And with that thought, it was impossible to chill out for a moment longer. I went inside and brought out the vacuum cleaner that had dealt so effectively with the dead mouse. I should try to get rid of some of the sand in the hallway before all the carpets in the flat were ruined for ever.
‘Is it OK if I switch the vacuum cleaner on?’ I asked my sister. She had been cloistered away for some time now.
‘It’s fine,’ said Clare. ‘I’m just lying on the bed, nursing my hangover.’
So I vacuumed the hallway and the kitchen. I was as careful as I could be not to bump the walls and make any more noise than I needed to. But one lesson I should have learned as a small child was that when Clare had been quiet for a while, it was not usually a good sign. There was the afternoon when she painted my favourite baby doll’s face with nail varnish. ‘I was just giving her some make-up,’ she said. There was the day she carefully copied my handwriting to create a love letter for the boy down the road. One that got me into a great deal of trouble with the boy’s girlfriend. ‘I swear I thought they’d split up,’ Clare lied. Or how about the time she hacked into my homework file on Dad’s computer, opened an essay on ducks and changed the first letter from ‘d’ to ‘f’ all the way through? When Clare was quiet, it was bad news. Indeed, that was the case right then. While I thought she was languishing in the bedroom, with a packet of frozen peas held to her throbbing forehead, Clare had broken into my Facebook account. I caught her red-handed when, out of the goodness of my heart, I went inside to ask her whether she fancied a cup of tea.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Can’t get a decent cup of tea in Majorca.’
She was at my desk. She twisted awkwardly to speak to me. She was trying to keep the screen hidden, which of course made me immediately curious about what she was looking at. I dodged past her very weak defences.
‘That’s my Facebook page!’ I cried out, seeing my profile.
Clare didn’t have a Facebook account of her own, because Evan was convinced that Facebook was a portal to all sorts of viruses that could clean out your bank account.
‘How did you do that?’
‘I tried three passwords,’ she told me. ‘Audrey.’
My middle name.
‘Eglantine.’
Clare’s middle name. Our mother thought it was important to balance the sensibleness of Clare with something exotic. ‘Just in case Clare ever wanted to be an exotic dancer,’ was our maternal grandmother’s response.
‘And Callum.’
That was the one, of course.
‘But why?’
Clare leaned back so that I could get a better look.
‘Ta-da!’
The deed had been done. Despite my earlier protestations, the photographs of me and Tom ‘on the beach’ had been uploaded for all to see.
‘Are you mad? Take them down before somebody sees them. Somebody is going to work out that they’re not for real.’
‘It’s a bit too late,’ said Clare.
And then I got the first Facebook alert.
‘Hannah Brown has commented on your photo.’
‘OMG!’ she wrote. ‘Who is that handsome man on the beach? Looks like Callum is already history. Serves him right. You go, girl!’
In less than five minutes, three other female Facebook friends had commented in the same vein.Within quarter of an hour of putting those photos up, fifteen of my friends had made comments and still none of them wanted to know anything more than the name of my new holiday acquaintance. There was no hint whatsoever that anyone thought anything about those photographs was odd. They all seemed to believe that they were looking at genuine photographs of me on a Majorcan beach.
‘See,’ said Clare. ‘I told you it would be fine. Nobody’s looking at the background. They’re just looking at the guy.’
She was pleased with her handiwork.
‘Do you think Callum has seen them?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure he has,’ said Clare. ‘That was the whole idea.’
‘This is a disaster.’
‘What do you mean? It’ll just make him realise what he’s been missing.’
‘It’ll make him think I’m a slut.’
‘This isn’t the eighteenth century. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you like. Besides you’re officially a single woman. You’ve broken up. He has no right whatsoever to complain if you go off with someone else. It’s perfect. Callum will drive himself nuts thinking about you getting all that male attention. He dumped you.’
‘Only a week ago. We’ve only been broken up for a week and you’ve posted photographs of me with some other bloke. He’ll think that I posted them. He’ll think that I’m over him. He’ll think I moved on so quickly that I was never into him to begin with.’
‘He dumped you. You don’t owe him a thing. You’re perfectly entitled to hook up with someone else if you want to. Anyway, if anything will get him back, it’s the thought of some other man fancying you, I promise you.’
‘It looks like I’m all over Tom. How can I maintain the moral high ground over our break-up when you’ve made it look like I barely dried my eyes before I went looking for someone new? You have almost certainly ruined any chance I had of getting back together with him.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. These pictures are no big deal. You and Tom are both fully clothed. If anything, they will pique Callum’s interest. Men like competition. As soon as he thinks he’s got some competition, he will break cover to find out if it’s serious.’
‘He won’t. Callum isn’t like that. He always said if I wanted to go off with someone else, he wouldn’t stop me. And I look so . . .’
‘Comfortable?’ Clare suggested. ‘Like you’re having a good time? You do, don’t you? You can’t deny that.’
‘I’m not denying that, but that’s not the point. You actually hacked into my Facebook account to post pictures that will convince Callum he was right to break up with me. I have got to take them down.’ I elbowed Clare out of the way and started frantically deleting photos even as the ‘Go, girl’ messages kept coming in. Clare sat on my bed and watched, tutting at my attempts to save my reputation. She told me I was nuts. Callum hadn’t even texted me to say happy birthday. That was how much he cared.
‘He’s made up his mind,’ was Clare’s opinion. ‘But even if he hasn’t, if this puts Callum off trying again, then I will eat my wedding dress.’
‘Your wedding dress? I’m not sure you should bother buying one,’ I said.
‘What does that mean?’ Clare asked.
‘I mean, why don’t you try sorting your own life out before you make a complete pig’s ear out of mine? I don’t need your love-life advice any more, Clare. Especially when it’s so clear that you don’t even know how to run your own life.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I saw you last night.’
‘Saw what?’
‘I saw you kissing Jason when you thought I’d gone to bed.’
Clare blushed crimson. She didn’t even bother to deny it.
‘You saw us?’
‘Yes, I saw you. You were out there snogging while I was doing the washing-up. I was going to shut the kitchen window when I caught sight of you. So please don’t give me any lectures about how I should go about running my love life while you cheated on your fiancé with some random bloke from the building-supplies firm.’
‘It was just a kiss,’ said Clare. ‘It’s not cheating.’
‘I’m not sure Evan will see it that way.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Clare.
‘I think I understand everything,’ I said. ‘You’re just a hypocrite. You want to have your cake and eat it.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Clare surprised me with a sob. ‘It’s more the case that I don’t want to have my cake. My wedding cake, that is. I don’t want Jason, but I don’t think I want to get married any more either,’ she finally admitted.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
At last
the truth was out. Clare’s ridiculous decision to come and spend five days in hiding with me in my flat had nothing to do with feeling sorry for me and wanting to keep me company. Neither did it have to do with wanting a holiday but being unable to afford one. It had nothing to do with wanting time off from Top Gear either. It had everything to do with her not being sure as to whether or not she still wanted to be with Evan in the long run. These five days were her attempt at a trial separation.
Her anguish was clear. Up until that moment, Clare had been her usual, and at times annoyingly, perky self. Now the façade quickly crumbled and soon her face was wet with tears and her pretty mouth ugly with howling.
‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ I put my arms round her. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Why are you so unhappy?’
She did not look anything like a happy bride-to-be, that was for sure.
‘What has he done to you?’
Thank goodness, we quickly established that Clare had none of the usual, big-ticket reasons for wanting out of her wedding day. Evan had not beaten her up. He had not been unfaithful. He certainly hadn’t emptied their joint account and made a break for Vegas. He wasn’t physically, psychologically or verbally abusive. He hadn’t even held her head under the duvet after farting in bed. It was nothing that obvious. He had never been anything but the perfect fiancé. And yet Clare was in pieces.
‘All I wanted,’ Clare told me, ‘was to be part of a couple. When Jake left, I didn’t think anyone would ever love me again and it became so important to prove that was wrong. Even more so after everyone else started getting married. I was being dropped left, right and centre. Hardly any of my girlfriends from university called any more and I’m sure it was because I was single. As soon as I got that ring on my finger, I was being invited everywhere again.’
Clare suddenly dropped her face into her hands.
‘Soph,’ she sobbed, ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I said “yes” to Evan too quickly. I just wanted to be part of the gang again. I thought Evan being so solid and steady was wonderful, but in reality it’s bloody boring. I rushed into marriage so that I would be invited out to dinner to talk about washing machines and cholesterol tests instead of having to stay home on my own. Now I feel like I’m being squashed into a middle-aged, middle-class box way before my time and I don’t know what to do except call the whole thing off.’
This was serious.
‘I think about it every day,’ she continued. ‘I wake up and the moment my brain comes to life, I’m thinking about how I can get out of it. I just lie there thinking about another dull day of temping ahead, listening to Evan snoring, imagining myself getting halfway up the aisle, then turning on my heel and running right out of the church. I just can’t stop thinking of how I can escape the whole shebang. And believe me, I have thought of some crazy ways to get out of it without upsetting anybody. I thought about driving off and pretending I’d been kidnapped like that girl in the States.’
‘Didn’t she cause a manhunt? That’s insane.’
‘That’s not the half of it. I’ve thought about trying to get arrested the night before the ceremony so that I have to spend my wedding day in jail, but I know that Evan would get me out on bail for just about anything except murder. And trust me, I’ve considered that too. I could just push someone off the Tube platform. I’ve even thought about faking my own death.’
‘Clare!’ I exclaimed.
‘Seriously, Sophie. It would be the best way. No one would be able to try to persuade me to change my mind and Evan wouldn’t have to wonder what went wrong. I’d just be dead. He may be boring, but he is a nice bloke. I know he loves me. I don’t want him to be embarrassed. If he just thought that I had taken a walk on the beach, for example, and got washed out to sea by a freak wave, he wouldn’t have to put up with any awful speculation about what went wrong. Everyone would rally round him as the widower, or whatever it is you become if your fiancée dies before you have a chance to get married. He doesn’t deserve to be with a crazy woman like me. And I must be crazy, wanting to walk away from the last chance I’ll ever get to be someone’s missus. Because it is my last chance, isn’t it?’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Evan is offering me the chance of a future that most women would die for. He would always look after me. I know that. I would never have to worry about financial security. I’d never have to worry about putting oil in the car or bleeding the radiators or servicing the boiler. He’s steadfast and faithful. Yes. He’s very, very steady.
‘I should buckle down and be grateful, but . . . oh God, I just can’t do it, Soph. I want excitement more than I want steady. I want surprise flowers. I want dancing. I want to stay up all night talking about our hopes and dreams. I want our hopes and dreams to be about more than affording an American-style refrigerator. I want out, Sophie. Every single cell in my body wants to sabotage this wedding. That’s why I ended up kissing Jason.’
‘Is it just the wedding?’ I asked. ‘I mean, a wedding is one hell of a thing to organise. I can only imagine how much pressure you must be under from Mum. And the peer pressure too. Maybe you’re feeling anxious about the logistics and once everything is in place, you’ll be able to concentrate on being loved up again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Seriously.’ I suggested to Clare that maybe engagements and weddings are supposed to be a testing ground. They are, after all, in most cases the first joint endeavour a couple has undertaken. They encompass all sorts of areas of potential conflict that could arise in married life. Money, family, friends, even your taste in music. I told Clare that I’d heard about one bride who asked for an annulment before she and her husband even made it as far as the honeymoon because her groom chose ‘Blue is the Colour’, the Chelsea FC song, for their first dance. It wasn’t just the song that bothered her. Apparently, the fixture list had been an important influence on the choice of wedding date too.
The wedding certainly wasn’t helping Clare to feel more certain about her impending marriage. Clare admitted she was finding out that she and Evan disagreed on a great many things that she held dear. She had always wanted a big wedding. Evan had tutted at every cost she lay before him, presenting her with a budget that would mean they had to hold their wedding reception at Nando’s in order to be able to afford to accommodate all the friends she wanted to be there.
‘He says he doesn’t see why he should pay to feed people he doesn’t really know. I sort of understand where he’s coming from. He works hard for what he’s got. But what that also says to me is that he has no intention of ever getting to know the people I love. I imagined that when I got married, I would be merging my life with my husband’s, that my friends would become his friends. I imagined my world expanding.’
She continued, ‘I had this fantasy of a big kitchen table that would be permanently surrounded by friendly faces. I wanted our door always to be open. There would always be something good to eat. Some nice wine. Music playing. And dancing. Spontaneous dancing. Evan never wants to dance.’
I knew dancing was a big deal to Clare. She’d got everybody to their feet at our beach party. But Evan wasn’t a party sort of guy. He’d never pretended otherwise. At the end of the day, all he wanted was to spend the evening alone with his fiancée. Preferably in front of Top Gear. He got frustrated if people dropped in unannounced. Even me. There was little chance that he would throw another handful of pasta into the pot and invite the unexpected guest to stay for dinner. On the other hand, I said to her, I was certain that Evan was one person who could be relied on to extend an offer of hospitality to anyone who really found themselves in need.
‘I know. I know that, but . . .’
The thought of a lifetime of dinner on the sofa followed by the ten o’clock news had sent Clare into a decline.
‘I just feel as though my world is contracting,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if marriage to Evan is enough any more.’
‘Oh, Clare . . .’
‘But it should be enough,’ Clare sobbed. ‘Shouldn’t it? I am engaged to a wonderful man. There are women up and down this country living with total shits, men who couldn’t hold down a job to save a life, who would step over my dead body to walk up the aisle with a man like Evan Jones. So why do I feel so unhappy?’
I put my arm round her again.
‘I still miss Jake,’ she said. ‘Well, maybe I don’t miss him, but I miss the person I was when he was around. I don’t have any fun any more.’
‘You’re still the same person,’ I pointed out. ‘You’re still the girl who can turn any gathering into a party. Look at last night. You threw a party no one on this street will ever forget.’
‘But when did I last throw a proper party? Not since I met Evan. I’ve been pretending that I’ve grown up and I don’t need excitement any more. Well, it turns out I do. I’m thirty-two years old, Sophie. I’m not fifty. And even if I were fifty, I would still want to go out and see my friends.’
‘Have you told Evan that?’
‘Not really. And of course I know he’d never say that I couldn’t do exactly what I wanted, but he doesn’t have to say anything. Evan can make his disapproval blindingly obvious with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t even have to raise an eyebrow,’ she elaborated. ‘He doesn’t have to move his face. He can make his disapproval known by contracting his pupils. I just know he won’t understand.’
‘How can he understand if you won’t give him a chance? You’ve got to tell him what’s bothering you.’
‘Shouldn’t he just know, if he’s really the right man for me?’
‘That’s magical thinking,’ I said.
Poor Clare. And poor Evan. I wondered if he had any clue just how unhappy she’d become.
‘I’ve got to tell him I want to call the wedding off.’
‘Maybe just postpone it?’ I suggested.
Clare nodded in a tired sort of way. She buried her face in her hands again; then she sat up, exhaling powerfully, and tried to rearrange her features so that they looked borderline cheerful. It wasn’t especially effective. What a pair we were. Clare sighed. I sighed. We both stared into space.
What I Did On My Holidays Page 17
