food, and each had an allocated night on which to cook a meal for the others. Monday was Brian’s toad-in-the-hole, Tuesday was Mark’s chili con carne, Wednesday was Shane’s penne arabbiata, and Thursday was Steve’s lasagne and chips. At the weekends, they suited themselves before returning to the same menu the following week. Their student allowances didn’t stretch far, so a lot of nights out were spent in the university’s subsidized bar. Tonight was no exception.
As he locked the car, Mark felt a slight pang of guilt as he thought of Jenna sitting at home with her parents. But it soon evaporated as he walked in to the vibrant mix of loud music and animated conversation.
Mark was good looking, with a touch of Mel Gibson about him, but Brian was more Mel Brooks. His droll sense of humor meant he enjoyed moderate success with women, until they got to know him and realized what an unadulterated slob he was. “I was such an ugly kid that when I played in the sandbox the cat kept covering me up,” he once said to Mark. “My parents clearly felt the same way—my bath toys were the toaster and a radio.”
After making the inevitable decision to collect the car in the morning, Mark and Brian sank a couple of pints in swift succession. Then, for Brian’s benefit, they edged towards a group of girls in the corner.
“Anyone sitting here?” slurred Brian, pointing to two low chairs with huge tufts of foam rubber protruding from them.
“Yes, you are,” said a girl, whose acne gave her face the look of a join-the-dots puzzle. In the sober light of day, she was what they’d have described as “a ten-pinter”—the amount they had to consume before they’d consider it.
But Brian’s beer goggles clearly portrayed her as a great beauty. Licking his finger, he pressed it against her blouse. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”
Five minutes later, he was snogging her face off while Mark stared disconsolately into space. He wished suddenly that he had made the trip home. I could be enjoying a video and a cuddle right now, he thought ruefully. Instead, I’m stuck with the unedifying spectacle of Brian’s tongue disappearing down some girl’s throat.
“Hello, do you need rescuing?”
The female voice snapped him out of his self-pitying stupor. “Uh, sorry?”
“Do you want some company? It looks like your friend’s abandoned you—if not in body, then certainly in spirit.”
Mark caught only half of what she’d said, but it took him all of five seconds to see that she was very attractive, with an elfin face and short brown hair in an urchin cut. A vision of his hands running through it flashed into his mind. “Sit down.” He reached out and pulled over a chair. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Ooh, a rich student,” she said, her eyes mocking him. “Yes, please. A double gin with diet tonic, please.”
Mark was down to his last fiver, so he used Brian’s old tried-and-tested trick of pretending he hadn’t heard what she said and returning with two halves of lager.
Ten minutes later, he’d discovered that her name was Kate Evans, she came from Manchester and was in her first year of media studies. He also discovered that he had developed selective-memory syndrome: he conveniently forgot that he had a girlfriend, and asked her out on a date the following week.
“I’d love to go out with you,” she said, pressing her face against his, “but, in the meantime, let’s go back to your place.”
After years spent trying to overcome Jenna’s resistance, Mark could barely believe that this gorgeous woman was offering herself on a plate. No angst, no meaningful talks, just a no-nonsense let’s-shag approach to life. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Propelled by sheer lust and a crippling erection, he borrowed ten quid from Brian, and hailed a cab to whisk Kate back to the apartment.
There, Mark discovered great sex. After the first frenzied session, they slowed down for a second go, and then Kate fell into a deep sleep. But Mark lay in the darkness and wondered what the hell he was going to do. Torn between feeling horribly guilty about Jenna and ecstatic at having bedded a woman he found irresistibly attractive, he spent most of the night staring at her.
At 7 a.m. he gave up on sleep and crept into the kitchen for a glass of water. There he encountered a green-faced Brian sitting at the table. Above his head were the handwritten “House Rules” he’d pinned there when they first moved in.
• It is OK to cry during videos if (a) a heroic dog dies to save his master or (b) Sharon Stone unbuttons her blouse.
• Never fight naked, unless you’re in prison.
• Always offer condolences if your girlfriend’s cat dies, even if it was you who secretly threw it into the ceiling fan.
• Friends don’t let friends wear Speedos. Ever.
• Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.
“When did the bloody mystery taxi arrive?” Brian muttered.
“Sorry?”
“The mystery taxi that arrived this morning, whisked away the fabulous beauty I pulled last night, and replaced her with the armadillo that’s currently snoring in my bed.” He shuddered. “She’s the only woman to have appeared live on Spitting Image.”
Mark laughed. “True, she wasn’t a great looker. But you know what they say, beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.”
“I vaguely remember thinking she had great tits,” said Brian, “but it turned out to be one of those zeppelin bras, impressive from the outside but fuck all within.”
“Well, if you think you’ve g
ot problems, listen to this,” said Mark. “There’s a girl in my bed . . . and it’s not Jenna.”
“Who’s Jenna?” Kate was standing in the doorway. She scratched her head, making her hair stand on end.
“Oh . . . she’s um, just a friend,” Mark had flushed bright red.
“Really.” Kate’s expression left him in no doubt that she didn’t believe a word and was thoroughly pissed off. “Well, I only do monogamy, so if you can handle that then give me a call.”
She picked a pen out of the clutter on the table, and scribbled a number on Mark’s arm. “If not, go to hell.” She hooked a finger under the denim jacket she’d thrown onto a chair the night before and walked out.
Seconds later she popped her head back round the door and looked at Brian. “And you’ll be pleased to know that my zeppelins are all my own.” She disappeared.
Mark and Brian stared silently at each other, not daring to speak in case she was still in the next room. Eventually, Brian pulled a face and stood up. “I’m off,” he said. “Do me a favor. Go into my room and tell the snoring warthog I’ve gone out or something. I’ll call you in a couple of hours to check it’s safe to come back.”
And that was the end of Brian’s meaningful relationship.
But Mark’s evening with Kate was definitely something he wanted to repeat. He transferred her number from his arm to a piece of paper, then gave himself a couple of days to think things through.
“Hello, it’s Mark.”
“Oh, hi. Have you finished with your girlfriend yet?”
Mark was taken aback by the speed with which she had cut to the nitty-gritty. “Er, not as such, no.” He faltered.
“Why are you calling, then? I’m not interested in emotional tangles. They bore me.”
“I just wanted to say that the relationship is on its last legs and I really want to see you again.”
She paused for a couple of beats. “Well, as I said, I only do monogamy, so when those tired old legs have crossed the finishing line, do get back in touch.”
There was a click and Mark realized she had hung up. He placed the receiver back on the cradle and stared into space. He was desperate to see Kate, but he now knew he had to sort out the Jenna situation first.
